WARNINGS: Threats of violence.
…
The day started out as usual, only hotter. It had been a hot, very hot summer, and heat is not known to make people more manageable. Of course, most patients were allowed outside in the garden, but it was especially hard on those who were restricted to solitary—the very few inmates here who were considered a danger to members of staff or other patients.
Though erratic or violent behavior was popular with Hollywood when it came to representations of mental illness, attacks on doctors or security guards at Saint Abram's were nearly inexistent. Sara couldn't deny working here took grit and nerve, but she was never actually afraid walking down those corridors, doing her job.
Never till the heat wave.
Her office was in the same wing as the solitary confinement cells. There were other offices on that floor, but at noon, on such a day—the heat was stifling enough to drive sane people out of their wits—most of Sara's colleagues were outside enjoying their lunch break or on lunch duty with the inmates.
Sara wasn't planning to spend her whole break in the office herself, but there were some files she wanted to check out before her afternoon appointments.
She'd just be a few minutes, cram in some paperwork while she went through a vending machine sandwich.
The thought crossed her mind exactly as she stumbled upon the inmate wandering the halls.
First, she was only surprised because regular patients had no business in the left wing. And the patients who did, of course, had no business being out of their cells.
The man caught sight of her at the same moment she did. The seriousness on his face drained the humor from her lips. Then she truly looked at him and recognition hit.
Of all the patients in this building who could have broken from their cells.
Theodore Bagwell was maybe the only inmate here who had convinced the jury of his insanity to avoid the death penalty.
He'd been in solitary almost from his arrival at Saint Abram's, causing far too much trouble to be left with the other inmates. Sara heard stories about him, each more sordid than the last, and though she hadn't seen much of Bagwell during his stay here, there'd been a couple of satisfied grins here and then which, all to themselves, were enough to convince Sara that Bagwell would have been more suited to a prison than a mental facility.
"Goddammit," he cursed.
Shock wore out for them both. Sara thought of turning around and running about at the same time as Bagwell thought of grabbing her by the throat.
And he was faster. Because that was just Sara's luck, apparently.
"Don't scream." He pushed her into a wall. "Don't do anything. You're in luck, honey. I'm pressed for time, so this won't even hurt—"
He never got around to finishing. Sara felt him collapse against the floor and, like a rabbit appearing out of a hat, Michael Scofield stood before her.
It was so absurd Sara would have laughed if it weren't for the shock and the ghost of Bagwell's hand on her throat.
Her eyes went from the young man to the prostrate body on the floor. She hadn't even seen Michael strike. She should call for backup, but a block of clay had plunged down her throat.
"Michael—" She managed.
"We should go," he said. Amazingly, he sounded as polite as during his regular checkups. "He won't stay out for long."
Sara blinked in shock.
You would think Michael was one of her colleagues rather than a patient wandering around a wing he had no business in.
It was a few seconds before she could manage a coherent thought and said, "No."
Michael's composure splintered for a flash, there one moment and gone the next. Then the mask was back on, courteous, impeccable.
"No," she said, reasserting command over her body. "I need to call security." With one hand, she fumbled for her talkie and knelt near Bagwell to check his vitals. Who knew how hard Michael had hit him. Blood gushed out of his nose, streaming down his chin and shirt.
She cast a look at Michael, whose face was strained with the effort of remaining impassive.
In silence, he waited as she asked for a medical team and guards to come to the left wing.
Then he let out an urgent exhale and, when she met his eyes, they were sky-blue chaos and ice-cold fear. "Sara," he said, an urgency to his tone that spread goosebumps down her arms. It wasn't unusual for him to call her by her first name. All the patients did. But this time, it hit different. "Please, I know this is going to sound crazy."
She could have laughed, he sounded so serious.
It hit her despite herself. So sane.
"You can't tell them that I helped you."
"What?"
"I have to leave. Right now. They can't see us together. They can't know I was here, and Sara," he said her name again, an invisible hand thrusting through her ribcage. "They don't have to. If you don't tell them. They don't have to know I was here."
Sara shook her head, to clear it as much as to show her refusal. "Michael, it's okay. You saved my life. You won't get in trouble."
His fists hardened at his sides. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead and though it could have just been the heat, she sensed it wasn't.
"Please," he said.
She tried to sound calm as she always was with distraught patients, the reassuring rock that will still be there long after the storm has passed. That's what people needed in times of distress. Constance. Steadiness. The promise of stability and strength.
Probably, it was what Michael needed right now seeing as he must be having some sort of relapse. That's all that was happening here. His fear of being seen with her—like he was afraid for her. Afraid of involving her in his mad conspiracy.
The priority was to get him back in his room to safety. Later when they had both cooled down, they would talk about this episode and he would see it for what it was.
Sara knew that sometimes you couldn't swim against the current of a person's fantasy, no matter how mad it seemed. "Even if I wanted to do this," she said, "it wouldn't work." She pointed at the cameras on the walls. "People will know you weren't at lunch with the other inmates today. And that's okay. Like I said, you won't get in trouble. You won't—"
He shook his head, white knuckles pressing into his hips. She'd never seen him so unhinged. "You don't understand. They don't have to know."
"The cameras—"
"The cameras were tampered with."
Realization sucker-punched her. Sara took a step back. "You were escaping with him. Bagwell. That's what you're doing here, what you're both—"
"I don't have time to explain."
He took her hand, capsizing a bucket of iced water over her head. Sara froze. Michael had never touched her before. Fear should have taken over but it didn't. She sensed in this one contact what Michael was trying to pass through to her. His need. His terror.
"You have to believe me, Sara. Please. They can't know I helped you. If they see you as connected with me you'll be in danger. Please. I'm not threatening you. I'm trying to help you."
Sara licked her lips. Of course, Michael would never threaten her. This was just his old delusion rearing its head. He didn't want her to get mixed up in his mess, which was consistent with the altruistic person she had gotten to know these past two months.
For a beat, Sara hesitated.
Forcing Michael to confront reality right now would be brutal—he might react to it violently, doing damage to his psyche and squandering all the work they'd done together.
It was better to ease him back in.
At some distance, footsteps approached. Michael looked back at her, more serious than ever. "I was never here," he said. "Please, Sara. You must trust me."
She nodded. Addressing this in Michael's therapy session might be better than reporting the attempted escape. It would only tighten security measures around Michael, which in turn would reinforce his persecution fantasy.
"You can tell them you fought off Bagwell yourself. He won't rat me out," Michael said. "I was never here."
There was no need to stifle a smile as she sometimes had to, listening to a patient's fantasy. Her heart was still pounding.
She repeated, "You were never here."
Gauging her sincerity, Michael took off down the nearest staircase a second before the double doors leading onto the corridor flooded with security.
Sara couldn't help herself from thinking of magic tricks. Black hats. White rabbits.
"Jesus Christ," a security guard wiped sweat from his brow. "What just happened, Doc?"
She looked at Bagwell. Covering for Michael might be the best thing for him, but it'd be stupid to do that until she knew for sure the cameras wouldn't betray her.
"He attacked me. The cameras should have caught everything—sorry, I need a moment."
She threw herself into her office and realized as her ragged breaths filled the air that her need for space wasn't just an excuse.
One hand flew to her heart as if to stifle it. Her shirt was pasted to her skin.
Standing there, back to the door, Sara tried to shake the image of Michael's eyes, all summer skies and so fucking afraid.
How had he drowned himself in his fantasy again?
Had he only fooled her into thinking that he was recovering?
Sara swallowed. Despite the heat, a chill travelled through her bone marrow.
After all this time, Michael still eluded her.
His world of brewing conspiracies and nightmares kept coming back, like a trapdoor suddenly opening and closing beneath your feet.
A magic trick, all mirrors and smoke.
Now you see me. Now you don't.
...
End Notes: I had tons of fun editing this. Please share your thoughts in the comment section and take care as always!