The Good Doctor - Michael/Sara
Title: The Good Doctor (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Dr Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows
Length: 1,334 words
Rating: R for bad language. Just to be safe.
Summary: It’s funny, the things you notice when you’re trying not to think about the fact that you’re going to die.
Author's Note:A short ficlet set during "The Rat". The title is taken from one of Michael's lines from an earlier episode. This is for becisvolatile to make her feel better. All concrit warmly welcomed. Big thanks to tearcreek for the help in finding out a particular C.O.'s name.
~*~
“As long as the good doctor believes I’m a diabetic, I’ll have all the time in the world to do what I need to do.”
~*~
It’s funny, the things you notice when you’re trying not to think about the fact that you’re going to die. Stupid, useless things like the loud hum of the fluorescent light and the white of the wall against the darkness of Bullock’s uniform. The cool metal of the cuffs where they cut into your skin and the ticking of the clock you’re not letting yourself watch.
Or, you think as you look across the room to where the Doc is sitting at her desk, the sound of paperwork being shuffled over and over again.
You don’t know if she’s working or if she’s just faking it so you don’t have to be alone. If you could muster the energy, you’d be grateful for the gesture, but the entire Chicago Bear’s cheerleading squad could be dancing half-naked in this room and it wouldn’t help, not when everything’s so far beyond fucked up. You spent last night puking your guts out, feeling as though your bowels were filled with broken glass. You had only cursed your brother’s name once - when the pain first ripped apart your insides - because you knew that when he broke through that pipe and you were both on the other side of that fucking wall, it would all be worth it. The exhaustion you feel now goes bone-deep, slithering into your blood and your flesh, and there’s nothing that anyone can do to help. Not even Michael. Not now.
The sound of shuffling paper suddenly stops, and you look up to see Lewis escorting Michael into the examination room next door. Your brother stares at you through the glass, his shattered expression exactly the same as the day he sat beside you, weeping as you both buried your mother. And, just like it was on that day, it’s like a fucking knife through your heart. Christ, it hurts just to look at him.
Lewis takes off the cuffs but Michael doesn’t take his eyes off you, and the desperate apology in his eyes makes you want to smash your fist through the nearest window.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Doc move. She walks across the room, giving you a quick glance over her shoulder as she leaves. From someone else you’d think it was a look of pity, but that’s not her style. As she walks away, you think maybe you should have told her that you were grateful for her standing up to Bullock earlier when he ordered you cuffed, but you don’t and really, what the hell does it matter now?
She goes into the next room and you stop staring at Michael and you start staring at them because Michael is instantly in her face, his silent words rushed and urgent. As he talks, he twists his hands together awkwardly, the gesture so familiar that it makes you feel nauseous all over again. The Doc stares at him with those big eyes of hers, then she nods, her lips moving quickly, as if her words are little puffs of air. It’s like watching television without sound, but you don’t need to hear what they’re saying because when the Doc comes straight back out of that room and into yours - Michael’s eyes never leave her for a second - it’s pretty fucking obvious what he’s just asked her to do.
She touches Bullock lightly on the arm. “Mr. Scofield would like a few minutes with his brother.” Her voice is lilting and warm and persuasive - hell, you think without a trace of humour, you would have bought a used car from her any day - but it has absolutely no affect on the bull. He just looks at her, his silence deafening in the quiet room.
Her jaw clenches. “Two minutes.” Bullock just stares at her, unmoved, but she tries again. “One minute,” she says in a voice that’s starting to shake, “and I’ll personally clear it with the Warden.”
Bullock lifts his meaty shoulders in a polite shrug, then shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Doctor. He'll have to wait until final visitation. Pope’s orders.”
She stares at the bull for a few seconds, then she’s gone again, going back to your brother. You watch as she looks everywhere in that room but at him, lifting her hands then dropping them again as if she doesn’t know what to do with them, her mouth moving with the words you know will break him.
They do.
His face crumples and you want to look away but you don’t because if this is one of the last times you’re ever going to see him, then you’re going to leave this life with as many goddamned memories as possible, no matter how much it fucking hurts.
Damn kid, you think suddenly, looking at his broken expression, the years falling away in your mind. He always felt too much, always hurt too much, and you’d always done everything in your power to keep him safe. And now he’s in here, trapped in this stinking hell on earth, and you’re going to be gone and there’s going to be no one left to keep him safe from the nightmares.
You keep staring through the glass, watching them because it’s better than trying not to watch the clock that's ticking away the moments until you fry. Michael’s talking and she’s staring at him again and whatever he’s saying is making her breathe faster and those eyes of hers grow even bigger. It’s watching a fucking tennis match as they toss words back and forth across the room, taking a few steps towards each other every time as though they don’t even realise they’re doing it.
He’s angry now - you can tell just by looking at him because Christ knows you’ve seen him angry enough times - but the Doc still reaches out her hand, gently touching his arm, pulling his attention back to her. It’s the same way she’d touched Bullock on the arm, but somehow it looks totally different. You watch them, and somewhere in the back of your mind, something clicks into place.
Michael has only once spoken of Sara Tancredi in your presence. That day in the chapel, when he called her ‘the good doctor’ with more than a hint of smugness in his tone. He never mentioned her again, even during rushed conversations about the infirmary being the vital link in the chain. Watching them through the glass, you suddenly think you might know the reason why. Because there’s hardly a foot of space between them now - too close for a prison doctor and a con - and they're staring at each other as though they’ve forgotten they have an audience and you can't help thinking that maybe messing with the prison’s plumbing system isn't the only thing he's been doing in this room.
Shit, Michael, you tell him silently, finding a strange kind of comfort in the familiarity of brotherly irritation. I know she’s hot but there’s a time and a place for everything, man.
Bullock’s deep voice rumbles through the room. “Time to go, Linc.” You glance up and meet his eyes, then turn your head away. Now there’s a look of pity, you think darkly.
Michael and the Doc are still talking as you shuffle into the corridor, and they freeze at the sight of you. Michael’s eyes meet yours and he looks as though he’s about to be sick and you know how he feels because you’re going to the chair one minute after midnight and there’s not one fucking thing either of you can do about it now. And then, as you cling to the last sight of your brother’s face, you realise something.
Michael is staring at you, but the Doc is staring at him. Sara Tancredi, the good doctor, the Governor’s daughter, is looking at your brother as though she would move heaven and earth to make things right for him.
Maybe it's not the wrong time and place, after all.
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael Scofield/Dr Sara Tancredi, Lincoln Burrows
Length: 1,334 words
Rating: R for bad language. Just to be safe.
Summary: It’s funny, the things you notice when you’re trying not to think about the fact that you’re going to die.
Author's Note:A short ficlet set during "The Rat". The title is taken from one of Michael's lines from an earlier episode. This is for becisvolatile to make her feel better. All concrit warmly welcomed. Big thanks to tearcreek for the help in finding out a particular C.O.'s name.
~*~
“As long as the good doctor believes I’m a diabetic, I’ll have all the time in the world to do what I need to do.”
~*~
It’s funny, the things you notice when you’re trying not to think about the fact that you’re going to die. Stupid, useless things like the loud hum of the fluorescent light and the white of the wall against the darkness of Bullock’s uniform. The cool metal of the cuffs where they cut into your skin and the ticking of the clock you’re not letting yourself watch.
Or, you think as you look across the room to where the Doc is sitting at her desk, the sound of paperwork being shuffled over and over again.
You don’t know if she’s working or if she’s just faking it so you don’t have to be alone. If you could muster the energy, you’d be grateful for the gesture, but the entire Chicago Bear’s cheerleading squad could be dancing half-naked in this room and it wouldn’t help, not when everything’s so far beyond fucked up. You spent last night puking your guts out, feeling as though your bowels were filled with broken glass. You had only cursed your brother’s name once - when the pain first ripped apart your insides - because you knew that when he broke through that pipe and you were both on the other side of that fucking wall, it would all be worth it. The exhaustion you feel now goes bone-deep, slithering into your blood and your flesh, and there’s nothing that anyone can do to help. Not even Michael. Not now.
The sound of shuffling paper suddenly stops, and you look up to see Lewis escorting Michael into the examination room next door. Your brother stares at you through the glass, his shattered expression exactly the same as the day he sat beside you, weeping as you both buried your mother. And, just like it was on that day, it’s like a fucking knife through your heart. Christ, it hurts just to look at him.
Lewis takes off the cuffs but Michael doesn’t take his eyes off you, and the desperate apology in his eyes makes you want to smash your fist through the nearest window.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Doc move. She walks across the room, giving you a quick glance over her shoulder as she leaves. From someone else you’d think it was a look of pity, but that’s not her style. As she walks away, you think maybe you should have told her that you were grateful for her standing up to Bullock earlier when he ordered you cuffed, but you don’t and really, what the hell does it matter now?
She goes into the next room and you stop staring at Michael and you start staring at them because Michael is instantly in her face, his silent words rushed and urgent. As he talks, he twists his hands together awkwardly, the gesture so familiar that it makes you feel nauseous all over again. The Doc stares at him with those big eyes of hers, then she nods, her lips moving quickly, as if her words are little puffs of air. It’s like watching television without sound, but you don’t need to hear what they’re saying because when the Doc comes straight back out of that room and into yours - Michael’s eyes never leave her for a second - it’s pretty fucking obvious what he’s just asked her to do.
She touches Bullock lightly on the arm. “Mr. Scofield would like a few minutes with his brother.” Her voice is lilting and warm and persuasive - hell, you think without a trace of humour, you would have bought a used car from her any day - but it has absolutely no affect on the bull. He just looks at her, his silence deafening in the quiet room.
Her jaw clenches. “Two minutes.” Bullock just stares at her, unmoved, but she tries again. “One minute,” she says in a voice that’s starting to shake, “and I’ll personally clear it with the Warden.”
Bullock lifts his meaty shoulders in a polite shrug, then shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Doctor. He'll have to wait until final visitation. Pope’s orders.”
She stares at the bull for a few seconds, then she’s gone again, going back to your brother. You watch as she looks everywhere in that room but at him, lifting her hands then dropping them again as if she doesn’t know what to do with them, her mouth moving with the words you know will break him.
They do.
His face crumples and you want to look away but you don’t because if this is one of the last times you’re ever going to see him, then you’re going to leave this life with as many goddamned memories as possible, no matter how much it fucking hurts.
Damn kid, you think suddenly, looking at his broken expression, the years falling away in your mind. He always felt too much, always hurt too much, and you’d always done everything in your power to keep him safe. And now he’s in here, trapped in this stinking hell on earth, and you’re going to be gone and there’s going to be no one left to keep him safe from the nightmares.
You keep staring through the glass, watching them because it’s better than trying not to watch the clock that's ticking away the moments until you fry. Michael’s talking and she’s staring at him again and whatever he’s saying is making her breathe faster and those eyes of hers grow even bigger. It’s watching a fucking tennis match as they toss words back and forth across the room, taking a few steps towards each other every time as though they don’t even realise they’re doing it.
He’s angry now - you can tell just by looking at him because Christ knows you’ve seen him angry enough times - but the Doc still reaches out her hand, gently touching his arm, pulling his attention back to her. It’s the same way she’d touched Bullock on the arm, but somehow it looks totally different. You watch them, and somewhere in the back of your mind, something clicks into place.
Michael has only once spoken of Sara Tancredi in your presence. That day in the chapel, when he called her ‘the good doctor’ with more than a hint of smugness in his tone. He never mentioned her again, even during rushed conversations about the infirmary being the vital link in the chain. Watching them through the glass, you suddenly think you might know the reason why. Because there’s hardly a foot of space between them now - too close for a prison doctor and a con - and they're staring at each other as though they’ve forgotten they have an audience and you can't help thinking that maybe messing with the prison’s plumbing system isn't the only thing he's been doing in this room.
Shit, Michael, you tell him silently, finding a strange kind of comfort in the familiarity of brotherly irritation. I know she’s hot but there’s a time and a place for everything, man.
Bullock’s deep voice rumbles through the room. “Time to go, Linc.” You glance up and meet his eyes, then turn your head away. Now there’s a look of pity, you think darkly.
Michael and the Doc are still talking as you shuffle into the corridor, and they freeze at the sight of you. Michael’s eyes meet yours and he looks as though he’s about to be sick and you know how he feels because you’re going to the chair one minute after midnight and there’s not one fucking thing either of you can do about it now. And then, as you cling to the last sight of your brother’s face, you realise something.
Michael is staring at you, but the Doc is staring at him. Sara Tancredi, the good doctor, the Governor’s daughter, is looking at your brother as though she would move heaven and earth to make things right for him.
Maybe it's not the wrong time and place, after all.
~*~