Name: Then you would be wrong too
Characters/Pairing: Michael/Sara
Genre: alternative/missing scene from 4x17, het, angst
Rating: PG-13
Word count: approx. 5000 words
Summary: "Michael, he took the Company's deal to save your life. For what it's worth, I might've done the same thing." "Then you would be wrong, too."
A/N: There is this scene in 4x17 between Michael and Sara, that I completely hated in the means of how Michael dared to act towards Sara right after she saved him, once again, from the hands of the company. I though about this scene many times and I couldn't simply come to piece with it, so this is sorta my take on the situation, though I gave myself the liberty to change what happened afterwards.
Thank you dear spunkyar for the corrections, all remaining mistakes are, as always, mine.
For mavoisine. Happy Birthday dear, and get well soon, okay? It's a bummer to be sick on one's own birthday. :) *kiss*
Then you would be wrong too
" …4500 miles to go."
"If we take turns sleeping, we could be there tomorrow night."
"Shall we call Lincoln? Let him know we're coming?"
"…"
"Michael, he took the Company's deal to save your life. For what it's worth, I might've done the same thing."
"Then you would be wrong, too."
"You know, this promises to be a really, really long drive, so how about we just…call truce, alright?"
The words are sharp as a knife and twist into Sara's gut deeply and painfully. Not only does Michael voice his arrogant and superior opinion on exactly what he thinks of their endeavors to help him, but he even dares to close the whole situation by calling for truce that feels more like a slap in her face. The tone he uses with her is so unfamiliar, so cold and self-centered, that Sara has to think twice if it's really the man she loves sitting next to her.
She can feel his expectant, somewhat tired gaze on her, but she is so stuned and hurt that she isn't able to answer him right away. At least not answer him in a way he wants. His behavior towards her shocks and scares her, paralyzes her body to a point where she has to remind herself to just breathe.
From the way his body squirms in his seat and his focus returns to the road, she can tell he must have realized by now how much he's crossed the final line, but he won't acknowledge it. Then again, he might just be frustrated and angry with her for not giving in; she doesn't understand him these days anymore. But she can't give in on this one, she won't.
She's already gulped down a lot of crap from him in the past few weeks, the majority of it due to his illness, at least she likes to think so. But this, this is something else. And there is no more tumor to possibly blame it on.
Realizing she hasn't moved much since he let his last verbal bomb drop, Sara tries to compose herself, her movements clumsy and slow, her breathing elaborate.
Michael watches her odd behavior out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't comment. He knows his words have hurt her bad, yet he cannot help himself. Furthermore, he doesn't even really feel regret over his words, at least not over what he said to her about saving his life.
He's not worth it, never wasin the first place.
"Forgot napkins," he sighs tiredly, his eyes never leaving the dashboard of their car.
As he walks back into the restaurant to retrieve a hand full of napkins he cannot help but feel anger rise in his chest. He cannot do this now, he cannot argue and fight with the very last person left to support him and his choices, too. But nor can he pretend that everything is fine and shiny between him and his brother – not to mention his 'mother' – just for her sake, and Sara should very well know that.
His angry and callous thoughts vanish once he gets back to the car and notices with a trace of concern furrowing his brow that Sara hadn't moved as much as an inch in her spot since he left to retrieve the napkins. In fact, she hadn't moved a single muscle ever since his unprovoked outburst and his call for truce in an attempt to resolutely finish their debate. He did succeed on that one, obviously, but at what cost? Only now does he truly see the implications of what he has caused by his ill-advised flare-up.
A strong jolt of guilt sweeps through him as Michael realizes - probably for the very first time since his operation - that he's not the only one who has gone through hell and back in the past couple of days. And only now does the obvious come to Michael and he starts to truly think back over the past couple of days while he boards the car. As far as he knows, he's been unconscious or sleeping most of this time, recovering from his break-down as well as the strenuous operation that ensued, yet he doesn't have the faintest idea what was Sara doing in this time. After all, she had been on her own, surrounded by Company agents, fretting for his life dependent on Company doctors.
A memory, not even a month old, comes to his mind. He's standing under the hot sun of Panama, his brother telling him the worst news of his life.
She's dead Michael.
The memory is still fresh in his mind, a knife twitching in his chest whenever he remembers the time when his hope and faith had definitely been crushed. But his mind doesn't let him dwell too much on his, triggering another kind of thought instead, a thought where his brain immediately jumps to speculations about what Sara must have gone through ever since his risky, unsuccessful attempt to retrieve Scylla from the Company's deadly clutches.
Had it been as hard for her as it had been for him? Because if it were at least half as painful for her as it had been for him, back behind the barbed wire of Sona, she must have gone through hell and back too. Again. And again, because of him.
With an even deeper shame in his heart, Michael realizes that until now, he didn't as much as care. He never took the time to ask her.
While he starts the engine and slowly guides the jeep out of the parking lot, he carefully starts to observe her. There are dark circles under her eyes, a glassy and unfocused look settling over her features. Her jaw is tightly set though. Also, with displeasure, Michael recognizes the fact that she is wearing the same clothes he has last seen her in before his treatment.
They drive in silence until they leave the last remnants of the city behind them. But once they hit the interstate, Michael cannot hold the silence any longer. His recent realization about his lack of information about the past couple of days, as well as his previous quiet observation of Sara's physical state, is reason enough for him to be the first to break the silence. It's the least he can do, definitely owing her that much.
"Maybe you should have some of the pizza and then try to rest. The drive will be long and we will have to take turns behind the wheel," he says, repeating his previous words, yet this time, his voice is soft again, gentle and caring.
"I'm not tired."
True, she doesn't sound tired to Michael. She sounds defeated, indifferent. Like she couldn't care less - about her, him, whatever. A tight lump forms in Michael's throat, his conscience painfully gnawing at his insides, but he trains his eyes back at the road. They continue their silent trip, the atmosphere in the car hot and sticky as the dusty, desert air outside the windows of their car.
A few minutes pass by until either of them speaks again, and Michael almost jumps in his seat when Sara speaks unexpectedly.
"Maybe we should switch now. I will drive and you can rest instead." Her voice is soft, but curt and a little bit cold. He misses it's warm, caring lilt. Maybe he had taken too much and too long for granted.
"I'm rested, thank you." He replies evenly, but something must be wrong with him, because he has a hard time literally squeezing the answer through his gritted teeth. He is riled again, mightily so, yet he cannot put his finger on the reason for these strange, confusing emotions currently raging inside his head.
"Are you?" asks Sara, receiving a confused look. "Rested, I mean," she amends, a hint of a challenge in her voice, and for the very first time since they entered the car, she throws him a look - a real 'Sara Tancredi the angry prison doctor not to be messed and fooled with' look. Strangely enough, it gives him comfort, though he knows what it means to be on the receiving end of such a penetrating stare.
He casts a quick glance at her before training his eyes on the road again. "From what I can remember, I've spent a fair couple of hours sleeping in a rather comfortable bed while being held by the Company," he starts in a milder, careful tone. She doesn't reply to his words, her eyesight returning back to quietly observing the side of the road.
"What about you?" there is even more tentativeness and trepidation in his voice this time. "Did you get any sleep at all since we last saw each other?"
She doesn't answer, merely brings her hand up to brush away some errand strands of hair that have fallen into her face. Finally, she gives a small, non-commital shrug but doesn't say a word.
"What is that supposed to mean?" His tone is a little more bristle than necessary, but again, he cannot help himself, it's as if a puppet master pulled his strings and he was left to merely watch the outcome. This time, she doesn't as much as shrug. She is gazing out the window again, like he isn't even there.
"Alright," he says through clenched teeth, unable to stop the bitterness seeping from his voice. Angry and desperate to do something, to occupy his hands with something – anything - he reaches for the carton of pizza, easing one hand off the wheel and using it to grab a slice. He wolfs down two pieces in a matter of seconds, not really caring for the taste of the very first food he had in quite some time. For all he cares, he could have chewed on the paper box and his mind probably wouldn't have noticed it.
Sara simply continues to stare quietly out the window looking disinterested of his presence, but her hands give her away. Her fingers curled into two tight balls in her lap, they are nervously twitching and twisting around each other. They are also slightly trembling, Michael notices, and he feels the instinctive urge to reach out and still them, bring piece to her obviously frayed mind.
He doesn't, but his tone is milder when he attempts to start a new conversation.
"I'm sorry about before. I shouldn't have said that."
Sara doesn't immediately respond and Michael starts to think she keep on ignoring him further, but then, in a voice he can barely hear, she speaks at last.
"That's right, you shouldn't have." The silence stretches between them anew, as sluggish and thick as the hot air outside the car.
"You meant it though, and that's what I am really upset about."
Michael doesn't reply, his silence serving as a confirmation of what they both know. He doesn't regret the opinion itself, just the words spoken out loud in a moment of anger. Anger, that's still burning under his skin for no real reason. He tries to direct his focus back on Sara instead, thinking what he would only give for this – a change to merely speak to her one more time – not even a month ago. Instead, look at them now. They are switching between sarky remarks and giving each other the silent treatment. To be fair, he's given her plenty of reasons to behave that way towards him.
Despite his words spoken not long ago during a cell phone, something just doesn't add up. She is here, he is here, but there is also something that's standing in between. And Michael is slowly starting to get an idea of who's the one to blame for the problems in their relationship, if you still even can call what they have a one.
He curses under his breath, the invective leaving his lips louder than expected, before the palm of his hand suddenly comes up in a quick, harsh movement and he hits the steering wheel in an outburst of anger. However, he regrets his motion instantly upon watching Sara flinch out of the corner of his eye. She isn't used to outbreaks like that, especially from him. He can see his behavior truly scares her, and it just twist the dagger of pain and guilt further into his gut.
Immediately, Michael mutters a couple of apologies under his breath. The last thing on earth he wishes for is for Sara to fear him. God, fear him. The thought is almost unbearable.
"Are you sure you want to be the one to drive?" Sara utters uncertainly, the trace of fear distinguishable in her voice.
Michael sighs tiredly, suddenly drained, tired, feeling simply miserable and sorry. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just…" he lets out a heavy puff of air that seems to have been sitting in his lungs for ages, "…so angry. For no good reason. And I'm really sorry for letting it out on you." His voice truly showing signs of honest remorse. "I never wanted to lose my nerve in front of you like that. Please forgive me," he adds, his eyes momentarily leaving the road and wandering to look at her last. Sara doesn't reply, but he can see a familiar spark igniting her eyes, the warmness of hot chocolate at a cold winter evening returning to her hazel pools. She turns in her seat towards him, sudden interest brightening her face.
"It's your mom, isn't it?" she says softly, her eyes giving away sadness that seems too familiar and far older than Michaels' own. There is no doubt she is thinking about her own mother during her question, but her interest and concentration is still solely dedicated to Michael. Something in his chest shifts, and to Michael's astonishment, the most bitter part of his anger quickly starts to melt away only to being replaced by something far worse. Utter misery.
Ungluing his gaze from the road, he flashes Sara a quick glance before training his eyes again on the road.
She's hit the right nerve.
"I just cannot believe that…that for all these years I've been missing and mourning her, whereas she's been hiding out there somewhere, safe and sound and working for the company, no doubt trying to make the world a better place," he says bitterly, the last part of his words burning like acid in both of their ears.
Sara's expression softens and it makes Michael feel even worse. He doesn't deserve her compassion, not with the way he's been lately treating her.
"Michael…you don't know the whole story. Maybe…maybe they lied to you. It's not like they haven't tried to trick or mislead us before."
She is just trying to reason with him and put a balm of doubt over his pain, but the feel of betrayal fills his chest, already rooted deeply in his heart.
"No! She's alive and she's never given a damn about her sons for all these years. Not even when the very people she was working for tried to frame and kill her son, or when her sons were being hunted down like animals by the very same people!" The words come quickly out of his mouth, hissed with spite and disgust. Blinded by his renewed rage, he fails to notice Sara's look or her touch, her attempt to soothe him by drawing gentle circles over the plane of his knee with her palm of her hand. When he doesn't respond or even acknowledges her touch, too lost in his thoughts no doubt, Sara decides to withdraw her hand.
"Yeah, maybe you are right." She utters, her eyes returning to the road again, pretending to watch the scenery.
He doesn't look at her. It is as if he wasn't listening to her at all. She withdraws even further from him, curling into a ball as if trying to disappear into her seat. She isn't seeing any of the passing scenery however, any of the wide expense of land and fields. Her mind is racing back, retrospectively, until it comes to the very beginning, to her very first memory of Michael on the day they met in her infirmary. It now seems like such a long time ago.
She wants to fight against the direction her thoughts are taking her and push them aside, back into the very far corner of her mind. Unsuccessfully, she's trying to convince herself that he's just miserable, and she is too, and that's the only reason why a hole starts to crack open in her chest. But her tiredness is getting the better of her and she gives up her pretense that she's ok and that it's not fair of her to ponder her own needs when he is the one broken and in pain.
Yet Sara is tired and she hurts too, and she cannot shoulder both of their burdens any longer. Slowly, her strength and resolve starts to crumble, the ground underneath her feet shifting before it vanishes completely, and she is finding the door of the room with her most frightening concerns open on it's own volition.
She knows she will be forced - at one point or another – to acknowledge the fact that Michael is different, changed. It worries her more than she is willing to admit. All this time, she's attributed the change in his attitude, in his character, to his medical condition. She counted that once the physical problem is resolved, the Michael she knew, the one that cared about other people and who took the time to shape a paper rose for his prison doctor in all the chaos and mayhem of his plan just to see her smile, would come back to her. Come back for her.
Now however, she's starting to fear he won't.
"You should eat something, Sara."
She is so deep in her thoughts that his voice startles her, causes her to jump a little in her seat and turn her head toward him, wide eyed. She doesn't know how much time has passed since she got lost in her thoughts, maybe it were just moments, but it feels like it could have been hours.
Michael looks much calmer now, more self-composed and balanced. His eyes give out a gentle glow of warmth she hasn't see in quite some time, and this causes a tight lump form in her throat.
"What?" Sara manages to choke out dumbly at last.
"I said you should eat something, Sara," he repeats quietly, his eyes now frequently leaving the road to glance at her in concern. "You haven't eaten anything since…" his brow furrows, "When is the last time you've eaten anything, anyway?"
She can't resist him when his voice is this gentle and caring, despite her wish to stay distant with him in a way to show him how much such behavior hurts. Instead, she shuts her eyes in concentration, honestly trying to remember the last time she actually had the chance to force anything down her throat. She honestly doesn't remember. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Michael wince a little, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he asks another question.
"When's the last time you've slept?" Again, his voice is extremely gentle, the amount of care in it pulling at her heart. This time however, she keeps quiet on purpose. Daring to shoot a tiny glance Michael's way, she watches his jaw clench. It's not anger though, it's agony.
"You should eat something. Have a slice of the pizza. Please," he adds, pleading urgently, his eyes ungluing from the road to look at her. For the very first time since reuniting, he looks honestly worried. Worried for her. She feels a sudden flutter of hope, but then, the tiredness and stress of the past couple of days suddenly catch up with her too and the force of it presses her into the car seat, rendering her almost paralyzed. She feels more like sleeping then eating anything, least of all a pizza that's been resting on the front of their burning-hot dashboard for hours, but she doesn't want to fight anymore. God, she doesn't want to fight, she's too exhausted for that.
Tentatively, she takes the smallest slice and starts to force the pizza down her throat, agonizingly slow, piece after piece.
Five minutes later however, she is urging Michael to stop the car just in time to dart out and empty the contents of her stomach onto the dirt at the side of the road. She feels sick, uncontrollably dizzy and her head is violently spinning. Slowly she kneels down to steady herself and it's all she can do to force herself from passing out. While feeling the heat of the afternoon sun burning at the back of her neck, her hair keeps sticking to her clammy face and neck, droplets of sweat running down her spine. In spite of the heat thought, cold shivers are running down her spine.
All of a sudden there is something cool against the back of her neck, a hand, then the gentle touch is replaced by something harder and much cooler. A bottle of water, Sara realizes, closing her eyes and trying to breathe evenly, silently counting to ten and back in her head. Her hands are resting against her thighs, her stomach churning and burning excruciatingly. She is sticky with sweat and barely able to stay on her feet, but all she can concentrate on is the gentle and painfully familiar feel of Michael's cool hand pressing against her forehead, his fingers softly brushing some unruly strands of hair out of her face.
"Jesus," he murmurs, worry lacing his voice, "Easy Sara, take your time. Just breathe."
She does. After a couple of moments, the world seems to come to a halt at last. Sara straightens slowly, a relieved rush of breath leaving her lungs. Her sight involuntarily falls upon the mess in the dirt which only minutes ago used to be a slice of pizza. Surprisingly, she cannot help the tiniest of nervous chuckles leave her lips.
"That was close," she comments, finally daring to turn around to face Michael. There is no amusement in his expression though, merely worry on his face.
"You okay?" he asks, handing her the bottle of water, his hand coming to support her lower back as if afraid she might faint any moment. She nods tiredly, then takes a few wonderfully refreshing gulps.
"Yeah. The pizza probably didn't do much good on my empty stomach, that's all."
Michael nods but keeps observing her with concern. She takes another gulp of water, trying to bring her pulse and breathing under control. She can feel Michael's fingers against her forehead again and it does little to help settling down her quickly beating heart. He frowns and makes a dissatisfied humming sound in the back of his throat before urging Sara closer into a careful embrace before pressing his lips to her damp forehead.
"I think you are running a fewer," he utters worriedly against the side of her forehead, his hands coming to rest on her upper arms for support.
"I'm fine," says Sara, her tone brushing his worries away, yet she makes no movement to step out of his embrace.
"No, seriously Sara, I think you might be sick," he sounds really worried now.
"It's just from the stress and lack of rest and food." After a moment, she withdraws from their embrace and starts to return to their car.
"That's exactly what I'm worried about," she hears Michael mutter under his breath, the shaky tone of his voice prohibiting her from turning around to see the guilt in his eyes.
They return to the car and Michael starts the engine again, slowly ungluing the tires from the hot sand at the side of the road. They drive in silence, Sara resting against her seat with closed eyes and the window opened wide enough to let the wind cool her heated skin. She can feel Michael's gaze on her frequently now, but she keeps her eyes closed. She is so damn tired that she doesn't even notice once she starts dozing off.
Michael, on the other hand, is more alert than ever. His eyes switch between the road and Sara, and he craves for someone to slap him hard across the face for letting things get this far. All this time, he's been so wrapped up in his mother's betrayal and his brother's naivety that he could handle the Company alone, that he completely overlooked the unhealthy state Sara was in. Worse, he kept nagging and pushing her over the edge the whole time.
For all he knew, she may have been sick for days, yet all he seemed to care about these days was his irrational grudge towards a woman who was dead to him a long time ago. Instead he should been caring for a woman he recently almost lost and had been there for him from the day they met.
Silently using up all curses known to mankind in his head, his mind starts to think ahead. What will he do? How will they proceed if Sara is truly sick? Maybe it isn't anything serious at all, maybe Sara is right and she is just having a violent reaction to the sudden food ingestion. But there is always the possibility that she's really coming down with something serious, the worst case scenario - a scenario Michael refuses to acknowledge – being that she is simply starting to break under the pressure of it all. Nobody is built to sustain this much strain and stress in such a short span of time. And he simply cannot keep dragging her along with him when she's not feeling well, that's out of question. They're risking their lives in this and they need to be as healthy as possible to even stand a chance against their enemies.
Finally, Michael makes up his mind to give the matter some time before deciding anything. There is not much to do about the situation anyway. There is still a long drive ahead of them and all he can do is to try to spend as much time behind the wheel himself while caring for as much Sara as possible. Hopefully, she will feel better once they arrive in Miami. Most importantly, Michael silently prays she will be well enough once the time comes to run for their lives again.
It's almost dark when she opens her eyes again. They are still on the road, though she has no idea where exactly.
"Hey," she hears Michael's soft voice from the driver's seat and she instinctively turns her head towards him. "Feeling any better?"
She blinks the remnants of sleep away and slowly, carefully stretches in her seat, probing. She feels fine. Actually, she feels more than fine. She feels hungry. As if on command, her stomach rumbles with hunger, and a small apologetic smile escapes her lips as she shots an awkward glance at Michael. He flashes back the most radiant of his smiles and Sara feels her chest expanding with emotion like a balloon.
"Great. There are a couple of chocolate-chip muffins in the bag in front of you and a small bottle of milk," says Michael enthusiastically, pointing his look to the mentioned brown paper bag resting on the dashboard. Grabbing the bag eagerly and peaking inside, Sara's face lights up with a shocked smile.
"I never even noticed the car stopping," she utters in amazement while pulling out one of the muffins and sinking her teeth into it eagerly.
"Hey, carefully," warns her Michael hastily. "Minding your last encounter with food, let's take it easy, shall we?"
She stops abruptly and follows his advice, slowly nibbling at the delicious cake. Michael's voice grows more serious, a lace of regret weaving itself around his words.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to get you any real food. That's all they had," he says apologetically.
"This is great, really," says Sara through a mouth full of muffin causing Michael to smile broadly, his eyes shooting to the road for a short moment before returning to Sara again. She really looks much better than before. The breath he was holding leaves his lungs in a quick rush of relief.
Michael's lips twitch in amusement when watching Sara taking a rather unladylike gulp from the bottle of milk. She rests her hand on Michael knee then, squeezing it gently, an innocent gesture of gratitude no doubt. Yet the muscle her hand is covering twitches under her touch, and her heart leaps with joy at the involuntary reaction. The lump is in her throat returns with Michael's eyes burning themselves fiercely into her own. It should probably worry her he isn't dedicating the majority of his attention to the driving, but she's missed his presence – his real presence, body and soul and touch and heart – for so long that she really couldn't care less about his driving right now. He is after all, a genius, so he can surely concentrate on two things at once.
His hand finds hers resting on top of his tight and he intimately intertwines their fingers squeezing tightly, lovingly. It's not the physical contact that sends Sara over the edge however, causing moisture to press itself into her eyes on its own volition. No, it's the emotional bond, the bond she was earlier so scared they'd lost, that's now present - again - in every fiber, every movement of Michael body. As it once had, he's radiating warmth, love and care, his mind tuned again to her every thought, every feeling, every need.
And just like that, Sara is again buzzing with energy, generated solely by love, faith and hope.
End