Almost a Year

There were only a few little things Sara let herself remember about Michael Scofield. After all, it'd been almost a year since she'd seen him last. (8 months, 2 weeks and 4 days… not that she was counting…)

So on the rare occasion someone at the hospital said, "Hey! Didn't you work at Fox River when those guys escaped?" She let only the little things flutter through her recall. Things like; Michael was tall. Michael had a sinewy physique and a graceful stride that had reminded Sara of a jaguar or a hungry, lone wolf. Oh, and he'd been diabetic.

Unfortunately, in those moments of pure exhaustion right before sleep took her, she often couldn't keep her brain from remembering other things about Michael…

Things like; Michael had long, slender fingers - like a pianist. Smooth, long fingers that had felt like heaven as they slid over her naked back, around her hip and under the elastic waistband of her underwear. Michael had soft, strong lips that had felt fabulous when he ran them along her neck… and the inside of her thigh. And in moments of total weakness Sara let herself remember the smile he'd flashed in the darkness of her living room. And how it was in that moment that she'd realized he had near-perfect teeth… teeth that he later used to softly nip her shoulder as he came.

She gives her head a mental shake as she walks steadily to her car in the underground parking lot of the hospital. It's 7pm, barely dark outside, but the parking garage is one giant shadow. Dark places stopped making her nervous as soon as she realized her wouldn't be lurking in them anymore.

Sara digs absently for her keys in her heavy leather shoulder bag and wonders if it's raining outside. It looked like rain at 7am when she pulled into the hospital parkade, and she realizes she never bothered to peer out a window today. It also dawns on her that, while she spent so much time remembering to forget Michael Scofield, she'd actually completely forgotten Lincoln Burrows.

So it takes her a minute to recognize the man who is hunched in the shadows beside her red Honda Civic.

Gravity makes a mockery of her body as her heart leaps into her throat and her stomach plummets into her sensible work shoes. He raises both hands, like he's giving himself up and stumbles over his words. "Please don't… I'm sorry to be here. He's… Michael… I didn't know who else to ask."

Something in her grows very cold, very fast. "What's wrong with him?"

"He needs your help," Lincoln tells her and visibly fights to stay calm. "It's an impossible thing to ask of you. I know. I just –"

Suddenly Sara is beside the car. Opening the door, throwing her bag in the bag seat, unlocking the passenger door, slipping into the driver's seat. "Get in."