Dear all,

well, here we are, at the end :) been quite a journey. i can't believe i actually managed to finish this monster of a story. thank you to everyone for reading and those of you who reviewed along the way; there are too many of you to name, but you know who you are and thank you so so much. I loved connecting with you all :)

i hope you liked the story, that it made you happy, made you laugh, sometimes cry. then i didn't waste time writing it ;) i hope you'll return to it from time to time. since this is the final chapter, i won't be able to reply to your reviews, if you leave any. so i'll just thank you here in advance. Always makes me happy to hear someone enjoys what i write.

well, this is it from me. there are a couple of scenes i ended up not using in the final version, so i might post them as oneshots eventually. we'll see.

thank you again. feel free to get in touch here or on tumblr (same username). and let's keep our fingers crossed for season six :)

byeeeee and much love, winter.

Sandcastles/The Bars Between Us

Part Three – Forward

The End

One thing Michael did know about Sara, though, was that she would say yes. No matter where he would steal the last kiss before the new kind of forever began, regardless of the hands of the clock when the question left his lips, whatever the name on the little box was, she would say yes. So he got her something absolutely not expensive enough in his eyes and something absolutely too extravagant in hers. He figured it was a good compromise.

It was Bryce who had given him the idea for the perfect time. It was a couple of weeks before the Halloween and they were shopping for decorations, of course passing the aisles stocked with Christmas-themed items.

"Mom loves Christmas," Bryce remarked. "The tree, the lights, the music, everything."

So Michael endeavored to have everything, the music, the lights, the tree, and more. Three evenings before the Christmas Eve, when Bryce was already tucked in and asleep, he told Sara he had forgotten something in the office. She gave him that smile that barely moved her lips but shone in her eyes, then kissed his lips, letting them linger there for that additional second no one but them would notice.

When he returned after an hour, an hour that dragged on for longer than some he had spent staring death in the face, she still sat cross-legged on the couch, with a blanket on her lap and a book in her hands. He probably should be more nervous or nervous at all, given the slight weight in the pocket of his coat, but as she looked up at him, he had never been surer of anything in his life.

"How's the project coming along?" she asked without suspicion.

"I'm pretty optimistic about it," he smiled. "Come to the balcony with me?"

There were two paper cups of hot chocolate in his hands, and even though she cited the cold as a reason for staying in, cuddled under the blanket, the cup the steam still billowed from made her give in. If anything, really, the cold was their ally. She was nestled up next to him, his arms were wrapped around her body, and under the blinking Christmas lights, he could see their future clearer than ever before.

So after they had emptied their cups and there was just a little bit of chocolate on her upper lip that he couldn't wait to kiss away, and she was busy talking about how excited she was about the imminent visit from France, he reached for the little box in his pocket. He held it in his hand until she turned her head back to him because it was how they were, never able to keep their eyes off of each other for long.

The smile her lips were shaped in disappeared as soon as she realized what it was that he was holding. Her jaw dropped and she gasped, and he had to laugh at the surprise, for she knew this was coming. There may not be rings on their fingers, but it was a mere formality that didn't match their feelings. Just weeks ago, at a business party, he had introduced her as his wife and hadn't realized his slip of the tongue until they were already home. She admitted that she, too, hadn't caught it until a wife of one of Michael's colleagues asked her why they had opted against wearing rings.

The ring that arrested her eyes might have no diamonds, but to call it unassuming would be an understatement. What other rings carried in carats, this one did in a crane that adorned it. It was the same shape as the paper ones he had never stopped folding for her. He would have liked to add a couple and a few more small diamonds, but for her, it was perfect just as it was.

"Yes," she said before he had a chance to say anything.

"But I haven't even asked you yet," he laughed. Every major event in their story so far was an aberration, a perfect imperfection of meeting each other behind the prison walls, getting on her good side to get her to do what he needed, pushing her to the verge of death, more than once, having her raise their child by herself; the least he could do was ask her to marry him in a way she deserved, in a way a man he demanded of himself to be was supposed to ask a woman, especially a woman like her.

So she sighed, tears already glistening under the celebratory lights that shone for the world and for the two of them only. He repositioned himself so that she was the only thing in his sight, as if he had to black out any distractions, as if he had any doubts. With her hair messed up from the long day, her cheeks reddened from the persistent cold they couldn't feel, in a worn-out sweater about twice her size, she still took his breath away without having to try.

"Sara," he began, the name that was so much more than the sum of its sounds. In their beginning, it was a word that was never to leave his lips; then a sign of trust, a caress, a betrayal; for one night, in Gila, it was a relief and a promise before becoming laden with guilt he refused to let go of. Now it was love. Amazement, and love.

"I've broken more promises than I have kept, and my presence has left marks on you that I can never erase. I told you lies I will forever regret. I have everything against me when I tell you that those days are past, and that I am determined to be the man you deserve. I don't want the six years to catch up on the I love yous I missed; I want forever, and more. So will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

Her eyes were steady on his after he was finished, as though she expected more. They had never been a couple of long words and elaborate speeches, for they had never had the time for it. Now, with the time spread out in front of them for their taking, they were too busy loving each other to philosophize.

"Are you done," she asked, and when he nodded, she embraced his face with her hands, slowly leaning closer until she was close enough for him to smell the chocolate on her lips.

"Yes," she said, somehow making the word sound potent beyond its mere three letters. Then she repeated it, as though not quite believing they were giving each other forever.

There was something new that Michael discovered about Sara in hours too early to be called morning. Making love to her when she was absolutely elated was practically impossible.

Her body was hot under her palms, but her eyes were wide open and faced upwards, a grin foolishly resting on her face even though he kissed her in all the ways and all the placed she liked. Finally he gave in and kissed her belly with the gentlest of kisses before resting his chin on the hollow of her hip.

"I'm sorry," she laughed. "I'm here, I'm focused."

She cleared her throat, and for a moment he thought he may get to love her tonight after all. But as her hands reached to tuck the loose hair behind her ears, they somehow bumped into each other at an angle that reminded her of the ring that now reigned on her finger. A new round of giggles ensued, something he didn't mind in the slightest, and when her whole body shook with happiness she could not keep inside, he lay next to her, kissing her bare shoulder.

"I'm so happy right now," she said, and never had the words been spoken with which he concurred more. She turned her head so that their foreheads were one and he lowered his hand, placing it on the little secret neither had spoken aloud of, yet with each passing day thought of a little more.

Bryce knew from the moment he woke up that there was something different about this morning. The fact that Christmas was two days away had nothing to do with it. It was the silence that remained undisturbed the closer he got to the kitchen. When dad didn't go to work, he was always up before Bryce, waiting for him to wake up so that they could make breakfast for mom together. This morning, though, as the boy made his way to the kitchen, barefoot and past the Christmas tree so tall it towered even over Uncle Lincoln, he seemed to be the first one up. Even Toulouse only opened his eye, as if weighing the pros and cons of leaving the crumpled sheets before deciding to sleep in.

Bryce's age was now closer to six than to five, thus unfazed he opened the fridge and took out the milk. He moved one of the chairs to the counter and was just about to climb on it when a key turned in the front door.

Mom locked the door twice every evening, a habit Bryce would find redundant if he didn't know little bits and pieces of his parents' history. The person entering, though, tried to open the door after only one turn of the key. It couldn't be anyone but Uncle Lincoln, because only someone with a frame of his size had nothing to be afraid of.

No matter how threatening Uncle Lincoln's arms looked, though, his mouth sprawled into a smile after walking into the kitchen and laying his eyes on his "favorite" nephew (Bryce knew he was Uncle Lincoln's only nephew). He lifted the boy up almost as gently as dad.

"What's this?" he grunted at the sight of the milk on the table.

"Dad's not up yet," Bryce told him, "so I'm making breakfast for myself. It's not that hard."

Uncle Lincoln made a strange face, then shook his head. Bryce was right in assuming that his uncle wouldn't let him have something as mundane as cereal for breakfast when there was no rush (and Lincoln always took time for his family, now, work be damned); it wasn't the whole story, though. Michael had been the one awake hours before his big brother was to report to juvie; Lincoln was out cold until last minute. While they were retrieving the Scylla cards, it was either the planning or its execution keeping Michael up most nights, and the years before he found his family brimmed with demons with no regard for time. This normalcy, as mundane as sleeping in was for most people, was something Lincoln was still getting used to and his hand was trembling as he reached for the flour.

Michael's arms were still wrapped around her when she opened her eyes, one of his hands still delicately placed where there was nothing yet to cradle. Their bedroom no longer bathed in the glisten of Christmas lights, having been replaced by the morning light. As per usual, they had forgotten to draw the curtains before getting lost in each other beneath the covers, and Michael hadn't done it either before she would wake, still asleep next to her.

She looked at the ring on her hand. It had been mere hours since he had placed it there, but it seemed like she had been wearing it forever, completely inured to the feel of it and yet absolutely bewildered by it. He had her words, she had his crane, and soon they would have matching rings. Six months ago, they had thought they would never have anything more than knowing what they had had was real. Now here they were, with a new life they had created. And they were barely starting.

Carefully, she moved away from him. Just weeks ago, he'd stir awake, the life without her still too raw a pain not to fear the return to it. These mornings there were no arms reaching for her, pulling her back into an embrace she had been absent from for so long.

He still hadn't woken when she came back from the bathroom. Sitting down on the bed, she bent down and kissed his cheek. His eyes opened without alarm, then, after falling upon her, closed again, lost in their bliss and time.

"It's past eight," she told him.

His eyes stared at her again, this time in disbelief. She laughed as glancing at his wristwatch confirmed her words.

"You get ready and I'll make our son some breakfast," she said. He was about to protest, but she silenced him by covering his mouth with her hand. "I was making him breakfast for five years, you know. I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

He didn't argue. She felt his lips, hidden under her palm, spread into a smile. If at first it didn't make sense, she, too, smiled when blinded by a sunray that reflected off the ring. It was like it had been there for six years rather than six hours. In a way, it was.

There was no need for her to make breakfast for their son, of course. Bryce was sitting at the table, his legs dangling off the chair and his mouth full of chocolate chip pancake (they had run out of blueberries, something Lincoln saw as a clear sign he needed to be over more often). There was a half-eaten pancake on the plate in front of him, and from the equal size of the pieces into which he cut it, she could tell he was not hungry anymore, yet not full enough to tell his uncle there was no need for more food.

"Don't you think you are going overboard a bit, Linc?" Sara asked him, bending down to kiss the top of her son's head. Lincoln was still at the stove, the pan in his hand, and on the counter beside him were two plates, both with a hearty pile of pancakes. But she guessed that with Christmas just days away, there was no way Lincoln would let them have non-sugary breakfasts.

"You're the one to talk, Sara," Lincoln smirked, "I get here, eight in the morning, and your son, all alone in the kitchen, making himself cereal. Do you know how much crap there is in that box?"

"That's a bad word, Uncle Lincoln," his nephew reminded him (if he had taken the advice his mom had once given him and asked for a dollar every time his uncle had a filthy mouth, he would be the richest kid in his class, a true entrepreneur). Then he gasped, like his mom had the previous night.

"What?" Lincoln asked, because he hadn't noticed it yet. But Bryce had, his father's son. He took mom's hand and just stared at her, his mouth open in excitement that didn't allow any words.

"What the fuck is going on?" Lincoln repeated (yes, Bryce would have been a very rich boy by now). When he finally realized, though, he dropped the pan, leaving it to the stove's mercy, and with tears in his eyes he might admit to, hugged both Sara and Bryce.

"Uncle Lincoln, I can't breathe," Bryce giggled.

"Just a minute longer," his uncle insisted, closing his eyes very tightly in hopes of suffocating that mist he, in all honesty, would not be happy to admit to.

When Michael rushed into the kitchen, chasing every moment he could share with his family, Lincoln hugged him before wishing him good morning or offering him his congratulations. It might be a polite thing to do, letting his little brother kiss his kid and fiancée good morning first, but Lincoln was never the polite one and truth be told, he was the culprit for all this happiness. Had he not been sentenced to death for killing a man, his brother would have never walked into that infirmary and the little boy would never be born. So he deserved to be a little bit dramatic, his nephew having to yell three times that the pancake was burning before getting his uncle's attention.

The said pancake was a black mess and the pan probably past the point of salvation. Still, it ended in the sink under a stream of cold water, because faith ran deep in this family. And thus they sat down, glasses of orange juice of course not neglected. It had taken six years, but now they had it: the clatter of the plates and cutlery, the chatter about matters not at all of life and death, cranes made from paper napkins and white gold. A few feet away, there was a pile of presents of all sizes and colors, all festooned with glittery ribbons, yet none shone brighter than the one nobody, regardless of their nimble fingers, could catch and wrap and bestow away. It was in their eyes, the smiles they had no reason to fight, in the hand Michael again placed on Sara's belly because he just couldn't help himself no matter how daring it was, for their first-born was observant enough to pick up on it.

They were the lucky ones. Perhaps they had always been; but now, now they could finally say it without restraints. They were the lucky ones.

The End.

Broughttoyouby:::winter.