Disclaimer: Even after all of my pitiful pleading with the producers, they still refuse to turn the rights of Prison Break over into my capable albeit somewhat obsessive hands. I own nothing but my dignity.

Rating: I'm not actually sure of excatly what the parameters are here, so I am just going to up thr rating to M because there are some...suggestive sequences in this chapter.

A/N: I'm sorry if my description of hypoglycemia is a little off. I tried to do some research on the matter before I posted the first chapter, and all I came up with was that some symptoms are: shaking, sweating, fast heartbeat, impaired vision, weakness or fatigue and headache. I tried my best to incorporate those, but the rest is just from scratch because I don't really have any personal experience. :) And for treatment, 10-15 mg of glucose is needed immediately (sometimes taken in the form of a glucose tablet). If that answers any questions for you, or if I got anything wrong I'd love to be able to correct it.

Hanging On

Sara sighed and brushed a stray hair out of her eyes, dutifully filling out the patient report on Michael Scofield. Her desk was small and running short of open space, but she kept it neatly organized: a testament to the way she ran the rest of her life. She has always prided herself on being sensible, punctual, and above all practical. What was the sense in a new dress when the old one fit just fine? Every path she had taken in her life was the right one, the prudent option. And it always led her in the right direction. An Ivy League education, a good job, and all the upper-scale, high-class society she could ever want.

Until Fox River.

Her father had called her crazy, and for the first few moths, Sara held in her mind the distinct possibility that she just may be. Her daily interaction with rapists and murders had definitely shifted her paradigms on life, if only to make her acutely aware of the problems of the society that worshiped the "American Dream". Working in a prison also made her hypersensitive to the issues of societal justice. On one hand, she had to be a believer, or everything she had worked for in her life was simply an elaborate hoax to keep the public's mind at rest. On the other, she saw people like Correctional Officer Bellick climb the corporate ladder despite his obvious lack of qualifications. Through her years at Fox River Penitentiary she had seen numerous injuries that weren't – they simply couldn't be – the accidents that he claimed.

At the thought, Michael Scofield's face appeared unbidden in her mind. From the moment he had walked into her office the first morning, she had known he was hiding something. Sara liked to think that she was a reasonably accurate judge of character, but that particular man had an air of secrecy about him, not to mention the fact that he seemed to be a fly-strip for trouble, and she could never quite seem to understand his motives. In a place where she was convinced that most of the people couldn't be trusted with a plastic butter knife, something made her want to applaud Michael in secrecy. She had also been entertaining other ideas of what she would like to do to him in secrecy, though she was sure that such activities were not a wise decision. And it wasn't just the fact that he had been convicted of a crime, but also because she was certain he had some sort of contact with Abruzzi, who was notorious for playing his part in many, if not all, shady dealings which went on in the prison. As much as Sara tried to train herself to be cavalier, she was also fairly positive that someone in Fox River was out to get Michael Scofield. The worry and anxiousness bubbled hotly in the pit of her stomach as she thought of the mess he could make of his life in a place like this, if he managed to make it out alive.

Shaking her head disapprovingly, she turned back to her paperwork and was startled by the loud clearing of a throat behind her.

"Michael," she gasped and swiveled around in her chair, shocked to see him up and out of bed at this hour. She had already decided to spend the night in the staff quarters down the hall so that she could check on him periodically, but wasn't expecting him awake until morning.

"Sorry if I frightened you," Michael apologized, his voice rough and a little constrained. The colour was slowly coming back to his cheeks, and though he still looked fatigued, that was a commonality, which he found was almost impossible to rid himself of. The worrying over Lincoln combined with the late hours putting his plan into action left him little time to rest in between.

"Not to worry," she answered as a shiver ran through her body at the heated look he always seemed to pin her with. Standing to meet him, she motioned towards the beds in the opposite wing of the infirmary. "Well since you're up, I may as well run some tests. Standard procedure."

Michael nodded and followed her obediently. He was now clothed in only the white undershirt that he woke up in. Assuming that Sara had removed it for some reason or another, he had kept the blue button up shirt folded neatly in a pile by his bed, despite his keen urge to cover himself. Following the incident with Haywire, Michael didn't feel completely comfortable letting just anyone take lingering looks at his tattoo. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sara – because he was fairly certain that she was one of the only people that he could trust – but it would be better for all parties involved if she had no knowledge of what was going to transpire in her very domain.

At her gestures, Michael sat on the bed and waited for her to pull out a clipboard and a pen.

"Your arm, please." Her voice was clipped, but not cold. It had been a traumatizing event for her to see him hauled into the medical wing in the middle of the night, quaking and pale, and she had been on edge since the incident. It wasn't that she hadn't seen such things as a doctor before, but for reasons she didn't want to examine, she had felt a cold hand clutch at her heart when she thought of him hurting and alone. He's been abandoned all of his life. Lincoln's voice rang with surprising clarity in her mind.

Reaching for his left arm, her fingers tingled as they came in contact with the unexpectedly soft skin. She was surprised at how cool it was, and began to lightly trace his tattoo with her index finger, running her nail along the smooth lines of transition from one symbol to another and getting carried away with the fluidity of the entire work of art. She wondered how long it must have taken him, sitting in some disreputable – because somewhere along the way she had gotten the impression that all places that did such thing to a person's body were slightly suspect – tattoo parlor, waiting for the artist to finish. She knew it must mean something, but hesitated to ask and give any indication of where her thoughts had wandered.

Her hands on his skin were gentle, almost affectionate, and it startled him more than he expected. With a quick move, he twisted his arm and caught her wrist in a firm grip, using it to pull her gently closer to him until she stood in between his parted legs. From where he was sitting on the bed he had only to lift his gaze a little and take advantage of the deep ache he saw evident in her eyes.

"Good reflexes," she stated, as he breathed hotly on her neck. Sexuality charged the air, and she was desperately trying to resist the urge to give in to the lure of temptation.

"Is this one of your tests, doctor?" Michael raised a suggestive eyebrow at her and quirked his mouth up in a devilish half-smile.

"Yes. It's called restraint," Sara whispered lowly, and subconsciously wetted her lips with her tongue.

Pulling her closer, and down towards him, Michael smiled and gave her one gentle nip right where her neck met her jaw, murmuring in her ear. "I was never much good at restraining myself."

"Michael," she warned, the quiver in her voice betraying more than just a hint of uncertainty. The question that they had both been dying to ask hung wordlessly in the air, the elephant in the room.

And then she crumbled. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, she hauled his mouth to hers in a frantic kiss. No questions asked, no permission given, just hot voracious need lashing against their feeble walls of dissonance. No longer concerned with what would happen if they broke the boundaries of doctor-patient professionalism, Sara took all that he was offering and begged for more, pulling him impossibly closer. An alarm sounded momentarily in the back of her head reminding her who she was. Sara Tancredi: reliable, sensible, and predictable. She ignored it, and nibbled enticingly on his bottom lip.

Growling deep in his chest, Michael quickly took control, crushing her mouth to his and taking her in greedily. Impatiently, he skimmed his tongue over her lips, seeking entrance to the hot treasure within, and when they parted, he began his reckless assault on her senses. Standing, he was slightly rougher than he would have liked to be as he pushed her backwards and trapped her against the thick glass of the infirmary windows. Searing sensations swarmed his mind, leaving him with little air to breathe and no room to consider what he was doing. His thoughts had long since hazed over with a cloud of lust, leaving him only able to enjoy the sting of her nails biting into the naked skin at his neck and the short, frantic breaths she took each time they parted.

Sara bit her bottom lip, muffling a moan in Michael's neck. The constant pressure of his hand caressing her hip and his clever fingers tugging lightly at her hair made her want to purr like a cat as she arched into him, wordlessly asking for more. He had momentarily abandoned her lips to place wild, open-mouthed kisses down the porcelain column of her neck, using his teeth and tongue to taste her, his lips feeling like sun-warmed silk as they made their way over her skin.

Ignoring the loud clatter of falling medical instruments as they slammed into a cabinet, Michael made no attempt to quell the anxious need that was pouring out of him and into their frenzied kiss. Frustration, restless apprehension, fear and need merged in his mind, creating a new and dangerously addictive fusion of his energy that he somehow felt he needed to relay to Sara. God, he was going to miss her when he left, the thought hit him like a blot of lightning and he broke their kiss, stunned that he hadn't seen this coming.

Throughout all of his careful planning, the one thing that Michael had never counted on was Sara. He hadn't figured out the angles, hadn't mapped out a precise plan or plotted each separate move deliberately. He hadn't known who she was, hadn't wanted to until the first day when he laid eyes on her in the infirmary. But most of all, Michael had hoped that she wouldn't occupy that little corner of his mind: the one that was open and free from worry of Lincoln, the one that spoke to him in the dead of night and told him that everything would be okay. Now, not only had she taken over all of the spare space that he had left to give, but aspects of her were spilling over into the places of his thoughts where she really didn't belong. Like when he lay awake at night, listening and waiting for complete silence, he would recall the smell of her hair and the feel of her touch on his skin. Or when he was out in the yard and the hostile atmosphere of the prison began to smother him, he would wonder what it would be like to hold her in his arms.

And now he had to leave her.

Sensing that something was wrong, Sara disentangled herself from Michael and tried to see past the suddenly guarded look in his murky green gaze.

"Michael." She got his attention.

He raised his eyes to meet hers, noticing on the way her disheveled clothing and the warm flush cooling high on her cheekbones. Stepping back, he began to straighten away the room without so much as a word to her, his token look of indifference finding its place on his features again.

"I think we should do those tests now," he murmured, trying to ignore the injured look she cast him through her dark lashes.

"I don't understand," she began, swallowing around the lump in her throat. Reaching for him, she placed her hand on the side of his face and pulled it around so he would look at her.

"Just leave it." The bitterness in his voice surprised him, and he felt a pang of guilt slice through his abdomen when she cast her wide-eyed, misunderstanding gaze in his direction.

Her breath caught painfully in her throat, Sara turned away and reached for the glucose meter she had thrown on the bed in her haste. Pricking him carefully with the device, she struggled not to make any further contact with his skin. Despite the confusion and concern swirling spontaneously in her mind, she managed to keep her feelings at bay. But that wouldn't last long.

"Your levels are normal again," she began, reading the digital meter and ignoring the tremor in her voice. "I need to run some more tests, though, but they can be finished in the morning." Clasping her hands together to hide their slight shakiness, she avoided Michael's eyes and struggled to maintain a professional façade. "My guess is that you've lost weight since coming here and your body is now reacting to the excessive insulin dosage. I should have seen this coming," she berated herself. "I'll adjust it as soon as we finish up with your assessment. Meanwhile, you should get some rest, seeing as the fatigue probably hasn't worn off quite yet." Even though she knew it was a falsehood, the excuse gave her a reason to leave the room and sort her thoughts.

Sara now remembered why she was practical, sensible: it was safer that way. The less risks she took, the less chance she had of getting hurt. Walking away, she left Michael to sleep, knowing that she wouldn't be able to do the same.

"Sara," he called her name like it was the only thing on his mind.

Turning back towards him, a glimmer of hope shone in her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

She blinked, swallowed, and then looked up and smiled at him, the obvious falseness of the gesture shining through her eyes. "No." She sighed lowly. "It was my fault." And she walked out of the room, clicking off the light on her way past the doorway.

Lying down on the crisp, white sheets, Michael mentally reproached himself for being so foolish. All the careful planning, the months of preparation for the only thing in his life that would really matter, and he had gone and made a mess of it. He had gone and fallen in love with the charismatic, brainy, gorgeous doctor Tancredi, without a thought to her feelings.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and his eyes drooped, despite the seriousness of his moral dilemma. Shifting in bed, he drifted off to a world where nothing else existed. And in this dimension where reality had no bearing, where common sense was thrown to the wind, it was Sara he tasted.

A/N: Dear god. I have no idea what is going on. Nor did I see where this was going to go at the beginning of the chapter. Sorry for all the angst, because it really wasn't intended to be so…forbidden-love-esque. That's just the way it turned out. I'm pretty sure that I'm not finished, seeing as I can's just leave them hanging like this, so bear with me as I try to work out just what is going to happen next. Thank you so much to all those who reviewed last chapter. I love feedback.