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22 February 2008 @ 04:48 pm
Prison Break - Misstep  
Title: Misstep
Author: clair_de_lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Genre: Het
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: The first time it happens, it’s because she had nightmares all the night. It’s three hours later, in full light, and she’s still trying to forget them.
Notes: Many thanks to happywriter06 for her help with the translation. Any remaining mistakes are mine. The French version of this fic is here.
This is a companion piece for Misstep (Michael).


The first time it happens, it’s because she had nightmares all the night. It’s three hours later, in full light, and she’s still trying to forget them.

It’s quite early, the infirmary is quiet and sterile, the lights are too bright and they are giving her a headache. She’s aware of her nervousness as she’s fixing his insulin shot. His eyes follow her but he doesn’t move at all. When she turns around to grab the rubber gloves on the tray, she stumbles and falls forward. Her hand brushes him just there and he’s hard and hot under her fingertips. He jumps in surprised and tries to back away, but he’s sitting on the exam table and has no room to move. She blushes. Not because she isn’t accustomed to eliciting this kind of reaction. But because she isn’t accustomed to reacting accordingly, or to wanting to act accordingly.

She detects a hint of disarray when she fixes her gaze on his. Still watching him carefully, she sneaks her hand under the waistband of his pants and strokes and fondles him. He dares not stop her nor does he encourage her. He just clutches the edge of the table and, with a restrained breath, he leans forwards, like a boxer who has just been punched in the stomach. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she knows that he realizes it would break the unreal quality of the moment. He just catches a lock of hair between his lips.

When he’s finished, she withdraws her hand, watches her fingers before she wipes them on her white coat. With a shiver, part disgust and part arousal, she thinks that no matter how many times she washes her lab coat, there still will be reminders of what happened.

* * *

The second time it happens, it’s because it’s a Sunday: she will blame her outfit, her clothes being more casual than what she usually wears. She came here to do some paperwork, but a guard asks her if she would be willing to see a patient. She accepts because she’s a doctor; she’s meant to take care of patients.

She treats the cut in his eyebrow. As she steps back to throw away the compress, she can feel his eyes on the elastic belt of her sweatpants. Oh. She turns towards her desk, feeling like ‘backlash’ is written in bold letters before her eyes. She can tell that he slides off the exam table. She doesn’t move. He embraces her from behind, one hand on her waist to hold or withhold her – she can’t tell yet – the other slipping under her clothes. She feels his fingers tracing her, drawing her and pushing inside her. Her breathing erratic, she instinctively shoves her hips back to grind into him, but he just utters a small reassuring mumble, his mouth against the nape of her neck. This time, it’s just for her.

Her knees buckle and she leans heavily against him: he holds her, finally, she notices while grabbing his arm.

When she’s finished, he withdraws his hand, watches his fingers and, with a small smile, she holds her lab coat out to him. She thinks that if it keeps going on like this, she won’t have anymore coats. But it can’t keep going on like this, of course.

* * *

The third time it happens, it’s because it’s late and she’s wearing a skirt, a reason that is as good as any other. He’s been lying in the infirmary bed for a few hours (she has rarely seen a healthy man spending so much time in an infirmary) and she has sent away the guard, promising she will call him when ‘Scofield can go back to his cell’. The room is dark, because she turned off all the lights but her desk lamp so he can rest, and quiet and empty because it’s too late for regular visitors.

She places an electronic thermometer on his forehead. It probably was a momentary infection because she tells him, “The fever went down.”

The diagnosis brings up a small sarcastic smirk, and she has a real hard time not sneering. She has to admit that the phrasing was awkward, the involuntary double entendre almost embarrassing given the circumstances.

“So I can go back to my cell?”

“Yes,” she answers but gives no sign that she means to call the guard.

Without thinking, she casts a glance towards her chair.

Before they can understand how it happened, he’s sitting on the chair and she’s standing between his knees. He slides her lace panties down her legs – systematically she’s been wearing lace or silk underwear for a reason that is neither more innocent nor more guiltless than the fact she’s wearing a skirt tonight – and meticulously puts it into her lab coat pocket. The gesture, so characteristic, makes her smile. She lowers herself down on him and it feels like, for a few seconds, they stop breathing. Then, slowly, he pulls on her tee-shirt collar and leans forward. He kisses and bites the pale, smooth flesh, just where the neck meets the shoulder. Just where he knows it will leave a mark, but it will be easy to hide. She kind of regrets that she can’t do the same. She hears a strange sound and finally realizes that he’s speaking softly into her neck, the words low and hurried against her skin. He wraps an arm around her waist to hold her and she tries to stabilize herself by putting a hand on the nape of his neck and the other on the chair backrest. It doesn’t work that well: stability – whatever the term may cover – isn’t within her reach, right now. He hugs her a bit tighter, as if he fears that she may leave now and she lets one her hand drop, sneaks it under his clothes. The skin is soft and warm beneath her fingertips and she almost feels the blood pulsing under her palm.

She closes her eyes. This is definitely not what she meant when she thought that it couldn’t keep on like that. Definitely not. A hand searches for her own, fingers entwines with hers. He protests when she bites something that turns out to be his ear – she bites the cartilage, not the flesh – but he somehow lacks conviction. Definitely not what she meant.

When they’re finished, she tries to catch her breath and casts a glance above her shoulder. She has the impression that someone watched them all along. She knows that it’s nothing but an impression, the kind of thing that happens when your conscience isn’t at rest.

She stands and lets him fix her hair, smooth her skirt. His hands are shaking but he smiles, all sarcasm forgotten: he’s as stunned and not sorry as she is. When he gets up, he stumbles and she thinks that that’s fair because that’s how everything began.

Her brand new white coat is crumpled and she foresees that she won’t ever be able to wear this one again either. She doesn’t dare to think that it definitely can’t keep going on like this.

* * *

She sits gingerly behind her desk and wonders if she shouldn’t ask for another a new chair. The skin on her neck is chafed, just in the spot where Michael’s chin has rubbed persistently, but she doesn’t really worry about taking care of the irritation right now.

She looks inside herself for a feeling of regret or at least remorse. She really does.

-END-
 
 
Current Mood: weirdweird
 
 
 
dcook78 on February 22nd, 2008 08:16 pm (UTC)
Good post!!!

Dee
Clair de Lune: pb - michael sara 2clair_de_lune on February 24th, 2008 12:39 pm (UTC)
Thank you :)
drawing pictures in invisible inkgeorgiaclaire on February 23rd, 2008 05:36 am (UTC)
Not a scenario I usually favour, but this was written rather better than most of the scenario are. I like the first encounter particularly, when he holds her hair in his mouth. I love the image.

And I definitely like her thinking that this was NOT what she meant when she thought it couldn't happen again. Lovely lovely. :)

Some very nice work. Thank you.
Clair de Lune: origami - canardclair_de_lune on February 24th, 2008 12:39 pm (UTC)
I like the first encounter particularly, when he holds her hair in his mouth. I love the image.
I wrote it like that for a very, very dumb reason. It's supposed to happen around mid-season 1: at this point, they hadn't kissed yet in canon and I couldn't bring myself to have them kissing in the fic. Dumb.
That being said, I'm glad it worked for you ^_^

And I definitely like her thinking that this was NOT what she meant when she thought it couldn't happen again.
Ha! Delusion ;)

Thanks a lot for reading and commenting :)