Dear all,

I'm sorry it took me this long to update, but thank you for your patience! The good news is, I am now done with the first part of my studies and am graduating in a few days :)

Thank you for all your beautiful reviews, they really kept my spirits up these past two weeks. I really hope this chapter is not as lukewarm as the last one, and I hope to update more regularly again from now on ;)

Anyway, since we are now nearing the end of the fic, I was just wondering, would you prefer to have more Michael/Sara scenes, or the Scofields as a family? I can still alter the remaining chapters, so if you have a preference, maybe let me know?

As always, feel free to reach out with any questions, comments, or nudge me if the next chapter is again taking forever to be posted :)

I really hope you like this chapter, and please please review.

Much love, winter.

PS: yes, family is fine now, thanks for well wishes :)

Sandcastles/The Bars Between Us

Chapter 11 – The Evening

Their second night as a family didn't go as smoothly as the first.

Bryce sat crossed-legged on the bed, his parents on either side of him (his uncle was supposed to be there as well, but after having dozed off twice in the park, he had reluctantly taken a rain check). The sheets were gathered around his ankles (it had taken four stores to find the bed linen with the world map on it. Lincoln had been completely aghast to discover that his nephew didn't have a favorite animated character and didn't follow superhero movies, and he started planning a major movie marathon on spot, followed up by the real blueberry pancakes in the morning).

The books they had bought were displayed in front of the boy (three bags had been needed to bring them all home. Not all the books were for Bryce, though. As funny as it was to Sara and especially Lincoln, Michael made sure to get the best rated parental guides, for he was the kind of man who liked knowing minutiae of everything he dealt with). Bryce was choosing a story to be read tonight with such seriousness that Sara later berated herself for not having seen through it. But as she watched Michael pick up each book and read its back cover summary even though he, too, knew them all by heart by now, she couldn't do much more than wish this evening could sprawl into forever.

As it turned out, it wasn't the story Bryce was opting for, but rather the words in which to convey it. He took a deep breath and looked at both of his parents.

"Dad, Mom, I think I can sleep by myself tonight," he announced.

"Are you sure?" Sara asked, and her lips felt funny from the force with which she had pressed them together.

"I'll be fine, mom," he reassured her, and his eyes lingered on hers as though he really wasn't. But he kept a brave face as dad read the story, although he didn't comment as much as he usually did. The shape of his lips resembled mom's when dad promised to keep the door ajar, and that if he needed anything, he should just call. After mom kissed the crown of his head for the second time, he closed his eyes so as not to watch his parents leave.

Sara didn't say anything, but it was clear to Michael that Bryce's request unnerved her. They had shared just enough fragments of their life in France for him to have a pretty good idea why, and he wondered if she chatted away about the things they had bought and still needed to get so that he wouldn't bring it up.

He was about to interrupt her ramblings to tell her how happy it made him that they were so close, but then he realized they had never had anyone besides each other. She wouldn't take it like that, he knew that, and she wouldn't want him to think like that for a second, but mere thinking back to the years he had unknowingly missed pierced through him as though it was something he should feel guilty for.

He too sat down on the couch, close enough to be considered it was next to her, yet offering her the distance they kept tiptoeing around.

"You know, he fell asleep in my arms last night," he told her, successful at keeping the tone light and powerless to fight off a smile. He watched as distress left her lips until her expression matched his own.

"I didn't dare to move all night," he added.

She had kicked off her slippers and now sat facing him, her knees updrawn. Their son might not want cartoon faces on his bedspread, but he didn't seem to mind having them on his socks. Or perhaps, Michael now wondered, he liked wearing socks identical to mom's.

"You needn't have worried. Once he's out, he's out."

"So are you, apparently," he tried.

"Yeah, well, that may be one of few things he got from me," Sara laughed to his relief, but the inference lingered between them. He's just like you, she had told him.

There was a remote on the coffee table within their arms' length. She could have so easily reached for it, letting the glare of the screen and the jingle of the commercial breaks numb them to each other's presence. It was probably what most parents did after getting their children to bed. However, those couples had shared too many dull days to count and became inured to each other, and neither applied to the two of them.

She repositioned herself again. Her knees were no longer pressed against her chest as a comfort and a shield. It gave him the courage to ask what every minute he spent with their boy seemed to unequivocally answer.

"Sara, just how much like me is he?"

"I've been taking him to this psychologist in Lille. The best I could find. And she says there's no need to worry. And, I mean, you've seen him. He's healthy, happy, and so smart. He knows it's something he got from you and, um, that makes it special."

He still remembered how easy it had been for him to be overwhelmed at this age. The sounds reverberated in his ears until his head hurt and the patterns danced in front of his eyes and wouldn't disappear even as he closed his eyes. There was no one around who could name his perception of the world, much less reassure him that it was okay. If he had once wondered what he would be with a hand to hold throughout his childhood, all that mattered now was that his son did always have someone.

She would brush it aside if he said it aloud, but he could never give enough to this woman who welcomed his child when it must have been most disadvantageous to her, and somehow ingrained so much love in him, love so many would rightfully say that he as a father didn't deserve.

She went on before he could respond.

"Anyway, he told me you guys talked about the years we were apart."

"I'm sorry if I overstepped my line."

She shook her head.

"Why would you? You're his dad. It's yours to tell just as much as it is mine."

He sighed and leaned forward, laying his elbows on his things. His hands wrung in words he struggled to find a way to express. She calmed them by placing her own hand on his, and just like on those scarce moments when she had sought the feel of him, his breathing halted somewhere in his throat.

"You're his dad, Michael. You've always been his dad," she told him. He took her hand in his, gently, as if still afraid of inadvertently hurting her.

"What did you tell him about how we met?"

"The truth," she grinned at the panic that widened his eyes. "You know. That you needed a doctor and I helped you. I skipped that part about the pipe being what you truly needed. And that it happened in prison."

She watched him caress the skin of her knuckles, gaining confidence with every second that she didn't pull away, buoying her up in return.

"And, um, there is something you should know. Just in case it ever comes up," she said, and he tilted his head slightly to show he was listening. His eyes were still on her hand, intent as if there was still something about her skin awaiting discovery. "Our first date? I told him you took me hiking."

She bit down on her lips as his eyes crashed into hers, recognizing the undertone of her words.

Really, it wasn't that far from the truth. It was the first time he had taken her places. Granted, it was the moldy pipes in the ceiling and circuitous corridors he bore on his skin, and they were running away from the men deranged by the unexpected power, from red dots that wouldn't discriminate. The smoke constricted their lungs, tears melded with sweat on her face, and desperation weighed on them, the choice leaving no other. It was the first time he held her hand in his, completely mesmerized by how well they fit together.

"And I might have mentioned something about a filet mignon afterward," she added.

"Well I do still owe you dinner," he said, and her eyes glinted in the familiarity of words they had once tossed around, yet meant their every syllable.

Banter used to come so effortlessly to them. Right from the start, when he had offered her the rehearsed lines, his heart had enjoyed her response as much as his calculating mind had. The smile her words evoked stayed on his face long after the door of the infirmary behind him closed, and during the nights when yet another setback kept him awake, the memory offered him a respite. Somehow it had been a way for them to find that needed middle ground between the cuts she tended to and the lies he told her, and the people they would be if they chanced upon each other outside the bars of Fox River. In a place where honesty had no space to occupy, it was a way for them to listen to each other, to hear the unspeakable.

Now there was no code to strike their words and no urgency to say them. Maybe it was the freedom that fumbled with their tongues, or perhaps the fear that normalcy might snatch away what made them special all those years ago.

"I might be overshooting my confidence here a little, but I would like to think that I wouldn't sweat that much on a first date," he teased, holding his breath as he awaited the reply.

"I guess there's only one way to find out for sure," she replied, without skipping a beat.

"It's a date," he gently said, squeezing her hand. "If that's how you're feeling."

By now her arms were bent at her elbows and the scent of her wasn't faint anymore. No answer left her mouth, but he felt the words of her eyes ripple through him, so merciless, so elating. It was just one more thing time had left unscathed, he thought, trying to find a reason not to lean closer to her, so close he would lose the ability to pull back. Just sitting there, watching her while respecting and not minding the distance between them, was as enticing as the knowledge of how good she would feel in his arms.

The sound of little feet he had thought he would never be blessed with reminded him that as much as they still fit the memories he had, there was now something fundamentally different about them. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw their son standing a few feet away, the pajama looking impossibly big on him (he still couldn't believe just how little they had spent on their boy's clothing. But Sara insisted that as long as he was outgrowing new clothes on monthly basis, there was absolutely no need to buy anything above the medium price range).

Bryce's tiny fist tried to wipe away the tears that spilled from his reddened eyes, but he couldn't keep up. If there was something he wanted to say, the words were rendered incomprehensible by his sobs.

"Oh, baby," Sara said, and Michael felt her hand slip out of his. He watched their boy run past him and straight into her arms, turning his head away from him under mom's tresses. He knew he should do something, but the uncertainty paralyzed him. His throat went drier and drier until it was a struggle to swallow down his uselessness.

"I'm so sorry," Bryce finally managed, and Michael's heart broke, for he was supposed to be the one to run out of time to apologize, not their little boy who was perfect to a fault.

"Shh," Sara started gently rocking back and forth to soothe away the sobs. She kissed the crown of his head, assuring him that there was nothing he needed to be sorry for, and that he was a very brave little boy and that they were very proud of him. Bryce's eyes still avoided Michael's direction, so he didn't see how Sara motioned for him to get closer. His body had the weight of lead when he finally yielded to her eyes. Slowly he repositioned himself until he felt more than just the warmth of her next to him. From the way their son's body stiffened and he held his breath to keep in the distress, Michael realized his proximity was well known to the boy. As much as he wanted to ruffle his hair, he still feared it wasn't his place to do so, and when Sara shifted to reaffirm the slight contact between their bodies, his arms still didn't feel his own.

Bryce slowly, reluctantly, turned in Sara's loosening arms, careful not to touch a certain spot on her arm. His head was bowed while he was gathering the courage to raise his eyes to his father's, as if expecting a reprimand. For a very long and excruciating second they just stared at each other; then Bryce flung himself in his dad's arms, and when Sara too laid her head on his shoulder, Michael had to remind himself that he was not dreaming and was still breathing. He had longed for this, for this woman and this child, and thought it impossible for so long he doubted he would ever become inured to any of this.

"Shall we give it another try?" Sara suggested way too soon for his liking, but it was almost tomorrow, and after spending an entire day running up and down the park, the boy's body was limp now that the weeping had ceased.

Bryce nodded and let dad carry him back to his room. There his parents tucked him in again before lying down on either side of him again. They told him they wouldn't leave until he was asleep and that it would still count as sleeping by himself. Dad had barely read half of the chapter by the time Bryce's eyelids closed. Nothing about his serene cheeks indicated they had been tear-stained just minutes ago.

Michael put the book on the nightstand, then rolled on his hip, facing Sara's awaiting smile. They listened to their son's rhythmic breathing, their hearts beating too erratically to be lulled to sleep.

"You are happy about this, right?" she asked.

"I didn't think I would ever be a dad," he admitted.

Bryce had insisted on the blinds staying open for the night. He was enamored with the patterns the lights of New York painted on his wall and just a little bit scared of the darkness that was for the first time only his. Now the lights revealed the perturbance ensconced in Michael's expression as he pulled the covers over their son's shoulders.

"It's just," he said when she pointed it out, "it was like he was embarrassed that I saw him cry."

"Well of course he was. You're his dad. He wants to be perfect for you."

"I would never…"

"Of course you wouldn't. But he's five."

He let out a sigh with a nod. His eyes took in the room around them, settling on the same patterns that captivated they son, and she sighed too when the wrinkle between his eyes disappeared.

"Are you tired?" he asked her.

She had spent too much time in France for her body to forget its usual daily cycle so quickly, and she was sure that they both knew a part of her lied when she said no.

"Good," he said, already getting off the bed. "Come on."

Once they were back in the living room, he held open the door that led to the balcony.

"Give me a minute," he said, and it was a minute they both needed. They might have bought furniture together, put their kid to bed, touched, yet still a part of her couldn't grasp that any, let alone all of this was real, and the sight in front of her was of no help.

The lights around her were bright enough for her to count the floors of each building. Some towered above her, others sprawled in the distance. If matching the constellations on the night sky with pictures in books on her son's lap had made her appreciate the beauty of life, the ostentatious display in front of her now sent ripples of euphoria through her veins. Behind the windows were millions of people just like her. Some may be witnessing the disintegration of their lives under the neon lights, and the anguish she could understand all too well. Others just went through their evening routine, switching on one lamp after the other, and she still couldn't grasp that having someone, the one to wake up next to was now her new, her forever normal. And the luckiest of them were making love in candlelight, letting their bodies say all the things the words were inadequate for, but she was certain that no one's happiness could match her own.

She heard him near her, but neither put it into words. She let him take in the view, a sight she doubted anyone could become used to, and something in her belly tightened at the thought of her being a part of what captivated him.

In his hands were two glasses, the champagne ones as though they had something to celebrate, and a bottle of Perrier, for he remembered that she didn't drink. Her memory had clung to every word they had exchanged and it had come up in passing that anyone but him would let go. She wondered what she was doing, still out of his arms.

"I figured we should leave the orange juice for the mornings," he shrugged, and somehow her heart managed to swell even more.

"You know, you don't have to drink water because of me," she told him, and he just smiled her words away. There was a small table and a couple of chairs on the balcony, but he brought a blanket they had bought on their first morning as a family. He spread it in front of the windows which offered a cool that contrasted with the heat of his body less than a foot away. She appreciated the space he had given her and used a bit of it, yet wouldn't mind the absence of an excuse to be this far from him.

He had always made it so simple to forget what had never left her mind when he wasn't around. She had walked the twelve steps by the chain-link fence every day and it reminded her of why she had to stay out, but whenever he found an excuse to touch her the way that would send anyone else to the Ad-Seg, it was as if no one had told her the first rule of working in a prison. Later, when there was no more fence and people knew she had been the one to tear it down, the grief melted in the warmth of his kiss, and what should be unbearably hellish somehow felt like heaven.

Tonight was no different. She had forgotten to cancel Bryce's appointment and had to check in with Geraldine, and much later, when the world was significantly darker and brighter at the same time, it didn't occur to her that her back no longer rested on the windows and that their bodies were turned to each other. Even without their closeness the night was warm enough for her to only wear a top, and the city lights rendered it impossible for the scar to remain unmentioned.

"Sara," he said after she caught his gaze there for the second time. He had let her look away the first time, but now his eyes were insistent. She still didn't know which color was his favorite, but she knew him well enough to have no doubt that ever since descrying the scar, his mind must have been raging, and her careful choice of long-sleeved clothing during the day didn't bring him any ease. And as much as she had been telling herself from the moment their baby first kicked that the only past that mattered was the one she chose to remember, there was still the feel of foreign hands on her neck when the water from the showerhead fell down her body. She had never told anyone about it, never had the arms in which she could let it all go with tears.

Now the pair of arms for which she had abjured all others that might be and could keep her safe without making her feel so, was right there, doubtlessly just as scarred as hers.

"It's not what you think, really. I got it while running away. I, um. I jumped onto a car, from a window, and the windshield broke. It's the only scar I have," she added, knowing her emphasis would do nothing to make him think there had never been any more.

"Was it the agent from that afternoon?"

"No. It was… He came to my NA meetings after…you got out. Only that his name wasn't Lance and he wasn't an addict. I think he stole one of the cranes you sent me."

But it wasn't how he had found them that Michael wanted to know, and the man's identity was also just a little more than a lead-up. When it was the only reasonable follow-up question left, he asked it with the voice whose absence of emotions spoke louder than a scream or tears would.

"What did he do to you?"

"He wanted to know what dad gave me," she said, but his eyes instantly reminded her she was answering what hadn't been asked. She didn't need to wonder whether he would be forthcoming in the slightest if she was to ask him about the years he had spent reclaiming his freedom. He would never disclose the scars covered by the ink, and for those marring his skin unconcealed, he would just smile and say that none of that still mattered now that they were together. The hypocrisy would infuriate her if he didn't do it out of care, and it would be deviant if it wasn't so pure.

She told him how he had tied her up and held her underwater, stripping her narrative of the number of times it happened and the shocks that ensured her lungs filled with water each time. She watched his composure slip away until he turned toward the lights. But the brightness around them didn't hide him any better than it had in their son's room, so he bowed his hands and parted his lips to ease his breathing.

"And he left you there to drown even though you told him about the key you gave me?" he of course picked up on her leaving something out of her recount. Her fingers tightened their grip on the stem of her glass, and all the emotions they had kept away from the events whose existence derailed their story almost fatefully augmented.

"Sara? You told him that, right?" he probed, even though her silence was as clear as any eloquent sequence of words.

"If it was you in there, would you tell him?" she snapped back.

"That's not same, and you know it."

"Why?" she insisted, but he provided no answer. The silence started sounding painfully similar to being underwater, and if he wasn't sweating on their first date, damn it, she wasn't going to cry. "Anyway. You said you found the bag? So I take it you took care of your wound?"

Rather than putting his response into words, he held out his left arm for her to see for herself. There was no need for her to lay her hand to the affected spot, as it was clear in the light of the night that while it hadn't healed perfectly, it looked better than the mark she bore. But as if they were still in Fox River, desperate for any excuse for a touch, to relearn the feeling of each other they had never forgotten, she couldn't help herself. It sent jolts to all the right places, and the streets below them were too calm to drown his sharp intake of breath.

Just like on the day they had met, her eyes glanced over the inked patterns. But unlike then, when the intricacies had completely eluded her, the novelty on his hand caught her eye immediately. Before her heart could sink because of its intimate placement, she realized it was the words, an ending to a saying, and she knew its commencement without having to turn over his hand.

It was just a saying, maudlin in its overuse, and millions must have it. But it was what made him different from day one and its location made it a promise.

"Sara, I meant what I said in Gila," he said once she raised her eyes to meet his again, and despite all the apologies and the promises he had made to her that night, they both knew which three words he was referring to. And when he had no reason to lie anymore, this man meant every word.

"Michael, that was six years ago," she managed, as if distance and time had had any effect on her.

"And I still mean it," he said and held her gaze, just in case his words were not clear enough.

Once her eyes left his to settle on his lips, he had to remind himself to breathe. Her head tilted slightly to the left and the distance between them was diminishing until her lips were tentatively laid on his, his lower lip caught between hers. He kissed her back as lightly as she had initiated it, and his heart was throbbing and his mind finally had nothing to dissect.

Her eyes were still closed when she broke the contact of their bodies. There was a taste of her ensconced on his lips, barely tangible but so unmistakably her, and suddenly not having her in his arms was unmanageable. He forced himself to wait until she looked at him again, and all the lights and all the stars were eclipsed by the spark in her eyes. He took her face in his hands and let his lips tell her what was inexpressible with words known to him.

If it was a surprise, it wasn't an unwelcome one. She lifted her arms so that the insides of her wrists rested innocuously on his shoulders, but it was only enough for mere seconds. Her hands then caressed his neck, and maybe it was audacious of him, but he wrapped one arm around her and pulled her closer until she was practically in his lap. Something in his mind reminded him that this was too much way too soon, but he refused to listen, especially when her hands slid under his t-shirt. His muscles tensed at the familiarity of her hands, then eased under her touch as he felt her pressed against him like no time had passed at all.

There was a spot on his right shoulder blade where there was no ink and the skin was still rough in its redness. She avoided it so as not to cause him pain, and he remembered how she had been always been the one to take away his pain, first in her infirmary, then every time he shut his eyes when it seemed like he wouldn't get out alive. But somehow he had always found a way out, and now they were here, together. He could feel her warmth under his roaming hands, and not enough time had passed since he had thought her dead for him not to deepen their kiss. His fingers were entangled in her hair, wanting her even closer, and her mouth opened under his and their hearts raced together.

He ached for her the moment her lips abandoned his and she moved out of his arms' reach. She tucked behind her ears the hair he had ruffled, as if she tried to tuck away what had transpired between them. The arms she kept crossed, and the mere idea that she needed to fight the chill of the night while his body was on fire broke something in him.

"Sara," he said, her eyes still dashing from one building to another, and just like they didn't exist for him right now, he knew they didn't for her either. "I was arrogant enough once to assume you would want a life with me. I am not about to do it again."

She shook her head, the tresses falling back onto her shoulders.

"Don't be like that," she told him and, before he could ask her what she meant by that, added that it was getting late.

He bowed his head and nodded. She was on her feet quicker than him, and he tried not to overthink it, especially when she waited for him to open the door for her. She paused before walking in, but if she waited for certain words or for a touch of a particular kind, he gave her no incentive to stay.

Space, fucking space, he mused later when retracing her steps toward the bedrooms. He wanted to give her space, but there was only so much of it that he could take, and he feared too much of it may give her the wrong idea.

As he walked down the hall toward a room in which he expected to find her, he passed the master bedroom. The door was ajar, despite his habit of always keeping it closed, but he gave it no thought. It might have been less than two days since he had last slept in that bed, but what had been became a blur that would never again be.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw her perched on the left side of the bed. Her hands were twisting in a frenzy that didn't cease until he slowly pushed the door open and she looked up at him.

"You don't need to stay here," were his words as he leaned on the door frame, his body screaming the plea he didn't dare to utter.

"I know," she said. "But maybe we could just … lie, and talk?"

They didn't talk.

If it wasn't for the scars they both bore, it would be like they were still in Gila. That night she had chosen the left side of the bed because it had been the closest when her knees had threatened to give way. Tonight there was a book on the nightstand on the right, a marker where he had finished reading on the last night of a life that now felt like a million years ago.

As they switched off the lights and were left alone, they lay as far apart as the width of the bed allowed them. Once their eyes were adjusted to the dark, they realized that the space between them reminded them of the ocean separating them when they had wanted to be this close to each other. So they shifted toward the center of the bed, little by little until their heads rested on the very edge of their respective pillows.

The window was left ajar, but the apartment was too high up for the sounds of the late night to perturb their loud silence. The faint light of the vibrant city made them blind to everything but each other. The curtain was lightly rustling, but the cool of the summer night could not quell the warmth that permeated their bodies, urging them to get closer.

Then he rolled on his back and her head was placed delicately over his heart. He didn't care if she heard the ripples of blood it sent through his body, for he felt her shiver as he held her in his arms. He tried to keep the touch light, but she still felt like a brutal trick of his mind and she didn't seem to mind being pressed against him. As her hand reached for his, he took it, putting all the words he wanted to say in the squeeze he had been withholding for six years. He caressed each of her fingers, the skin as smooth as he remembered, then enveloped them with his, just to make sure she could not slip away, for now at least. He wanted to take her hand to his lips and kiss it but couldn't bring himself to break the embrace. So he bowed his head to kiss the top of her head, and for the first time, it didn't carry a tinge of fear that it could be the last time.

Much later her fingers traced the hem of his t-shirt, then slowly tugged it upwards. He pulled it over his head, and as it fell somewhere on the floor by their bed, there was a tickle of her hair on his bare skin. Her fingertips followed the ink lines that had brought him to her all those years ago. His breath trembled when it left his mouth, and while his arms around her didn't quiver, her touch was soothing just as it was searing. She shifted, and for a terrifying second, he stiffened in fear she might leave his embrace again. She didn't, of course. Her lips rained light kissed along his jaw, her fingers still lulling him into peace he had thought would mock him forever.

Once their breaths matched the stillness of the night around them and their heartbeats could withstand the slightest caress without leaping, he turned his head to nestle his lips against her forehead. Her hand had stilled and her eyes were closed, and he wasn't sure if she was even still awake to hear him.

"Please be here when I wake up," he whispered.

To Be Continued.

Broughttoyouby:::winter.