They've been sitting at this table for at least an hour, but a workable plan has yet to solidify. Sara's pretty sure they're all thinking the same thing: with Michael gone to gather the parts necessary to rig a starting gate delay, everything's falling to pieces here amongst the planning committee with frightening speed. Now, they're officially running out of time; "First Call" will trumpet at exactly noon at the Santa Anita race track, and as she leans forward, resting her head against her palm, she can practically hear the sharp blare of the bugles reverberating against her skull already.

She sits up straighter. Maybe if they start again at the beginning, the glaring holes in their plan of attack will start plugging up. "So Brad's tantrum at the betting window will get Linc through the restricted gate and down to the track, but that still leaves the problem of gaining admittance to the offices upstairs. We need to both leave the device and retrieve it."

Across the room, Alex lifts his head. "Big track like that? They'll have a rent-a-cop standing at each doorway."

Of course they will, Sara thinks darkly, because every hurdle they've cleared this morning has seemed to lead to another. To say their patience is running thin by this point would be a vast understatement. "So we need another distraction."

For the first time in minutes, Roland looks up from his laptop. "And I'm looking right at it," he says pointedly, staring directly back at her. To her right, Lincoln's scoffs, a low grunt of disapproval that Roland effortlessly ignores. "We're using all the resources at our disposal, are we not?"

They are. Lincoln, however, doesn't even pretend to consider it. "Not an option." He shakes his head. "That'll never work."

Across the table, Sucre raises both eyebrows in his direction. "Careful," he mutters resignedly, just as Sara articulates the first thought to enter her mind at his flat-out rejection. "Why exactly won't it work?"

Sucre smirks at Linc. "Told you."

Roland doesn't give him opportunity to answer. "Won't work for the team, or won't work for our precious team leader?" he presses. He casts a deliberately appraising look in Sara's direction. "Because it'll work for her, I can tell you that. I mean, with the right look…Can you get your hands on a push-up bra, sweethea-"

"Oh, hell no," Lincoln interjects. "You little shit."

"Linc-" Sara tries, but Roland is quicker on the draw.

"That question was for her, not you," he shoots at Lincoln. "And certainly not for Scofield. I'm relatively certain we all know what he can get his hands on."

My God. Sara blinks. Across from her, she sees Sucre's eyebrows raise. Is there any possible response to that? Apparently there is, because Lincoln's voice has certainly risen. "Drawing upon your vast knowledge of women, are you?" he snorts at Roland.

Roland is answering, Sara's sure, but she doesn't hear it. She barely registers the sight of Mahone closing the distance between the wall he was previously leaning against and the table. Her ears are filled only with the sound of her chair scraping across the concrete floor as she moves to stand, and she wants only to get the hell away.

"Oh, suddenly you're Mr. Sensitivity?" Roland is shouting at Lincoln. "What a joke!"

"I'm a joke?!"

With that, she freezes. There's no way she's walking away from this. They're making her feel ridiculous, harassed, and painfully inadequate, and she's the one retreating? "This entire conversation is a joke!" she yells, and finally, her voice drowns them all out. Even Roland falls silent. About damned time. She turns to address him first, her tone thin as ice. "I can get a push-up bra." She shifts her gaze toward Lincoln. "And it will work."

Michael returns to a warehouse thick with tension. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait. "Are we ready to move on this?" He glances from Bellick's face to Lincoln's then to Roland, sitting at his usual perch with his laptop. "Where's Sara?"

"Changing," Lincoln mutters. He seems a bit too keen to change the subject. "You get a disguise while you were out?"

Michael smiles. He got a great one, and it fits him like a glove. He reaches into the bag containing the simple time delay device and a few other necessities he'd found at the nearest drug store, then pulls out a worn bucket hat. He slaps it on his head just as Sara emerges from the boat. "Perfect, right?"

"Yeah. Perfect." Lincoln's no longer looking at him, but as Michael follows his gaze toward the metal stairs, he can understand why that hardly alters the appropriateness of his reply.

Sara's making her way down the steps from the boat, and oh my God she's wearing jeans that leave absolutely no curve up to the imagination and some sort of green top that makes him want to both shout at her to turn right around and change and beg her to wear precisely this every day for the rest of their lives all at the same time.

By the time she's reached his side, he knows there's no way he can articulate any of that. "What on earth are you wearing?" he breathes.

By the sudden warmth heating her eyes, he's pretty sure he's at least managed to convey his appreciation, if not his acute terror at her looking this good in this company. As for her part, she stares at his head a good five seconds longer than he deems necessary to admire his fashion sense before finally arching an eyebrow in his direction and reaching up to tug at the bent brim. "I think the burning question here is, what on earth are you wearing?"

Three hours later, she decides with no small amount of satisfaction that this look is definitelyworking just fine indeed. Of course, she may well be using a somewhat biased opinion as her baseline measurement of male appreciation, but if the awe on Michael's face (merely a continuation of the glances he's been darting her way since departing the warehouse) as she reaches the top of the escalator is any indication, this is all going to proceed more than smoothly. It feels good…the ease of the mission, the smooth fabric of the expensive blouse hugging the curves of her figure, the feel of Michael's eyes lingering…all of it. She's spent days in uncomfortably-close quarters with an overabundance of testosterone, not to mention endured a morning of nothing short of blatant sexism, and this is the first time in a long time that on this team, her femininity has felt like an asset instead of a liability.

Ten minutes later, she's practicing her cutest Southern accent (the one she had perfected in her high school's adaptation of Bye Bye Birdie to great acclaim) on the betting window clerk, then subtly dropping her receipts directly in front of the hired security detail just as Michael and Mahone slip past.

It all works like charm…right up until the moment that it doesn't. The second time she approaches the rent-a-cop, it's like he's already onto her. Still, she swallows all she can of her sense of self-worth and manages to hold his attention long enough to allow Mahone to slink past them to snag the device. After fifteen seconds, however, twenty tops, she's nothing but an annoyance. And she hardly blames him-she's annoying herself with this self-deprecating how-dumb-can-you-be damsel-in-distress bit. But Mahone is back, hovering on the other side of the small glass window of the door, waiting for her to turn the cop's head just once more, and she can do nothing but plow forward. She frowns inwardly, even while outwardly flashing her most guileless smile. It gets her nowhere.

"I can't help you. Now move it along, honey."

Shit. It's ok. It'll be ok. Keep the smile in place. Act as though people talk down to you all the time. Let it roll right off your back.She takes a breath. "How about this? How about you help me find someone who could sort all this out?" Touch him. Touch his arm. "How's that?"

It's not good. Not good at all. She catches one last glimpse of Mahone turning heel on the other side of the door, and then throws in the towel. "You take good care of yourself today now officer."

She waits until she's more than ten yards away before allowing the ditzy persona she'd so carefully honed to slide from her face. Dammit.

At the end of the day, they're all back where they'd begun, standing around the warehouse conference table, only this time, they're bickering over what to do about Mahone rather than the inherent strategy to be found in Sara's choice of undergarments, and Michael is very much present.

She's still wearing the bra in question, and he's still stealing glances at her as though Christmas has come early, but for her part, the allure of the look has long since worn off. In fact, from the moment she had watched Alex escorted into the back of a police cruiser, she knows her brow has been furrowed in a self-critical frown.

"It's my fault," she announces now to the room at large, her words short and clipped in the tone she likes to adapt when she wants to make sure no room has been left for argument. "I blundered it."

She sees Michael turn swiftly toward her, but before he can answer her, Bellick issues a derisive snort. "Cop must have been blind, then. Or gay."

Roland leans back in his chair, hands intertwined behind his head as though he's lounging on a pool deck rather than holed up in the dank interior of the warehouse. Apparently, not having been in the field doesn't prevent him from weighing in. "You should have offered him more incentive," he shrugs.

"Neanderthal." Lincoln rises to the bait so swiftly, Sara flicks her eyes immediately to Michael, suddenly worried that any minute now, he'll make the correct assumption that this argument is a continuation of something begun much earlier. It was really a good thing he hadn't been there at the onset, and she has no desire to catch him up to speed now.

She holds up one hand to halt the discussion, unable to decide whether this latest opinion is unworthy of response altogether or if by requesting quiet, she's simply wishing herself away from this entire situation. Either way, she must look miserable, because before she knows it, Michael has risen with a swiftness that catches her off-guard. "Shut up, Roland," he retorts, his hand coming to rest at the base of Sara's spine. She wants to pull away…she wants to prove to them all that she can fight her own battles, but the truth is, it feels good to hear his voice boom across the concrete expanse of the warehouse on her behalf. She's not sure what sort feminist that makes her, and she's sure it's the stress of Mahone's arrest that's behind his sudden loss of control as much as Roland's mouthiness, but right now, she really doesn't care.

"In fact," Michael yells, "all of you just shut up." When he brings his hand down hard across the table, scattering Roland's carefully scribbled notes on IP addresses and key codes, Sara's pretty sure it must feel damned good.

Roland merely smirks. "Now who's the Neanderthal?"

He finds her in the boat. She's sitting on the bunk, digging through her bag, clearly preparing to change clothes. He sits down beside her. "So. Earlier? What'd I miss?"

She doesn't appear surprised. "Apparently," she smiles sardonically, "nothing."

He waits, and after a moment, she continues. "I know this will shock you, but it's come to light that Roland, the man who eats nothing but Lucky Charms and plays endless World of Warcraft in his free time, has the maturity of a 14-year-old."

"Ah." He looks at her carefully, but she only stares down at the shirt in her hands. "I'm sorry," he offers simply.

She looks up, her navy blue top in hand. "No, I'm sorry. I dropped the ball today." She glances down at her ample cleavage with a half-hearted smile, then fiddles with her shirt in her hands, sliding the wool/cotton blend through her fingers before glancing up at him a bit uncertainly and offering him a pained smile. "And the pathetic part is, I really thought I could pull it off."

Michael manages to check his laugh just in the nick of time. She's serious. "Sara, you did pull it off." He studies her for a beat. "You know how hard it's been to look you in the eyes today?"

His admission earns him a soft laugh. Still, she continues to look down at her hands. "Maybe it's just that it's been a long time since I've been able to feel like…" She pauses, seemingly searching for the right words as she lets out another strained laugh. "…Like a woman, I guess."

He allows his eyebrows to raise in mild reproach. "Has it, really?"

"That's not what I meant." She looks at him a bit pleadingly, and he gives her knee a light squeeze before urging her to continue. "I just mean it would have been nice not to completely fail at it...at flirting. At teasing."

Michael can't resist a low chuckle as he reaches out, his fingers gently skimming her collarbone. "Well you can rest assured, because in my experience, you've proven yourself to be an excellent flirt."

He watches as surprise colors her cheeks. He's not sure if he has this particular observation or his caressing fingers to thank, but either way, it's clear she doesn't disapprove. "I don't know if you noticed," he continues, allowing his hand to slide lower until he's tracing her neckline, "but I wasn't exactly protesting this look when I caught an eyeful at the track." In emphasis, he shifts his gaze boldly downward from her face to her chest.

Her eyes follow the path of his vision as she blushes outright. "I noticed." When she takes a sharp breath, he feels the swift rise of her chest under his fingertips. He lets them resume their slow traverse up and down the plunging cut of her shirt, sliding across the mottled pink of her skin. "You can be a bit of a tease yourself, you know," she manages.

It takes all his concentration to muster an innocent tone. "Like when?"

She releases a short, unsteady laugh. "Like now."

He forces his fingers to still, then shrugs as casually as he can through the increasing rate of his heartbeat. "Well, that's because I'm waiting."

He watches as she blinks, her lips parting in genuine confusion, and God help him, it's absolutely all he can do not to kiss her. Had she run that move past the rent-a-cop, he wouldn't have stood a chance, blind or anything else. Despite what such an outcome might have meant for Mahone and the team at large, Michael finds himself sending up a silent prayer of gratitude that she doesn't seem to realize the power of her own ability to seduce.

She releases her recently drawn breath in a rush. "Waiting for what?"

He assesses her for a moment, hoping she's game, then lets his eyes widen mischievously. "The accent, of course."

She responds with a breathy giggle that sends all the blood rushing from his heart to his groin. "Why Mr. Scofield," she affects, "why on earth didn't you just say so?"

He wants to laugh. He wants to ask her where on earth she learned to adapt such a departure from her normal speaking voice, but suddenly, only one response seems to fit the situation at-hand. Without preamble, and he certainly hopes without warning, he slides his fingers south, cupping her abruptly. He palms the soft expanse of her breasts through her low-cut blouse with both hands while she gasps, and then proceeds to kiss her and grope her in turn, tracing her lip with his tongue and the swell of her cleavage and the rise of her nipples with the pads of his thumbs. He consumes her mouth as he strokes her and kneads her, kissing her harder and deeper with each passage of his hands across her breasts.

Within seconds, she's fallen silent, and he bends forward, his lips plying the skin of her neck before he whispers hotly into her ear. "Feel like a woman yet?"

Only ten minutes later, the green halter top (as well as the skin-tight jeans she was all-too-happy to shed) are laying abandoned on the floor of the boat and Sara is settling her chin into the curve of Michael's shoulder. He's slick with sweat, and still breathing hard. She grins. "Wow."

She can hear the smile in his voice, as well. "Yeah?"

"Womanhood restored, I'd say."

She feels him shift as he rolls over toward her. "Manhood, too, I hope?"

She runs one hand over the closely-cropped hair of his head. "Now that you've lost the hat? Definitely."