"Fuck," Kellerman panted halfway through the staircase. He had made it to the third floor faster than the elevator, which should count for something, but a side stitch broke him short so he had to take a break.

He was really out of shape. During the campaign, Kellerman started every day with a half-hour jog, but maybe the White House had made him complacent.

He had to do something about it. More exercise, fewer baloney sandwiches.

Ten seconds, and he sprinted up the stairs again, ignoring the pain in his side.

Michael fucking Scofield. The face of Bruce's assistant came back to him, striking features, direct blue eyes. Mr. Secret Lover. Kellerman's blood throbbed at his temples. He hated to be made a fool of.

…

This one's the last, Sara told herself. Yet when Michael pulled away, her hands laced around the back of his neck. She must be a hopeless idiot. Twenty-four hours ago, you couldn't have paid her enough money to kiss anyone in front of Bruce. As a matter of fact, if you'd told her she'd be kissing Michael after all those years, she would have laughed bitterly. It was bad enough to kiss him when he was single and she was only running for president. But to kiss him a married man, and in front of Bruce, who had been more of a father to her than her own flesh and blood?

Just absurd.

Still.

Her hands clung to his neck even as she willed herself to let go. Her tongue probed against his lips, the taste of him sending her back years into the past so she couldn't say for sure they weren't in one of their motel rooms, making love.

He'll have to push me away. How embarrassing.

But Michael's willpower seemed to have escaped right along with hers.

Just as Sara had given up trying to pull away, a saving instinct snaked into her and she drew back in a horrifyingly erotic gasp.

Michael's lips gleamed red as rose buds, his eyes still devouring her. It was a small mercy that he looked as ridiculous as she felt.

"Get out," she said. "I mean – Bruce is right, you should leave."

Michael licked his lips and Sara dug her fists into the mattress not to grab his face again. "Right," he said.

Bruce nodded. "Now," he agreed. "Michael, come with me. Sara –"

Her eyes flicked toward the old man. All his life, he had been shy of saying, I love you, like the three words would encroach too much upon the territory of fatherhood which he had already conquered.

As always, Sara spared him from the struggle and said, "I know."

Her eyes darted toward Michael but she squeezed them shut. "Just leave," she said. Part of her waited to feel his hand brush her face, but nothing came. Their footsteps drew away, and the door gently clicked shut. When Sara opened her eyes, she was alone, with the origami rose crumpled in her hand.

She smoothed it with her fingers and pushed open the stem, revealing words scribbled in blue ink that she didn't have time to read.

The door slammed open and Kellerman stepped in.

Sara tucked the rose under the covers.

"Where is he?" Kellerman said.

His tone made Sara want to call security and have them escort him out.

"I don't see what you mean," she said.

Her hand itched to wipe Michael off her lips, but she steeled it into a fist.

"Are we going to dance that dance again, Sara?"

"If you've got something to say, say it."

His eyes appraised her for a moment, and she had the furious impression that he was debating how merciful to be to a woman still in her hospital bed.

"Michael Scofield was here," he said.

"Yes."

"He's the man from the video that nearly cost you the election. Your secret lover."

"Yes."

Silence fell between them like an avalanche.

"You're still in love with him?"

Sara waited. Should she rebuff him, remind him that he was her chief of staff, not a girlfriend she told all her secrets to? It would reek of arrogance, and she would hate it.

Maybe it was better to have it out once in for all. Truth can be cruel, but Sara doubted that false hope was any less so.

So she said, "More to the point, I'll never be in love with you."

Kellerman's face didn't crumble, and he didn't cry. She would have been more surprised if he had than if he had suddenly sprung wings and flown out the window.

"Fair enough," he said. "Isn't that beside the point?"

"I hope so."

"You think I went through all the trouble of identifying Michael because I was in love with you? Tracking your ex behind your back would have done me little good, according to my admittedly limited experience in seduction."

"He isn't my ex."

Kellerman's eyes flashed.

"And you did it because you like to control things," she said. "I've always known that about you. The same thing led you to strike a deal with the NRA without talking to me about it." Her throat was getting sore, but she pushed back the need to rest, to sigh. "I know you've invested a lot into my career, and my failure would be your failure. But when I put my hand on the Bible and swore to preserve and protect the United States, I didn't surrender my free will, Paul. I still have a right to make my own decisions."

"Michael's a married man."

"So you've told me."

"I'm sorry, I don't want to get into double standards here. Presidents have had – indiscretions before, but if those presidents had been women, we would have seen very different turnouts. You'll be a homewrecker. Michael was a bad enough match when he was single –"

"I've just been shot in the chest, Paul."

"Point taken."

But Sara knew she didn't get a break because of that. Even if she had died, she wouldn't have taken a break from being president. If Paul wanted to make this all about her job, well. Maybe it was safer. She had only spoken of love to him for fear he would speak of love to her.

"But as your chief of staff," he said, "there's one thing I need to know. Are you going to have an affair with him?"

"Yes."

The word didn't surprise either of them. Sara had known ever since she had kissed Michael earlier, and perhaps Kellerman had known this would happen at some point ever since the sex video scandal two years ago.

His face betrayed nothing. "I'm glad you told me. To tell you what a threat it could be to your legacy would be pointless, I assume you've already thought about that. But we'll have to be smart about it. No sneaking into hotel rooms anymore."

"You sound like my father."

"Sara, let's not."

She didn't try humor again. The attempt tasted like sour milk in her throat.

He said, "Just tell me you'll let me help." His eyes became darker at her silence. "Do you think I'd sabotage anything that's dear to you?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I'm not sure what you could do."

"You're still my president."

"You're still my right-hand man."

"Then what else is there to say?"

…

There wasn't much space on the origami stem, so Sara imagined Michael had to be brief. Still she expected more than four words, and expected still less that four words alone could send her over the brink.

I'd wait forever.

That was it.

A choke rose from Sara's throat and she tumbled over the edge of the cliff that exhaustion and pain had dug for her. Her hand reached for her pillow and she tried to smother the sound so the bodyguards standing by the door in the waiting room would hear as little as possible. The sobs rocked through her chest like great waves, and Sara didn't try to stop them. This was nothing but a physical symptom, as necessary and regrettable as fever.

The bullet that had torn through her heart had done damage to her composure, but she couldn't give it full blame. It didn't help that she had just dismissed her father after an awkward ten minutes of struggling for coherent sentences, when he could barely stand to look at her, let alone touch her.

If a near-death experience couldn't bring her father to let himself love her, nothing in the world would.

What else? She'd confronted a man who had been her faithful friend for decades about his feelings for her.

And she'd kissed Michael again.

Really though, as she cried and cried, Sara knew that it was for none of those things.

What she cried for was the life she could have had two years ago, if she hadn't said goodbye to Michael. She cried for the ordinary life she knew she could never have and for the loneliness of the past two years.

She looked back at the flower again and said, "We've waited long enough."

…

Lincoln squinted at the address Michael had texted to him.

At his side, Veronica shuffled on her feet, hands in her pockets. Her nose had turned pink from the cold, and though Lincoln had more important things to do right now than look at his girlfriend, he couldn't help but notice she looked extraordinarily pretty.

"Are you sure this is the place?"

Lincoln looked back at his phone then at the number on the door of the building. "Yep. That's the one."

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Why would have Michael moved to such a neighborhood, where dogshit and beer cans and even the occasional used condom littered the streets?

If you needed the money Mike, you should have said so.

A flush of pride swelled Lincoln's chest at the thought that he would have been in the position to help his brother if he'd asked for it, and he tried to brush it away.

"Do you think he's home?" Veronica asked.

"He didn't say exactly."

Michael's last text dated to a few hours ago, when he sent the details about his address. Lincoln had sent a couple of texts since, asking how his brother was and if they should head straight to his apartment from the airport, but Michael hadn't even opened them.

"Well, should we go in?"

"We're no help to him if we freeze in the street," Lincoln said.

The building had no elevator, so they climbed the five floors on foot, minding not to step on roaches.

"This is where Michael Scofield lives," Veronica said. "Fascinating."

"You know, it'd help if you didn't say his name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you'd say, 'This is where Bruce Wayne lives.'"

"If you ask me, all that talk about your brother being the Batman of lawyers is dead wrong. Dark Knight or not, Bruce Wayne fights to preserve the status quo. Michael's a lot more like Robin Hood."

"Babe, you're missing the point. Also, you're hot when you talk about comic books."

Her foot slipped on the next step and he caught her just in time. "Jesus, those steps!"

"Be a shame for you to break your neck before you meet your celebrity crush."

Her eyes glared, Don't tease, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the right door, Lincoln felt a sudden strike of nervousness and wiped his palms on his jeans.

Ridiculous. He was never nervous when he picked up a girl, but when he introduced one to his brother?

"Are you going to open that door by staring at it indefinitely?"

"Sorry."

Lincoln knocked. Silence followed, and a breath of relief seeped into his lungs. Michael wasn't home. They'd have to check into a hotel, and this whole meet-my-girlfriend business would be delayed –

"Yes?"

The door opened on a stunning woman wearing pajama shorts and an oversized tee.

Lincoln looked dumbly at her for a moment. "Uh – I must have gotten the wrong door."

"We're looking for Michael Scofield," Veronica said.

The woman nodded. "Come in. I'm Nika." She extended her hand for Lincoln to shake. "Michael's wife."

…

AN: I had such a great time returning to that story, I hope you'll feel the same ;-). Please share your thoughts in the comment section. Take care!