Hello again,

thanks for reading everyone. Jill, thanks for reaching out and your nice words, I hope you'll continue reading (*winks back*)

Just a couple of words about this chapter: 1, it is set four years after chapter 1, and 2, it is told from a different perspective. Which brings me to 3. beware some bad language. But I'd say it is in character. 4, I originally planned it with another section, but the chapter is long enough as it is, and I didn't want to make it too cumbersome. That's why it feels unfinished. Another chapter is on the way. Finally, 5, I'm still establishing the backstory, that's why the flashback is rather lengthy. It will make more sense soon, promise. Apologies for any grammar errors.

Anyway, much love to you all and enjoy, winter.

PS: I'll change the title once I think of a better one.

Sandcastles

Chapter Two (Part I)

There was absolutely nothing Lincoln Burrows liked about the new agent in charge of their case. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that she was a woman, let alone with her petite frame, dark, straight hair, doe eyes, and the ethereal air of fragility that strongly suggested she didn't belong in their world of conspiracy, betrayal, peril, and death.

He snorted when she told them their case was the very first she was in charge of after having finished the Agency's training. Four years ago, his brother had broken them out of the maximum security facility. Since then, they had found all the fucking Scylla cards and unraveled a government security, being lauded as heroes not only by America, but the world. They had dined with the President, rejected slots in prime time talk shows, and picked up more than a handful of medals neither of them gave a shit about. And yet they got assigned a rookie for their case. Lincoln considered it to be a perfectly justifiable reason to be upset about.

But it wasn't it either. It was the sheer fact that their case still existed. What the fuck could the government still want from them? They had weeded out the traitors in exchange for freedom. It was the deal they had made all those years ago. They had done everything, so why the fuck were they once again seated behind a desk in a room without windows, facing a person holding a light brown file with their mugshots attached to the front cover?

At least they got coffee this time.

For five minutes now Agent Spencer had been talking in circles, apologizing for having them called back in, expressing her profound understanding that they had enough of the government, it being the very reason for the nightmare of recent years, that they had places to be, all the while stressing that this was a mere formality to get the story in order (so she wasn't even an agent, Lincoln thought. She was a bureaucrat. Somehow that made it even worse), to close the case for once and for all.

It was a struggle not to continuously roll his eyes at her words. She was right about so many things, of course. He did want to get the fuck out. He had been in spaces much smaller than this interrogation room (interrogation room, really. Couldn't they put them in an office? They would deserve it. But, he reminded himself, at least they got coffee. All they had usually gotten in a proximity of a federal agent was a hail of bullets aiming them), but never before had he felt so claustrophobic. He couldn't keep still anymore; every muscle in his body felt on fire, he kept running his hand over his sweaty scalp and he repositioned himself on the creaky chair repeatedly. There was still fucking steam billowing from the fucking coffee and for some reason, it annoyed him exponentially.

He definitely had plans. Lunch with LJ, his first as a free man in years. Then he'd get out of America, at least until he'd be reminded why he had once loved it. Panama, probably. It had been the cornerstone of Michael's initial plan and it became their lifeline after they started collaborating with the good people in the government (he snorted again. Good people in the government. Somehow it didn't matter anymore if people in question supported tax reforms that would keep bread off the table in homes like theirs when they had been kids. Everyone was good, fucking great, as long as they weren't concocting plans to kill them). Just think of Panama, they'd say to keep each other's morale up. When this is all over, sun, sandy beaches, cool beer – don't forget that. As he repeated it now in his head, he saw it for what it was – froth. Not for the first time did Lincoln wonder if he hadn't found himself at the receiving end of Michael's deception. While he envisioned life in Panama for them and LJ, something entirely different was getting his little brother through the hard day's arduous nights.

The government's way of saying sorry, the compensation for the wrongful conviction and all the attempted executions, in and out of prison, should come in in a few weeks (the fact that Agent Spencer mentioned it three times without providing an exact date infuriated him further). No one had so far specified the exact amount, but he suspected it would be more than he and his brother had ever seen, DB Cooper's bounty included. He'd use it to open something down in Panama. He used to think it would be a shop with diving equipment, but now it sounded like too much work, filling in orders, doing inventory. A bar, maybe. He'd keep open beers by his side, overlooking the pristine beaches. It would be an easy life after he had beaten the odds so many times. A few millions wouldn't make it okay, but they would make it easier.

What Lincoln also suspected was that his brother didn't care about the money whatsoever. The sole thought of Michael and the end of the case sent another ripple down his forehead.

He glanced over at him and saw a mask he had observed too many times to count in the last four years. Michael's posture was perfectly straight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, his face void of any identifiable expression. The only marker of life was his eyes, laser-focused on Agent Spencer, and the intensity clearly unnerved her.

She looked like a trust fund baby, it suddenly occurred to Lincoln. She should have studied something completely useless, like art history or literature of some obscure period. Never do anything with it; marry well, raise babies. Someone like her shouldn't be getting into their atrocious mess.

Michael waited patiently for her to finish or at least run out of steam. He was polite like that, and Lincoln still didn't know where it came from. But as soon as she mentioned the closing of the case, Lincoln knew there was no way in hell Michael would let her go on. He groaned and rubbed his head in frustration again before Michael even opened his mouth to say the name Lincoln knew was never off his mind.

"Sara Tancredi," Michael said resolutely, tapping his fingertips on the desk the way he always did when considering something. Lincoln cursed under his breath, and if either of them heard him, they disregarded it.

"Excuse me?" Agent Spencer said in that cloying voice that made his blood boil almost as much as his little brother's refusal to just let the fuck go, even after all these years.

"Sara Tancredi," Michael repeated with the same resolve, "you need to find her. You can't close the case without bringing her home."

The agent's eyes vacillated between the two of them, apparently at loss for words. Did she even read the notes on their case before walking in, Lincoln wondered. She could at least google them, they were all over Wikipedia. There was a special section speculating about the nature of the relationship between his brother and the prison doc (it had been years, but her name was still something he made sure to avoid).

"But I thought she was dead," Agent Spencer slowly said, flipping to the final pages of the file in front of her. "Here. She received the posthumous pardon, together with the two of you. And her medical license has been reinstated, as per the conditions you set before you agreed to take on the Scylla Project."

Her words made the rage in him swell. The Scylla Project. She made it sound like they were in a fucking art class. Lincoln clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white and the nails nearly drew blood. He barely stopped himself from getting up, grabbing the chair that fucking creaked and trashing it on the table until it was nothing more than a pile of unrecognizable plastic pieces.

"He means her body," he said point blank, knowing his brother could never utter the word himself, much less admit to anyone, and especially himself, that the undertaking was looking for a needle in the haystack. In fact, with Mahone six feet under and the other guy never having been identified, it was absolutely hopeless. If the video was anything to go by – and it spoke volumes, as much as Lincoln wanted to silence them –, they probably made sure there was no body to ever be found, just to perpetuate the torment.

While he could understand his brother's feelings in theory, they were completely incomprehensible to him in practice, perhaps intentionally. He flashed back to the panic he had felt when Michael didn't show up at Bolshoi Booze, the meeting point he himself had designated. There was a trio of men waiting for Michael with him, none of whom Lincoln knew. Two hours in, their glances at each other weren't stealthy anymore, and he didn't need to speak Spanish to catch the irritation permeating their rapid exchanges. He watched the greenless grass that somehow managed to survive in the dry desert waltzing with the wind, perfectly aware that he was in dire straits.

From what he gathered, these were the people supposed to get them over the border. What he knew for sure was that they didn't believe him when he insisted he had no clue why his brother wasn't there. Three hours after Michael's promised arrival, one of the men kicked his lower legs; when he was on his knees, someone placed their forearm across his throat, restricting his breathing. The leader (who had four brothers, two of whom were behind bars. For some inexplicable reason this irrelevancy never escaped Lincoln's recollections) demanded he tell him where some chemicals were, as if Lincoln actually had struck around school long enough to have a fucking idea what he was talking about, the guy pointing a gun between his eyes, threatening to pull the trigger.

"I don't know," he kept repeating until there was no more air left in his lungs and he couldn't recognize his voice anymore.

They dragged him inside the dilapidated shed and tied up his hands. Kneeling in the darkest corner, he listened to their raised voices under the scorching sun and alternated between fearing for his life and wondering what was keeping his brother from coming. When the man in charge walked back in, his gun glowing behind his belt despite the encompassing darkness, he realized his brother's potential demise tormented him more than his impending doom.

"Listen, man, I swear I …" he started again, his voice painfully hoarse.

"I don't give a shit," the man rebuffed him, reaching behind his belt while striding toward him. Lincoln found himself yearning he had died in Fox River that dreadful day, after those tearful goodbyes. That there was no last-second phone call, that someone hadn't pushed the envelope under the judge's door. Strapped to the chair like an animal and feeling the volts of electricity destroying him until he was no more, at least Veronica and Michael would be the last thing he ever saw.

The man grabbed a knife Lincoln hadn't discerned and cut the rope around his wrists. He looked up at the man with vulnerable surprise, thinking Michael must have showed up at last.

"Tell your brother the deal's off," the man said before turning on his heels and walking out. Lincoln hurried after him as soon as his legs, still in disbelief that there wasn't a bullet lodged in his skull, could carry him. As his eyes adjusted to the sun, he saw two of the men get in the car in which they had arrived, the remaining one already seated behind the wheel of Lincoln's car.

"Hey, what the fuck," he shouted, starting towards his ride. "You can't just leave me here!"

The only response he got was another gun pointed at him. His legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the arid ground, watching the cars disappear in a cloud of dust. After a minute, he reached for his phone, only to remember the boss had taken it when he arrived.

He put his head between his knees, taking deep breaths. They were supposed to be halfway to freedom by now. Michael had told him so. Bolshoi Booze, the last time we'd ever stand on American soil. Ironically, the soil cracked from the lack of rain may indeed be a place his feet would touch last. He had no car, no means of calling for help; there was no water in the shed and no one knew where the fuck he was.

Except for Michael.

And it didn't look like Michael was showing up.

His eyes surveyed his purlieus again, as if hoping for something to magically spring out of the dead ground. The past two mornings he had actually let himself believe freedom was in the palm of their hands. He had said goodbye to his son, promising to get in touch as soon as he got to Panama. Michael had been off, taking care of the final preparations before meeting up at Bolshoi Booze. He hadn't thought of asking what it was. What was he thinking?

You gotta have faith, he reminded himself.

Bullshit.

Faith had never made him anything but more faithless.

He started thrashing around, just because it was the only thing he could do. His hands found a loose board, pulled it hard enough for the rust-consumed nails to give way. He barely registered specks of blue paint spattered on the board, indicating the shed used to be someone's pride, that there used to be life here.

The board, weakened by the unforgiving heat, fell apart when his wrath was still unsettled. The splinters stuck into the rough skin of his hands, and dust he had disturbed irritated his throat. A dry cough brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't even make things fall apart by his own volition anymore, he thought.

The feel of wetness on his face that wasn't sweat awoke a new round of rage. This time he kicked. The shed swayed under his force. More dust rose when he stomped his feet. Just before the disused construction would collapse for once and for all, he halted. The fact that he was now covered in sweat from head to toe brought him satisfaction completely out of place amidst the hopelessness he faced.

Time passed, but he had no means of tracking it. The sun had moved, providing him with mitigating shade. He tried to estimate how long it had taken him to reach the shed from the nearest town. He might retrace his drive on foot come nighttime. It was the only plan he could think of.

Something resembling a sound of a car engine caught his attention. Lincoln kept still, aware he had nowhere to go and nothing to fight with. He squinted, more dust being the first thing he spotted. Was it them, returning to finish off what they had recklessly let behind, he wondered. They should have saved their bullets for someone wiser than him; after his thoughtless outburst, his clothes were soaked with what was supposed to sustain his body for a little longer. He couldn't have much to go now unless the weather changed.

When the car came to a stop in front of him and his brother stepped out, Lincoln closed his eyes, unsure whether to sigh with relief or convulse with fury. But when Michael only leaned on the car door without explanation or a single fucking word, anger was opted for without his conscious consent.

"Where the fuck were you?" he shouted, and his throat still ached. He got up and, god, he could feel the damn dust everywhere. "We were supposed to be on our way to Panama by now! They almost killed me when you didn't show up!"

Michael didn't respond. He wasn't even looking at him, or at anything at all, really. His eyes were blank, and Lincoln noted how utterly exhausted, no, shattered, he looked.

"What happened, man?" he forced himself to strip his voice of anger. The question made Michael's shoulders slump in a manner that frighteningly resembled defeat. He looked down, his forehead furrowed and his mouth opened and then closed again, as though he had to remind himself to inhale.

Worry firmly replaced anger in Lincoln. Worry. The only fucking feeling he hated more than anger. With fear, he figured, you at least can do something with. Fucking face it. But worry just lingers, undefined and impossible to challenge.

He prepared himself for the worst, without knowing what the worst could possibly be. They had missed their chance to get away – what could have the power to eclipse their freedom?

"They took Sara," Michael said with a sigh that would devastate Lincoln if he had any idea what his brother meant. As their eyes finally connected, it still took him a minute to make a connection; a full minute during which Michael's face assumed a stern undertone, one that perhaps eventually became permanent.

"You mean the prison doc?" Lincoln was in disbelief, but the only explanation Michael provided was the unrelenting stare. "Who took her?"

"Whoever got you convicted," Michael shrugged. "Whoever is trying to kill us."

"And you saw it on the news?" Lincoln probed.

Maybe it was dehydration keeping him in the dark. Or maybe he just couldn't believe that this had escaped him, let alone fucking existed, and that his brother, a fucking genius who left absolutely nothing to chance, was so blatantly stupid. But he should have guessed it when Michael's eyes glanced toward him without actually settling on him, the way he always reacted when afraid of brutal honesty but unwilling to lie.

"I met up with her in Gila," Michael said.

"What?" he scoffed, but Michael remained silent, as if deliberately pissing him off. "Are you telling me we are not on that plane right now because you wanted to fuck the prison doc?"

That granted him a response.

"Don't talk about her like that," Michael hissed with spite that should alarm Lincoln, for it had never been aimed at him before. But he was too far from unperturbed himself.

"What the fuck were you thinking!?" he yelled. The way his voice no longer bore any signs of having been held at a gunpoint further reassured Lincoln of his righteousness. "Her father's a fucking Governor! She must have an entire entourage behind her ass! Feds could be coming to get us right now!"

Michael resorted to silence again. He turned around and braced himself against the driver's door. Lincoln didn't know whether it was to prevent himself from lurching at him or to combat grief.

Lincoln wasn't heartless; he knew what the prison doc had done for him, what she had risked by leaving the door open, and he was aware of the consequences she had crumbled under since. He wished she hadn't gotten involved, but that was as far as his remorse went. He was too close to death too many times to fall apart about someone who had a governor for a father. She'd be fine; there would be people in unlimited number and with unrestricted access looking for her. No one could advocate for him like that. He had to be his own number one.

Michael never put himself first, of course. He always felt things so fucking deeply, always felt the need to save others. Lincoln knew he would have been dead by now had it not been so; what an irony would it be if, in the end, his demise would be a result of Michael's savior complex extending to include the prison doc as well.

He prayed it was only an exaggerated gratitude. If it was anything else, Lincoln knew they were headed for trouble. She was a governor's daughter and they were the two most wanted men in America. As trivial as this may be in Michael's eyes – god forbid it was their eyes –, it was a fucking suicide mission. And no way was Lincoln to watch it unfold.

"Let's just go back to town," Lincoln sighed and walked to the passenger's door. Getting in, he spotted a paper bag on the back seat.

"Water, thank god," he said, reaching for it with his every cell acutely crying for at least a drop.

"Don't touch that," Michael stopped him just a before he could give his body a respite.

"I haven't drunk anything since morning," he protested.

"We'll stop at the gas station," Michael said, starting the engine.

"And what is wrong with that water?" Lincoln pressed, his indignation rising just to swallow the fear.

"I said we'll stop on the way."

"So you spent the day looking for her, then?" he asked, more out of a need to distract himself from knowing water was right there than out of genuine interest.

"I don't know where they took her to," Michael's voice suddenly got quiet, his eyes fixed on the road. Lincoln rubbed his head in vexation. Would anything ever go according to the plan? He couldn't think of one thing that hadn't gotten derailed in one way or another since they commenced their escape. He got shot. Veronica died. They lost Westmoreland's money. The plane came and left. He was sure Michael had backup plans in case something went awry. It was doubtful, though, that he had foreseen fucking everything going to shit.

"How are we getting to Panama now?"

Something about his question made Michael laugh. There wasn't a tinge of joy his tone, though; it was a laugh of a desperate man, of someone out in the open, with a target on their back and their hands tied. He would have been better off dying in Fox Prison, Lincoln thought again. How many people would have still been alive and not held captive if it wasn't for him. There was absolutely nothing about him worthy of such sacrifices.

"I just told you someone took Sara and I don't know how to find her," Michael said, and thank god he was staring through the passenger's window because he rolled his eyes so much the eye sockets actually hurt. They were sitting ducks without any minutiae resembling a plan, and his brother, his brother who never acted in accordance with anything but his reason, was losing his shit because of some chick. "And the only concern of yours is whether we are still going to Panama. How do you do that, Linc? You would've still been in Fox River if it wasn't for Sara. She risked everything for you."

"Don't try to make me believe she did it because of me," he shot back.

"If I told you that, yes, I do have a plan," Michael went on, "would you do it? Would you just go while someone had her, doing things to her, because of us?"

"You and I both know there is no need for me to entertain this possibility since we don't have a plan," Lincoln said, just as Michael pulled over at the gas station. He was out of the car before it stopped. The biggest shitstorm was of course still imminent at that point, but the force with which he shut the door was probably the first crack in their then newly-established relationship, Lincoln now mused, four years later, in an interrogation room when everything was over and unresolved.

It wasn't that they had gone back to their pre-Fox River relationship. He didn't avoid Michael's company out of the feeling of inadequacy, and Michael wasn't filled with ill-concealed contempt for his brother's continuous failure to make something out of himself. Their hotel rooms were adjacent, they shared their meals, and if they happened not be in each other's visual field, they constantly made sure the other was okay. Everyone told them they wished they had such a good rapport with their siblings, and no one suspected there was an abyss between them.

Lincoln didn't deride people for their rose-colored spectacles; to be honest, he himself couldn't explain it exactly. But whenever they sat next to each other, Michael made sure there was space between them. Not enough for anyone to think anything of it, of course, but enough to prevent unnecessary contact. Then there were his shoulders, how they always faced the direction opposite of Lincoln, as if their owner subconsciously couldn't stand looking at him, yet succumbed under the perceived obligation.

They were brothers. They had gone through something extremely traumatic and completely devastating together, emerging without anything but each other. And they had done it all for each other, because of the lengths they would go for one another in extremis. To disjoint their paths now, when they could finally greet the sunrise without fearing they wouldn't live to see the sunset, would be disdainful to everyone left dead in the wake of their dysfunctionality.

He may not give a shit about decorum, but Michael was bent on doing the right thing. It was just one more of his qualities whose origins were a total mystery to Lincoln. He'd resign to a life with his brother, without giving it a second thought and regardless of blaming him for his greatest pain, all in the name of appropriateness.

To Be Continued.

Broughttoyouby:::winter.