The AC in Michael's car had stopped working a couple of weeks ago – miraculously, it was just after the worst of a heat wave was over, in the early days of July. Michael had always been very good at fixing things – the only thing he hadn't managed to fix in his parents' house was their marriage – but there had been no time to buy the right pieces or actually replace it. Sara had been so busy with her campaign, it had somehow sucked Michael in as well – of course, he was never going to get involved in her public life, that was a done deal from the start. What Michael hadn't realized was how involved he'd truly be, behind the curtains.
Drinking in every interview, every conference – you never quite get used to watching the woman you love through a TV screen. Before Michael ever started a relationship with Sara – who he used to think of exclusively as Governor Tancredi – he had observed she was remarkably at her ease in front of a camera, taking the full blow of what must be extraordinary stress without wavering, without a nervous tell or, unlike a great majority of politicians, without seeming to wear a mask, without evading embarrassing questions.
Of course, Sara had a public persona – her voice, her way of speaking, wasn't exactly the same as when they were in private. But the difference was slight, a great deal slighter than Michael had assumed was possible for politicians. Sara was an actor, not a liar. At times, gooseflesh actually covered his arms when she heard him address the American people nearly with the same devoted affection as when they were both alone in their hotel room.
She cares, Michael thought, realized he had always known this. That was what made all the difference between Sara and Bagwell, or Sara and most candidates whose campaign Michael had followed. Sara genuinely cared about the people, about the hopes, fears and expectations she was asking them to share with her.
What an uncanny effect, to watch her denounce war in Syria and the foreign policy of her predecessors, while, just when she tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear, Michael remembered its silken feel beneath his fingers, its strawberry smell when she leaned in to kiss him, seeming to lock them both into a separate world framed by a fiery curtain.
It made Michael feel like he had a secret.
Which he did, undeniably, and he'd never had an occasion to measure how good he would be at keeping it. Michael's everyday activities all started feeling surreal. At work, having a chat with his colleagues, he'd feel extraordinarily focused on keeping the truth in, as if random remarks were going to betray him – did you know Governor Tancredi uses strawberry-shampoo?
If it was hard to keep it from escaping him when he was around coworkers, Michael had trouble devising just how hard it would be to keep it from Lincoln.
It was the middle of July when his brother was released from prison. A few months early, which was good, meant Lincoln had proven himself capable of good behavior. Though it wasn't his brother's first stay in jail, it was the first time he served it in a maximum-security institution – Fox River, of all. As Michael drove there to go fetch his brother, on that fine morning, he found the building quite as impressive as he had the first time he'd visited.
The engineer in him admired its beauty. Somewhat reminding him of a kingdom – locked in on itself and claustrophobic, but still, majestic. A place where the games of power that ran the world of politics didn't disappear.
Michael waited just for a few minutes before he saw Lincoln arrive – it felt good, surprisingly good, to see him wearing regular clothes, and the smile on his face took ten years from his face. Boyish joy.
They hugged each other so hard they had to give up breathing for a few seconds. Even the unusual prison smell his brother gave out didn't manage to taint the magic of their reunion.
"Jesus, Mike." Lincoln grunted, drawing back to take a good look at his face. "You look good."
So did Lincoln – all things considered. "Come on," Michael said, motioning them towards the car. "Let's go home."
…
"For Christ's sake. It's hot as hell in here," Lincoln rolled down all the windows while Michael was driving. "So, why don't you fill me in on what I've been missing? I'll save the prison anecdotes for when we've had a few drinks."
Was Lincoln planning on drinking tonight? Going out?
Of course he is, Michael's mind answered for him. He hadn't seen a woman in over a year, and Michael knew how his brother could be – had so little control over his impulses he could ruin his chances with Veronica Donavan all for a few minutes of pleasure.
That's how Michael used to see things. Pragmatic. Before he realized that sex could be intoxicating –
Just like that, in the flow of a second, the ghost-smell of Sara's hair came taunting Michael's nostrils, the softness of her warm flesh when they were making love.
He watched as his knuckles turned white around the wheel.
"Mike?"
"Huh?"
"You all there or what? Fill me in."
"Right."
Michael was only going to be silent for a few seconds, just long enough to find something to tell his brother – surely, he could tell him something of what he'd been up to in the past few months without betraying his relationship with Sara.
Yet nothing came. Utter blankness.
Ultimately, out of sheer panic – and because Michael could see his brother knotting his brows in a corner of his eye – he said, "Did you follow the Presidential campaign?"
Of all things.
Better than saying nothing, Michael reckoned, or the truth.
"Yeah." Lincoln said, without much interest. "That Bagwell guy looks like an even bigger douche than the one currently holding the title of: Most Powerful Dude in the Universe. Gee, that country's not what it once was."
Michael was silent. Was determined not to add anything else. It was bad enough that he'd put such a subject on the table, when it was so close to Sara. That's what you called dodging a bullet –
"The Democrat girl's not bad." Lincoln added.
It was difficult to focus on the road. Michael's chest was all throbbing heartbeat and hot flashes. "Ah."
"I like the humanity in her. The honesty." Still, sounding pretty much indifferent – but his brother had a way of sounding like that. "When you've hung out with the sort of crowds I'm used to, you learn a few tricks about telling them liars apart, you know?"
"Uh-huh."
"I think she's straight enough." There were a few minutes of silence. "Without mentioning I'd totally fuck her. I mean, we don't get much TV in prison but we get politics all right, and let me tell you the guys in the hole have a horde of nicknames for her. Governor-McHotty is what comes out most often. I can't count how many of them I've seen with their hands in their pockets while the program was running –"
"Getting the picture."
"You okay, Mikey? You a little red."
"Right as rain."
Had he really just said that?
Lincoln was looking warily at him. "Anyway," he said. But his tone wasn't completely free from suspicious. "It's okay if I crash at your place for a while, right?"
"Of course."
"Just long enough for me to find a job –"
"Don't mention it," Michael interrupted, didn't think his brother so much as needed to ask. They'd been through this before, more than once.
Another pause. The road flashing them by silently for ten, fifteen minutes.
"So." Lincoln said. Casual, still, but casualness could mask a lot of things. "You're seeing someone?"
Christ. Did he have lipstick on his shirt collar? "No."
"Good. I was thinking we could go out tonight. You as my wingman."
"Uh – yeah, yeah." Simultaneously trying to focus on the road, keep a straight face and find a way out of this.
"Once more with feelings, Michael." Lincoln had his game-smile on. "Really, there hasn't been anyone since they locked me up?"
It wasn't like Lincoln to ask a question twice. Michael managed a strained smile. "You know how I am. Married to my work."
"Well," Lincoln slapped him on the shoulder, causing Michael's trajectory to veer left before he could get a better grip on the wheel. Lincoln pretended it hadn't happened. "Consider my return to town your return to social life. Bars. Dinners. Clubs." He added before Michael had time to protest, "You might be the pretty one, Mikey. But I'm the fun one. Never you forget it."
A sigh escaped the younger brother before he answered, "As if you'd let me."
…
The week when Michael's brother was released from prison was hell for Sara, for reasons entirely unconnected to this. It was only that her days got busier and busier, and only a third of her time was spent on actual politics – her program, preparing statements about her position on issues raging from economy to family clinics. The press meetings were the worst, having to have her hair and makeup done by the shooting team (anyone who stepped in front of the camera got it, they assured, even the males), answering sometimes extraordinarily dumb questions while smiling without retrieve (we all remember Hillary Clinton wasn't smiling enough for America's liking). Plus, Paul had started coaching her, playing the aggressive candidate – she suspected he took a mean pleasure in parodying Theodore Bagwell and watching as she crushed him mercilessly. "No such thing as too much practice," he only said when she told him she had no time for it. "The big debate's going to come sooner than you know it."
The most sleep she could hope to get was four hours a night. So, when she got a call from Michael saying they needed to meet, she didn't see what she could do but be adamant.
"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. They'd gone on longer than usual without seeing each other and she could feel it, too, this craving under skin, begging for the warmth of his touch, the soothing mystery of his embrace. "I can't, Michael. There's just too much going on."
"Not the full night. Just an hour. Half an hour. I can wait for you at the room tomorrow night and you just swing by when you get five minutes –"
"I won't even be in Illinois, tomorrow, Michael." He should hear the regret in her voice was genuine. "I've been going all over the States this week. Paul thinks I should focus on the Bible belt, if you ask me, it's a lost cause, but it can't look like I'm not even trying."
Michael was silent. Was always very economic about showing his displeasure – no long, heavy sighs or raising his tone. Never.
"Wait," she said, forcing herself to view this with more distance. His suddenly wanting to see her, as soon as possible, saying they needed to talk. "Are you –"
"No. Don't even say it." There was a rare shade of color in his tone. Red. It made Sara feel oddly pleased – and increased the burning desire, in the pit of her stomach, screaming at her to make time.
If she were just a normal woman with a normal job, she and Michael could see each other every day. They could be living together. The idea of spending every night in the same sheets as him was ludicrous, like a disproportionately huge fruit, overripe with happiness.
Sara closed her eyes, took a few seconds to think. "On Friday night, I'll be in Chicago. I've got a meeting Saturday at six."
"Okay."
"I'll just drive by the hotel, first. Four thirty?"
"Thank you."
Just that. She could tell he was about to hang up – to save her some time. A sudden wave of anger flashed her head with heat. Sara was usually better at keeping her temper in check, but sleeplessness has a way of bringing down your defenses.
"Michael." She said, before he could hang up. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He only said. "It's worth it."
The line went dead. Sara snapped her phone shut and clenched her teeth, her mouth bitter with bile. "It better be."
…
It had been easy enough for Michael to sneak out of the apartment without Lincoln noticing. For the past few nights since his release, Lincoln had either brought girls home or spent the night someplace else, which allowed Michael absolute freedom of movement. Even if Lincoln did notice he'd disappeared for a few hours, he could always convince him he was trying to give them more privacy.
Not that it was a small flat where no noise could go unheard by any of the tenants. That part had been no more awkward than the obligatory amount when your sibling is hooking up with someone in the next room. Michael had been much less okay with having to lie to Lincoln. Sitting with him, at the bar, as his older brother wasted his breath – How about the blonde one near the jukebox? C'mon, she's totally into you. Though Michael had never been much into meeting women in bars, it proved rather hard to put an end to Lincoln's efforts.
Lincoln Burrows was a difficult man to say no to. Or to lie to.
After Michael had made some work-related excuse to head home early, during their last escapade at the bar, Lincoln had sighed and wrapped a strong hand around his brother's shoulder. It was good to have him back, despite all the added difficulty – undeniably good.
"One of these days, Michael," Lincoln had sighed, "I'm going to find out what your secret is."
It was difficult to estimate how serious he had been.
It had sounded serious enough to Michael that he found it essential he talked with Sara, be it at four thirty in the morning.
She wasn't even a little late at their rendezvous. Busy or not, Sara was never late, had her life planned out with clockwork minuteness.
Still, he had been early, waiting at the appointed hotel room for some ten minutes. The beats of his heart increased at the mere sound of her knocking. The intensity of the reactions she triggered in him defied all logic. Like she was inside his skin, connected to every fiber of his being – every nerve, every sensation.
Seeing her sent that perennial flash of surrealness through his head. She was wearing a black tailored jacket and skirt – her professional, take-me-seriously attire. Her hair was neat as it only was when she'd done a filmed interview. Since Lincoln had been at his apartment, Michael hadn't been able to follow them as closely.
They greeted each other with a kiss that was too fierce for a mere hello, but that neither of them required explanations for. Suddenly, Michael's legs met the edge of the mattress and he dropped backwards, Sara's body flush against his. His hand was locked tight around the back her head, the other blindly wandering across the satin-feel of her clothes. Jesus, how he'd missed her. The smell of her skin, the wet warmth of her kisses in his mouth.
It was hard to remember how little time they had, and how much they needed to talk.
With unsuspected willpower, Michael was able to close his hands around Sara's shoulders to draw her slightly away. Her body had been snaking against his, knees planted firmly on each side of him, her moves expertly pulling every rational thought out of his mind.
"Sorry."
He felt the hotness of her breath near his face as she said the word, still tasting of their shared desire.
"What did you want to talk to me about?"
Sounding serious, almost as serious as on television. He might forget she was currently straddling him if it wasn't for the uncomfortable tightness against the crotch of his jeans.
They eased out of each other's arms with sure determination – untangling from her body felt cruelly unnatural. Still, Michael tried to keep in mind what he'd meant to say to her.
"Lincoln was released from prison this week."
"Right," Sara wasn't sure whether to sound enthusiastic or worried. Honestly, Michael's brother sounded like trouble – Sara had known people like him, recidivists who went back to crime – be it drugs, sex, theft – not really because they wanted to but because they seemed inexplicably drawn to it. It was their routine; their home.
From all the times Michael had talked to her about him, Sara had been able to make a rough sketch of the man's personality. Sara was all about helping people, of course. Her first adult charity work had been in a center that assisted former convicts in reinserting themselves in society. That had been enough to get her father furious, which hadn't been the point but happened to be a pleasant bonus. All that to say Sara stood firm on the fact that a great majority of people don't remain criminals all their lives. People could change, and most of them did, however hard it became for them to find normal employment or get an actual chance at a fresh start.
But there were some, only a handful, who only ever seemed to run in circles. Never finding their way out of trouble because trouble was the only universe they knew – was the only thing they were good at. Sara had started fearing Lincoln Burrows might be of this type. Needless to say how painful this sort of behavior was, for the people who loved the criminal – the people who stayed behind, patient and forgiving, when he was taken back inside those familiar prison walls.
Now, she and Michael had resumed a less intimate position, both of them sitting at the edge of the mattress. Still, Sara couldn't quite get her heart to stop racing, nor could she chase the concerned thoughts from her head.
"Has it been going okay?" She asked, because Michael was still fishing for a way to put this.
"Yes and no."
"And what part would be in the 'no'?"
Though she could tell Michael was struggling, she found no trace of embarrassment in his eyes – they didn't shy away from hers. "Look," he said in the end, "the heart of it is, I've never managed to keep a secret from Lincoln."
He hardly needed to ask her more formally. The caution and ready apology in her eyes were an answer all to themselves. Still, this was a conversation that needed having.
"Michael –"
"I don't want to jeopardize what we have." He cut in. "I wouldn't for the world. I only want you to consider this, not because I hate lying to my brother, but because I truly think it would be less of a risk than for him to try and find out by himself."
"What do you mean?"
Michael chuckled – it was oddly comforting, hearing that sound. "Linc knows I'm keeping something from him, all right? I don't think it took him over five minutes to guess."
"What –"
"It's nothing I can help, Sara. Lincoln knows me too well. And he's curious as a devil, let me tell you that."
He watched as Sara licked her lips and took a while to consider this. No more than a strategic show – she knew, already, she couldn't allow him to tell his brother about them. "Look, I realize Lincoln's release might make it harder for you to keep this a secret." Her voice was the pacifying one he'd seen her use when members of the audience got aggressive. Michael felt vaguely insulted by this but didn't think to protest. "If he's staying at your apartment, of course, he's going to notice you go out sometimes at night."
This concession felt too much of an easy win.
Sara shrugged – there was nothing casual about it. "Why don't you just tell him you're seeing someone who's in a complicated situation that makes it impossible for you to be open about it? He'll think I'm married, most likely."
But Michael was already laughing – tiredness and desperation. "Sara, he won't let me stop there. He'll want to know why, who, where we met –"
"And does that mean he'll pry the truth out of your lips?" She chuckled, and her own laughter was disbelief, trying not to give way to anger. "Michael, I'm sorry. But I don't know your brother."
"You know me."
"I know the two of you have visibly taken diametrically different paths."
"Lincoln can keep a secret."
"Do you expect me to risk everything I've worked for on that?"
Michael didn't answer. Didn't know, suddenly, what he'd been expecting. "I just don't know how to do this," he said. "Keep these two parts of my life completely separate –"
"It's not forever." She might as well have shut up. When you're in love, four to eight years feel like forever.
Michael looked down at his hand. Sara realized a second later that she'd seized it, wrapping her fingers tight around his palm.
"I wish you could meet him."
"So do I," she realized she meant this. However much she and Michael cared about each other, their respective lives were still uncharted grounds. They weren't part of it. Not really. It struck her, suddenly, that they might be a couple until the end of two presidential mandates, and still she wouldn't know all sorts of everyday things about him – what he ate for breakfast, whether he drank coffee or orange juice to wake himself up, what sort of books he had on his bedside table.
"Michael," she sighed, "if this is too hard for you –"
"What?" He was smiling, genuinely enough that she felt immediately calmer. His smiles had a way of making the whole of their troublesome lives easier. "This is my best option, Sara. It doesn't matter that it's complicated – that we don't see enough of each other. What good would it do me to stop seeing you altogether?" Stroking his thumb over her cheek. "I can't do that. I never stop thinking about you. What you're doing, what you're thinking of." He shook his head. "I'll take what I can get, until it's possible for you to give me more. In the meantime, everything I am is yours. You can just stop by this room every time you have a second and take whatever you need."
Sara kissed him, then, not because she needed it – she felt his own needs so vividly, it was difficult to tell which one of them needed it the hardest.
"When I'm done with politics," she said, "you and I are getting away from Chicago." The words flowed out of her mouth of their own accord. "We're buying a house in the woods where the news can't reach us."
"Will it have a cabin for Lincoln?"
"Yeah, sure."
Sara was dreamily contemplating a life where her cell phone would never ring, where she wouldn't need to speak to Paul Kellerman over three times a day.
Then Michael was kissing her and all thinking was done.
"When do you need to leave?"
She checked her watch. "Ten minutes."
That wasn't nearly enough. But it didn't give either of them the will to pull away still.
…
End Notes: Let me know your thoughts. See you soon with an update.
