Dear all,
thanks for reading and thanks to all who reviewed :) I love you.
This chapter is I guess a bit meh. It consists of two parts; I thought about posting each separately, but I think they fit together quite nicely, both dealing with the past and its consequences. The thing is, I have written myself into a cute corner with the first part of the fic, haha. I didn't really want to spend forever resolving those storylines, so I tried to end them in the first part of this chapter. I am pretty sure most of you aren't interested in them anyway :) The second part is more MiSa focused. They are still tiptoeing around the past, so in this chapter they are kind of forced to start dealing with it. That will pretty much be the main theme of the remaining chapters.
I now have only three chapters to write (yaay); the next one will be a"regular" one, then a two-part finale. Just so you know. All MiSa focused, hehe.
Anyway. I don't really have time to be up all night writing anymore, so it may take me a while to update.
I hope you like this, and review maybe? :) really, sometimes i wonder how many of the views are bots.
hopefully the autumn is treating you nice,
much love, winter.
Sandcastles/The Bars Between Us
Part Three – Forward
Chapter Fifteen
Part One
Paul Kellerman was a man who spoke the loudest when times were at their most dire, and in the weeks since Sara Tancredi had magically reappeared in the land of the living, he was talking non-stop, greeting and reminiscing until his throat went dry. He called up every high ranking official with whom he had ever exchanged a word, the few lawyers he could trust and a bunch of famously untrustworthy ones. Everyone in the greater DC area was reminded of his heroism during the war and how his testimony helped bring the Company to the ground.
There was a gun in the top drawer of his desk at work. Whenever there was a knock on the door, his nails dug into his palms as he resisted the urge to test the fate for the third time. So each time he just coughed away the dread and sounded as buoyant as ever when inviting the visitor to enter. It was never the person he expected, and days turned into weeks as he sat anxiously by. In his defense, he had never called himself a hero of any kind; it was a label given to him by his superiors in the army, then the media after the fall of the Company. It wasn't that he was a coward, no; it was just that somehow, self-preservation had always walked hand in hand with heroism when he was around. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone, but when Scofield had set out to destroy the Company at whatever cost, spilling secrets just seemed safer than sticking with his former employers.
He knew better than to feel safer with each passing day, and maybe he was dumber with every day he allowed to pass with his mouth firmly shut. When his daughter finally admitted to herself that he was as deadbeat of a father as practically their whole relationship indelibly indicated, it was past eleven and he was in the middle of making himself a late dinner.
Before she had been transferred to the Northwest, he cooked for them every Thursday; once they were a better part of a continent apart, they skipped dinner and talked during their favorite shows, commenting on the slightest detail. Now she was back on the East Coast, and if she waited another forty minutes, this would be the third Thursday in the row going by without a call. He had three weeks' worth of opportunities to see her, as a father and a former Company operative, yet hadn't taken a single one, because Paul Kellerman's words always spoke louder than his actions.
There was no reflection of red and blue lights on the walls of the living room, and no sirens under his window announced the arrival of belated justice. No one yelled his name and ordered him to open the door. If the bell wasn't reverberating in his head, it would be like it had never rung at all. It really was a perfect opportunity for him to do what he did best – bail. Maybe she was testing him. Maybe he passed when he opened the door. Perhaps regardless of its backdrop, it was a heroic thing to do.
"Abigail," he greeted her.
She watched him with the same spite her mother had when he still made the effort to drop in his toddling daughter's life. He had stopped the second time Abigail stared at him, completely oblivious to the fact he was her father. It had been a handy excuse for a man who changed his name with every assignment that landed on his desk.
"Dad," she said, but the voice gave away that of all the names she would like to call him right now, a father was be very, very low on the list. On her drive over, she wondered whether he would greet her with a plea or a blatant ignorance of what they both knew. Now she realized that either she would meet with equal disappointment.
She was pretty sure that he would give her no incentive to stay, thus she didn't bother walking in. He must have just taken a blueberry pie out of the oven, for its smell lingered around them. Once upon what felt like a million years ago, it was the scent of an effort she had been slowly starting to have faith in. Now she knew better than to think he actually wanted his last dirty secret to come knocking on his door.
"So, um, how's Sara? And… Bryce, right?" he asked, apparently opting for some kind of a middle option where she was supposed to believe he followed the case merely by overhearing the chatter of his coworkers.
"Oh, they're good. Bryce can't stop talking about the plane. Because, you know, nothing says sorry I left you to drown better than hey, here's a luxurious jet to take you home."
At least he didn't try to deny it, she had to give him that. A couple of days ago, it might actually still make a difference. But now when it was finally obvious that he was the exact kind of father she had strived to convince herself he wasn't, she did nothing to stop her eyes from rolling when his defense mode turned up the volume.
She never let me see you. It was safer for you that no one knew I had a daughter.
"It was dark times, Abigail. You wouldn't understand," he said.
She did, though, finally.
"You know what I could never understand? Why they gave me the case. Scofield/Burrows, the case of the century. And they gave it to me. And I barely passed the training. But it wasn't them; it was you. I mean, we don't have the same name and practically no one knows you have a daughter, so it didn't take you much explaining."
She didn't let him tell her that her existence was no longer a secret. Well, technically it never had been, because for something to be a secret, you must deliberately avoid talking about it. For decades of missed birthday parties and recitals he wasn't there to record, his lack of any care whatsoever had rendered avoidance immaterial.
"I know the terms your affidavit, you know. Full pardon in exchange for your testimony against the Company. But if at any point it came up that you withheld something, you could go join Krantz in a heartbeat. And dad, abducting and torturing a governor's daughter… that's a big one. But she was dead anyway so the chances of anybody ever finding out about that were slim. I wasn't even your Plan A."
"If I hadn't done it, someone else would have. And I would get killed, Abigail. That's the job."
"Are you even listening to yourself? I, I, I. It's all about you. Well, what about me? If I actually did agree to strike your name off the report, I could get fired. Fuck, I could go join Krantz. But I don't really matter when times get rough, do I?"
"That is not why I made sure you were in charge of the case. It is not! I knew you would do a good job. Not just with the report, but that you would help them. And look how great Scofield has done after…"
"You might want to save that one for him because he is in a much more forgiving mood these days than I am."
But of course, it had never been the forgiveness that Paul Kellerman was after.
"Are you going to name me in the report? It's gonna send me to jail, Abigail."
Upon the second thought, he had never apologized for missing decades. It was as if a simple sorry was below him. Maybe saying it by herself, for him, should be below her by now.
"Fuck you, dad," she snorted, then showed herself out.
Abigail told Lincoln first. Sitting on the stairs in front of his son's building and fumbling with her phone, she waited until time had slipped into tomorrow and two windows opened to ask her if she had locked herself out and needed to be buzzed in.
"Hey, I'm on the stairs," she said when he picked up.
"What stairs?"
"Just look through the window?"
When he emerged from the building a mere minute later, he was holding a jacket in his hands.
"Here," he said. He draped it over her shoulders even though the warmth of the brick buildings surrounding them kept the cool of the night at bay.
She didn't argue. She told him there was something – some things – he needed to know and that it would make him really, really mad. He had, after all, never said or done anything that would make her know that everything, yet at the same time nothing, not really, could make him angry with her.
So when the truth was out there, she held her breath and waited for him to get up and stomp and curse her like she was Kellerman incarnate and yell until she'd start shouting back and they'd wake the building up. Even if her words brought back the memories of him at his most powerless, the fighter in him breathed it out and his eyes followed a runner passing them.
"Let's have dinner," he said, and the seriousness and the unexpectedness of the answer made it impossible to keep in the laughter.
"Now? It's past midnight. Nothing's still open."
"Don't be ridiculous. McDonald's is open 24/7. And it's, what, late evening on the West Coast?" he was completely serious about the wrongest thing.
"It's okay to be mad, Lincoln. I mean… my dad ruined your life. Ruined six years of your brother's life."
There had been a time, not that long ago, really, when he would have championed her claim. Not that he didn't agree with it in theory now; it was just that in practice, he was tired of getting up on the wrong side of the bed and absolutely sick and tired of waking up alone.
"We can't choose who are fathers are. But we can choose who we are. And I think you are great," he said but gave her no time to dwell on her words. He got up and, holding out a hand, went, "Let's go."
Once she was on her feet, with hesitation and intrigue, his fingers reached for the zipper of her – his – jacket. She told him it was completely unnecessary, but in a true Linc the Sink fashion, he disregarded the words.
"It's in the middle of a summer," she argued.
"It can get chilly at night," he said, as if he had umpteen New York summers – or any, really – under his belt.
"If I survived a winter up in Washington, I am pretty sure I can make it through tonight."
"Will you just let me do this for you?" he insisted, and she would tell him that he absolutely had no say when it came to her clothes, but that would be like they had made no progress whatsoever.
"Let's just go," she said, grabbing his forearm. Once they were on the sidewalk, she headed left before he said it was to the right. As each turned to fix the confusion, they crashed into each other. Amidst awkward apologies and blushed smiles they walked side by side and she let him slip his hand in hers.
Just a few hours later, Abigail visited Michael at work. She needn't have bothered, of course.
A blueprint was spread out on the desk between them and a pile of files rested at the edge of the desk. Whoever put them there hadn't bothered to organize them in the slightest, and a Michael Scofield she had known would absolutely never sit by such a ghastly sight. But the Michael Scofield that now sat facing her kept his pencils (he still made sure those were perfectly sharpened) in a mug that had "world's greatest dad" written on in handwriting that didn't give away his son's age. His eyes kept sneaking toward the wall clock, as though he was counting down to something.
His attention might have been divided and nothing about his face indicated she was under scrutiny, but she knew better. It couldn't escape him how she kept wringing her hands, mulling over ten different phrasing she had come up with and somehow finding flaws with each.
"So do you know how Mahone became involved with the video?" he spoke when it probably dawned on him that she was about to ask him about the project he was working on.
"Bruce Bennett got in contact with him, I guess. Convinced him he was working for the Company – because, you know, who wasn't back then. He knew that a video like that would make you want to retaliate, bring the Company down. For Mahone, it was probably a way to get you out of the hiding."
"Aren't I easy to read," he smiled.
"It would break Bruce's heart if he knew his actions kept you guys apart for so long," she remarked.
"I've thought a lot about this since I learned I had a son. I don't want to sound patronizing, but you weren't there, those four years we fought the Company. Sucre didn't see his family for almost two years. LJ was kidnapped, twice. If they were with me … I would have dropped the entire mission if they had been threatened and the Company wouldn't have thought twice about it. My son might not have had me, but he had his mother and was safe the entire time. If spending six years without them was the price I had to pay for that, I don't regret it. What kind of a father would I be if I did? But anyway," he leaned forward in his chair, "I'm guessing you're here to tell me your Kellerman's daughter? And that he was the one who took Sara that day?"
He didn't say it with spite, as an accusation or a reprimand that he had to be the bringing it up. Years he had spent obsessing over the missing pieces that had seized his future; now that he had reclaimed it all, he was almost nonchalant about it. What a paradox; months she had spent easing their then present, and now they were the ones urging her to let the past rest.
"How long have you known?" she did her best to match his tone.
"A while," he said, and of course he would know. Thousands had canvassed the woodland of Pacific Northwest and he found DB Cooper without taking a step out of his Chicago apartment. He had located Shales when the latter was hidden in everyone's sight. "But by then neither still mattered."
"I don't think my father's actions will ever become immaterial," she snorted and for the life of her couldn't figure out what about her words was worth a smile, however pensive.
His eyes followed a caucus of steps that passed by his office. If he was late for a meeting, he didn't appear to have any intention of hurrying. In all honesty, Michael Scofield was such an allure for potential clients that he could just be sitting in his office all day (or whatever definition of a workday he had these days), writing off every offer that landed on his desk for pettiest reasons, yet he'd be the firm's most cherished employee.
"I don't think it is likely, but it is possible that if you put your father's name in the report, he could go to prison for a long time, Abigail."
"I know that," she said, but he looked at her like she didn't.
"I understand that it is hard for you to believe this right now, Abigail, but your father and I are not really that different. We both fought for what we believed was right. The only difference is, in the end, it turned out he was wrong. It could have easily been the other way around. And yes, it takes him a while, but eventually your father makes the right decision. He did it with the Company," he said. There were more words lingering on his lips, and she knew what they were before he added, "He did it with you, too. Let him do it again."
Part Two
They had been told that an official statement would be issued informing the public of the latest – and hopefully finally the last – twist in the Scofield/Burrows case, but of course nothing ever went according to the plan in their world.
Sara found out first.
She was at the store with their boy, right at the cereal aisle, staring at the shelves that didn't seem to have an end. Surely it must have always been like this, brand names and flavors and catchy slogans and percentages in all colors and fonts, but somehow it had all escaped her back when she had been alone. As a prison doctor with a spotless record, part of keeping her veins clean was following the established routine without daring a fail. The assortment in her fridge rarely added an item, for most hours of most days she had spent at Fox River, reminding herself of why she needed to keep it together.
Now everything had fallen apart, again, and the selection in front of her could so easily remind her of the cankers she had sought to quell in the first place. Grade average, then internships, father's career, a name to live up to, the guilt she still wasn't sure was her to shoulder. But this now was a peaceful mess, not at all making her want to use again. Yet she still was picking up the pieces and building a new life, this time for the three of them, with the same diligence as all those times that followed her fails. Choosing the perfect cereal might be mundane to some, but she treated it with utmost seriousness, which Bryce duplicated.
"Do you think Marie will notice that we stopped coming?" he asked, staring blankly at the cartoon faces he didn't recognize.
"Who's Marie, baby?"
"The lady at the market who always gives us extra," he reminded her, and if he thought she should have known it, his voice hid it.
"I'm sure she'll notice we are not around anymore," she said, absolutely unsure whether it was the right answer.
"Do you think she will wonder if she did something wrong?" he went on, his eyes big in the attempt to be expressionless.
She had gotten remarkably, devastatingly good at replacing the faces and finding new names to commit to the short term memory. She didn't forget the old ones, the people she had finally admitted to herself she was better off without. The man she had lived with and loved in the stupor of drugs. The girl she had first used with a week before the exams started. The parents of the boy she might have been able to save if her mind and her hands weren't drugged up. While the night was busy with quietude, she wept with the pain of the latter and the fear that the former were no longer living.
Bryce would forget. The lady with the fruit stand had been a staple of his life until now, just like the little corner store where they had shopped for discounted bread and produce minutes before closing. There was that pigeon with one leg he had always looked for whenever they were in the park and the ducks that had always followed them in hopes of breadcrumbs.
But he was so young.
In a few months, he would remember people from Lille as talking in English. He would know how to get to places without ever finding them. In a few years, it would only still exist in fragments, and he would ask her if it had even been real.
"You could ask Selena to talk to her," she suggested.
"Is it bad to miss Lille sometimes?"
"Of course not, baby," she said, bending down to kiss the crown of his head. After learning that his favorite wasn't sold in America, he seemed as perplexed as to which cereal to get as she was. "It was our home."
"But we are not going back, right? We are staying here with dad?"
She wondered if he had actually entertained the possibility, unlike her, when she saw a woman approaching. Her steps were innocuous, as though she was to seek help with the small print. But the way she looked at Sara, it was like people look at those they had known once. Six years ago, for instance. But the woman didn't recognize Sara from many shared interactions.
"Miss Tancredi. It was so brave what you did in Fox River," the woman smiled at her, reaching for her petrified hand. "I am so happy for you and Mr. Scofield."
It may end fine, for it was just words, but the woman then noticed Bryce. The boy stood next to Sara, his eyes as inquisitively on the woman as on pretty much everything around his new home. If he was any other boy, it might still be okay, but nothing about him left any doubt that he was Michael Scofield's son.
"Oh," the woman gasped and Sara knew she was supposed to do something, anything, but it was like one of those nightmares when you know you are dreaming but still can't wake yourself up. it had been weeks, more weeks than she could count with the fingers of one hand, but the threat of waking up alone still loomed, and this right now felt like the realest thing of all that had happened.
It wasn't just the woman in the colorful poncho. Her name had been said just loud enough to attract the attention of other shoppers, and maybe it was just the name that prolonged their looks. After all, her father had relied on its unusualness for recognition early in his career. Maybe her role in the daring prison break and her subsequent fate had made her infamous all on her own. When she was younger, she would have hoped for the latter. Now that she was a mother, she prayed for the former but was not naive enough to be fooled.
If at first it was only the woman, mere seconds later another shopping cart stopped and a man took a phone in his hands. Whispers of names and places were as screaming as sirens, and she had feared this moment for too long to remember there was no danger anymore.
The woman's hand reached to touch Bryce, just like she had imagined a stranger's hand taking him away from her, and there was a sound of the moment being immortalized with a photograph, the click she had thought her boy would forever see as an insurmountable betrayal.
Sara had always believed that if her new life in France one day merged with the one she left behind in Chicago, she wouldn't fight it. She had thought she would accept the outcome with grace she had lived the years Michael's sacrifice had given her. Never had she imagined herself running, running again, yet that was exactly what she did now.
She snatched the boy out of the woman's, or anyone else's, reach, as though any of them were anything but well-meaning. She would push away the man who zoomed in on her face with his phone, but he cleared her way. She ran down the aisle, past the cereal choices, as though she had no other option.
The first time his assistant informed him that there were a couple of reporters trying to reach him, Michael instructed her to take their names and tell them he would call them back later. The award he had recently been given interested only a few; since his actions had dismantled the previous government, everyone wanted to know what he thought about the one established from its ashes. Every major decision made by the Congress was accompanied with a flood of calls from reporters in want of his opinion.
Most of the time he called back, just to say he didn't really have a comment, still hoping that this time it would stop the calls. It never did, and now that he had a family to go to, giving it another try was an unlikely contingency.
He had taken on another project just weeks before colors so unexpectedly permeated his world again. It was as intricate, as stressful, as demanding as the previous one, but unlike that one, this project had overstayed its welcome. He wanted to give it to one of his partners in the firm, maybe stay on the project as a consultant, but Sara wouldn't hear of it. Since there was no way he would stay within the confines of his office past the early afternoon despite the deadline he had promised to his client and to her, he perused and detailed the sketches and calculations with focus greater than when it had been the only way to let go, however fleetingly. The only interruption he greeted was the buzz of his phone, another reminder – and he still needed those – that his night had passed into a morning, the most unexpected one, the most longed for one.
The second time his assistant apologetically knocked on his door, the capillaries turned into icicles and he didn't need her words to know that his comment wasn't wanted in relation to any of his engineering feats or newly passed acts. He grabbed his jacket and rushed home, on foot to beat the rush hour.
There was no one left who would pick up a gun and blow the dust off its barrel at the sight of Sara's picture, but his still heart still pounded. He had always feared for her as much as he loved her; there was the fear of what the unconstrained inmates would do to her if they broke the door down before he could get to her; the fear of what she would think of his in the wake of Nika's appearance, and the paralyzing dread when he realized the Company had gotten to her after all. As much as it proved to him, again and again, just how much loved her, it constantly reminded him of the peril his presence in her life posed for her. Love wasn't supposed to be marred like this, but then again, they had beaten so many odds that perhaps it evened out.
Lincoln had gotten there before him, although it wasn't one of the mornings when he disregarded being at work on time. He was in the living room with Bryce. The TV was on but neither was watching it. A plate of untouched pancakes (Lincoln insisting on making them for breakfast at least twice per week rendered any attempts to have sugar free days destined to fail) was on the couch. The pair sat on the floor, each at the opposite sides of the coffee table, the second one Michael had bought for the living room. Pieces of a puzzle were scattered between them. Bryce's nimble fingers were picking the ones with a specific pattern, while Lincoln kept running his hand over his scalp. He had never been the one with the patience to sit and wait, and today was far from a good day.
Michael hurried toward the boy, but Lincoln, anxious to actually do something, was quick on his feet. His hand was on his little brother's shoulder, gently yet insistently forcing him a few steps backward. Bryce repositioned himself so that his back was turned to them. He might be only five, but he had heard the adults talking enough times to know when he wasn't supposed to be listening.
"It hit the news this morning," Lincoln told him.
When he had had no one to share mornings with, he would read the news while having his morning coffee – he never listened to the accounts of recent events, for without voices around him, he could still pretend he wasn't as alone as he really was. Scrolling down the news and wasting seconds of the early morning sun was incomprehensible now when he woke up next to her, the memories of dawns without her still too recent not to chase them away with her in his arms every chance he got.
"She seems fine," Lincoln went on. "But I figured she could use some alone time, you know?"
Michael nodded, and even if Lincoln tried to keep him from his son for an additional second, Michael wouldn't put up with it.
Bryce had wondered about the sound of his father's steps for too long not to have committed it to the memory immediately. He turned around and threw himself in dad's arms as soon as Michael knelt in front of him.
"You okay?" he whispered, and even though Bryce nodded, his small hands continued clinging to him.
"Mom's really upset," the boy's voice dropped to a whisper that was in stark contrast with Lincoln's casualness.
"I'll go see how she is," Michael said. It didn't seem to calm the boy, who bit his lower lip as his eyes searched for something on his father's face. Clear doubt as to whether his lips should release the words that unnerved him sent another kind of cold shivers down Michael's spine. He wanted to remind the boy that they could talk about anything, anytime, but repeating those words felt irrationally like a failure. So he just smiled as reassuringly as his raging bloodstream allowed him, ran his hands soothingly up and down the boy's upper arms, giving him space no book he had read prepared him for.
"Dad, what is Fox River?" Bryce finally asked. "The lady in the store said something about it, and it really upset mom."
Michael hated to be this kind of dad, the one responding to questions with a promise of answering them at a later time, and the fact that he didn't do it out of convenience or cowardice offered him little solace. He didn't want their son to find out the truth this young and was sure that Sara detested the idea as well, but if there was no other option, he wanted them to decide on it together.
"I'm gonna get your mom and we'll talk, the three of us, okay?" he said, kissing the top of his son's head.
He had no idea what to expect as he walked toward their bedroom, but what he found definitely wasn't it. Sara sat cross-legged in the middle of their bed, a laptop by her feet. Her eyes remained on the screen as the door behind him closed and he took off his jacket, throwing it on the bed. When it slid off its edge, he didn't halt his steps to pick it up like he would when he had still sought the most mundane actions to fill the torturous quietude of his existence.
He didn't know what to say. An apology would be a platitude and she was dismayed even when he apologized for things that absolutely were consequences of his actions. So he resorted to what by now had become a habit, an indulging and shameful one at the same time. He sat down behind her, her back on his chest to show he'd always be there to catch her, his arms around her waist with no intention of letting go, his chin resting on her shoulder so that he could forever look out for her.
Glancing at the screen in front of them, he expected to see their names, their faces, under the sensational, yet for once truthful headlines. He tilted his head to distract her, to distract himself, to kiss the spot on her neck, the unmarked one he knew he should but never would let go. When he realized she was looking at job advertisements, he knew she definitely was not okay.
We always do this, she had told him one glorious day in the park. They always kept their eyes forward, as they should, but the past was an immoral opponent. Just as they thought they had passed it, it passed them right back. It would be a good idea to stay ahead, to talk it out, but they still kissed like the real danger lurked in the present.
"I think it is time for me to find a job."
"You don't have to work," he told her.
"I'm not gonna be your housewife, Scofield," she said, because teasing each other like this was just one more kind of tiptoeing they excelled at. "Though I can't imagine working twelve-hour shifts in a hospital anymore," she admitted.
"Please don't."
His hand caressed the belly, right where they would hopefully feel a new life grow soon, and it was hard to see today as a step forward rather than backward.
"And we have to find a good school for Bryce," she went on, as though it went without saying that they would stay with him in New York. It wasn't so for him; the two of them had had a life before coming here, more of a life that he had, and they would leave more behind than he had ever had without them. The last thing he wanted was to steal from their boy everything he knew, for Michael still remembered all too well how it felt, bouncing from one foster home to another.
But right now, it wasn't the right time to bring it up.
"Okay," was all he said.
"Like you haven't looked yet," she smirked, then bit her lower lip. "What are we gonna tell him, Michael?"
He had no right answer to this, knew which was the wrong one, so he said neither. He covered her hand with his and gently moved it off the laptop. The latter he closed, then pushed away, out of her arms' length and out of her mind. He reached for her shoulders, so that she rested her head on his chest. The persistent tears she had until now tried to keep from spilling wetted his shirt.
"He's just a kid, Michael. I don't want him knowing about all … that. That's why I never looked you up, that's why I never knew you were…"
"Don't think about that that now, sweetheart," he whispered, cupping her head to take the memories away and kissing her temple to give her a new one to replace them.
"The way they looked at him, like he was an exhibit or something … I just want him to be a kid, you know? He's already seen so much and I'm not proud of it. His teacher in Lille wanted him to skip a grade, but that would mean losing a year of everything, childhood, adolescence. When I was his age, my mother already drank so much. I could name her favorites just as easily as my ABCs, you know?"
He ran soothing circles on her back until to his relief the sobs subsided. She moved back and looked up at him with reddened eyes.
"I'm fine. And absolutely ridiculous," she said, for she was a bit like him, being fine when she wasn't okay at all. Something in his eyes seemed to remind her of this, and her hands combated with his as she tried to wipe her tears away. His heart broke at the thought of all the ones she had kept in because he wasn't there to kiss them away.
"It won't be the same for him," he told her when she let him win. Soon there were no tears left that soiled her beauty, but his caress didn't cease. "We'll be there for him. And we should tell him the truth. He'll hear about it, sooner or later. And it's best that it comes from you and me."
"I like that," she said, "you and me."
"I do, too," he said leaning his forehead to hers. He liked it when she was this close to him, the only thing he could see even though his eyes were open. "And you did the right thing not to look. I would want you and our child as far away from it as possible."
Saying that the doorbell ringing was the last thing Lincoln expected to occur later that day would be a lie, for seeing Kellerman on the doorstep transcended it.
Just like he didn't lie to people, Lincoln had no problems admitting his own fuck-ups, most of the time. But Kellerman had influenced some of the most abysmal ones. Not to mention, he had been the one to gun down Lisa, then chase his barefoot son around Chicago while putting a double murder charge on his back. But okay, Lincoln could at least nominally forgive him for that, as it had been his job and he too had been deceived, and both he and his brother would have been killed more than once had it not been for Kellerman turning tables.
Now Lincoln knew about two more lines on Kellerman's rap sheet – though god knew just how many he still kept hidden – and he hadn't slept on it enough to let bygones be bygones. The fact that they concerned the mother of his nephew and a woman he had quit cigarettes for didn't help Kellerman one bit either. Lincoln Burrows might be a thug, might have killed and have gotten people killed and was guilty of most crimes he had been convicted of in his life, but there were some things you just didn't do to a woman. Tying her up before throwing her in the water or convince her to cover up the said deed for you were two such instances.
"Kellerman," he gritted his teeth.
"Burrows," he responded, his voice fully indicating he was aware of the sentiment. "I'm here to speak to Sara. I'm guessing they're staying with Scofield?"
Lincoln fought the urge to say that they weren't, and with each second of the prolonged silence the reasons against slamming the door in Kellerman's face eluded him further. But of course Kellerman was like an insect, importunately returning until you dealt with him. So he stepped back, not bothering to hold the door as the man walked in.
"Where's the boy? I hear he's a spitting image of Scofield."
"I'd shut up about him if I were you," Lincoln spat.
"You might want to watch that tone with me, Burrows," Kellerman smirked, showing himself to the kitchen as though he owned the place.
"If I was my brother, I'd break every fucking bone in your body."
"Well you aren't," he still wouldn't shut up, because god forbid Paul Kellerman would be silent when the situation was out of his hands.
Lincoln had worked hard to make friends with his temper, find a way to talk it out of any impetuous decisions. They had, after all, never done him any good. He believed he had gotten hold of himself, never more so than right now.
"He would find some noble excuse not to hit you, and I will honor that," he said. "It doesn't really matter, though."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Kellerman still had time to utter before Lincoln's fist crashed into his face. The man, clearly unprepared, staggered back and the palm of his hand covered the bloodied lip. There was disbelief in his eyes, as though no one had ever dared to take a swing at him, but a part of him must have known that he deserved much, much worse, for he didn't swing back. With audacity that Lincoln absolutely wanted to act on, he showed himself to the fridge and took out a bag of frozen peas, numbing the lacerated spot.
"Just so you know," he then said, his words unobstructed as if the venerable State Department official engaged in fist fights on a regular basis, "I don't approve."
There was a knock on the bedroom door, but they didn't stir. Michael kept her firmly in his arms and watched the door open slowly over her head.
His big brother had never been skilled at non-verbal communication – apart from getting his point across with his fists, that is – but it was apparent that right now, he'd rather be anywhere but there. He gave himself another minute to find words by running a hand over his scalp, but words had never been his forte either and what left his mouth was a plain, "Kellerman's here."
Michael tried to stop his body from reacting to a name he had thought he made peace with a long time ago. If he tightened the embrace, his arms acted without his explicit volition, and if his body tensed up, he didn't feel it. Whatever it was, it didn't escape Sara. Once they were alone again, she asked who Kellerman was.
He had promised her once that he would never lie to her again, but his first instinct was to kiss her, continue kissing her until the name slipped from both of their minds. It was what he opted for every time the sight of her collided with faces, decisions, from years ago. But this wasn't about him, and Kellerman did have a proclivity to pop up in your life at the weirdest corners.
Rarely did he doubt his decisions, but since she was the surest thing in his life, most of her actions concerning her were inevitably laced with doubt. Thus hesitance still permeated his arms as he loosened the embrace, letting her move back so that they faced each other. His eyes more intent on her face than he'd like them to be, he thought about taking her hands in his before deciding on cupping her face.
"Who's Kellerman?" she repeated, her eyes dashing around his face in search of an answer.
He was probably patronizing her, he figured as he watched the panic seep through her shield. She was strong, quite possibly stronger than him, yet he couldn't make himself say anything that wouldn't placate her. It wasn't just Kellerman; it was a pattern. He had tortured himself with the pain he thought she had endured, imagined her fear of what had been inevitable, for too long to place any of it on her face with or without a gun to his head.
"He's Lance," he finally said. He was right, of course. The dread in her eyes accentuated, and he wanted to shut up right then and never talk about any, any of it again. If he wasn't patronizing her, he absolutely was a hypocrite. He believed their boy should hear the truth – or at least its basics – instead of piecing it together from overheard fragments, possibly erroneously. Yet with Sara, he could easily never speak of any day she hadn't been there to share it with him, though sooner or later there would be a day when Paul Kellerman, the politics' newest polarizing figure, would bump into her from the news. So to make sure he was there when she learned about what could be interpreted as a great injustice, he continued, "He later came forward, helped bring the Company down. I think he came to apologize to you."
Her eyes widened at the insinuated audacity. Maybe that was the real reason why Michael eschewed the past when he was with her, for he was just as worthy of being the trigger of this kind of look. There was a young lady that had gotten married a couple of years ago and her father hadn't been there to give her away because of the broken air conditioning in Fox River. Tweener would have been out by now. Nobody knew for sure how many lives departed this world while T-Bag had been out. Really, what right did he have to stay in her arms while Kellerman was abhorred?
"Do you trust him?" she asked him, in absolute trust of his judgment.
"Sara, you don't have to talk to him. Not today, not ever."
But she just shook her head.
An hour later, Paul Kellerman headed for the door with a lacerated lip (which according to Lincoln's dubious account was an accident) and an accepted apology. If Lincoln firmly believed that the first one was deserved, the second was absolutely not earned, and since he couldn't wait to have the man out of his sight, he held the door open for him.
But of course Kellerman wouldn't be Kellerman if he didn't dawdle, intent on having the last word.
"Like I said," he snorted, "I don't approve, Burrows."
"Then I guess we have something in common," Lincoln said, "because I don't approve of you either."
After Uncle Lincoln went home, his parents called him into their bedroom. Bryce knew it had to be a very serious situation because Thibaut had always told him that parents deliver bad news there. Of course by now it was clear to Bryce that his parents were much, much better than Thibaut's (though comparing parents, especially after having only one for so long, left a sour taste in his mouth), but something in his belly still felt cold as all three of them sat on the bed together.
Mom barely spoke. Her whole body was still, apart from her hands; it seemed like she couldn't decide whether to take his or dad's hand, so she opted for none. Her eyes carefully watched his face, and he didn't like the pallidness that rested on hers at all. Dad was the one who did the talking, his eyes as intent on Bryce as mom's. He knew he should return the attention, but it had been him and mom for too long to already forget how he would climb into her lap when she momentarily forgot she still had him.
Some of the things dad recounted Bryce already knew. His whole life he had been piecing together the story of who his father was, but now when dad was actually here, telling him the details he would have devoured just weeks ago, Bryce realized they didn't really interest him as much anymore. He no longer needed anyone's recollections to feel close to his father now that they could create memories together.
What was new was that Fox River was a prison to which Uncle Lincoln had been sent by bad politicians (Bryce was pretty sure it meant that they were corrupt). Dad then had gone to the prison, too, to get him out, and in the end it was mom, who had worked there, that made the escape possible. The only time mom said anything was when she told him they were telling him all this because sooner or rather, he would hear someone talk about it. Perhaps, she said, he would be asked if his father was the one who had orchestrated the escape from the maximum security penitentiary and then brought the government and some of the most powerful businesses to their knees. Really, the more he was told, the less Bryce understood why mom was so upset. It wasn't like dad had been imprisoned because he had done bad things – like Selena's father. All he did was protect Uncle Lincoln. And from the fragments he had heard in the store, people thought mom was as much of a hero as dad was.
After dad told all they were ready to disclose at the moment (Bryce was certain there was a lot more he wasn't old enough to hear yet), they sat in silence. His parents expected him to say something and the lack of any questions prompted them to exchange a look. The thing was, saying that he really didn't care about what had happened such a long time ago seemed misplaced in so tense a situation. And the only question he really wanted an answer to he knew would unnerve mom further. She never liked it when he spotted a pattern without a second look she needed, and by now he was pretty sure that the devil and the rose of dad's tattoo were only a decoy. The lines they hid he now figured were the pathway dad had taken to save Uncle Lincoln. He decided to ask dad about it when mom wouldn't be around.
But for now mom was here and clearly worried about his reaction. She was always like this when he did something for the first time – on his first school day, before his first play date with Thibaut. Although he couldn't remember, he was pretty sure she had cried when he had taken his first steps, too. Now when they were with dad, finally, mom didn't need to worry about him growing up and leaving her alone.
So to celebrate it, he did the one thing he knew she never minded. He threw his hands around mom's neck and cuddled up next to her. When dad kissed the top of his head, then mom's cheek, before wrapping them both in an embrace, the boy knew it was the right choice.
To Be Continued.
Broughttoyouby:::winter.