Title: Scar

Characters: Michael/Sara

Rating: R (I guess, but I'm rather puritan… ;)

Genre: angst, het, pwp

Word Count: aprrox. 1300

Summary:Just a tiny bed talk on a topic I always wanted them to discuss, nothing too special…*shrugs*, spoilers for 2x11 and teh_Kellerman scene…

Warning:No beta, sorry!

Scar

"I've always wondered…" his breath glides over her shoulder, his voice melting like honey when meeting her skin. His eyes and fingers wander - once again - over her flesh, exploring every inch of her skin.

Tracing his long index finger from her jaw over her neck to the top of her shoulder, she cannot help but sigh contently. Lying on her stomach, her head turned towards him while resting on the pillow, she watches him watch her, then he is observing, kissing, tasting. She closes her eyes, wishing this moment never to pass. His hand suddenly stops however, his fingers shortly hovering and then carefully tracing the scar disfiguring her left upper arm. She opens her eyes in order to find out why he stopped his exploration tour of her body, then sees the tense look he is giving the scarred flesh.

She squirms under his touch, wiggling under the loose sheets until she is able to support her head on her elbow. With her eyebrows raised, she gives him 'the' look, the look that tells him he can ask her freely, and that she will be ok with whatever he wants to know.

He hesitates for a moment, then meets her eyes somehow guiltily, his fingers ghosting over her scar once again.

"This one I haven't really noticed much yet. But it looks rather fresh…" he tells her softly, his eyes never leaving hers. "How did it happen?" Without blinking, she holds his gaze steadily, then replies equally softly, "It happened right after Gila…"

She feels him tense, his fingers curling themselves around the scar protectively. "After you left?" he asks and she cannot help but let out a saddened sigh. "I didn't leave Michael, you know that," yet he doesn't speak and she feels like he is waiting for her to add more – explain - more.

"I already told you, I was coming back, but…" He cuts her off by a slight shake of his head, telling her she misunderstood his silence.

"I know. You don't have to justify yourself to me, Sara. I know. And I understand," he adds softly. "I can't really blame you for leaving, can I?" he continues with a saddened look in his eyes, "I only wish …" he says with that characteristic lilt in his voice, meaning he feels, on again, guilty.

It's her time to interrupt. "You couldn't have known," she says softly, extracting her hand from his grip to cup his cheek, her thumb drawing loving patterns over his skin. He closes his eyes, expression somehow pained.

"Did…did he do that to you?" his eyes open again, two blue pools, wavering.

"No," she shakes her head, her thumb continuing to caress his cheek reassuringly. "At least not directly," she feels him relax against her palm ever so slightly, but is still waiting for her to elaborate.

"He had me…he had me…" she shuts her eyes tight. This is far harder than she imagined. She feels his face turn in her palm, his lips ghosting over her skin in the most gentle of kisses; encouraging, comforting.

She finally dares to open her eyes. "He had me in a room, on the first floor. When I managed to free myself, there was no way to flee through the door without meeting him half-way, and although being badly injured, he still had a gun." She feels his breath catch in his throat, but he doesn't interrupt and she is grateful for that when she continues to tell her story, while she still possesses the strength and resolve to answer his questions.

"So I pushed the window open and then…jumped." She can hear the sharp shocked breath he takes, his lips leaving her palm, the warmth of his touch leaving her flesh in an instant, despite being missed immensely. He squeezes his eyes shut, unconsciously moving slightly away from her, muttering a single, "Jesus…" under his breath. His hand goes up to cover his eyes and she moves closer. Tugging the hand away from his face, she asks him to look at her and he obliges, guilt and remorse shining from his heavy-lidded blues.

"Shall I stop?" she asks softly, knowing the answer but wanting to give him the choice. He shakes his head, giving a shuddering sigh. "No. Please, continue," he mutters, his hand sneaking behind her to rest on the small of her back, drawing her closer. It still feels as amazing to her as the first time he's done that.

"There was a car, underneeth…" she continues, and sees his eyes widen, "I smashed the windshield into pieces," she confesses and he flinches, yet doesn't interrupt. "The glass cut through the flesh of my upper arm, it was a pretty deep gash," she stops, observing him quietly.

"But I got away." She concludes earnestly and sees the tiny wheels in his brain spinning feverishly.

"It was stitched," he utters at last, his brow furrowing with an effort to understand, to put the pieces together without asking any more curious questions that would elicit more painful memories.

"Where did you get it done?"

At this, she actually smiles. "Why go to a hospital to see a Doctor, when you are a Doctor yourself?" He gives her a puzzled look before his eyes widen almost to the size of two blue saucers. He takes her forearm gently, observing the scar with huge interest as well as disbelief, admiration for her work all too evident. She knows it's silly, but it makes her kinda proud.

"Wow…" he whispers softly, his fingers running up and down the scar, his touch as light as a feather.

"Thanks," she replies appreciatively, a tiny mischievous smile brightening her face. Finally, after a couple of silent moments, he raises his eyes to meet hers. "You are amazing…," he breathes, but she hears a slight hesitation in his voice.

"…but?" she presses, her eyebrows rising in question. He gives an angry sigh that startles her, then rolls onto his back, facing the ceiling.

"But…It should never have happened to you in the first place."

There they were again, jumping on the rollercoaster of guilt and remorse and 'What ifs' and wishes of being able to reverse time. She doesn't let him wallow in his guilt, not tonight - not ever - when she knows she can do something, anything, about it. She rolls over, resting her head on his chest, her arms encircling his waist. He is still not responding to her.

"Look at me," she commands softly, and after a beat, he obliges. "You can't change what happened. But you make it up to me, now," she whispers with a light smile, her eyes shining slight mischief along with hesitation. She is too cute and too endearing and Michael cannot help but give a little smile himself. Grasping both her upper arms, he gently pulls her higher against him and stops only when her face is hovering right over his.

"Anything," he whispers, "You can have anything."

She smiles anew, yet this time, her grin gets flirty, her look full of lust and desire. She brings her face closer, her mouth pressed to his ear. Her hot breath is tickling and teasing his earlobe, and it's everything he can do not to shudder with anticipation and pleasure.

"Make me feel loved, Michael. The way only you can make me feel." She whispers sexily into the hollow of his ear, but her voice has also a far deeper, richer tint. It's all it takes to make him completely undone.

That night, Michael Scofield makes up for the first scar on Sara Tancredi's troubled soul.

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