Sandcastles (Prison Break Fanfic)

Chapter Twelve

When the sky carried the color of the setting sun and their son was asleep in his booster seat and Lincoln was saying aloud everything he had already known, Michael wondered if they would still be there, in that parking lot, had their day had a different start.

Lincoln had shown up at their place in one of his worn-out t-shirts, claiming it was the perfectly acceptable attire for an afternoon barbeque. He smirked at Michael's choice of a dark blue shirt, something absolutely too formal for a beer that would likely spill over the rim at one point or another and for the grass stains to be undoubtedly attained while chasing kids around Sucre's backyard. Bryce, safely ensconced on his uncle's arm, noted that commenting on someone else's clothing was not a very nice thing to do, but Michael just laughed. He kissed the top of his son's head before leaving to get Sara. Of course he could just call her name, but the one thing he disliked more than yelling was letting go of an opportunity to lay his eyes on her.

The door of their bedroom was ajar. He knocked lightly, but unlike their son he didn't wait before pushing the door open.

She stood by the bed and her back, her bare back, was turned to him as her fingers fumbled with the zipper of her dress.

"I'm sorry, I..." he stumbled, pretty sure that just remembering his own name would take significant effort, but his body didn't retreat to give her space. As loud as the part of the brain instructing him to do so was, the reverence he had always prided himself on dissipated when her chin was on her shoulder and their eyes locked. He felt his skin changing color to a want impossible to conceal, while Sara was completely unfazed.

"It's fine, Michael," she smiled, although it wasn't, cornering someone like this, and he absolutely wasn't okay, not with the free will his bloodstream suddenly acquired. "Let's not pretend it was an immaculate conception. Would you mind helping me?"

His hands were shaking, yet felt as if they were of lead when he closed the door behind him. If he claimed to do it out of habit, he'd lie, for none of this was how he would usually handle things, and if he cited privacy, it would insinuate he had a control of his mind, which he absolutely didn't.

Who knew if his steps reverberated in her mind as they did in his. He would swear it was the loudest sound he had ever heard and derisively gave away how awkward his feet felt. How could this same pair of legs had gotten him out of so many perilous situations was a mystery to him, and the fact that her eyes were no longer on his did nothing to ease his breathing. When she faced her eyes forward, there was no other place for them to fall on than their bed.

Most of the handful of nights since the first they had spent together, they sneaked into their son's room when he was already sleeping, then tiptoed their way out before he woke. The couple of times they had stayed here, in this room, there was no hesitance and no excuse. By now the pads of his fingers, as well as his lips, had the shape of her face memorized. He kissed her mouth from every angle, with control that matched his indulgence, and while her fingers felt his stomach muscles constrict under their caress, his never strayed past the curve of her back. He wanted more, of course he did, and her heaving breaths indicated she did too, but it could never be just sex for them. And giving themselves over to the other in their entirety felt wrong when they could still barely say two words that didn't pertain to their boy.

"Lincoln's here?" she asked once he stood behind her, and he nodded before remembering she couldn't see him. He cleared his throat, but the voice with which he confirmed her words still didn't sound like him.

Her hair was falling down her back, and he gathered it between his fingers before moving it across her shoulders and letting it fall down her chest. It wasn't just because of his analytical mind that he noticed everything. The way she clutched the front of the dress to her breasts, the whiteness of her knuckles making him hope she wanted to let go as badly as he did. The complete absence of any marks on her skin, save for the couple of moles he remembered from the star-lit room in Gila. The graceful curve of her spine he now could trace with his eyes without any fabric being in the way; the hem of her underwear.