Prison Break - Misstep (Michael)
Title: Misstep (Michael)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Genres: Het
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: The first time something happens, it’s because it’s too early in the morning. He’s not yet totally awake and he’s already sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, his mind a bit clouded.
Notes: Thanks to happywriter06 for her help with the translation. The French version of this fic is here.
This is a mirror POV for Misstep
The first time something happens, it’s because it’s too early in the morning. He’s not yet totally awake and he’s already sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, his mind a bit clouded. He can’t remember what he dreamed about last night, but it was obviously pleasant. Doctor Tancredi pacing back and forth right next to him isn’t helping his situation at all.
She’s pale and moves around nervously without paying attention to her surroundings. She doesn’t even notice that he smiles soothingly at her. Of course, in the end she trips over the stool that stands in her way. She swears and stumbles forward, one of her hands landing on the exam table, the other one on him and she kicks the chair out of her way with irritation. He cringes and tries to escape her, but his only way out is to get up and walk out, and that’s not an available option. When Sara looks up, he remembers why a man in his condition should sit with his hands folded in his lap.
He desperately tries to come up with something to say, anything, but all he can come up with is ‘Think!’ That doesn’t help. His always hyperactive brain is spinning, and he speculates that Sara’s mind is as foggy because she looks him straight in the eye. With a determined expression, she slips her hand in his pants. He doesn’t dare move, he doesn’t dare breathe, he doesn’t really know whether he wishes or fears that somebody will stop them. He grips the edge of the table and leans forward, his forehead a few inches away from Sara’s shoulder, his face in her hair. He closes his eyes and forgets where he is. He hopes that he keeps quiet.
When she releases him, she looks at her hand indecisively then wipes it on her lab coat. Even the crudeness of her gesture can’t quite bring him back to reality.
* * *
The second time something happens, it’s because Bellick ordered a general search of the cells while he’s in the foundations of the building. He splits his eyebrow when coming back in a hurry so a guard has to bring him to the infirmary. He remembers what happened the last time they were alone in here. He will blame his good manners and the fact that he believes in reciprocity: one always must return a favor.
She turns her back to him the first time to throw away a few compresses and he thoughtfully eyes the elastic belt of her pants. Nifty. She turns her back to him a second time, deliberately, to face her desk and he gets off the exam table where she left him because if that isn’t an invitation, it’s at least a tacit consent. She doesn’t move, doesn’t protest when he embraces her and slip a hand under her clothes. He finds exactly what he was looking for, smiles and explores thoroughly. She presses her hips against him, stretches her arm behind her to grab him and press him into her. He just murmurs “Shhh” and nuzzles her neck, stealing a kiss.
Her legs give under her and she slowly collapses against him. It would almost make him forget about the reciprocity principle.
When he releases her, he looks at his hand. With a small smile, she holds out her coat out to him. Because of the complicity of the gesture, he loses the small connection he’d re-established with reality.
* * *
The third time something happens... He could probably find a convincing reason to explain it, but the truth is he’s been lying in the infirmary for several hours with a fever, watching her as she went about her usual business. Earlier she turned off the ceiling light so he could rest; only her desk lamp is still on and it casts weird shadows on the walls. They’re alone in the room, which is oddly quiet. He’ll say that the third time something happens it’s because of Abruzzi. She worries that the wound John inflected upon him might get infected, so she keeps him in. He needs a culprit and this definitely wouldn’t be John’s worst misdeed anyway.
Late in the afternoon, she puts a thermometer on his forehead and lets him know the fever went down. The assertion makes him smirk; she does her best not to look him in the eye when she says it.
“So I can go back to my cell?”
She nods her head but doesn’t move to call the guard. She quickly glances at her chair by the desk.
He’s pretty sure he’s been sucked into a temporal black hole; it’s the only reasonable explanation. One minute he asks her an almost innocent question and the next moment he slouches heavily into the chair. His hands creep up Sara’s legs while she unfastens, opens, pushes aside anything that will get in the way and bother her before she finally slides down on him. It lacks stylishness, but that is made up for with enthusiasm and they move along in a rhythm as if each gesture had been thoroughly choreographed. Never before had he realized that the best plans aren’t necessarily the most elaborated ones. He holds her tighter and she puts her hand on the nape of his neck. He holds her even tighter and her hands drops, goes down, struggles to slip under his shirt and his tee-shirt looking for skin to touch and caress. She strokes him up, from the small of his back to his shoulders, her nails biting in his flesh, too lightly to leave marks and he kind of regrets it. He whispers in her neck but the well rounded words he’s so used too are failing him and all he can come up with is oh and um and Sara. He doesn’t doubt that they convey what he really thinks, though.
He can feel the chair rolling backwards and bumping into the wall. He can’t help smiling because the metaphor is really perfect - they have their backs against the wall, no way to pull out now. He doesn’t think Sara realizes this and if she does, she doesn’t care. He catches her free hand, clutches it and entwines their fingers. She clutches back, surprisingly hard, and bites his ear. Not the flesh but the cartilage, and he starts and thinks that reality is truly a strange, even overrated, thing. Reality - his reality anyway - is a place where a sharp jolt of pain induces bliss. He closes his eyes and he’s quite sure that this time, he doesn’t keep quiet.
He doesn’t totally release her, even when, his face buried in her neck, he can guess that she’s turning around to glance at the door in a quite late expression of worry. He holds her hand and helps her up, then straightens a few locks of hair, smoothes her shirt and her skirt, his touch caring and feather-like. Her white lab coat is crumpled and creased but he doesn’t lay a hand on it. He’s never had fantasies about white coats and hot doctors, but he thinks he won’t ever be able to look at them the way he used to.
He’s aware that all he wants to do is make the moment last a bit more longer. He assumes he should at least feel some guilt, but when he looks at Sara, he understands that neither one of them is there yet, quite the contrary, and he smiles at her.
He stumbles when he gets up and he could swear that she’s almost satisfied to see him so awkward.
* * *
The guard leads him through the hallways towards A Wing, a hand under his elbow. He still can feels Sara’s breath on his cheek, her weight against him, her scent on him. He can barely stand that the guy touches him now, but it’s not like he can do anything about it.
All three times he was alone with her. He thinks that really, he shouldn’t ever be alone with her.
-END-
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Genres: Het
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: The first time something happens, it’s because it’s too early in the morning. He’s not yet totally awake and he’s already sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, his mind a bit clouded.
Notes: Thanks to happywriter06 for her help with the translation. The French version of this fic is here.
This is a mirror POV for Misstep
The first time something happens, it’s because it’s too early in the morning. He’s not yet totally awake and he’s already sitting on the exam table in the infirmary, his mind a bit clouded. He can’t remember what he dreamed about last night, but it was obviously pleasant. Doctor Tancredi pacing back and forth right next to him isn’t helping his situation at all.
She’s pale and moves around nervously without paying attention to her surroundings. She doesn’t even notice that he smiles soothingly at her. Of course, in the end she trips over the stool that stands in her way. She swears and stumbles forward, one of her hands landing on the exam table, the other one on him and she kicks the chair out of her way with irritation. He cringes and tries to escape her, but his only way out is to get up and walk out, and that’s not an available option. When Sara looks up, he remembers why a man in his condition should sit with his hands folded in his lap.
He desperately tries to come up with something to say, anything, but all he can come up with is ‘Think!’ That doesn’t help. His always hyperactive brain is spinning, and he speculates that Sara’s mind is as foggy because she looks him straight in the eye. With a determined expression, she slips her hand in his pants. He doesn’t dare move, he doesn’t dare breathe, he doesn’t really know whether he wishes or fears that somebody will stop them. He grips the edge of the table and leans forward, his forehead a few inches away from Sara’s shoulder, his face in her hair. He closes his eyes and forgets where he is. He hopes that he keeps quiet.
When she releases him, she looks at her hand indecisively then wipes it on her lab coat. Even the crudeness of her gesture can’t quite bring him back to reality.
* * *
The second time something happens, it’s because Bellick ordered a general search of the cells while he’s in the foundations of the building. He splits his eyebrow when coming back in a hurry so a guard has to bring him to the infirmary. He remembers what happened the last time they were alone in here. He will blame his good manners and the fact that he believes in reciprocity: one always must return a favor.
She turns her back to him the first time to throw away a few compresses and he thoughtfully eyes the elastic belt of her pants. Nifty. She turns her back to him a second time, deliberately, to face her desk and he gets off the exam table where she left him because if that isn’t an invitation, it’s at least a tacit consent. She doesn’t move, doesn’t protest when he embraces her and slip a hand under her clothes. He finds exactly what he was looking for, smiles and explores thoroughly. She presses her hips against him, stretches her arm behind her to grab him and press him into her. He just murmurs “Shhh” and nuzzles her neck, stealing a kiss.
Her legs give under her and she slowly collapses against him. It would almost make him forget about the reciprocity principle.
When he releases her, he looks at his hand. With a small smile, she holds out her coat out to him. Because of the complicity of the gesture, he loses the small connection he’d re-established with reality.
* * *
The third time something happens... He could probably find a convincing reason to explain it, but the truth is he’s been lying in the infirmary for several hours with a fever, watching her as she went about her usual business. Earlier she turned off the ceiling light so he could rest; only her desk lamp is still on and it casts weird shadows on the walls. They’re alone in the room, which is oddly quiet. He’ll say that the third time something happens it’s because of Abruzzi. She worries that the wound John inflected upon him might get infected, so she keeps him in. He needs a culprit and this definitely wouldn’t be John’s worst misdeed anyway.
Late in the afternoon, she puts a thermometer on his forehead and lets him know the fever went down. The assertion makes him smirk; she does her best not to look him in the eye when she says it.
“So I can go back to my cell?”
She nods her head but doesn’t move to call the guard. She quickly glances at her chair by the desk.
He’s pretty sure he’s been sucked into a temporal black hole; it’s the only reasonable explanation. One minute he asks her an almost innocent question and the next moment he slouches heavily into the chair. His hands creep up Sara’s legs while she unfastens, opens, pushes aside anything that will get in the way and bother her before she finally slides down on him. It lacks stylishness, but that is made up for with enthusiasm and they move along in a rhythm as if each gesture had been thoroughly choreographed. Never before had he realized that the best plans aren’t necessarily the most elaborated ones. He holds her tighter and she puts her hand on the nape of his neck. He holds her even tighter and her hands drops, goes down, struggles to slip under his shirt and his tee-shirt looking for skin to touch and caress. She strokes him up, from the small of his back to his shoulders, her nails biting in his flesh, too lightly to leave marks and he kind of regrets it. He whispers in her neck but the well rounded words he’s so used too are failing him and all he can come up with is oh and um and Sara. He doesn’t doubt that they convey what he really thinks, though.
He can feel the chair rolling backwards and bumping into the wall. He can’t help smiling because the metaphor is really perfect - they have their backs against the wall, no way to pull out now. He doesn’t think Sara realizes this and if she does, she doesn’t care. He catches her free hand, clutches it and entwines their fingers. She clutches back, surprisingly hard, and bites his ear. Not the flesh but the cartilage, and he starts and thinks that reality is truly a strange, even overrated, thing. Reality - his reality anyway - is a place where a sharp jolt of pain induces bliss. He closes his eyes and he’s quite sure that this time, he doesn’t keep quiet.
He doesn’t totally release her, even when, his face buried in her neck, he can guess that she’s turning around to glance at the door in a quite late expression of worry. He holds her hand and helps her up, then straightens a few locks of hair, smoothes her shirt and her skirt, his touch caring and feather-like. Her white lab coat is crumpled and creased but he doesn’t lay a hand on it. He’s never had fantasies about white coats and hot doctors, but he thinks he won’t ever be able to look at them the way he used to.
He’s aware that all he wants to do is make the moment last a bit more longer. He assumes he should at least feel some guilt, but when he looks at Sara, he understands that neither one of them is there yet, quite the contrary, and he smiles at her.
He stumbles when he gets up and he could swear that she’s almost satisfied to see him so awkward.
* * *
The guard leads him through the hallways towards A Wing, a hand under his elbow. He still can feels Sara’s breath on his cheek, her weight against him, her scent on him. He can barely stand that the guy touches him now, but it’s not like he can do anything about it.
All three times he was alone with her. He thinks that really, he shouldn’t ever be alone with her.
-END-