Sandcastles (Prison Break Fanfic)

Chapter Fifteen

In all honesty, Lincoln was the only one absolutely ecstatic that Bryce was spending the night at his place. It wasn't said out loud, but he had no plans to bring the boy back before the late afternoon at the earliest. He was busy being a father he never was and determined to be the uncle he never thought he would get a chance to be, and he didn't care that much that it was detrimental to his attempts at being a reliable employee.

Bryce was definitely Michael's son, though. He made sure that he had packed his toothbrush and made sure he had extra extra clothes, "just in case". Sara, too, double checked everything, trying and failing to hide how seeing her son's bag packed unnerved her. Michael might not be physically zipping and unzipping the bag, his eyes were in an unwavering focus and his mind kept updating the list of the bag's components. It would be simple, even righteous, for anyone in Lincoln's shoes to interpret the situation as distrust, but after being almost executed more than once, coupled with his innate ability to just not give a fuck, offending Lincoln Burrows was quite an accomplishment.

"You know, my son did live to reach adulthood and is still kicking," he couldn't resist teasing Sara.

"I'm sorry, it's not you," she said, "he's just never been away for a whole night."

"Well, it's what they do, grow up," he sighed, although, if he was as upfront as he prided himself to be, he had not been around enough to claim he knew much more than that. But if there was one thing he knew, it was how to stay alive and keep those around him alive as well.

Finally, the bag was checked enough times and the boy gathered the courage to hug his mom goodbye. Dad told him they would call to say goodnight later in the evening, and with each additional word, Bryce's lips were pressed together with greater force. But just like his dad, he was unwilling to let his face bear any emotion of the negative specter, so when he walked toward the front door holding his uncle's hand, his smile was admirably reassuring.

When Michael got home, Sara had just stepped out of the shower and every lock of her hair was carefully, purposely, tucked under the towel on her head. He probably should have figured it out – given his reputation, absolutely – when she didn't let her hair fall down her shoulders to let the air do away with its dampness; however, her presence alone still rendered any thinking secondary to just looking at her.

So he didn't know about it until their son and Lincoln had gone (together with an overnight bag packed with enough supplies to last them a week) and they were running just slightly late. In a life without her, he would have never allowed himself to be late for just a fraction of these minutes, but back then, he had needed every trivial concern to occupy his mind.

He was in the kitchen, flipping through a book their son had left on the table. It was just one more thing the boy got from his mother, Michael acknowledged smilingly. That the sight of her would take his breath away was an expectation, but the makeup was more conspicuous that he had ever seen it on her. The lips seemed fuller and her eyes appeared lusher. The dress she wore was cut lower and the hem was higher up her thighs than he was used with her – but then again, he had never taken her out before, at least not the way a man was supposed to treat a woman. He appreciated how the dress, so slyly red, embraced her curves, proving to his eyes what his hands discovered every night – that their life together finally started to hide the years of worry that had tired her body.

And her hair, her hair was carefully combed, the curls that always felt so light between his fingers flipped onto her right shoulder. But it wasn't its enticing softness or the radiance it caught under the mundane kitchen light that made his jaw drop.

"You dyed your hair," he managed.

"Well, there is no reason to hide anymore," she shrugged and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, wickedly pleased by the reaction she prompted.