A/N: Thanks to everyone still hanging in there with me! Always love to hear from you all :)
XXXXX
Sara's eyes wandered off the popcorn bowl in her lap when Michael came out of the bedroom.
"So?" she asked.
He nodded slowly, "We have a deal….same terms she mentioned before."
She observed him closely; the closed off body language, a slouch in his posture, the way he pressed the bridge of his nose even though his brain-tumor induced headaches were a thing of the past.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
His eyes narrowed in that secretive way of his, "No."
"Let me rephrase," she took the bowl and set it on the coffee table, turning towards him, "I think we should talk about it a little, so you don't drive yourself crazy."
"What's there to talk about?" he asked, plopping down next to her.
She didn't like where this was going; him pretending that everything was fine when it was obvious to her and anyone with a pulse that it wasn't.
"You tell me."
He sighed and looked over at her, "The whole thing," he started, a bit agitated, "this whole thing went way farther than I ever wanted it to. If it had all gone according to plan I'd be with Lincoln right now on a beach somewhere in Panama without a care in the world, but instead I'm here, trying to get him off death row and then going back to Miami to finish my contract with my employer who probably won't even honor the agreement."
She took in his words and tried to ignore the fact that his ideal future was being an island castaway with his brother (with her nowhere in the picture) and focus on the deeper issue. She could see how overwhelmed he was, and the frustration was boiling over. He was a planner and a perfectionist, and nothing had gone as planned.
She leaned her elbow against the back of the couch and propped her head against her hand, "I know it's a lot right now, but Lincoln could be off death row tomorrow. And you just made a deal to get out of The Company's crosshairs. Christina kept her word before, so we can assume that she will again, right?"
"It's not enough."
"Could you give yourself a little credit here?" she was growing exasperated now too, "Michael, if you hadn't done what you did, Lincoln would be dead right now."
That gave him a moment of pause.
She leveraged that moment where his resolve began to crack and continued, "and you won't be obligated to work for them anymore once Bargain is finished. You can get a regular job again…a normal life."
His eyes were clearer now, a bit less troubled, "You really believe that?" he asked quietly, "that we could have a normal life after all of this?"
She shrugged, "I have to. Otherwise, what the heck are we doing here?"
He seemed to understand and whispered something unintelligible.
"What?" she asked softly.
He shook his head, a small smile, "Just have a little faith," she tilted her head, questioning, "something Lincoln always used to tell me."
"Wise words."
"Yup," he held out a hand, silently asking for hers. She picked her head up and laced her fingers through his, snuggling in a little closer. He continued his thought, "they are…just not always the easiest to live by."
"Things that are worthwhile rarely are," she commented, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the back of his hand.
They sat in silence for a moment, the T.V. providing a comfortable background noise, and her mind started chewing on the details of Michael's agreement. She had so many questions that she couldn't form a single, coherent one to ask him. But, after a while of letting her mind sort through what she really wanted to know, she spoke without tearing her gaze off the television.
"Did Christina give you a timeline? Or, a deadline I guess I should say."
"No, not really," he answered just as absentmindedly, "As soon as possible, but…"
"Right," after a moment, "and The General?"
He understood, "She didn't say when they'd…take care of him. I'm assuming not until after I finish the project and give her Scylla."
She nodded, contemplating, "What if they didn't kill him?"
He looked at her now, eyes narrowed in confusion.
"Couldn't they sentence him to life in prison or something? I'm sure he's committed more than enough crimes to justify that," she shrugged.
"True," he paused, "but with all of his contacts in law enforcement and the government I'd be afraid that he could weasel his way out somehow."
They settled into silence again, both acknowledging the unfortunate truth in his statement. Guilt started to prick in the back of her mind as well; knowing that someone was going to die so that she'd be protected, but self-preservation was a tough habit to break. The ethical dilemma was making her head spin no matter how many times she mulled it around in her mind. Sure, she liked to think that she was a better person than The General, but still…did that really give them the right to take someone's life?
She abandoned that topic after a while, knowing that she'd be chasing her tail with that one all night, and considered other aspects of the deal.
"One more question," she said after a while.
"What's that?" he asked, looking a bit more relaxed now than he had when he'd exited the bedroom.
"Christina said she'd give you 25% of the profit, right?"
"Yea."
"Any idea how much that is? I mean, is it enough to live off of while you find another job?"
He met her eyes again, looking a bit reluctant.
"What?" she asked.
"Uh," he sat up a bit straighter, "she did tell me. Well, an estimate anyways."
She shrugged, growing more concerned with his hesitation, "Ok, and?"
He paused, "She's guessing that Scylla will be worth at least 125 million dollars."
Her eyes widened, lips parted in shock.
"Yea," he agreed softly.
"Uh," she took a moment to process, "and you just…weren't gonna mention that little detail?"
He smirked, "Wouldn't want you marrying me for the money."
That earned him smile and a slap across the chest, "Yea right. Even if Scylla was only worth five bucks I'd still-" she stopped herself, realizing what she almost said.
He realized too, his blue eyes locking into her brown ones, the intensity making her want to squirm again. He finally spoke lowly, with a suggestive smirk, "I'll have to keep that in mind."
She could feel the pink rising in her cheeks, so she leaned over and buried into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, and they sat in comfortable silence, returning their gaze to the T.V. but paying no attention, both distracted by the possibility of a lifetime together.
XXXXXXX
The sun was shining brightly as Veronica's heels clicked down the steps and out to her car, a huge smile on her face. Her request for Lincoln's re-trial had been granted, and since his execution was scheduled so soon, the new trial would happen in three days. Thankfully, because of all the work she and Sara and Aldo had done before, the evidence she needed was already compiled and fairly organized, giving her more time to simply prepare her argument, polishing it and getting ready for the big day.
She opened the door and sunk down into the driver's seat, enjoying the warm air inside the car, heated by the sun.
Aldo was back at her place; they'd both decided it made more sense for her to do this part alone, and she had to admit that she enjoyed a little solitude every now and then, and lately that was a rare thing. Between Aldo and Michael and Sara, she found that she never had an evening alone anymore.
It was a blessing more than a curse though; she knew if she had hours at home by herself to sit on the couch she'd be over-analyzing everything and diving way too deep into her own head. Being around other people kept those worrying thoughts at bay. She had a team; they were all doing this together.
She considering swinging by Sara's apartment to tell Michael in person that the re-trial had been granted. He'd mentioned that he'd be working remotely from her apartment while Sara was working at Fox River, so she knew he'd be there and be alone. She would've loved to stop by a coffee shop and pick them each up something, share the news in person and maybe have a one-to-one chat with him. That was something that used to happen more often, and she missed it. He was the kind of person she loved to have deep, thoughtful conversations with, but it only seemed to have that special something when it was just the two of them - put Michael in a group, and he just wasn't a big talker.
She sighed, acknowledging that the possibility of a coffee fueled, in person chat was just a dream. She knew she couldn't escape her day job any more than she had been lately. It was only ten a.m. on a weekday, so she reluctantly ordered herself to drive to the office and catch up on at least some of the many things she was behind on.
When she parked and walked up to her building, she settled for sending Michael a quick text, letting him know that everything went as planned and knowing that he'd inform Sara as well. She'd already spoken with Warden Pope and he assured her that he'd pass the news on to Lincoln. She trusted him enough to take his word for it, though she'd have loved an excuse to go see Lincoln too.
She knew she didn't need an excuse, but she felt like any time she went to Fox River she had to have an exciting revelation to share with him. Otherwise, she'd have a compulsive need to fill the silence with trivial things - a habit that must have developed slowly over time because it wasn't always like that between the two of them. She had fond memories of a quiet morning together, or an evening on the couch with both of them lost in their own thoughts, comforted by each other's presence but not needing to voice anything. Now, whenever she was around him she felt like she needed to be entertaining and overly cheerful, compensating for what must be some very lonely and boring days in solitary.
She shook her head, trying not to over-analyze every aspect of every relationship she was trying to maintain. She knew she should just be relieved that the re-trail was granted and everyone who needed to know about it, knew. And she was.
With that piece of business done, she entered her office and sat down, grimacing at the mountain of papers in her inbox. She grabbed a pen from the cup by her computer and grabbed the first file on her stack, ignoring the nagging feeling that it was just wrong for her to be there. She just sat down and already felt like a kid on the last day of school before a break; her mind was anywhere but on her work, and there was an overall sense of urgency and impatience. It took everything she had to rein in an ounce of mental capacity and focus on her work, but she did it.
For about ten minutes.
She huffed and lowered her head; it was going to be a long day.
XXXXX
Mahone hung up his cell phone with unnecessary force; Kim wanted to meet with him again. He already knew what that meant, that Kim would harass him for not getting the job done, that he'd threaten him more…blah blah blah. They'd done that dance before, too many times to count and he was beyond sick of it. It was to the point that any time Kim wanted to, "Have a word with him," in his office, his blood started to boil.
He fumbled around in his jacket to find the pen containing his tiny white pills – his only chance for having a rational discussion with this man, and he walked out of his office and into Kim's.
"Alex," he greeted with his insufferable smirk, "have a seat."
"I prefer to stand," he insisted, not wanting to spend enough time in there to get comfortable.
"As you wish," he wasted no time, "by now I'm sure you've seen the news…the recent development in the Burrows case."
"I have," he confirmed, "and if you're about to blame me for it let me save you some time-"
"-please, Alex," he interrupted, "if we truly believed this was your fault…" he finished that thought with a death glare.
His heart skipped a beat, stomach sinking; he didn't need Kim to elaborate. His mind immediately went to his wife and son, knowing that their fate was at stake.
"What do you want?"
"You're being reassigned."
He couldn't help it and scoffed, which then turned into a laugh, "Again?"
Agitated, "Glad you find this humorous, despite the fact that Aldo Burrows and his moment of heroic truth is threatening everything we've been working towards for years."
He remained silent.
Kim composed himself, "We've been working on the Bargain theory for years. Everything is tied to that – developing it, securing it, and taking out anyone who gets in the way of its progress. With the Ecofield scandal out in the open and threatening to expose us, it's more important now than ever that our team of engineers finish it and keep it secure until the moment it's sold."
"And?" he asked, growing impatient.
"And Michael Scofield is an important part of that plan."
Slowly, "Sorry, I don't follow."
Eyes piercing, "Didn't it strike you as curious, how Mr. Scofield's criminal record just vanished? How I suddenly asked you to not use your F.B.I credentials to track him down anymore?"
He waited.
"He works for us now. He's the lead engineer on Bargain."
This revelation short-circuited his mind, his subconscious racing to finally connect all of the dots with this crucial piece of information, "So the F.B.I cleared him so that he can work for The Company?"
"The Company cleared him," Kim clarified, "I was just the conduit – the F.B.I agent that erased every criminal ounce of his existence…on behalf of The Company."
His mind was still reeling from this new bit of information. When Michael and Lincoln had escaped and the F.B.I assigned him to track them down, he'd taken it at face value. The fact that he was a Company agent hadn't mattered then; their escape was a safety issue for the general public and a man-hunt for escaped convicts. Nothing more.
But learning that The Company was ultimately behind all of this was a bit like a slap in the face. It all made sense now, but the knowledge wasn't comforting.
"You still haven't told me my assignment."
Kim folded his hands on his desk, "We're assigning you to Tancredi. The General is very happy with the progress that Scofield has been making on Bargain. As it is right now, when Bargain is finished, so is Scofield's contract with us, but that point is being…debated. The General wants him working for us on whatever comes next. Tancredi is his weak spot."
He didn't want to ask, "And you want me to…what?"
"The details are up to you, but Scofield needs a very clear message that we aren't backing down, and that Sara will suffer the consequences if he chooses to turn his back on us."
"Torture. You want me to torture her?" he asked, appalled, "first the lawyer and now this? How far do you think this'll have to go? You think he's gonna back down after a few scare tactics? This guy is too smart for that, he'll see right through your little plan."
Unphased, "It's a good plan."
"It's a stupid plan. Torturing her is just going to piss him off, and he'll get more creative. We've already seen that with him and gone down that road. It doesn't work - not with him."
"You're going to make it work, Alex," with a fake smile, "that's why we hired you."
"By torturing an innocent?" he asked again.
"Depends on how you look at it," snarling, "is anyone truly innocent?"
XXXXX
Sara got home from work and tiredly dropped her bag on the table by the door. A slight pounding headache had started a few hours ago, but she'd decided to tough it out until she got home, hoping that some food and water along with a little rest was all the medicine she needed. Just knowing that she was home now and could have a relaxing evening was enough to have the pain starting to subside.
"Hey," she heard Michael greet from the kitchen, and her heart lifted even more. That was something she'd really miss when he had to go back to Miami; coming home to an empty apartment wasn't nearly as enjoyable as having him there waiting for her.
"Hey, how's your day?" she asked, slipping off her shoes and walking in to join him. He was sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop.
"Uh," he finished typing something and lifted his head, "pretty good I think."
"Yea?" she wandered behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders, dropping a kiss on top of his head.
"Yea; Veronica let me know this morning that we got a re-trial for Lincoln," he replied, turning to look up at her.
She smiled, "That's fantastic! Did they say when it is?"
"Three days."
Eyes widened, "That's quick."
"Yup. I guess since his execution date wasn't very far off…"
Nodding, "That makes sense," she gestured to his laptop, its screen full of engineering gibberish she didn't even begin to understand, "work going ok?"
"Not bad actually," he shifted in his seat a little, obviously stretching an aching back, "I'm ready for a break though."
"Me too, I'm starving," she agreed. It was a little after six, and lunch was a long time ago.
He shut his laptop and stood up, "Want me to go pick something up?"
Her stomach growled in response, "Won't say no to that. Car keys are in my purse if you want," she gestured to it on the table by the door.
He considered a moment, "I think I'll walk if that's ok," he stretched his arms out now, "I've been here sitting all day."
She shrugged, "Whatever works. Just make sure the food doesn't get cold."
He gave her a quick kiss, "I wouldn't dare."
With that, he went over to the door, checked that he had his wallet and put his shoes on, "I'll be back in a while."
"I'll be here," she confirmed as he shut the door behind him. The sudden silence and solitude had her feeling the weight of her day all over again. It had been a busy one; all of her recent time off was starting to catch up with her at work. The headache, both figurative and literal, started creeping back into her awareness. She stood there next to the table for several beats, staring off into space, allowing her tired mind to rest for a moment.
Her eyes eventually landed on the water glass Michael had next to his laptop and she realized she was probably deathly dehydrated, which wouldn't be helping the headache situation. In a zombie-like daze, she grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it from the sink, and ordered herself to chug it down. Whether that would actually help her headache or not, it certainly wouldn't hurt. She considered taking a pain killer, but she never liked taking medicine unless the pain was intolerable, and it wasn't there yet. Distracting herself was a better option.
So, while she waited for Michael to get back, she started puttering around; putting a few things in the dishwasher, starting a load of laundry- throwing Michael's stuff in too since he'd be staying for a while, and just as she was pressing start on the washer she heard a clicking sound. She paused and listened closer, realizing it sounded like a door handle.
"You got back fast," she commented as she walked out of the laundry room, "I didn't realize it had been that long-"
She stopped mid-sentence, realizing that it wasn't Michael staring at her from the doorway. She recognized this man, the F.B.I agent from T.V.
His gun was drawn now, "Don't move," he ordered her.
She remained frozen, not so much out of obedience, but more from shock.
"What do you want?" she asked, "Michael was cleared."
She kept her distance from him as much as possible. He hadn't moved in past the entryway, and she was halfway down the hall.
"It's not about what I want, believe me," he almost laughed. It was more of a defeated scoff, she decided, which confused her. Wasn't this the guy who'd stop at nothing to catch the brothers and punish them?
She narrowed her eyes, "Then, what?"
He gestured towards the dining room table with a cock of his head, "Sit."
She didn't move.
He sighed, "Sit or I'll have to make you sit and I don't think you want that."
"You'll make me?" she questioned, daring him to elaborate.
"Yea, you really wanna take your chances? Let's test your hand to hand combat skills against mine, that sound like a good idea?"
Damn.
"What're you gonna do?" she asked, "If you kill me, Michael will never do what you want-" she realized the implications of what she'd just said. If this guy was strictly an F.B.I agent he wouldn't be here, "wait, are you Company?"
He looked at her with an expression that was both confused and bothered; she wasn't playing the damsel in distress part like he'd obviously hoped, and she was asking too many questions.
His gaze fixed on her, "What the hell does it matter anyways," he muttered, more to himself than to her, "yes, I'm here on behalf of The Company."
Slowly, "And you're here to hurt me? Scare Michael into obedience, working for you forever?"
"Pretty much," he agreed, "sit."
She still didn't budge. He sighed, holstered his gun and came at her in a flash. His speed shocked her as she tried to duck past him, not wanting to be backed further into the corner of the hallway, but his hand clasped around her forearm, his grip like a vise. His knee hit her gut before she could react, and she was doubled over. The second she stood up, his other fist met her cheekbone, blinding her with a jolt of pain as a yelp escaped her lips. He grabbed both arms and cuffed her behind her back, dragging her down the hallway and shoving her into the dining room chair.
She blinked back the pain, tasting blood, feeling the throbbing and swelling starting in the side of her face. She curled over slightly to one side, babying the side of her ribs that his knee had struck, unable to sit up straight.
He grabbed duct tape and bound her feet, wrapping the tape around her arms as well, securing them to the rungs of the chairback.
"Now that we understand each other, let's try this again," he began as he took the seat next to her, angling his chair to face her directly, "if Michael doesn't agree to work for The Company until they no longer wish to employ him, this will be a much more regular occurrence."
The throbbing in her cheek was distracting, hindering her ability to focus on what he was saying and put the pieces together. If only she'd taken some damn pain medication for her headache, maybe it would have kicked in by now and provided a little relief…or at least kept the swelling down. As it was, she could already feel that she was going to have a nasty bruise.
"So…what?" she replied a bit sarcastically, "you'll keep showing up to punch me in the face until he sells his soul to you people? That's not going to work."
"Isn't it?" he challenged.
Firmly, "No. And if you kill me, you lose your leverage," she shrugged, "your plan is terrible."
That elicited a laugh from him; a genuine, exhausted, and slightly on-the-verge-of-going-mad laugh, "My plan? Oh, if you only knew."
"Yea. You, The Company," she shrugged, "same thing."
The moment those words registered in his mind, she saw something change. Maybe she shouldn't have said that.
A fire ignited behind his eyes; anger, rage, and fear all rolled into one. He fidgeted around a little bit, as if trying to decide what to say or do, his mouth opening and closing, then pursing in a thin, flat line. After several moments filled with nervous energy and uncertainty, he got up and grabbed a bag he'd apparently dropped just inside the doorway. She'd been so distracted by the gun pointed in her direction, she hadn't noticed it before.
He sat back down and opened the bag, not hesitating at all as he withdrew a syringe. The sight of it had her pulse thumping wildly.
How long had Michael been gone? She wondered. Was he almost back? Please let him almost be back.
"What are you going to do?" she asked lowly, not knowing if she really wanted the answer.
He met her eyes, "You and Michael both need to understand the gravity of this situation," he took the syringe out of the wrapper with shaky hands, grabbing a vial filled with clear liquid and drawing some in, "he needs to make a deal with The General, because killing you isn't the worst thing we could do to you…or him. Believe me."
He held the needle upright, squirting out a few drops.
"Please…no," she asked lamely, knowing it was no use.
The needle sank into her arm and she felt the burn as the plunger went down. Everything immediately went fuzzy, sinking, into blackness.
XXXXX
Michael cradled the warm bag of food under his arm as he walked the last few blocks back to Sara's place. She hadn't said what she wanted for dinner, but he knew she wasn't picky and would happily eat whatever he brought back. There was a Mexican place not too far from the apartment, and after walking a while, that's where he'd ended up.
He ordered a little bit of everything, figuring she'd find something she wanted in the variety he'd bring home, and he could eat the rest of it for lunches the next several days while he worked from home.
The bag was still warm, as promised, as he stuck the key in the lock and turned it.
Huh, he thought. The deadbolt didn't move – it felt like the door was already unlocked. Did he forget to lock it?
He shook his head and dismissed the thought, opening the door and shutting it behind him, slipping off his shoes.
"I'm back," he announced, "and I got tacos," he walked past the entryway and his heart sank through his feet.
"Sara, no," he dropped the bag and ran to her limp figure. She was taped to the dining chair, slouched over. Her head was hanging slack with her hair covering her face. He brushed away her auburn hair and revolted at the sight; her face battered and bruised, her cheek swollen, and eyes closed.
He tried to wake her up; shaking her shoulders a few times, checking for a pulse…it was slow, but it was there. Her breathing was shallow, and she was unresponsive.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and called 9-1-1, fighting back panic and tears. It felt like an eternity before they got there, leaving him to his own devices, trying to help her. He did everything he could think of; he cut the tape and freed her hands and feet (aside from the handcuffs), picking her up and setting her down on the couch instead, leaving her sitting up halfway. Should she lay down? What if she threw up or couldn't breathe? He felt helpless. Ignorant.
When the E. finally arrived they agreed with his assessment – she was alive but sedated, no obvious physical harm aside from the busied face and a bruise on her abdomen he hadn't noticed yet. They loaded her into the ambulance and instructed him to follow. He grabbed her car keys from her purse by the door and left in a hurry, hating that he couldn't be in the back of the ambulance with her.
The drive took too long; the guilt and fear taking hold of him in the solitude. His grip on the wheel was too tight, mind bouncing between all of the horrible outcomes that were possible. Was she poisoned? What if there were long term effects?
What if she never woke up.
Bile rose in his throat and he suddenly felt faint as he parked the car and ran in after the E. rolling her stretcher. He couldn't even consider that possibility, not when she needed him focused and present.
They got her in right away and the doctors and nurses went to work. He stood back and watched the choreography of the medical team doing their job, leaving him helpless and numb. Now that she was relatively safe, he looked closer at the bruises on her face, on her stomach, registering the pain she must have gone through. He knew that if he wasn't so afraid right now, he'd be livid – ready to fly down to Miami and strangle The General himself. But as it was, he just stood there as the minutes ticked by, her fate completely out of his hands, and desperately needing to know if she'd be ok.
