"Goodnight, sleep tight," Sara kissed Mike's forehead as he snuggled beneath the covers.

"Love you," he replied sleepily.

Earnestly, "Love you, too," as she clicked the door shut softly behind her.

She padded her bare feet down the hallway to the master, opening the door to find Michael seated on the bed, facing the window. He turned his head slightly when he heard her enter, but she could practically see the line of tension running along his shoulders beneath his thin, gray t-shirt.

"I think you wore him out," she started as she approached, "he isn't usually that tired when I tuck him in."

"Hmm," he replied absentmindedly.

She got on the bed and inched towards him, tucking her legs under and leaning her cheek against his back, "You okay?"

"Yea," he sighed, "I'm okay."

"Let me rephrase: what are you thinking about?"

"Hmm," he exhaled, the sound reverberating through his back, "I was thinking about Whip."

That wasn't a response she'd expected, but knew right where his mind would go, "You know you can't blame yourself, yea?"

"He wouldn't have been in that position if it weren't for me."

"He wanted to help you," she insisted, "from the little you've told me, you went through a lot together, and he genuinely cared about you."

She thought back to her brief interactions with the young man- his eagerness to help, even if the only way he could help was by bringing over a chair and coatrack that she needed when she'd found Michael, injured and poisoned.

He contemplated her words, "I should be used to it by now…accepting the fact that people have died because of me-"

She wanted to interrupt, to deny it, but decided to let him continue.

"-but with Whip? It just feels different."

"Because he was a friend."

"I guess…not that I don't feel guilty about all the others who've died but…"

Her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, "What would make you feel better?"

He paused, "This might sound silly, but I feel bad about how we left him. How we had to leave him, the moment was so chaotic that I didn't have time to think about it until later, but I don't even know where his body ended up."

"You could call the cops, the ones who took you into custody, the CIA director or whoever."

"You think they'd help?" he turned on the bed and she released her arms, allowing him to swing one leg up and face her.

"I think it's a reasonable request," she hedged, not wanting to make any promises, but desperate to offer some kind of option, "why not call tomorrow? And T-bag while you're at it."

"True."

"He'd want to know," she replied with certainty.

Her feelings towards T-bag were incredibly mixed, and tended to lean towards the negative end of the spectrum, but he'd come through for them in more ways than one. He told Lincoln about Michael. He helped her realize that Jacob wasn't who he appeared to be.

Whip was his son, and he deserved closure.

"Alright," Michael agreed, "I'll make some calls tomorrow."

"Good," she replied as he started pulled the shirt he was wearing over his head, getting ready to sleep. Her eyes went straight to his side, the healing gash from where he'd been cut, poisoned, "it's looking better," she noted, her fingers taking a mind of their own and prodding the area around the wound.

He flinched at the contact, but more out of surprise than pain.

She laughed, "Sorry, can't help myself."

"Once a doctor always a doctor," he replied teasingly.

"Is it feeling ok?"

Nodding, "Barely hurts anymore, it looks worse than it feels."

"Good because it looks pretty…colorful," she decided, eyeballing the varying hues of purple and red, fading to yellow and green around the edges. The stitches that had been through the center of the bruised area had already been removed; there would be a scar, but that was a small price to pay for getting his life back.

He feigned being insulted, "You just said it was looking better."

"Yea, I said better not great," she replied teasingly.

He smiled, but the smile turned into a yawn, a bleary look appearing in his normally clear eyes.

"Alright, bedtime," she announced, and he started to pull back the covers. He hadn't been sleeping well since he'd returned; it was normal for her to half wake up a few times each night to roll over and every single time she did, his eyes were wide open, usually lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with the moonlight illuminating his face. She rarely said anything in the moment- maybe the first night or two she asked sleepily if he was okay. Each time he'd answered with a distant, "Hmm?" as his head turned slightly towards her, as if surprised to see her there. Then he'd exhale and say, "Yea, I'm okay."

She couldn't know what was going on inside his mind as he lay there, unable to rest, and he clearly didn't feel like sharing. She understood that and didn't press- sometimes processing things alone was a necessary evil, but that didn't mean she'd given up on trying to help. She settled on physical comfort instead, so now when she found him lying awake in the wee hours of the morning, she'd snuggle against his side and drape an arm across his body, careful to avoid the bruise of course, and hope that her warmth would somehow seep into him, relaxing his overactive mind, and allow sleep to overcome him.

It seemed as though for Michael to admit he was tired was to admit defeat, so she took the yawn tonight as an involuntary admission of his fatigue. He was on his side and facing her, though buried under the covers now as she switched off the light and adjusted her pillow, settling it close to his and facing him.

"Try to get some sleep tonight, ok?" she asked softly.

His eyes shone in the dim light, a sigh, "I'll try."

XXXXXXX

Being in solitary confinement wasn't new territory, but it was T-bag's least favorite place to be. He thrived on being a part of the game, having allies and enemies, something to keep his mind occupied. Being alone with nothing to do and no one to talk to…it was already starting to drive him crazy.

He huffed and paced, knowing that he'd get through it. He was a survivor, no matter how unpleasant things got.

A guard appeared in the slit in his door, "You got a phone call."

He scoffed, "I had no idea I was allowed such a luxury given my current situation-"

"-you want it or not?"

"Yea, boss I'll take it," he replied with an air of disinterest, mixed with his usual charisma.

The door opened, and the guard proceeded to put him in cuffs, grabbed him by the arm, and led him over to the phone.

He had no idea who'd be calling him, but felt a tingle of excitement as he approached the phone, curious to find out. He cleared his throat and hesitated, leaning his arm against the phone, "Yello?"

"Hello Theodore."

A stifled gasp, "as I live and breathe, if it isn't Mr. Michaelangelo."

"Look, I'll make this quick," Michael replied, unamused, "I'm sorry about Whip, and I want to make things right."

The mention of his late son's name made him drop the act, a serious tone, "I'm listening."

"I made a few calls, and I was able to get arrangements made for him to have a proper burial. I was calling to see if you had a preference- where you want him buried, what you'd like on the headstone…"

For a moment he was unable to speak. He'd barely been able to process the fact that he was a father, and he'd never made funeral arrangements before, let alone for a child, "Uhh, no, no preference," he stammered, then on second thought, "no wait…have him buried in Chicago. If I'm ever able to get out of here I want him close."

He considered the possibility, what it would be like to see life outside these walls again, to lay flowers at the headstone of his only child…one he'd barely gotten to know.

He'd always thought it to be a silly gesture, leaving flowers for the dead, but somehow the thought brought him an ounce of peace, of closure.

"Consider it done."

"For the headstone," he paused, "just make sure, "Beloved son," is in there somewhere."

A genuine, "I will."

While he had him, he decided to press on, "By the way I was meaning to ask-"

"-times up," a guard barked at him.

Ignoring the warning, "About my new cell ma-" the guard yanked the phone from him and hung up.

"Now that there was just uncalled for," he glared at the guard, but submitted, and allowed himself to be led back to solitary. He wanted to let Michael know about Jacob, but figured he'd know soon enough. Things like that generally made the news, especially with a case as high profile as theirs.

T-bag himself didn't even know yet if Jacob was alive or dead. It wasn't for lack of efforts, but the guards around here sure could be tight-lipped when they wanted to be. Alone and in the dark, his ability to get the latest gossip was basically non-existent.

One thing was for sure; if he managed to survive, it would be the last time. Jacob was smart, but T-bag easily bested him in the hand-to-hand combat department, no doubt the result of his cushy, behind-the-scenes job for however many years. He didn't strike T-bag as the kind that liked to get his hands dirty. The guards had just been too quick to react- he would've bled out in a few minutes if they'd just left well enough alone. Maybe. Or maybe he was dead. T-bag sighed as the door clanked shut. For now? He simply had to wait.

XXXXXX

Veronica sat next to Sara on a park bench, the pond in front of them sparkling in the afternoon sun, a small group of ducks floating lazily along the surface.

Mike and Charlotte were with their dads at the Scofield house, no doubt playing outside and causing trouble. Lincoln was off work, and Vee was glad that he was able to enjoy the day with his brother and the littles.

"What about this one?" Veronica offered, handing her phone to Sara- a home listing pulled up.

Sara grimaced, "That's a little pricey, don't you think?"

Veronica shrugged, "It's not like you'll both be off work forever."

A sigh, "Yea, I know," then a laugh, "it's been kinda nice though, all three of us being home. No school…no work."

Veronica paused for a moment, "Do you ever miss it, though? Working?"

Sara exhaled, leaning forward until her forearms rested on her knees, "I honestly didn't think about it much. As in, it wasn't a conscious choice. Everything that happened when I was pregnant with Mike...I never considered working. Once Michael got me out, I wasn't exactly in a great position to apply for jobs, I didn't need to, you know? I had the savings and enough to work through internally without throwing a job into the mix. Then after Mike was born it was the same thing- I wanted…needed to be home with him. And then…"

"-and then you met Jacob," Veronica finished for her, "and he had a good job."

She nodded, "That pretty much sums it up. I wasn't about to choose the crazy schedule of being a doctor and never see my son, not when I could afford to be a stay at home mom."

"I get that," Vee replied, although she only did to a certain degree. The idea of being home with Charlotte 24/7 was enough to drive her crazy. For her, work was an outlet- a way for her to get out in the world and interact with people, and to be useful. Then again, she had Lincoln to help, perhaps if she'd been a single mom with a newborn, she would've felt differently about going back to work.

"And Michael?" Veronica asked, "is he looking at all for a job?"

Sara tilted her head back and forth, "Sort of. We've talked about it a little and I think he's quite keen on not working until summer is over, since Mike is on break," she turned to meet Veronica's eyes, "they need the time together."

Her expression softened, "They deserve it."

She still couldn't believe Michael was really back. After all they'd been through, Veronica never imagined that her childhood friend would wind up in prisons all around the world, manipulated because of his genius-ness, put through hell, and somehow still make it back to his family. She was, of course, shocked to find out that he was alive, but somehow wasn't surprised. He seemed to be capable of just about anything. She could personally witness him being tied down and burned alive, but a part of her would still wonder, what if? Was it all a trick?

Sara stared at the phone screen some more, swiping between pictures, "It is really nice, and not too far away."

"Right?! And look here," she scrolled a few photos over, "look at the deck. Gorgeous, right? Imagine all the summer barbecues we could have."

Sara chuckled, then groaned, "Ugh I just hate moving. I feel like we don't have a lot of stuff but when you actually go to pack-"

"-it's like you've got twice the amount of shit you thought you did."

A laugh, "Yup," she stared out at the water, "but we have to. I just can't keep on living in that house."

Veronica browsed for a few more houses while Sara sat in silence, "I'll send you the link for a few more."

Sara glanced her way, an amused smile, "I'm really glad you're enjoying this."

Vee grinned, "I love shopping for houses when it's not my money."

"Ha, or your back breaking from moving furniture."

"True, although I have a feeling that Linc and I's help can be bought."

Sara raised her eyebrows, "You'd spend a whole day helping us move in exchange for pizza and beer?"

"Mmm," she tilted her head back and forth, "more like steak and cocktails, but yea."

Sara laughed, "Well, consider it done, we'd really appreciate it."

"I'll keep looking, and I'll send any more good ones I find."

Sighing, "Thanks, I'll look over them with Michael tonight."

XXXXXX

Jacob sat on the table in the infirmary, staring at the anatomy chart on the wall.

Yesterday, he'd been sent back to Fox River. Despite having recent surgery and still being worse for wear, he'd been afforded zero luxuries on the trip back. He was forced out of the hospital gown and back in his prison uniform, which he now swore was made of the most irritating fabric known to man. It was cotton, he actually checked, but the way it rubbed against his neck made him convinced that it was sandpaper.

His hands and feet had been cuffed while in transport, the guards watching his every move. What was he gonna do? Run? He'd probably make it no more than five yards and collapse.

The night had been rough, tossing and turning to no avail. He had the cell to himself now which was a small comfort, but the guards made sure he knew that it was temporary. They were always short on space, and he'd be assigned a new cellmate by the end of the week, they were sure of it. As for his old cellie? He'd heard he got sent to solitary, which was a blessing in the short-term, but made revenge a bit more challenging. The image of T-bag, safely in solitude, irked him, but Jacob knew if he had to fight the man again, he'd likely lose…perhaps even worse than the first time around.

He needed allies. Someone to help him carry out the deed. It was clear that T-bag was out for blood, so he'd have to be put down. It was as simple as that.

And so his quest began to form a prison gang of sorts. It wasn't his wheelhouse, as prison culture wasn't exactly something you learned until you had to, but manipulation was his specialty; getting people to trust him. Game theory. He thought back to his explanation to Sara, when she'd asked about Michael-

Keep them percolating. Be everyone's friend, until the moment you're not.

That was something he was good at.

Sara crossing his mind wasn't new, but it was happening more than he'd anticipated since the day he was arrested. The image of her caused a flurry of emotions, mostly red ones. He was angry, jealous, insulted…though a part of him missed her; he'd come to love her through the years, despite the fact that their relationship was based upon him manipulating Michael.

It had been a confusing time for him; having Sara, who in the beginning was simply a name, arrested, then blackmailing Michael and threatening her, then as time went on- following her, observing. Getting to know her from a distance. She'd been a new mother by the time he actually talked to her face to face.

He'd contemplated how to break the ice. Did he follow her into some public place, do the "accidental" bump into her, or help her with something? Did he somehow befriend Mike? Make faces at him in some check out line…mothers liked men who liked their children. But in the end, he decided on something a bit less direct; he intentionally befriended a friend of hers, casually dropping hints every now and then that he was tired of being single. It took time, but as predicted, her friend had clearly told Sara, "hey, there's this guy you should meet…"

The rest was easy. He figured out what she needed, and he provided. Was it really so complicated? Relationships were easy when you know the basic principles and have a little patience. People want love and affection, to be wanted and needed. To trust and feel secure. He showed Sara all of those things and in time, she became his. Perhaps what bothered him most was that he too had allowed his feelings to become contorted. Always in the back of his mind, "don't get too close," while the devil's advocate insisted, "Michael can't ever come back. They're you family now."

She was beautiful, smart, and had a sense of humor that complimented his own. They'd made it work, quite well if he did say so himself, for years. His own farce had become a lovely reality, and now that it was shattered…he wasn't quite sure what he was left with.

Being in the infirmary now, the very one she spent hours in every day, was surreal; it was as if the timeline had been broken, sending him crashing down into where a younger version of Sara should be. His eyes roamed the room for signs of her, anything to hint that she may have been there once; there weren't any.

Sterile and impersonal it was. Jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors, anatomy charts, an ancient looking computer sitting on a desk that looked just as old. The chair pushed against it was fraying, the metal rusting around the wheels-

He startled when the door opened, but stifled his reaction, reeling his expression in and back to neutral.

"Morning," the male doctor greeted. He was tall, with neatly trimmed brown hair. He looked to be in his late forties, athletic, outdoorsy…Jacob wondered why he chose to work here.

"Good morning," he replied with a charming smile.

The doctor grabbed his file and approached him, "How's it feeling?"

"Pretty raw," he admitted.

Nodding, "Unfortunately it'll be that way for a while. You're mainly here so I can take a quick look, make sure it's not infected."

"By all means."

The doctor moved closer and peeled back the bandages, Jacob doing everything he could not to wince.

"Looks okay. I'll have them bring you back tomorrow to check on it again," he started applying fresh gauze, "for now, bandage stays on. Keep it dry."

Nodding, "Will do."

XXXXX

Michael had just gotten off the phone, yet again, solidifying the plans for Whip's burial. It had taken up quite a bit of his day, but he had to admit that he felt better for it. Sara was right- surprise, surprise.

He couldn't help but smile a little at the thought- having someone help him simply because they cared wasn't something he was used to. It wasn't quid-pro-quo; she saw that he was upset, and offered a suggestion. Maybe it was so many years in prison, but he wasn't used to the kindness yet, the selflessness.

His mind wandered back to T-bag, glad that he was able to tell him about Whip, but still a bit unsettled. T-bag had tried to ask him something, and it was about Jacob. Or maybe he wanted to tell him something...or to thank him? Ever since that call got cut short, it had been bugging Michael, wondering what T-bag was trying to say. He considered calling back, but he'd had to be very insistent the first time around to get ahold of T-bag at all. Odds are, his request to talk again would fall on deaf ears.

Nonetheless, he was confident now that Whip would be laid to rest, and the headstone ordered, he felt his shoulders relax. His eyes drifted out the screen door to where Mike was playing outside, his newly acquired remote control helicopter whirring and flying above him. The warm summer breeze drifted inside, contrasting with the cool flooring beneath his feet. Aside from the whir and an occasional bird song, it was silent. Peaceful.

A key turning in the lock of the front door caught his attention, and he turned around as Sara walked in. His mind, relaxed as it was, took in every detail about her; the relaxed yet incredibly flattering fit of her jeans, the sound of her sandals as she slipped out of them and cast them aside. Her cheeks were rosy and slightly sun-kissed, her hair being held out of her face by sunglasses that rested atop her head. She was the embodiment of ease and grace, of a lazy summer day.

"Hey, you," she greeted with a smile, coming over to him and resting a hand on his upper back, "how was your day?"

"Good- I got it all taken care of and had time to spare. He's been outside most of the day," he nodded towards Mike, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"I'm glad," she glanced to Mike, "and yea he loves that helicopter." After a moment of pause, she pulled her phone out of her back pocket, "oh, hey, I've got a few things to show you."

His eyes remained on Mike, "What kind of things?"

"House things," she replied, handing him her phone, "there's four links there that Veronica sent if you wanna take a look."

"Veronica's in on this?" he asked with a smirk.

"When I told her we were looking for a house, she was excited to help," a shrug, "and to be honest, I'm more than willing to let her take the reins. She can look through a hundred listings and show me the good ones," her hand rubbed circles between his shoulder blades as he started to scroll, "I trust her judgement."

"This one is nice," he pointed to the one pulled up, "I like the outside."

"I thought you might," she kissed his shoulder and moved past him, allowing him to continue scrolling as she went out to talk to Mike.

They were all nice places, and he really had no preference. If it was structurally sound, in a safe neighborhood, and made Sara feel better for not living in their current home anymore, he was all for it. Maybe they could go take a look together in the next couple of days, although they needed to find a realtor first. He liked having the time to do this; if he and Sara were both working full time and had Mike in school, the prospect of shopping for a home would be a lot more daunting. But with their schedules the way they were, open and flexible, it didn't sound like such a bad task. They could make it fun- bring Mike along and get ice cream afterwards. He didn't want moving to be stressful for their son, who'd been through enough change over the past few weeks to last a whole year.

When Michael had been in the foster system, he'd moved houses a lot and never really felt as though he had roots; he didn't want Mike feeling the same way. They needed to include him, hear his thoughts and opinions because he was going to live there too. Sure, he was still a kid, but he needed to know that the way he felt was listened to and understood, even if Michael and Sara would have the final say.

Michael walked towards the screen door and called out to her, "Want me to set up a few appointments?"

She turned back, eyebrows raised, "If you don't mind?"

What's one more phone call at this point, he thought, his introverted nature already exhausted from making all of Whip's arrangements, but he was on a roll. No point in stopping now.

"Nah, I can do it," he replied instead and headed upstairs to call. Mike didn't know they were moving yet, and he figured that having him overhear a phone conversation wasn't the best way to tell him. They'd talk to him about it at dinner, together, and tomorrow they could start looking.