His hands are broken, the long tapered fingers bruised. The blue ink of his tattoo leaks on to the floor, turning purple as it mixes with his blood. In her dreams he's always dead. She sees his long arms, his broad shoulders, his hands, but never his eyes. Something roars in the background and the world goes dark. She wakes up in a strange bed to the sound of the waves crashing on a nearby beach. In the first moments of sunlight the room looks different, softer somehow, than it did the night before when sharp shadows jutted into her path. She sees Michael's outstretched hand off of the sofa and creeps over silently. In sleep the lines of his face have softened and his lips pout slightly like a little boy's, her hand moves to touch him, but she stops herself and heads for the kitchen instead.
In his dreams she's always running away and he wakes up to the sound of the ocean and the smell of French toast.
"My favorite," he says shyly running his hand over his head. She's wearing an old t-shirt and her tousled hair is tucked behind her ears; to him, she's never been more beautiful."
"Really? Cause, I wasn't sure…I mean, I was going to go for just bread and water but…" He nudged her playfully. Playfully…that's something I never thought I'd think.
"I see we have company," said a deep voice from the doorway.
"Hi Lincoln."
"Hey doc."
"Way to go, Uncle Mike," piped up a sleepy LJ, "What's for breakfast?"
"French toast for everyone," she answered, "but, I, uh, think I used up all of your bread and eggs." Michael took the plate from her hands and set it carefully onto the table.
"That's okay, three men in one house and we're buying a loaf every other day or so anyway."
"Right…" Sara looked at the three men seated around the table talking and laughing over breakfast and smiled. It was…nice…but she could tell that they were putting on a show for her benefit; the noise seemed to contrast with an established boundary of silence, a boundary not easily broken after years of solitude. And now? she thought What happens now?
After breakfast everyone seemed to go their separate ways. Lincoln was out on the boat, LJ to a tutor they'd somehow managed find, and she and Michael took their time walking through Baja. Just as he had in prison, Michael seemed to know the place like the back of his hand, he was forever pulling her down dark alleyways into quaint little stores and restaurants. It's like he knows everyone, she thought as Michael embraced an old woman and her sister.
"There's just one more place…Here we are." He grabbed her hand and took her inside.
As he led her through the shop, his hands running along the sleek lines and designs with all the tenderness of a master craftsman, his voice cracked with excitement as he described this technique and that piece of wood. There was a passion in his voice she never heard before, never had the opportunity to hear and his face was more than alive.
"Lincoln," he explained, "loves the open water. He takes people out for hours and comes back ready to go again. Me, I…I love this. No feeling in the world like making something out of nothing." Her eyes swept over the intricate wooden villages and she nodded.
"I can understand that."
"I know you can." His face was serious again, his eyes dark and penetrating. She looked back at the designs and noticed a large blanket covering two large, extremely lumpy objects.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Just a work in progress."
"Can I see it?"
"It's not finished or anything, but…sure., if you want to." He stood back as she carefully lifted the covering. Underneath there were two very different buildings; one, the prison, was square and solid, just as she remembered it, the other, a house, was somewhat rounder and more comforting.
"What's this?" she asked reverently, her fingers barely grazing the delicate wooden structure. It was exquisite, romantic even, with large windows and rounded arches. She looked through the windows and could see painted walls and miniature furniture.
"My dream house," he answered quietly.
"Michael, it's beautiful!"
"I'm glad you like it," he whispered. So am I.