A/N: Hey, hey! Thanks for following along :) As always, reviews make my day. Hope you're still enjoying this story!

XXXXXXX

"Morning, Mike," his blonde, stand-in of a mother greeted him.

She was nice- truly. On the surface, Mike had no reason to despise her, and disliking people wasn't part of his nature anyways. It took a lot for him to not get along with people, and was near impossible for him to achieve and experience true hatred. He was mellow, quiet…thoughtful. He rarely acted out or expressed himself physically- he was far more comfortable observing things. But he was starting to feel different.

He'd been torn away from his home, his parents. His natural tendencies were starting to slip away, and he could feel himself changing, growing angrier, shorter. Hannah would offer him food and he'd rudely refuse. She'd ask if he wanted to go outside and he'd shrug indifferently. He used to love going for walks, but the main reason he enjoyed them was because he always took walks with his mom and more recently, his father. The father he'd always wanted to meet, to understand. They would talk and he liked being able to look at the sidewalk in front of him instead of someone's eyes, feeling more comfortable sharing his thoughts when he didn't have to decipher the reaction that they elicited from another person. Walking with Michael, even those few times, were memories he held close to his heart, but having met him and only getting the limited amount of time that they'd had together…it wasn't fair.

The thought made him sigh- he knew that life wasn't fair- his mom had gently guided him to that conclusion whenever he'd faced disappointment. On the rare occasion that he'd feel a prick of jealousy, watching other kids interacting with their dads, Sara would remind him of all the good things. They had each other, they had a home, he had school and friends…a good life. He'd taken it in stride and learned to accept it, and to be grateful. Life wasn't fair, but that didn't mean he wasn't able to find the good in it.

But this morning, staring at the white, textured ceiling above him, he couldn't even bring himself to divert his gaze in order to look at Hannah, standing in the doorway.

"Wanna come down for breakfast?"

He answered by rolling over, facing away from her.

He heard her footsteps approaching behind her, "Look, Mike…I know you're upset and that this transition hasn't been easy, but I am trying to help you. Tell me what you need, or how I can make this easier."

He turned his head, his eyes landing on the ceiling again, though he was able to catch a glimpse of her, kneeling by his bed, in his periphery.

"I need to call my parents," he said with quiet conviction.

She replied just as firmly, "I've told you, that's not possible. You live here now, with me."

He shrugged, "Then there's nothing else you can do for me."

She sighed and started to get up, "Well, whenever you decide to come downstairs, I'll fix you something to eat."

He heard her retreating footsteps, and felt his throat start to constrict. If it had been his real mom asking him to get up and go downstairs…he played the scenario out in his head: she'd say good morning and imply that he should get up. If he refused, she'd make her way over to his bed, just like Hannah had, but rather than politely ask him to get up and retreat when he refused, he was certain that she'd slowly, sneakily start tickling him. The thought almost made him smile. Before he knew it he'd be laughing and wide awake, following her out of his room and downstairs, probably chatting about the day ahead or asking her random questions that entered his mind. He recalled a specific morning years ago when he was being stubborn, a rarity for him, and she slung him over her shoulder, carrying him, a giggling fit, downstairs before plunking him down at the kitchen counter and serving up breakfast. Those mornings had ended in laughter, and this one was well on its way ending in tears; they were starting now, hot and full of grief, rolling down his cheek and onto the pillow that wasn't even his.

XXXXXX

Jacob was laying on his back, the firm yet lumpy mattress beneath him. He was squirmy, ripe with anticipation of what was to come.

It had to be soon. The injury. But his so-called friends- or rather, allies, were proving to be even more useless than he'd imagined.

Their whole purpose was to help him, and at first that meant protecting him from T bag, but now he wanted to get injured. It should've been easy to flip that switch, to insult or threaten T bag, but that man was suddenly unprovocable, a development that was rather curious and had no obvious explanation. He allowed his mind to dwell on that point for a moment, crossing one ankle over the other as his mind churned.

When Jacob arrived at Fox River all it took was a brief moment for T bag to jump on the opportunity for revenge. But now? Jacob had sent his goonies a dozen times over to throw shade his way, from insults and rumors, direct threats…nothing seemed to phase him anymore.

From a game theory perspective, which was his preferred mode of thinking, an enemy who refused to retaliate usually meant one of two things. The first possibility being that T bag was planning revenge in some other way and was waiting for the right moment. As in, he had a better plan than randomly attacking Jacob when the mood struck him. Option two, he reasoned, is that T bag was deliberately trying to not hurt him. Was he adopting the whole "being in jail forever is better revenge than death" mindset? If he was, something must've caused a change of heart…a rather quick one considering that his first attempt on Jacob's life wasn't really that long ago.

He shook his head and made a gruff noise, dismissing the man from his mind and focusing on his more pressing issue. T bag wouldn't injure him and his gang wouldn't either. It had to be self inflicted. But what? Where? How? Which body part did he like the least? He asked himself with a heavy dose of dark humor. And whatever it was, it had to be believable as an accident.

His fingers tapped along the sides of his thighs as he thought, his right index finger started tracing, being drawn to the ridge of the scar left over from surgery after he'd been shot in their home. That had been a close one, the shot not being as precise as he'd hoped…and almost costing him his life. Almost.

The scar did, however, leave a very clear indication of where not to injure. The bullet had severed his femoral artery, which meant that as long as he avoided the path of the scar, he shouldn't find himself on the brink of death again, right? The plan started to take shape, and as much as he didn't look forward to another surgery on the same leg…the injury wouldn't be fatal. He huffed in frustration. Being on the run with a bum leg wasn't ideal, but he'd healed ok the first time around and this wouldn't be as deep of a wound. He wouldn't do more damage than necessary, just enough to get him to the hospital but not enough to require a lengthy recovery. It had to be soon. The ultimatum he'd given Michael and Sara was coming up fast. Now all he had to do was contact Emily again, and make sure she had everything else in place.

XXXXXXX

Michael woke up and blinked a few times, turning his head towards Sara's side of the bed and realizing just in time that her elbow was dangerously close to his face. Another inch and his movement would've whacked himself in the temple. His sleepy self still registered this and his reflexes saved him from a grave error, narrowly escaping death before he was even really awake. He amused himself with the inflated drama of it all, and smiled at her sleeping form, blissfully unaware of what could've happened.

She was clearly still sound asleep- laying on her back, her arm nearest him was strewn about, her hand above her head and the elbow in question bent at an angle that could only be comfortable if you were dead asleep. If he laid like that, his whole arm would be asleep, the pins and needles ready to settle in as soon as he moved it back down.

He rubbed his face and swung his legs down onto the floor, grabbing his phone from the bedside table and pulling it off the charger, seeing that he had a missed call from Alex.

Sara stirred a moment but didn't fully wake, so he quietly left the room, heading downstairs and starting a fresh pot of coffee. He wondered sometimes how much he really needed it, and how much was simply a habit. Either way, he enjoyed the routine, and grabbed his favorite mug from the cabinet…his favorite mug today anyways. There were three that were his favorite, and he couldn't for the life of him explain why, he was just drawn to them more than the others. They probably had fifteen mugs, all different. Their plates and bowls all matched, and so did their regular glasses, but for some reason it felt way more fun to have an assortment of mugs. He often went for a blue one, taller and more slender with a narrow rim. His other favorites were a white one, average size and with a very comfortable handle. Once in a while, he'd go crazy and pick the one he'd been gifted by the engineering firm he'd done his internship with. It was blocky and awkward, the shape of a building, and with a handle that was far too square to comfortably fit a human hand…but there was nostalgia wrapped up in it. For a while, a poor college student, it was the only mug he had. Now that he'd moved up in the world, he decided today was a blue mug kind of day, and grabbed it off the shelf, listening and waiting as the coffee brewed.

Alex hadn't left a message, he'd simply called and when Michael hadn't answered, followed up with a text requesting Michael to call when he could, but assuring him everything was fine.

The assurance helped, but didn't satisfy his curiosity at all, so after pouring his coffee he went out to the deck, his favorite place these days to discuss important developments.

The line trilled a few times before Mahone picked up with a, "Hey."

"Hey, what've you got?"

He heard Alex say a muffled, "Sorry I've gotta take this," and a bit of shuffling before his voice returned fully to the line with a, "I uh, give me a minute to get outside, I'd rather be away from prying ears."

"Sure," Michael agreed, inferring that he must be at work and don't want the F.B.I knowing what he was up to in his spare time. It wasn't illegal per-say, but it would require a certain finesse to get the C.I.A or Kellerman or whoever to agree to let Jacob be transported for questioning. That had to be the reason, the only reason for transporting him as far as the F.B.I was concerned, so someone overhearing their conversation could be detrimental. Some eager agent wanting to move up in the ranks would jump on such a juicy story. Michael appreciated the caution, and waited for Alex to find somewhere private.

Michael heard the sound of a metal door handle being pushed and then the slight crackle of wind rustling against the phone and knew he must be outside, taking a walk away from the building as they spoke.

"Ok, so," Alex started again as he walked, "I spoke with Kellerman."

"And?"

"He's willing to help," his tone indicated that there was more to follow, but his words appeared caught in his throat.

"But?" Michael prompted.

"Here's the thing," Mahone explained, "I'm sure you can appreciate that this is a delicate situation. No one besides us can know the real reason we're trying to get Jacob moved. Me asking for him to be brought in out of the blue looks…out of the blue. I'm not affiliated with his case in any professional capacity and they know about our personal history. They'd know something was going on."

Michael didn't like where this was going, but pressed on, "Ok, so?"

"So I think Kellerman needs to take lead on this."

Michael blew out a small breath, a tiny sigh of relief- that wasn't the worst news. He was afraid Alex was gonna back out, realizing that he couldn't risk getting involved any further, "That's fine, I mean…do I have doubts about him, sure, but I think when it comes to this," Michael pictured Mike in his mind, the innocence of a missing child, "I really don't think he'd try to pull one over on us. Not when it's about Mike."

He could practically see Alex nod, "Alright then. I'll still be assisting of course, but the request the have the C.I.A interview Jacob needs to come from Kellerman. He's on standby, waiting for me to give him the okay after talking to you."

"Give him the okay," Michael blurted out, not wanting to waste another minute that could be spent getting them a step closer to Mike.

"I'll call him as soon as we hang up."

XXXXXXX

Sara padded downstairs and saw Michael out on the deck, phone to his ear. She resisted the urge to eavesdrop and poured herself a mug of coffee, sipping on it as she picked up a few things, making a mental note that she should do a load of laundry…maybe stop by Veronica's to see if they need help with anything. Not working and not having a child to look after meant she had a lot of time on her hands, time she wished could be used to find Mike, but she knew the process was slow. Infuriatingly slow, but they had to be careful, and they had to do this right.

When she heard the sliding glass door push open, she made her way towards it, asking, "Any news?"

"Uh, yea," he moved closer, resting his free hand on the back of the couch, the other holding his near empty mug, "Mahone thinks that Kellerman should be the one to make the arrangements, to ask for Jacob to be questioned."

Slowly, "Okay? Uh, why?"

Michael blew out a breath, "He's afraid if he's the one to make the formal request that it'll be too…out of left field, I guess. Kellerman was more directly involved with all of this, I mean- he's the one who took on the case when you went in looking for more information about me. It makes sense for him to follow up with Jacob, more than Mahone."

"Right," she agreed, putting the pieces together, "because Alex's only connection with Jacob is through us, which would make them suscpisious."

"Exactly," he confirmed, "they need to think this is strictly business, that questioning Jacob for more information is only to benefit the C.I.A and help them learn from their mistakes. They can't know that getting Mike back is the real reason."

"And certainly not the whole revenge angle," she pointed out.

After a beat, "Right."

She nodded slowly, letting the plan sink in and then lifted her gaze again, her voice taking on a softer tone, "I've been meaning to ask about that…"

"About what?" He feigned ignorance.

She called his bluff and rolled her eyes, "You know what. I mean, are we gonna talk about that? About where this all ends?"

"It ends with Mike back here, home, with us."

Her eyebrows raised, "With Jacob still out there? You really think he's just gonna leave us alone after all this?"

Michael shut down, she could literally see it on his face, the walls going up behind his eyes.

"Michael, where does this end?" She asked again, bluntly, moving closer to him until she could lean against the part of the couch that his hand was resting on.

His hand left the couch, coming up to his lips and resting it against them in the thoughtful way he often did. Quietly, "I don't know what you want me to say."

His words entered her mind like a pebble in a still lake, sinking quickly to the bottom, disturbing the sand as it landed. Then, stillness again and she realized; she didn't know what she wanted him to say either.

Slowly, she hedged, "He can't be free."

"No," Michael agreed.

"And we know now that even from behind bars, he isn't going to stop."

"So, what are you suggesting?" He asked.

She looked away, opening her mouth and then changing her mind, closing it, trying to find the right words. She ran her hand through her hair, a nervous habit that didn't help like it usually did, "I don't…I don't know." She couldn't even meet his eyes.

Michael changed the subject, "We have to get Mike back. That's my concern right now, my only concern."

"We have to figure out what to do after!" She felt herself growing agitated and didn't want to, but winging it in a situation like this was laughable, "we can't just figure it out as we go and hope for the best. This is…" she paused, taking a deep breath and calming herself enough so that her voice took on its normal timbre, "we're considering breaking multiple laws and possibly taking a life. We can't…we can't just figure it out later. We can't put this off."

He lowered his head, rubbing his hand on the back of it. The gesture reminded her of something Lincoln would do, "I know," he replied, "I know. I just…I'll figure it out. But right now," he shrugged, a slightly lost look in his eyes, "we have to get him back, and we're running out of time."