Title: Boots
Author: clair_de_lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Spoilers: General for Season 4, nothing specific
Genre: Het
Rating: R
Words: ~ 1690
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: There is skin under the black dress and the black boots. Not that he hasn’t been aware of that – he’s been so acutely aware of that – but he had seen none of that today until now.
Notes: A slightly late little bit of Michael/Sara written for msgenevieve’s birthday. Thanks to recycledfaery for the beta and the plot bunny - she used in an e-mail the words ‘Sara’, ‘wearing boots’, ‘Michael’, ‘grateful’... What did she expect? ;)


Knee length dress and knee high boots, black fabric brushing against black leather. Back at the warehouse, he didn’t notice anything special in her outfit. It’s simple and sleek, its darkness uncommon for her and bordering on severe, only lightened by a flowery scarf. It has nothing spectacular, nothing like that stunning green top and... now isn’t the time to go there.

There is skin under the black dress and the black boots. Not that he hasn’t been aware of that – he’s been so acutely aware of that – but he had seen none of that today until now. It only hit him when he hopped into the car’s passenger seat with Sucre sitting behind them and Sara quickly pulled away. She’s been, among other things, their chauffeur today and while she’s concentrating on driving, he’s concentrating on, well, her. Knee length dress and knee high boots, black fabric brushing against black leather, no bare skin visible while she stands. Totally different story where she now sits in the driver seat, right next to him, the skirt slightly pulling over her knees. No way he fails to see that, and once they cleared off, once they made reasonably sure they’re not followed, he can’t help stealing glances at the soft, delicate roundness of her knees, at the smooth, pale skin. The hem of the dress follows the curve of her thighs and he cannot not notice how perfectly the black leather hugs her legs. His fingers itch to touch her, even though he’s not quite sure whether he wants to cover her bare flesh or tear away the obstructive fabric.

Acting on instinct, he reaches out for her, his hand extending towards her in the dim light. Then he realizes where they are, what they’re doing, that Sucre is right behind them in the SUV; he catches himself and his hand lands on the dashboard instead. He swears he saw a barely perceptible move of her head, the corner of her eye and mouth twisting, but she doesn’t look at him and keeps driving. Hands steady on the wheel, knees glaringly conspicuous, leather slightly shining.

They don’t speak on the ride back, the two of them don’t anyway; Sucre in the backseat is doing all the talking, his monologue a nice, almost soothing buzz in the obscurity that is rapidly taking over. The closer they come to the warehouse, the less outside light there is, the more the small patch of bare skin seems to glow and call for attention. Michael clutches a bit tighter at the dashboard and he sees his knuckles turning white. He ponders that it’s not lust – well... not only anyway – it’s the stark contrast between the calm façade she’s put up all day and the inward turmoil she allows him to peek at every now and then. It’s right before him, summarized in black clothes and white skin, and he desperately wants to touch and ease that.

He lets Sucre victoriously throw their loot of the day on the table in the middle of the warehouse, go through all the details and answer Lincoln’s and Mahone’s questions. As for him, he just stands here, his eyes trailing Sara as she retreats to her small boat, composed and collected, not looking back. He catches the smallest hint of flesh, the graceful hollow of the back of her knee when she climbs up the ladder, her boots clicking on the rungs. He can see her shadow moving behind the boat’s portholes and he forces his full attention back to the men sitting at the table in front of him. The debriefing seems to last forever and, for a split second, he’s almost mad at her for merely skipping it, merely ignoring the fallouts of their mission du jour.

She’s leaning against the wall by the hatch when he finally ventures aboard the boat, her hands neatly entwined in front of her. Still fully dressed, up to the scarf around her neck.

“How is everybody?” she asks.

“Eating. Sleeping.” A burst of voices echoes in the warehouse outside of the boat and he lifts his eyebrows. “Arguing.”

“You’re not hungry? Or tired?”

He doesn’t bother answering, he’s pretty sure it wasn’t an actual question anyway; he just leans in to kiss her. Kisses her collarbone, right where the neckline of her dress ends, kisses the spot under her ear and revels in her small, appreciative sigh, in the way she tilts her head to give him better access. He burrows his face there, breathes her in and closes his eyes. He doesn’t ask for anything else, honestly, he’s quite happy with the feel of her, her scent, the light touch of her hand on the nape of his neck. Her fingers linger, her nails lightly scrape the short stubble on his skull and he’s a hair’s breadth from groaning in pleasure.

“You have a thing for boots?” He looks up at her, regretfully leaving the nest of her shoulder, his cheekbones slightly flushed. He thinks busted, and smiles when she adds, “In the car, you were staring.”

“It’s not so much the boots than it is, you know... you wearing them.”

“I see.”

Her scarf slides sideway and she lets it fall to the floor, not caring. She lifts her leg, purposefully rubbing the inside of her calf on his hip, and rests her foot on a small chair behind him. Her gesture presses them flush against each other, stomach against stomach, the hemline of her skirt shoved up, her bare thigh pushed into his waist. He allows himself to do what he’s been wanting for over an hour: he lays his hand under her knee and slides it up until his fingers reach the swell of her bottom, relishing the warm and supple flesh. She shivers against him, under his touch, and grinds their hips together. He’ll admit that by now, he has to make a conscious effort to get what she’s saying.

“You’re sure you’re not tired?” she insists. Her lips curl in a mischievous smile and, okay, maybe it was an actual question, earlier. It’s undoubtedly a ‘carry on and damn what the others may think’ now.

“I’ll manage.” Cautiously, he reaches out and draws the curtains on the small windows behind her, wishing they can lock the hatch. He doesn’t trust those guys outside, not some of them anyway – Roland would probably take pictures if given the opportunity.

He delicately tugs on the zipper of her dress and the fabric slides down her arms and hips. She lowers her leg, lets the fabric pool around her feet and kicks it aside. He can’t really see her – she’s too close, it’s a little dark inside the cabin, all he can make out is the pink strap of her bra on her shoulder – but his breathing speeds up at the thought and the feeling of her practically naked against him, just black boots and pink underwear. He lets his hands wander up her back, briefly pauses when they brush the blistered scars and looks at her hesitantly. Sure, she allowed it, allowed him, once, but it doesn’t mean...

“It’s okay,” she whispers and holds his gaze while he skims over the thick wounds, his thumbs brushing them lightly. Her expression, the uncertainty and remaining fear in her eyes, constrict his throat with a mixture of pain, anger and determination; it takes her gripping his chin between her fingers to shake the feeling.

“Don’t go there. Not now.” With her cheek against his, she keeps on speaking, her voice low and kind, the words of reassurance morphing into something radically different. He widens his eyes the slightest bit at the short sentences she’s pouring into his ear, and bites his tongue not to let slip that she has a foul, yet endearing, mouth.

Ten seconds tops later, catching up with her, he twiddles the hook of her bra and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger. In all honesty, he’s good with his hands and, not that he needs it, but he has extra motivation here. So no doubt he would be successful and able to remove the offensive clothing in a blink of an eye if she didn’t squirm in his arms and playfully slapped him away.

“Wow, hang on. It’s a give and take thing.”

“What...”

“Clothes off, Scofield,” she orders, and he can’t help a deep chuckle. Fair enough.

He misses the weight and feel of her body as soon as she has inches back towards the bed. That being said, it’s worth it since while he’s shedding his shoes, shirt and pants, he can have a better look at her and he shamelessly takes in the sight of soft curves, lean muscles, plain, light pink lingerie and black boots. The stark contrast he noticed earlier in the car is still there, dark leather versus pale skin, but it’s now on reverse, more skin than material, more inner strength and softness displayed than unreadable façade, and it’s all and only for him.

The boots are still on when, smiling and her eyes riveted to his, she discards her bra and panties. They’re still on when he reclines across the bed and tugs her down, pulls her into him. She straddles his lap, her breasts and long locks of hair brushing his chest and shoulders as she bends down to kiss him on the lips. The solid, square heals dig into his thighs, the leather glides against hips. It’s smooth and luscious but doesn’t feel nearly as good as Sara’s skin: he has blatant proof of that when he strokes her booted legs, and then creeps up to hold onto her waist. Not even comparable, and the contrast stirs him up a bit more.

“You still have them on.” She blinks down at him. “The boots,” he clarifies, petting the leather with one hand and gently cupping a breast with the other one. “Do you need help to take them off?”

She smiles, almost smirks at that. He’s sure she already knows his answer but she asks nonetheless, “Do you want me to take them off?”

-End-

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18-19 October 2008