Name: Analogy of time

Characters: pre-escape Michael, post-series Michael, mentions of Sara, Lincoln and LJ

Pairing: Michael/Sara

Genre: Non-Epilogue Complaint, family, het, mystery, angst, fluff, humor, and probably a little of crack!fic too…I seem to have major issues with defining a suitable category for this fic…

Word count: approx. 4000 words

Summary: What would future Michael tell the Michael yet only preparing his plan, if he got the chance? What would he warn him about, what would he disclose about the future, what advice would he give his younger self?

A/N: Once upon a time, a promised the lovely spunkyar a fanfic of her choosing, to which she gave the following prompt – what would future Michael tell to pre-series Michael if he got the chance? Well, here is my take on the thing dear, I hope you'll like it. *hugs*

Thank you shibbyfangirl for the wonderful beta job. *hugs*

Analogy of time

"Imagination is more important than knowledge, for knowledge is limited."
A. Einstein

~~~~~oOo~~~~~

Looking at the wall one last time, Michael's mind is going over each and every step of the plan once again. His eyes skim through the various articles, photos, blueprints, post-its and side notes before he lets out one final deep breath. The plan is here, solid and manageable, changeable and adaptable if needed, yet there are still too many variables one can never predict and include in the plan, Michael knows. And despite eliminating as many as possible, there are still no guarantees he will succeed in his efforts. No guarantees at all. Still, he knows it's worth the try. Besides, it's too late to chicken out now; the tattoos are already in place, carefully inked into his skin forever.

His eyes return to the news article with the photo of his brother, the headlines screaming the inconvenient truth, 'Lincoln Burrows' final appeal rejected'.

God, Lincoln… Michael sighs anew, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his fingertips to delicately rest on his aching temples. Thirty fucking grand… a debt of thirty fucking grand – a loan to secure his little brothers well-being and education - has earned his brother the electric chair in one of the most secure prisons in America.

And soon, there is going to be one more inmate added.

The pulsing pain in his temples intensifies. He doesn't know what to expect, he doesn't know how to behave and trade best with these dangerous men. There is hardly a manual you can use to stay safe in a place like Fox River, but Michael doesn't really care about his safety anymore. Still, deep down he knows he would be insane if he wasn't at least a little bit scared.

"Getting cold feet already?" says a familiar voice with an amused yet caring tone right from behind him, "by all means, you really should. At least, try to enjoy the cold of all ten toes, while you still can." The voice is not exactly mocking, but it's not too tactful either, and when Michael turns around to see who is talking to him, he is surprised – to say the least – to see himself. His other, slightly more 'rounded in the middle' self.

The other Michael doesn't look much older than he is right now, though he certainly looks more worn. His eyes are a darker shade of blue, and there is something resembling the experience of a much - much - older man recognizable in them.

His other self – this is the only way he can think of calling him – steps right next to him, shifting his gaze to the wall, oblivious to Michael's stare.

"I've almost forgotten how much work it has cost me to create this thing," he comments, his eyes stopping on a picture or two with an almost nostalgic care. "Are you tearing it down tonight?" he asks with nonchalant curiosity, his eyebrows raised an inch in a polite gesture of inquiry. Michael can only nod.

"Pity, really," the other Michael says. "If I could go back, I would have kept a couple of these…" he points to some images on the wall.

"Which ones?" asks Michael carefully, his curiosity now winning the better of him and causing him to eye his very own wall with deep-seeded interest.

"Well, for starters…" contemplates the slightly chubbier Michael, his fingers coming to graze his whiskered cheek, "I would definitely keep this one…" His hand comes up to point his finger at the news article about the achievements of the Governors daughter in India. "It's hard to get ones hands on an original copy of this little gem these days. Trust me, I've searched numerous libraries." he continues casually, as if talking weather and not a secretive, covert law-breaking plan instead, "You know, she likes to tease me about my obsession in retrieving everything I've once had of her on this wall, but well," his older self shrugs, "you know me. I like keeping track. One cannot look into the future without knowing and understanding their past properly."

"Besides," he says, his eyes softening with an unfamiliar glow, "she looks so lovely here. It's been only a few months before she started …" the older version stops death in the middle of his sentence, as if recoiling at the thought of almost giving away too much. "Never mind," he concludes. Noticing Michael probably hasn't been listening anyway; his younger self's stare is directed at his bare arms, consisting of vast areas of smooth and white skin - skin stripped off any tattoos whatsoever.

Suddenly, Michael is not sure what time-frame version of himself he is currently talking to. But this slightly bulkier version of him does seem to know a lot about his future, not to mention he cannot recall ever looking like this - older, experienced, but also most strikingly 'content'… - and so he decides to make the best of this conversation, taking whatever information or piece of advice he can give himself – yes, it definitely sounds crazy even to himself – himself giving advice to himself … wait, which self now? – in order to not make the same mistakes twice, to not threaten the plan and to raise his chances to save his brother's life.

"Will I succeed?" He asks without preamble the most natural and ultimate question, all of a sudden too eager to know the outcome of all of his endeavors. His other self regards him steadily, pondering the extent of the answer he is allowed to give. With his eyes slightly narrowed, he finally gives him a slow nod.

"Yes, you will." He pauses for a moment before he continues. "But it will come with sacrifices. Far graver than you could ever have imagined or be prepared for." The tone of his other version changes, quivers, but Michael is not listening anymore. He will succeed, he will save Lincoln. A smile graces his lips and for some reason, this seems to irritate his other self greatly.

"Those sacrifices will not be just yours!" The rise of his voice surprising both of them, the older Michael takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes momentarily in order to settle down, before continuing in a far calmer tone, "And trust me, you will find it far harder to forgive yourself for being the cause of other people's pain and suffering. Sometimes, you will even have to make them do sacrifices, against their genuine will or consent. It's a heavy burden not to be taken lightly, but seeing you care this little, I cannot understand what she possibly could have seen in me back then," he finishes, an angry as well as self-loathing lilt coating his velvety voice.

"Lincoln is innocent," Michael tries to defend his cause, his own voice raising a notch. "He was framed and doesn't deserve to die!"

"So don't other people," says his other self quietly, his voice slightly trembling. Maybe it's the sight of a deep, still-opened wound reflected in his older-self's eyes that makes Michael realize that maybe - just maybe - he is truly underestimating the price that needs to be paid for Lincoln's freedom. But is he, really? Isn't it a price high enough when you throw your life away, exchanging a luxurious life for your only relative's life? Well, for Michael it sure is an easy choice, but a low price? No, it's not, despite the fact there isn't a high enough cost he wouldn't pay in order save his family.

"Lincoln is not your only family. At least it won't stay that way forever," the other Michael utters quietly, trying to give warnings to his much more naïve and innocent self.

"I know, there is LJ too," says Michael somewhat impatiently. His eyes then lower in shame when thinking about his nephew and the damage the news of his uncle's arrest will cause him. And yet, his other version only shakes his head, an amused tiny smile dancing upon his lips.

"No, not just LJ. There are so many other forms of family yet to be discovered for you," says the other Michael, but his wise, slightly patronizing tone irritates the younger man to the bone.

Again, as if sensing the disagreement in the man still kept in the dark about the grave events that are yet to unfold, he cannot help but to add softly, "a lot can change in just a one year's time."

Michael looks back at the wall, his eyes searching for something that might have point him in the right direction. Lincoln, D., John Abruzzi, Cell Test, Pugnac, the stolen Fox River blueprints, A-wing plans, English Fitz and Percy, Allen Schweizer, and finally, a clipping from the yearbook of the governor's daughter, yet Michael cannot see the connection.

"You'll find out soon enough," says the other Michael somewhat soothingly, a small, knowing smile dancing upon his lips before it contorts into a grimace upon a certain memory. "Again, you will cause a lot of damage along your way, and you will have to be prepared to make amends and take full responsibility for the results of your actions. I won't ask if you are ready for the challenge, because I know for a fact that you are. Just carry in mind that Lincoln's freedom will cause a lot of other heads to roll…" the older Michael almost winces at his last choice of words, wishing he was tactful enough to select them more carefully.

"People you'll care about deeply will get hurt badly. In some ways, beyond repair," his last words barely a whisper; something dreary and guilty flickers in the darker set of blue eyes.

"He is my brother," says Michael at last, putting an extra emphasizes on the last word, "I cannot let them kill him, no matter what. Not when he is innocent."

"Yes, but are you willing to let other people suffer and die in order to pursue your own cause?" The other man's tone has turned almost as fierce as Michael's own. Then, as a man remembering his much younger days, he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and truce.

"I am not telling you not to do it. I know nothing will be able to stop you from doing it at this point, as much as I cannot say I would make a different choice if faced with the same options again. I only want you to know and consider the ultimate cost that will come with the achievement of your goal. And I also want to warn you against making some of the gravest mistakes along the way."

"What are you talking about?" asks Michael quickly, the eagerness in his voice badly concealed.

"I can't give you any precise directions as to what to do or not, but there are a few things you may want to take into consideration."

"And what are those?" Michael asks, this time more calmly despite the curiousity burning within him.

"For starters, choose your friends and enemies carefully. There is a line to cooperation with certain people you should never cross, no matter what the cause."

Michael turns his head abruptly, looking at the wall. "Abruzzi?" he asks, looking at his other self expectantly.

The older man only shakes his head. "No. It's somebody who is not on the wall yet, but one who you can never trust or count on, in any matter or situation whatsoever. You'll find soon enough who he is. Trust me, he won't be hard to recognize."

Michael slowly nods as the words sink in, trying hard to trust himself, yet skeptical of other than his very own mind by nature. Yet, this is his own mind as well, isn't it?

"What else?" he asks, watching the other Michael's face as it turns again to the wall. His eyes stop at a picture, yet from his point of stand, Michael cannot say with certainty which precise photo the other man is looking at.

"No matter what, don't let her leave you in Gila," he almost whispers those words, a deep, fierce and unhealed ache lacing his voice, and Michael's eyes, following the line of sight of the other man, widen in surprise when finally stopping upon the picture of the Governor's daughter.

"Her?" he asks with unmasked shock while watching his other self slowly nod in affirmation.

"Yes, her," his older version repeats, but the word falls far more tenderly from his lips. "She is the key. In far more ways but one." There is something deep and rich shining in his future self's eyes, and all of a sudden, Michael cannot suppress the urge to wonder and laugh skeptically if this particular piece of information.

"The governor's daughter? The dreamy doctor with ideals of changing the world, in a maximum-security prison?" he asks incredulously, his eyes observing the slightly paled newspaper photograph, desperately willing his eyes to catch something that would make him view her as something different than just a simple bolt in his plan, but he simply can't see anything.

"Yet," the other Michael thinks to himself and can't help as a soft smile touches his lips.

"She is just a pawn in the game…" says Michael, wondering how the hell he could think about this woman, no matter how beautiful or smart or funny or compassionate, in any other way than that. To his great surprise, the other Michael's smile merely seems to grow.

"You know, I never wanted to believe when S…when she told me she believed I must have been really cocky and arrogant before my prison days, but now I have to admit, I can clearly see her point," the smirk widens.

"You aren't being serious, are you?" The younger Michael asks with a voice filled with true bewildered and disbelief. "Out of all people, of all places and ways one can meet a woman, you are telling me I will…" What exactly will he? Fall for? He isn't sure he even wants to know so he merely repeats his previous words, "The Governor's daughter. Really? The person who is supposed to be just the means to an end, a high-class lady trying to make a difference amongst the worst of men? And I, Michael Scofield - a man always shy and rather cold about women - am supposed to charm and be charmed in return by a rich daughter of the only politician who can save Lincoln's life but who ever won't? As an inmate no less? While executing a dangerous plan??? Sorry for my lack of trust here, but that's simply insane and lacks any logic."

"Love often does," says the older Michael simply, "and don't forget, you've found her, not the other way around." The man points at the yearbook quote Michael knows by heart by now – Be the change you want to see in the world – and ponders about the other man's words, especially the word 'love' stubbornly echoing in his head over and over.

He doesn't deny he is in shock. Isn't love too strong of a word to describe his possible future relationship with the prison Doctor? Attraction, interest, maybe even chemistry, but love? Michael Scofield simply isn't used to think about love in other terms as family - as his mother, his brother, and his nephew, plus Veronica, maybe. So forgive him when his mind goes into more than slight panic over thinking about the woman he doesn't know other than from clips of newspaper and yearbook photos, as his future 'love'.

"Why are you telling me this?" Michael manages to say at last, suspicion slowly starting to creep up in his chest. "What is your investment in this game?" he asks and watches his other self' face grow serious again at once.

"It's by no means just 'a game'. And my only investment in this is to spare some people unnecessary grief."

"Like her?" asks Michael, pointing his chin to the wall at the direction of Sara Tancredi's photograph. He feels a surprising rush of odd satisfaction upon observing the clear distaste at his choice of words in the other man's eyes. He doesn't know why, but he suddenly feels like he evened the score with his more informed self. The man with the bulkier frame trades more wisely and doesn't respond to the challenge in Michael's words. Instead, he chooses to change the subject from solely Sara to a more general direction.

"Yes, like Sara," he admits, the words parting his lips with an odd feeling of reluctance. But what the younger Michael notices isn't this but the fact that, obviously, he will at some point in the future be on first name terms with the governor's daughter. He doesn't have the time to ponder this much longer though, for the other man continues without a pause, "Or like Bob. Or Lisa, or…Veronica," he says at last, raw pain dripping from his words at last.

Michael cannot help but gasp out loud. Lisa? Veronica?

"Just try to keep them away from all of this, as much as possible," the other Michael's voice is urgent, almost pleading now. "There are certain people whose involvement you won't be able to prevent," his eyes wander to the wall involuntarily, his eyes stopping on the beautiful redhead for the shortest of moments before returning to look at Michael again, "but there are people you may be able to save by keeping them as far away from the whole mess as possible."

"May be?" asks Michael, his own voice coming out in a choked whisper.

"I told you there would be grave sacrifices," says his other self ruefully. He gives his younger time-twin some space to recover from the shocking news. At last, the younger version of the brilliant man asks the most important question Michael knows there is.

"Do you regret what you've done?"

The older Michael stays still for a couple of moments before finally speaking, the words leaving his lips somewhat clumsily, almost involuntarily.

"Certainly, there are things I do regret, some more than other. But considering the events that have unfolded once after I've jumped into the pool full of sharks, over time I came to the final realization that there were things I simply couldn't have predicted. And that there was a far greater picture involved than I ever could have imagined, than anyone could have imagined, really. Therefore, some of the actions following my plan cannot be put directly onto my head, although I certainly started the whole ball rolling. And that's something I will have to live with for the rest of my life."

There is silence in the room, both men trapped in their own thoughts for a moment.

"One more question," asks Michael, suddenly overcome by all sorts of emotions he cannot identify nor sort out. "What about Lincoln and LJ?"

"Both will get their well-deserved peace in the end, if that's what you are asking," says the other Michael, and it truly is all the information Michael wants to get from in return to his question.

"So it was worth it then," concludes Michael at last, relief sweeping over him.

"Yes," Michael's older self utters before a smile forms upon his lips, his thumb subconsciously rubbing the soft, worn skin of his - at the moment - bare ring finger, "and not only for the two of them. Just keep your faith, no matter how hopeless things will appear at some point or another. The light at the end of the tunnel will be worth every notch of pain and grief. And despite the occasional heavy feel of guilt pressing at you for some of your actions, actions some of which you may have prevented from happening. Once you see the bigger picture, the cross will be a little bit easier to bear. Especially since you'll have plenty of help." At this, Michael's older version mysteriously smiles.

"Oh, and one last thing. When you talk to her for the very first time, try to skip the 'junkie' note. It's rather rude, cocky, and won't do you any favors," he says, a sudden sheepish expression appearing on his face. "Trust me, it's still something that uses to embarrass me when looking back at our Fox River times."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you can never know everything, nor be prepared good enough. There are always some variables you cannot predict. Don't make the same mistakes I've done along with some of my enemies. Don't make assumptions that you and you alone are always and in every situation the smartest one, having the upper hand and complete control over every single thing, every single conversation, believing to be able to calculate the precise impact of your words. You can never know…" he sighs somehow ruefully, a frustrated lilt attached to the gesture, "Just don't use that line, okay? It's insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it will do more damage than good in general, no matter how charming and suiting it will feel at that moment, alright?"

Michael shrugs his shoulders but then nods, albeit a bit too carelessly for his other self's liking. However, he won't pretend he is not getting impatient and tired of trying to read the encrypted messages his other self is feeding him. "Whatever."

There is an angry flicker in his other self' eyes for the shortest of moments, then it's gone, replaced by a knowing smile. Cocky and arrogant, Sara has said to Michael later in time, but he didn't believe she meant it in all seriousness back then. Now, however, the older version of Michael Scofield has to admit once again with defeat - he was precisely just as arrogant and bigheaded as she said. His relationship with her changed him and made him a better man, a better person. For that, he knows he will always be grateful.

In the meanwhile, the younger Michael's gaze is once again trained at the wall, studying and observing his piece of art before he will tear it down later in the evening, his eyes then wander back to his other self.

He is no longer there.

A loud cry rings through the penthouse, a cry whose source is indefinable to Michael, yet getting louder with each new-drawn breath. It's a cry of a child, probably a baby, and Michael starts to look around frantically, his eyes desperately searching the spacious apartment for the tiny life expanding their lungs in the loudest cries of anger and despair. The penthouse, however, looks too big and too empty, and as the cries grow louder, Michael suddenly snaps from his deep slumber, his eyes suddenly wide open and searching the shadows of the dark room.

He is disoriented momentarily, lying on his side in a king-sized bed that feels vaguely familiar. Instinctively turning to the only source of light, he sees a shadow of a person standing in the doorframe - a woman, Michael realizes - cradling a baby to her chest, hushing and lulling the infant back into sleep.

"Sorry, did we wake you?" her soft voice carries to him from the doorway and Michael can hear the smile and happiness in her voice, despite the late night hour and the fussing baby in her arms.

All of a sudden, it all falls back into place by the speed of light. He is home, with his wife, who is currently cradling their child – God, their wonderful, perfect baby boy - attempting to lull him back to sleep again.

He shakes his head, partly in an answer to her question, but mostly to clear it from the remnants of the weird dream he just had. His line of vision catches his bare feet sticking out from underneath the light cool crisp sheets, and he is able to wiggle only three toes on his left foot.

Thank God for that, he thinks, getting up to join his wife, taking the tiny life into his arms, kissing his head lovingly.

"C'mon buddy, what's the matter?" he inquires soothingly, rocking the baby up and down, all the same giving a glowing Sara his most charming smile.

It was worth it. If for nothing else, it was all worth it for this amazing new life, stilling back to sleep in his daddy's strong, steady circle of arms.

~~~~~oOo~~~~~