Author's Note:
Spoiler warning for up to and including episode 4x11!

As you read this chapter, you will realize that it consists mainly of scenes and dialogue from episodes 4x10 and 4x11, so a big thanks goes out to the writers of the show. You're making the MiSa 'shippers very happy this season. Of course no copyright infringement is intended, I'm merely playing in your sandbox, Mr. Scheuring.

Apologies for messing around a little with the timeline, I know I'm warping the PB universe in ways that it probably shouldn't be warped.

For the Sucre fans: He's in this chapter, but not a lot. I promise I'm gonna write him some nice dialogue in one of the next chapters. :o)

A shout goes out to everyone who has reviewed and keeps reviewing my story here at fanfiction (dot) net and over at prisonbreakfic (dot) net. Thanks so much, guys. You keep me going.

xxXXxx

Chapter 6

The realization hadn't really hit until the morning. None of them had gotten much sleep, and the silence in the warehouse was deafening.

Everyone was seated at the table, only Don Self was standing.

"So where's Brad's body now?" Sucre asked. Like it was yesterday, he could hear Bellick asking him to notify his mother if anything ever happened to him.

None of them wanted to believe it. Bellick had sacrificed his own life for their cause. They knew getting to the room where Scylla was stored was an almost impossible feat. They just hadn't expected to lose another good man. He wasn't their first bereavement, but somehow this had hit harder and deeper.

Self spoke about Brad Bellick's body like it was a totaled car. "We have it on its way to the morgue, and it's at the cooler at Homeland Security where nobody can find it."

Lincoln raised his head, shaking it. "That ain't part of the deal."

Mahone spoke up. "You said that if anything happened to us, that we'd be returned to next of kin."

"No, that's not exactly what I said."

"No, that is exactly what you said."

Self's expression was resolute. "No, it isn't exactly what I said, okay? And he needs to stay a John Doe until I say otherwise, okay? I'm dealing with enough stuff already, and I have my ass—"

Sucre suddenly jumped from this chair, lunging at Self. He started shouting Spanish expletives at him, pounding him with his fists. Mahone was out of his chair immediately, separating the two men. Everyone else looked on—stunned, frozen.

Sucre could hardly speak in his rage. He pointed at Self. "He's... he's got a mother, you know."

Mahone was still standing in between Self and Sucre. Addressing Self, he said, "If you want Scylla, and I assume you still do, Brad Bellick's body goes home to his mother."

Self stared at Mahone, his brow creased in discontent. Who were these cons to suddenly be determining the rules of this dangerous game? "Alright, alright," he relented, realizing he had to give in to this one. "I'm gonna take care of the body."

As Mahone guided Sucre back to his seat, Self added, "But you guys need to get out of mourning. We need to get back to work, we need to pack Brad's stuff up and," he pronounced the next few words slowly and deliberately, "we need to get back to work. And Fernando, my friend, let me tell you something. If you ever put your hands on me again, I promise you, there's gonna be two bodies in the fridge."

Mahone's hand on Sucre's clavicle stopped him from doing anything stupid. Looking at everyone at the table now, Self went on, "But I need results."

Michael got up, "Yeah, well, I need to see those missing pages. So what's it gonna be?"

xxXXxx

It was getting harder with every passing day. Sara could see it every time she looked at Michael. It seemed like he was having a constant headache now, even though he would not admit it. They had to do something.

She saw him wiping at his nose, his hand coming away with a crimson stain on it. She watched him get up and enter the bathroom. She followed him there.

He was standing at the sink, tilting his head back.

"Lean forward," she softly instructed him. "With your head back, you'll only swallow the blood."

He did as he was told, the droplets of red forming a stark contrast in the pale white of the porcelain sink. "Pinch your nostrils together and keep them that way for a few minutes."

She edged closer, leaning her backside against the edge of the counter next to the sink. In a low voice, she said, "Michael, you can't go on like this. Please let me take you back to the hospital. I'll pretend to be your wife, I can talk to the doctors. Let me help you," she pleaded.

His eyes met hers, but she had trouble reading his frame of mind. She tried again, "You know as well as I do that you're no good to anyone like this. The additional bloodwork should be back now, and the surgeon will want to talk to you about the operation. We need to go back there today."

With his fingers still pressing his nose together, his voice was strangely nasal. "It's another risk I don't want to take. It's only been a few months since our faces were all over the TV and the papers. Sara, what if someone recognizes me? Are you willing to take that risk?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

xxXXxx

The surgical ward's waiting area was next to the nurse's station, and the blue and beige padded chairs did a poor job of trying to give it a more comfortable and calming air. A middle-aged doctor called Jeffrey Malden had seen Michael twenty minutes ago for more tests. He and Sara were waiting for him to come back with something more definitive.

The sudden commotion made Michael look up. The first thing he noticed were two policemen, dressed in a black cop's uniform. He and Sara got up, their minds single-tracked on finding the nearest exit. The knee-jerk reaction to any law enforcement personnel within eyeshot had been engrained in their minds so deeply that it didn't even feel alien to them anymore.

The hallway was short with emergency exit doors at the end. Through the windows in the doors, Michael could spot the two security guards standing just outside the door.

"Sara," he warned her.

From behind them came Dr. Malden's voice. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Michael tried not to act nervous. "You have our number," he told the doctor, passing him on the way down the corridor, the way they came.

Dr. Malden talked at Sara while she walked away. "And who are you again?"

"The first to wait at home and monitor him."

They stopped at the corner where the hallway opened to the nurse's station. Dr. Malden tried addressing Michael again. "You're leaving AMA in a potentially fragile condition."

The doctor gave Michael an almost condescending look and said sternly, "Look, I'm not stupid. I know who you are. And I'm not gonna turn you in, my concern is for what's going on with your health."

As Michael nervously glanced at the cops talking to a nurse near the nurse's station, Dr. Malden continued, "They're not here for you. And I'm telling you, in your condition—"

"Thank you, Doctor," Michael interrupted him. "I appreciate your help."

"Please do call us," Sara added as she walked away, following Michael.

xxXXxx

"That's great. Okay. Thank you so much, Dr. Malden," Sara finished her conversation with the surgeon before she hung up her cell phone.

She walked up to Michael and Lincoln, sitting at the warehouse table. Touching Michael's shoulders in what she hoped would be a comforting gesture, she told him, "They can do the surgery tomorrow at 3."

"No," Michael said almost immediately.

"You're going," Lincoln told him determinedly.

"We need to finish what we started," Michael protested.

Lincoln bent down so that he was close to his ear. "We can do this."

Michael's temper flared. He got up, his voice raised. "I need more time!"

The sudden movement aggravated his already nagging headache and his palms when to his temples in a vain attempt to keep the stabbing pain in check.

Sara walked up to him. "Michael, Dr. Malden can see you tomorrow. He's given us his word he won't alert the authorities. If you put this off and you, you... you collapse, you're gonna be treated by another doctor. Do you wanna roll the dice that they're not gonna call the cops?"

Facing the whiteboard with his back to Sara and Lincoln, Michael sucked in a sharp breath, his voice calmer now. "There's still so much to do."

Sara turned her head to look at Lincoln. His face was stony, but he flicked Sara a quick sideways glance. Michael turned around, defeated. He knew he didn't have the strength to go against both his girlfriend and his brother. "Alright," he said in a husky whisper.

Lincoln looked at him in approval before he turned away. Sara met his azure eyes. "Tomorrow, 3 o'clock?"

Michael nodded.

xxXXxx

Sara saw Lincoln standing by the warehouse door, casually leaning against it. The bleak dockside scenery that spoke of twisted pipes and hooting tankships wasn't what had drawn him here.

She ambled over to lean her bank against the other side of the open sliding gate. "He's gonna be okay," she told him. "I'm scared too, but the hospital's the best place for him right now."

Lincoln knew this wasn't what Sara would want to hear, but she deserved to know. Lincoln knew his brother far too well. "He won't go without a plan to complete the job."

Sara was taken aback. He had said he would go. "Well, Alex and Fernando should be back soon with the video, right?"

"Should be, yeah."

"So then all we need is the sixth card."

"Gretchen's working on that," Lincoln said matter-of-factly.

"You really think we can trust her?"

Lincoln looked down to the floor where the dust had been accumulating from an eddy that the wind created. "With the card? Absolutely. Anything else? Nope."

xxXXxx

Alex could see that Michael was in pain, that he was rubbing his head a lot more often than he should. Everyone could see it now, but most everyone else tried to ignore it. Pity or a guilty conscience was not what Michael needed right now.

Alex almost ignored it too, but then he remembered something. He turned around and sat down at the table that was empty except for Michael. "Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," Michael greeted him back, giving him an exhausted look. He looked more tired than Alex had ever seen him before.

Alex rubbed his mouth with his palm, releasing a sigh. "I'm not gonna ask you how you're feeling."

"Good," Michael mumbled, defeated.

"About four years after I joined the Bureau, my first Special Agent in charge, he was diagnosed with liver cancer. But for him, the hardest part wasn't the treatment, the hardest part was leaving the office. We had this big RICO case that was about to go to trial. And we're talking thousands of man-hours and five years of research and... and the guy was gonna be in chemo. And he was scared."

Michael stopped rubbing his head and looked at Alex, who continued, "He was scared that we were gonna lose the case, and that a lot of bad men were gonna walk."

The look on Michael's face was almost amused. "Let me guess, he had a rag-tag band of criminals ready to pick up the slack."

Alex smiled a small smile. "Yeah, something like that."

The pain was coming back in waves now and Michael closed his eyes to prepare for another onslaught.

Alex got up from his chair, but before leaving Michael to himself, he bent down slightly. In a low voice, he added, "We're not gonna let you down, Michael."

Michael heard the footsteps of Alex walking away behind him. "What happened to your boss?"

Alex turned around. "Oh, he was there to see us win."

xxXXxx

They had all been on edge this morning. No one had said much during breakfast. They knew they were on a deadline. The clock was approaching 3 PM much too fast and there was still so much to plan, so much to do.

Michael didn't think he could stand one more minute in the warehouse. Everyone was tense and worried, and the thick silence was suffocating him. He had been glad when Don Self had arrived and taken him outside to hand him an unmarked manila envelope.

The contents were puzzling him, but he also saw things much more clearly now. He suddenly understood some of the decisions his father had made, the sacrifices he'd had to live with.

Michael could hear the sound of her heels approaching from behind before he could feel Sara's hands encircling his waist. Her lips touched his shoulder, and just for a moment, he relaxed. He felt at home. He wanted to freeze this moment and keep living in it, but the envelope in his hand reminded him that he was clinging to a feeble hope that could be shattered in a moment's time.

His hand touched her arm and he let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging.

She lightly kissed him through the shirt's fabric. "It's time to go."

He closed his eyes. He wasn't ready—for any of this. Letting out another long breath, he lifted up the envelope with the contents exposed on top so that Sara could see what he was holding. She took it from him.

As he turned around to face her, he murmured, "'All that avails is flight.' Maybe my father was on to something." He hesitated. "If they all die because we tried to take down The Company, and I survive because I called in sick, how am I gonna live with myself?"

There was no answer to this question, and she knew it as she met his eyes that had gone dark with regret and desperation and stony resolve. She knew she had lost her fight. He was going to help take down The Company, he would not bow down for a simple obstacle like abdominal surgery.

xxXXxx

Sitting in the car's back seat with Michael, Sara unwrapped the syringe from its plastic cover. "If I still had a medical license, I'd lose it over this." Silently, she added, 'And I hope I'm not gonna regret this for the rest of my life.'

Michael rolled up his shirt sleeve, exposing the crook of his arm.

Filling the syringe with a clear liquid from a glass vial, she said, "This is usually given to patients with severe hypertension. It'll keep your blood pressure down, but there can also be side effects. You might feel sick or a burning sensation. But, Michael, any added mental or physical stress—"

"I get it," he said with a sigh.

"I mean it," she said in a serious tone. "I don't want you to move unless you absolutely have to. And as soon as this is over, I'm taking you to the hospital."

She gave him a quick and not entirely sincere smile before exiting the car. He knew it was meant as encouragement, but he couldn't deny the bittersweet aftertaste it left in his mouth.

Sucre had been in the passenger seat the whole time. His head was bowed and he was mouthing a prayer, his hands folded in front of his chest.

Michael leaned forward, lightly touching Sucre's shoulder. "Hey, you all right?"

Sucre just nodded.

"This is gonna go exactly as planned. I promise," Michael tried to assure him.

Sucre's voice was just above a whisper, "I'm not praying for me."

xxXXxx

Los Angeles was a lot different from Chicago in many ways, but the gleaming skyscrapers looked just the same. Sara found her way to the wooden bench in front of the Company's headquarters and sat down.

The manila envelope was safely tucked away in her purse, next to her cell phone and the 38 semi-automatic. Now all she had to do was wait.

xxXXxx