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08 August 2015 @ 07:23 pm
Prison Break - Story of Faith (12/27)  
Title: Story of Faith (12/27) - Story index
Author: clair_de_lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael, Sara, Lincoln, Paul Kellerman, Sofia Lugo, Jane Phillips, Michael Jr., LJ Burrows, Original characters
Pairings: Michael/Sara, Lincoln/Sofia (background)
Categories: Gen, romance
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 1.900 (this chapter), ~ 60.500 (total)
Author’s notes: This is canon compliant and a fix-it story. In other words, I tried to take into account most of the canon, including The Final Break, and give it a different ending. See chapter one for thanks and beta-readers.

Summary: He had thought that death was black. Dark, at the very least. It was dark at first, after the fireworks he’d created had subsided and their imprints on his retinas had faded. After that, though, there were colors.
After Miami Dade, while Sara, Lincoln and Sofia settle in Costa Rica and try to build a new life, Michael awakes far away from them... (Post-series, canon compliant, fix-it story)

Chapter 12

There was a man in Sara’s life.

The reality of it hit Lincoln in the face at the beach. Not that he hadn’t noticed, known or even pushed for it. But what they said about the difference between knowing and seeing? Yeah.

In addition to being his place of work — there were worst places of work — the beach was a family thing. Sofia and him, LJ when he bothered, Sara and Mikey when their schedules matched.

And some Sunday, Rafael joined in. The next one too, and the next one, and then evenings on weekdays when they had dinner on Sara’s deck or boat.

He was nice. He helped. He played with Mike. He chatted with Sofia. He wrapped a beach towel around Sara when she was coming back from swimming, curled an arm around her waist or shoulders, whispered into her ear, smiled into her neck, brushed kisses over her cheeks or lips.

He was nice, and he could hold his ground.

He told Lincoln, “I’m not trying to fill your brother’s shoes,” and Lincoln grumbled, “They’re too big anyway, kid.”

“I know, Mr. Burrows.”

Again with the ‘sir’ thing.

“Don’t call me Mr. Burrows. I’m not your fifth grade teacher.”

“Don’t call me kid. I’m not your student.” He raised an eyebrow, and Lincoln thought that there was no way that the kid was laughing at him; it wouldn’t have been safe for him.

(He totally was, though, and it wasn’t like Linc would do... anything.)

Yes, the kid could hold his ground.

Sara, eyes closed and back and legs covered in suntan lotion that Rafael had applied very thoroughly, pretended not to have heard their exchange. The smirk on her face left no doubt, though.

“Mike likes him,” Sofia pointed out one day as Sara, Mike and Rafael were playing in the surf.

“Sure he does. He has a buddy to play with. Raf isn’t so much older than him, after all.”

Sofia leaned up on her elbows and smiled sweetly at Lincoln; too sweet to be nice.

“Well... I’m not so much older than LJ.”

“Laugh riot, babe.”

There was a man in Sara’s life. It triggered in Lincoln something he was quite familiar with, the notion of what could have been-should have been had life not been such a bitch. Could have-should have been his baby brother on that beach, on that deck, on that boat, in those arms.

A few yards away, in the blue-green water, Mike shrieked in delight at something Rafael had just done, and Sara’s laugh bubbled into the warm evening.

(Stop thinking. Life goes on; live it well to honor the dead. Just have some faith.)

He jumped onto his feet, scooped up Sofia, and threw her over his shoulder. She shrieked as loudly as Mike did seconds before and tried to kick Lincoln.

She could always try. This wouldn’t stop their march to the surf.

“Let’s see if I’m too old for you, lady.”

* * *

They ended the year with a file of the darkest black.

They had been making progress, unraveled plots, stopped deals, and caught a bunch of soldiers and lieutenants; the General was securely locked in jail.

The General was a done deal, though, and soldiers and lieutenants weren’t the endgame of their mission.

‘The gathered intelligence indicates that Diana Acero is General Krantz’ designated successor.’

One little sentence in a report, one short order in response: ‘Smoke her out.’

They’d come up with a plan — Michael, the analysts, Mrs. Jamison. A simple plan: lure out Acero with the perspective of meeting Chopra for a negotiation and using the opening to locate her and put her under surveillance. The fact that she was Krantz’ designated successor didn’t mean she was unchallenged — and Chopra was an easiest target, way less cautious about not exposing himself than Acero and Smythe.

They’d been following the execution of the operation for an entire day, Michael’s office turned into a control room, images and reports from field teams displayed on the Wall. Around the nineteenth hour, his analysts had started falling asleep and had been sent to the break room by Mrs. Jamison.

It was only them, by now; Mrs. Jamison and Michael, Kellerman on the closest monitor from somewhere overseas, and Tom on the other side of the secured door.

Michael was running high on adrenaline. For nothing. Nothing had happened for almost two hours. Mrs. Jamison was reclining in Nat’s chair, legs extended in front of her and stilettos propped up on the desk, cigarette smoke surrounding her.

“Not a word to Dr. Evergreen,” she had warned Michael while pulling out her lighter. “About me smoking when you’re around and about the fact that I didn’t send you to your bedroom about ten hours ago.”

He looked up from his screen and smirked tiredly. His eyes were red and burning, but it would have taken a security detail to send him to bed.

“I would never have thought you were afraid of Yoki. Or of pretty much anyone, for that matter.”

“Being afraid when you should be afraid is a proof of intelligence and self-preservation.”

She threw a glance at the control monitors. They were displaying greenish satellite images of a storage facility in Indonesia where nothing was fucking happening.

(Mrs. Jamison could have a very metallic, scary tone when she was getting impatient.)

“Listen, Michael,” she started after taking in a calming deep breath and an even longer drag on her cigarette. “Dr. Evergreen and I have never discussed the issue, but you’re physically fine now and I’m not sure all of your needs are met.”

“All of my needs?” he asked distractedly.

(This was why he never saw it coming, okay? He knew he should have been prepared for anything around here, especially the worst, but he was distracted. He was keeping an eye on the screens. Never mind that there was about one hundred alerts set to on, he trusted his eyes more than any monitoring system.)

“Sexually speaking,” she elaborated. She was calm and relaxed, as if making small talk — if she had ever made small talk. “I was thinking that maybe you would appreciate spending some time with a woman? Or a man?”

He choked on his beverage at the first suggestion and started to cough at the second one, coffee going up his nose in an unpleasant and unattractive way.

“Man, woman, both at the same time, I don’t care as long as everything happens between consenting adults who aren’t your co-workers.”

He put down his mug. “Where the hell does this come from?”

And by this, he meant not just the odd offer but also the jibe about his co-workers.

“You haven’t seen the way Cat has been looking at you recently, have you?” she asked. She was watching him that way, the same way as Lincoln when he wondered how someone so smart could be so dumb and oblivious. “I don’t want this kind of relationship among people working here. It’s a highway to trouble.”

It made sense. What made less sense was her solution.

“So in order to deflect trouble, you’re offering me a call-girl in the middle of a black file op? Because I assume this is what you’re suggesting, isn’t it?”

She shrugged and pointed at the Wall.

“Nothing’s happening for now and we don’t have many occasions to chat. I’m just making the best of the situation.” She sipped on her coffee and grinned. “Your employers never offered you the services of a hooker before?”

Not the kind of question calling for an answer, in his book, so he didn’t bother providing one.

“Obviously, you’ve never had the right kind of job, Mr. Scofield.”

He stared at her and felt his cheeks redden slightly. He wondered if somehow, she’d found out about the dream he had before their last meeting with Kellerman, if Cat was merely an excuse. No way she knew, right? Even this place couldn’t delve that deep in his mind.

“Thank you — I think,” he said cautiously, “but I’m a married man.”

“You love your wife, I understand and respect that. What I’m suggesting has little to do with love.”

Fair enough.

“Okay then: I do not want a call-girl. But thanks.”

“Nor an escort-boy?”

He chuckled. “Nor an escort-boy.”

She straightened up in her armchair. She looked as stern as ever, but there was a hint of compassion in her eyes.

“Don’t take it the wrong way, okay? You’re a young man, you’re fit, you’ve been kept away from any intimate touch for several years. I don’t imply you would be unfaithful to Sara, but I must be practical. I need you to be focused on your mission, and I’m open to any requests making it easier for you.”

He nodded and took a long swallow of his coffee. Something else they’d better not tell Yoki, how much coffee he had recently.

“I get it. It’s okay.”

(He did. She was a practical woman even though not as cold and detached as she pretended to be.)

They returned their attention to the Wall and the monitor where Kellerman was speaking soundlessly — thank God, Jamison had cut off the sound at the beginning of their odd exchange about call-girls, escort-boys and too-thoughtful employers.

He’d been waiting for almost twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t in the control room when it happened. Mrs. Jamison had ordered him to go to sleep right after what had been one of his most surreal conversations since his arrival at The Foundation — and he’d had quite a few ones of those; he knew a thing or two about surreal conversations.

He’d gone asleep to a black file op dragging on.

He woke up to the news and footage of Acero shooting Rajesh Chopra in cold blood and swiftly vanishing from the monitors.

* * *

He knew it could happen. He had evaluated the risks in the report he’d sent to Kellerman and Jamison. He was aware of the flaws of his plan and of the fact that they were dealing with ruthless people.

He’d taken the chance nevertheless because every step, from the tiniest to the hugest, brought him closer to a reunion with Sara and Lincoln, to hold his son in his arms for the first time.

He’d taken the chance, and someone had died. Several people had died. Chopra wasn’t Acero’s only victim; she’d left a few dead bodies in her wake. The satellite surveillance was merciless in its clarity: Chopra and half a dozen of his people had fallen into an ambush, barely a couple of sentences exchanged before the shooting started.

Michael played the short video ad nauseam before Pat decided it was more than enough and pulled the plug.

“I am like my mother,” Michael told Yoki.

He sat motionless in his bedroom for hours, watching the landscape on the other side of the bullet-proof bay window without seeing it. Neither Mrs. Jamison’s forceful suggestions to get over it nor Yoki’s gentle prodding managed to reach him. He remembered the last time something looking like this had happened, how Sara had been able to reach him, to bring him back to the here and now.

The Foundation had other methods. The Foundation couldn’t afford Sara’s patience at the moment.

The needle digging into his shoulder took him by surprise; he slowly collapsed onto himself, falling asleep across the bed.

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--If you enjoy the fic (or if you don't, but you know... hopefully if you do ;)), please let me know :)