Name: We could have that one day, if we wanted…

Characters/pairing: Michael/Sara, Michael Jnr.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Non-epilogue compliant, Het, General, Fluff, Angst

Word count: approx. 1500 words

Summary:Sara sniffs, squeezing her eyes shut, suppressing the hot tears momentarily blurring her vision. She exhales slowly, loudly, then lets out a barky chuckle, inwardly laughing at the powerful influence of post-partum hormone levels.

A/N: Okay. This is inexcusably late, but better late than never, right? Dear Eight8toes, this is for you dear, a belated birthday present. Hope you'll like.

Also, I know I am probably fairly rusty on my writting, lol, so this tiny fic also served as a little writting exercise for me. :)

Spunkyar, I love you. You know why. :)

We could have that one day, if we wanted…

She has finished packing and is prepared to leave. Actually, she cannot wait until she is allowed to do so. It's not that she isn't grateful for everything the nice people here have done for her, but she is ready to go home. She craves the privacy as well as freedom their house has to offer, as much as she dreams of sinking into the warm, soft mattress of their bed, her head cuddling into the cool gentleness of their pillows. She cannot wait to be able to take the long, hot shower she's been dreaming about since she gave birth to their child two days ago. The thought of the cool streams of water gently soothing her whole aching body almost causes a shiver of anticipation run through her body.

But to be perfectly honest, the thing she craves the most is some alone time with her husband and their newborn baby. The hospital is nice, no complaint there, but it's still just a hospital. A place full of sick people seeking treatment, a place where people get cured but also die, a place that especially for her bears the sense of commitment, duty, and her inevitable failure with a fair portion of shame.

She is deeply ashamed - even now and at this very moment, after all this time - as she cradles her son to her chest, watching him sleep peacefully, oblivious of his very own perfection as well as the overwhelming love of his mother. She wants a fresh start, God, she wants it so badly. It's not only for her son - the fresh start she wishes - but for all of them, and she very much wishes for their son to have a mother worth of his unconditional love.

She is afraid of becoming her mother's daughter; a sick, lost soul that is too tired and too spent, drunk or drugged into oblivion, up until the point to not care about anybody else's needs but her own.

It would be the most destructible path, a path that - no doubt - would transform her into her child's source of deepest shame and disappointment, a case scenario she knows only too well.

Sara sniffs, squeezing her eyes shut, suppressing the hot tears momentarily blurring her vision. She exhales slowly, loudly, then lets out a barky chuckle, inwardly laughing at the powerful influence of post-partum hormone levels. Her baby merely wriggles in her arms before settling back into a peaceful sleep. She had never felt more emotionally overwhelmed in her whole life. Stroking the infant's tiny face, she starts to whisper softly to the little boy, the most precious part of her soul born into blood and flesh.

"Mommy is being silly, isn't she? Waiting so long for you to arrive, now look at what a mess she is," the infant doesn't as much as creek one eye open, but Sara doesn't mind. She knows, only as a mother can know, her child hears every single thing she says to him, even if not understanding the exact meaning of her words so far. If nothing else, her voice is soothing to the ears of the little bundle in her arms, and she cannot help but smile a little complacently.

"You know, it's all Daddy's fault really," she whispers conspiratorially before pouting stubbornly at the sweet child, peacefully sleeping in her arms. "He should have been here with your uncle half an hour ago to pick us up, but he is running late, and that's causing your mommy to be a little tense and unnecessarily worried." Her voice wavers a little at her last words, so she chooses to think about something else instead.

"Now, what will we do once we get home, huh? Would you like to nap a little longer? Or would you like to have something yummy first?" She cannot help but brush her lips affectionately against the infant's forehead before continuing. "You are going to love your new room Michael," her voice trembles slightly when realizing she just said their sons name for the very first time aloud, "…you'll see. Daddy painted it all just for you. There is a huge crib for you in the corner, just beside the window, and there is a lot of stuffed toys waiting for you to cuddle and play with. And there is even a nice, comfy rocking chair we can rock in while nursing." She shoots a short glance at the wall clock before returning her gaze to her son's pure perfection, including all ten fingers as well as toes.

"Just have a little patience dear, I am sure Daddy will be here shortly. You see, he really cannot wait to take you home. He's been so excited about you. He thinks you are the most beautiful thing on this planet, but lets be honest here, that's what he used to tell me before you came along, too." She smiles at the memory of Michael, holding his son for the very first time. The crushing pride, love and amazement in his eyes brought tears into Sara's own. If she had any doubt about his parenting skills – which she hadn't – that one would have been the moment to persuade her she couldn't wish for a better father for her child.

There is a soft knock on the door, bringing Sara from her reverie. The door opens slowly, a familiar, short-cropped head and a pair of deep ocean-blue eyes pop inside. The features on the handsome face stretch into the widest smile possible immediately upon spotting his two miracles, then he is stepping inside, closing the door behind him soundlessly. In two quick strides he stands beside the bed, his upper body bending down shortly to kiss first his wife, then his son.

"Ready to go home?" he asks gently, his eyes switching between Sara and their baby. She nods happily, then gestures towards the nearby chair, her bag already packed and impatiently waiting for their departure.

"What took you so long?" she asks with a voice still filled with quiet happiness, carefully turning the baby in her arms in order to stand from the bed. Her movements are still pretty awkward, still too slow and unsure, but Michael doesn't seem to notice any of it. He is staring at her, them, a lopsided grin playing over his lips. It's his eyes that betray him however. He is still extremely emotional about this, about his new found luck, and most importantly, about the chance to have a family - a life – with the only person he could ever wish or imagine it with.

Suddenly shaking his head as if waking from a heavy slumber, his smile widens, his hands holding out a small yellow paper bag with tiny balloons on it. Taken by surprise, Sara takes the gift from him, wondering how she didn't notice the obvious present before. Well, actually she knows - though she would never admit it openly. Seriously though, like who could really concentrate on anything else but him when being in one room with Michael Scofield. And Sara has a very hard try to cover up her blush.

"It was spur of the moment," Michael says almost apologetically, oblivious of her blush due to producing one of his own, and the soft stain of red coloring his cheeks makes him irresistible. Reaching forward, Sara wraps her palm over the nape of his neck, urging him closer until their lips meet.

"Thank you," she murmurs against his face before withdrawing quickly, already peeking inside, her curiosity winning the better of her. All she can see though is what looks like a tangle of white cotton fabric, so she carefully pours the contents of the bag on the bed, one arm still securely wrapped around her little one's body.

There are three shirts laying on the bed. All different sizes, all white, and all with a single word in black print across their fronts.

The word on the biggest says 'daddy', the second one holds a single "mommy", and the tiniest shirt has written "baby" on it.

She cannot help but laugh out loud, causing her son to stir with discontent at the sudden noise. Sara turns in order to eye her husband amusedly, one eyebrow sexily cocked in a disbelieving gesture.

"Matching outfits! Really?"

Michael only shrugs, his blush deepening, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Well, it was just an idea. You can throw them out, if you don't like them," he says, and for a second, he looks almost miserable. Sara merely chuckles some more before closing the remaining space between them, kissing his lips sweetly. Pulling away not more than an inch, she whispers the words that make his heart skip a beat, her breath hitting his face in a warm puff of air.

"I will keep them only if I can have a photo hanging on the living room wall with the three of us in them."

She watches with satisfaction as his face relaxes, his features once again radiating happiness and even a little bit of mischief.

"Lincoln will surely tell us they are cheesy," he offers tentatively, observing her reaction. It's her turn to shrug carelessly.

"Would you mind?"

His grin merely widens. "Bring it on!"

xxx