A/N: We're getting there, folks! Trial is almost here. Hopefully I'll have more before too long. Thanks again for all the reviews and follows! :)

XXXXX

"Sure you're ok?" Michael asked as he opened the door to Sara's apartment.

She walked slowly over the threshold, still bent over slightly, babying her injured side, "Yea, yea I'm fine," she assured. Michael couldn't tell if she was reassuring herself or him, but he could tell that being back in the building was a little unsettling for her.

She'd been quiet on the drive over; not that she was usually a chatter box, but she seemed more distracted than normal. He'd tried to make conversations a few times and she'd answered politely as always, a word here and there, but hadn't seem interested in holding up a conversation, so eventually he'd given up and allowed them to slip into silence until they'd reached the steps of her apartment.

He walked in behind her now, his eyes falling to the bag of long forgotten Mexican food waiting for them on the floor, just inside the doorway.

"Sorry about that," he said, picking it up and taking it over to the garbage, "I completely forgot about it," he realized, remembering his mental state of disarray at seeing her beaten and unconscious.

She absentmindedly put a hand on his back, "Don't worry about it."

Her eyes roamed the room for a moment, and he watched her, trying to read what she was thinking, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Uh," she hesitated, then a dark chuckle, "not really."

He nodded silently, not wanting to pry.

"If you don't mind, I think I'm gonna take a shower and get out of these clothes," she declared, wanting to do something normal and familiar.

"By all means," he replied as her hand fell off his back. He grabbed it loosely in his own, giving it a quick squeeze, "I'll be right out here."

She nodded bravely and retreated to the bathroom, giving him a moment to breathe on his own in the familiar space. His mind went back the that night again – entering her apartment from the dark, cool evening. He'd been mentally drained from working all day and the walk to the restaurant had been a welcome break, had made him happy. The fresh air reviving his brain, the walk waking up his legs and getting his blood flowing again. That feeling of being alive and content had vanished so quickly though, the warm bag of food falling to the floor, the paralyzing dread when he saw her there.

Life can change in an instant; he'd never really understood that before.

But today was a stark contrast to that night; the sun was shining brightly through the windows, dappling its light on the houseplants on the kitchen windowsill, their leaves open and extending in its direction. The green and the sunlight made him feel better, more at peace, as nature usually does.

The apartment itself was the same as always; clean, aside from the leftover tacos, and smelled faintly of laundry soap, a peaceful quiet. It felt oddly comfortable to be there again-like it could be easy to forget the other night.

But he'd never forget it.

He heard the water start running in the bathroom and came back to the present, deciding to use however long she'd be in the shower to get some work done. Grabbing the laptop and taking a seat at the dining room table, he tried getting back into the groove of things, but was finding it more difficult today for some reason.

He checked his work emails, finding that a few of his colleagues had offered useful input since he'd last checked, and felt a prick of guilt again. He had some pretty intelligent, kind people he now fondly called his colleagues and in a few short days he'd be selling them out; that fact didn't escape him.

Nevertheless, he tried to shake off that notion and focus on the task at hand.

It was quiet in the apartment, aside from the white noise of running water and the occasional humming he heard from Sara. He took that as a good sign – someone who was deeply traumatized and hurting wouldn't hum a sweet melody in the shower, would they?

He strained to hear it better; the soft, melodic tunes passing through the walls and making him smile to himself. He'd never heard her sing, but he'd always found her speaking voice to be quite soothing. Back at Fox River, he remembered hours of hearing nothing but men yelling and hollering, buzzing, clanking of cell doors, and going to the infirmary, having her ask in her soft tone, "How're you feeling today?" always made him more at ease. As he listened now, he confirmed to himself that her humming had the same effect.

After a while the door opened, and Sara emerged in jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt, her hair still damp and slightly wavy.

"Hey," he greeted from behind his screen.

"Hey," she replied, walking over and behind him, resting hands on his shoulder, "how's it coming?"

He finished clicking a few keys, "Progress. If I have some time tonight to work on it, and most of the day tomorrow-"

"-Lincoln's trial is tomorrow."

"I know, but I could get up early and work until we have to leave and then do more on it after," he paused a moment, "what time did Veronica say we needed to be there?"

"It starts at ten," she reminded him, "but we should get there early."

He nodded, trying to quickly calculate how many hours that would give him to work on it.

She shifted behind him, "You know you don't have to finish this in a few days…"

"Yea, I do," he sighed, "I don't want to find out what his definition of a "much more regular occurrence" is when it comes to your safety."

She squeezed his shoulders, asking hesitantly, "You think I can at least go back to work? After tomorrow I mean."

He tensed a bit under her hands, not particularly liking the idea, "As long as I can drive there with you and make sure you get in safely."

He couldn't see her eye roll, but could feel it as she replied, "Michael there are guards all over the place, he's not going to attack me between my car and the gate."

He turned to look up at her, "You don't know that."

She huffed, her tone growing more irritated, "You can't protect me from everything- and to be honest I'm getting a little sick of being treated like a bargaining chip to get to you. It's not a fun position to be in – not just because of the danger it puts me in, but because they only see my life as having value as long as it helps them get to you."

"Sara-" he started.

"-I know," she interrupted, looking tired, "it's almost over, but maintaining some sense of a normal life would go a long way for me right now," she paused, then quietly, "please. Even if it just means walking into work by myself."

His heart constricted, wishing he'd realized all the different angles of this from her perspective, and the toll it was taking on her. To him, the threats from the General had meant one thing; he had to protect her. But for her, not only was her life in danger, but so was her sense of freedom, of self-worth…

"I'm sorry," he managed, "I'm sorry for a lot of things…for the position I put you in." He paused to gather his thoughts, to figure out a solution that worked for everyone, "I won't stop you from going to work or doing whatever you want to do – wouldn't even try. But that being said, I want you to be safe," he met her eyes, "so maybe we can make a deal."

She looked guarded now, a mix of embarrassment for finally telling him how she really felt, along with a look of distrust in the whole concept of "making a deal."

"What kind of a deal?" she asked quietly.

"Check ins," he answered, "with each other. If you go to work, text me when you get there and any time you leave. I'll do the same," then added, "even though it's not me they're threatening directly."

A slow nod, "I can live with that," she thought for a moment before declaring, "In that case, I'd like to go back to work the day after tomorrow. A familiar routine sounds pretty nice right now."

He understood, "Ok, then. Back to work in a few days…so what're you gonna do today?"

She shrugged, "Not sure," then gestured to his laptop, "I'm guessing you'll be here all day?"

"That's the plan."

Not surprised, "Ok, uh, I guess I'll make some food and then start the washer…again."

"Again?"

She looked at him blankly, then explained, "I started it right before he broke in. Clothes have been sitting in there damp for days so I'm gonna run them through again."

"Oh," he replied, unsure of how to interpret her bluntness about the day of the incident, while also latching on to the new piece of information. Since she still hadn't told him the whole story, his knowledge of the attack was pretty limited. She must've been in the hallway when he broke in.

It also explained the faint smell of laundry soap, one that didn't feel so comforting anymore.

He was glad that she wasn't avoiding the topic all together and that he didn't have to walk on eggshells, but his curiosity about what happened was still there. He knew that it didn't make a difference: whatever happened was done, but he still longed to know the exact chain of events, and everything she'd suffered through.

He realized after some reflection that her way of communicating about the event wasn't straying from her normal behavior, but it was more of a role reversal that he wasn't used to. When he'd been diagnosed with a brain tumor, she'd told him plain and simple. She'd never minced her words before and wasn't mincing them now, but her revealing of information in this case was parceled out. It wasn't the whole story being delivered all at one. It wasn't her delivering bad news pertaining to him, but rather, she was revealing tidbits of information, little by little, from her own tragic experience.

With him, she'd always ripped the band aid right off, full disclosure, but maybe for her it was different, and it had to happen more gradually.

And he'd be there for that, waiting for any moment that she opened up a little more, however long it took, until she could be free of it and heal.

But for today, here she was, doing laundry and making lunch like nothing had happened, aside from being slightly disgruntled that she had to start the washer again. He smiled softly to himself as she grabbed a pan and turned the stove on– he certainly had a fighter on his hands.

Next to his laptop, his phone started buzzing, the caller I.D. reading "Christina."

"Christina is calling," he informed Sara as he stood up, "I'm gonna take it outside."

"Ok," she replied without turning around from the stove.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Michael," she purred, "just checking in to see if there's any progress to report."

"Progress is being made, but I'll spare you the boring details."

"Details are rarely boring, but I'll humor you," she retorted, "do you have a timeline established?"

He debated what to tell her. He was fairly confident that he could have it done in a few days, but didn't know what the ramifications would be if he told her that and then failed to deliver. It wasn't really her he was worried about, more like the people she was selling it to.

"A week at the most," he settled on, figuring it would give him some wiggle room if something went wrong.

"That soon?" she almost sounded impressed, "Well, that's good news."

"Do you have arrangements to deal with the General?" he asked.

He could hear her curiosity, "Yes, several options to take care of that…why so concerned, Michael?"

Deciding against his better judgement, he shared, "He had Sara attacked. Beaten and drugged."

"Oh my," she sighed, "poor thing."

His eyes narrowed, something in his gut telling him that she wasn't sincere. Her voice, the way she said that rang a faint bell in the back of his mind, and he realized it was an almost forgotten childhood villain, Ursula, deeming Ariel a "poor unfortunate soul."

Unsettled by the comparison, he went back to the facts, "I need this to be over as soon as possible."

"If you give me Scylla, he'll be gone, and you won't have to worry about anyone anymore."

"I'll be in touch," he replied, and ended the call, walking back into the apartment still feeling a bit shaken.

"Everything ok?" Sara asked as she put two plates on the table, a sandwich on each. Two bowls of soup were already there; he didn't realize she was cooking for him too, but seeing the food in front of him, he realized how hungry he was.

He sat down across from her, closing his laptop and moving it out of the way, "You ever watch The Little Mermaid?"

She looked confused but amused, and gestured to her hair, "Duh, why?"

"Well, do you-"

"-wait," she interrupted with a teasing smirk, "you used to watch The Little Mermaid?"

"Never mind that," he dismissed with a smile, "remember Ursula, the "Poor Unfortunate Souls" bit?"

"Sure, I loved that song."

"Of course you did," he replied with a scoff, for some reason not surprised that she liked the villains and princesses alike, "well, I told Christina what happened to you, just briefly, and she called you a, "poor thing," and it reminded me of Ursula."

He saw a smile ghost her lips.

"I know it sounds stupid, but something in her tone was just…off."

Sara set her sandwich down, "Off how?"

"I can't put my finger on it," he admitted.

Slightly amused, "So to recap, you think your mom is an evil sea witch who is making a deal with us…pretending to help, but really just trying to further her own agenda?"

He was speechless a moment, "I honestly hadn't thought that far into the parallels, but…yes," his stomach dropped ever so slightly. He was being ridiculous, right? She'd helped them before and was offering her assistance again…but this time felt different.

"Michael, you're being paranoid."

"Am I?"

She shrugged, "What else could she stand to gain from this? She's already getting millions of dollars and becoming the leader of The Company."

He considered this for a moment as he ate, not knowing how to articulate the notions that were forming.

He came up with nothing.

"I honestly have no idea."

She reached a hand over and put it on top of his, "You're overthinking."

Mind elsewhere, "Maybe."

"Let's get through tomorrow first, ok? You can work on Scylla, we get Lincoln free and take everything else as it comes."

Without seeing an alternative, he nodded his agreement.

XXXXXX

Veronica got to Fox River and was escorted to the room that she and Lincoln would have pretty much to themselves for the rest of the day. There was a window in it that led to a room housing a few guards, but that didn't phase her. The guards would be watching and might even be able to hear a few things, but she knew she'd be able to easily ignore them…aside from putting on a show to convince them that Lincoln was needed in there for as much of the day as possible.

She wasn't going to have him sent back to his cell any sooner than he had to be.

The guards left her alone in the room where she sat down, placing her bag on the table. The actual business part of this meeting shouldn't take that long, considering that Lincoln's testimony isn't the most important one in this trial. That award went to Aldo. For Lincoln, it was the same story it had always been, "I didn't do it," but it was Aldo's responsibility to paint a picture for the jury, and to provide them with facts that they didn't have before. She'd coach him too, probably later that night, but she trusted his instincts and his ability to carry himself in a professional, reputable manner.

Lincoln was a bit more of a wild card.

And then there was Sara, she remembered with a queasy feeling- the result of empathy for her battered and bruised friend, who had agreed to testify as well. Hers wouldn't be too involved, but having another person besides Aldo and herself that had seen Steadman alive would add weight to their case. The fact that she had a black eye that was given to her by a Company agent didn't hurt either…sure, that altercation had nothing to do with Lincoln, but the jury didn't need to know that. She could sell the attack as an attempt to silence her and prevent her from testifying; witness intimidation, she thought with a tingle of excitement. That would bode well for them and maybe even get some sympathy points from the jury.

Was she really doing this? Lying to a jury? The acknowledgement of what she was considering had her fidgeting nervously with her hands. It was a risk, but they had to put it all out there; it was now or never.

The metal door opened with a loud creak as Lincoln shuffled in and greeted her with a simple, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," she sized him up, taking in his appearance. She got no useful information; he was guarded, his face neutral, body language unremarkable.

"Ready for the big day?" she asked as he sat down.

He shrugged, a small ghost of a smile on his lips, "Guess so."

She didn't respond, just watching him more, and he was obviously uncomfortable being under such scrutiny, "What?" he asked with an almost laugh.

"What're you thinking?" she wondered out loud, "about everything, how're you feeling?"

"Nerves mostly," he answered, "sometimes hopeful…sometimes I just wish they'd put me in the chair and get it over with."

Her face fell, "You can't mean that."

"Of course, I don't wanna die," he clarified, "but if that's what's gonna happen I'd rather just get it over with. I'm sick of waiting, and don't wanna be running on false hope."

"You're not," she reassured, "with the testimony from your father and Sara, there's no way they won't rule in your favor."

"Sara, huh? She's testifying too?"

Nodding, "Yup."

"Huh," he said again, staring blankly at the table, then a small smile, "she's one of the good ones."

Softly, "She is."

"She and Michael still together?"

"Happily," she confirmed, forgetting how out of the loop he must feel sometimes.

"How about you?" he asked with a smirk, "you find a good one yet?"

That earned a smile, "Between work and dealing with your dumpster fire I haven't had the time," she teased.

He smiled now too, "Glad to hear it."

"Are you?"

His smile faded, growing more serious. He looked down at his hands for a moment, obviously deciding whether or not to say something. She waited patiently until he finally looked back up at her and said, "When I get outta here…if I do, I wanna try again. If you're up for it."

His boldness and unexpected request had heart thudded wildly in her chest, a flood of relief washing over her, all her previous doubts cast aside. Still, she had to clarify, "Are you asking me out?"

Unwavering, "Yes I am."

She shouldn't be so surprised, but she was. How long had he been planning to ask her? Wondering and remembering their times together, tormenting himself with the possibility of a future together.

Just like she'd been doing.

"I'll tell you what," she managed, "when you get out of here, we'll go out to dinner, anywhere you like."

"Anywhere?" he asked, a gleam in his eyes.

She saw where he was going and cut it off immediately, happy to be on a safer topic, "Except that terrible rib joint by the mall you used to drag me to. I mean a real, good restaurant."

"They have good ribs," he defended.

Smiling now, "Agree to disagree."

He pretended to consider her offer, "Fine, no ribs. We'll go somewhere we both like."

"It's a date."

XXXXX

Aldo sat on Veronica's couch, acknowledging that he really might be overstaying his welcome, but figuring since the trial was tomorrow, there was no sense in moving out now. After the trial he'd be free too; no more hiding from the Company. He could buy a house, settle down somewhere if he wanted…maybe near Michael and Lincoln, wherever they ended up.

The idea was so foreign to him; he'd spent years laying low, not to the extent that Michael and Lincoln had after their escape, but still. Whereas the whole country had been keeping their eyes open for the Fox River Eight, Aldo's pursuers had been the ever-so-elusive Company agents, lurking in the shadows. He could never quite shake the urge to look over his shoulder, or to suppress the uneasy feeling he had when walking alone in the dark, but tomorrow could change that.

He could have a life again too.

He flipped through the pages of evidence again, even though he knew it by heart. His main concern was keeping calm on the stand, and not letting the prosecutor ruffle his feathers as they were so adept at doing. They liked to provoke, to make you angry and flustered, hoping you'd slip up and say something off-color and make the jury think you're unstable and therefore not credible.

His only defense against that was to take his time, and to keep his eyes on his family: Lincoln, Michael…Veronica and Sara. They were all depending on him to carry this thing through, and he intended to succeed.

After a while of staring blankly at the files in front of him, he let his mind wander to Michael. He was worried about him too, but hadn't allowed himself to think about it much since Lincoln's trial was the top priority, and had been the top priority for a while now. Even though he didn't know Michael that well, which was his fault – he acknowledged with a pang of regret, he knew that he seemed bothered. He'd always been withdrawn even as a child, preferring to be alone and lost in his own mind, but he seemed to be sinking further into himself the last couple of days. Sara being attacked was obviously part of that, and Michael feeling like he had the sole responsibility of making sure that didn't happen again couldn't be helping. That was a hell of a cross to bear on his own and Aldo wished he could help, but based on what Michael had told him, there was nothing anyone else could do- it was all up to him.

The deal with Christina did seem like his best option right now, and the only one that could be accomplished quickly, making sure that Sara was out of danger, and that Michael was allowed his own freedom to live the rest of his life however he wanted.

But that didn't make it any easier.

Aldo hadn't talked to Christina in a long time, but they hadn't left on good terms. His instincts told him not to trust her, and he felt the stir of uneasiness start in the pit of his stomach. Was he being bias? They were exes and had a checkered past, of course he didn't particularly like her, so did that give him the right to tell Michael not to trust her? He toyed with this idea for a while, trying to assess the situation logically, without emotion. After stewing on it for a good twenty minutes he settled on a decision; he couldn't interfere. If Michael decided to go along with it, he'd support him and try to help if things fell apart…if she backed out or betrayed him. He hoped with every fiber of his being that that wouldn't be the case, but if it was, he'd be there to pick up the pieces.

XXXXXXX

Sara pulled the covers back and eased onto the bed, being careful of her sore spots. The pain wasn't that bad, but it was enough to make her wince if she wasn't careful. Belly-flopping onto the bed was a definite no, but she could get comfortable fairly quickly, for which she was grateful.

She was able to convince Michael to close his laptop and go to bed when she did, which hadn't been an easy task. He got this look when he was really involved in something; a laser-like focus of his gaze, the slight tapping of his heel on the ground as one leg bounced up and down. Half the time he didn't even respond to his name when he was in the zone and she'd have to either physically go up and touch him to get his attention or practically yell his name and stand in his direct eye line. She didn't mind it; it was kind of endearing how absorbed he could get in a task in front of him, but it was late and she didn't want to wake the neighbors by yelling at him, so she'd settled on waving a hand between his face and the screen, smiling at him and asking politely if he'd like to get some rest.

He'd said no.

She switched from "would you like to get some sleep," to , "you need sleep and I'm not taking no for an answer" mode in an instant. Tomorrow was a big day for his family and she'd be damned if he showed up as a sleep deprived zombie all in the name of preventing her from getting another black eye.

He must have sensed that her tone meant business because, even though he'd given her a slight glare of reluctance, he'd saved a few things and shut the screen, plugging his laptop in again and following her to bed.

He was already under the covers and she could tell his mind was still on his work, but did her best to get him talking about something else.

"Do you have clothes ready for tomorrow?" she asked, "laundry is done, but I didn't see any trial appropriate clothing in there," she realized, hoping he'd brought something that would work for the occasion.

"I've got a suit that I brought, it's hanging in the closet."

She rolled slowly onto her side, facing him with a smirk, "You're moving stuff into my closet now? How official."

A smile, "Well, if you must know, I was hoping to prevent wrinkles…but I like the other implications better," he scooted closer and laid an arm gently on her waist, "are you gonna be ok tomorrow?"

She relaxed, feeling the weight of his arm, "Yea, I'll be fine. Veronica said I shouldn't have to say much. I'll just tell the truth," she shrugged, "shouldn't be too bad, and I'm happy to help."

A soft smile faded to a more serious look, him meeting her eyes, "Thank you for doing this. For everything," after a moment, "it means a lot."

Shyly, feeling vulnerable again under his stare, "Like I said, happy to help."

He said nothing as his hand slowly moved up to her face, his fingers tracing with a feather-light touch over her still swollen and bruised skin. She remained frozen in place, allowing his fingers to roam uninterrupted, assessing the damage while being careful to not inflict any more. Eventually, he raised himself a few inches off the bed and leaned closer, planting a soft kiss on her bruised cheek, followed by another, and another. She could barely feel it, his touch so light, but it still caused a stir in her belly, kept her unmoving and holding her breath.

His hand found her waist again, then her lower back as he pulled her gently towards him, his lips finding hers. She closed her eyes and relaxed into their warm softness, trying to ignore the flush of tingles, knowing that anything more than kissing wasn't a possibility. Not tonight. She was still injured and the last thing they needed was to try and explain a sex-induced broken rib to the court as her reason for not being there tomorrow.

Still, the man wasn't making this easy on her. She followed her desire and let herself drape a leg over both of his, allowing him to thread his in between hers, bringing them closer. The kisses were slow and deep, causing the initial pang of desire to grow as her arm wrapped around his back, holding him. If they didn't stop soon, she knew she'd reach the point of no return.

Reluctantly, she pulled back slightly, "Michael-"

His eyes were open now and boring holes into hers.

"-I can't," she finished, her thoughts blurred, "we can't, not tonight."

Hand brushing her cheek again, after a moment, "You're right, I'm sorry."

She took another moment to compose herself slightly, "Don't be sorry, just," she pecked him on the lips, "don't be such a tease."

A smirk now, "My humblest apologizes."

With an eye roll, "I bet."

She sighed and rolled slightly over and onto her back. He leaned closer one last time and dropped a quick, barely there kiss on her cheek, "Goodnight."

She grinned, still frustrated and wanting to smack him, but couldn't bring herself to even attempt holding a grudge, "Goodnight."