Thanks to becoolbec for beta-reading.

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"You look disappointed. Expected someone else?"

Michael glared at his older brother.

"Relax," Lincoln breathed, sprawling on the visitor chair. "She couldn't make it today, had to take a double shift at the clinic. She'll be here next week. You two can... catch up then."

He watched Michael shift uncomfortably in his seat and smirked. It had been a while since he'd had an opportunity to tease his brother.

"Okay," Michael mumbled.

He wasn't disappointed. Disappointed didn't begin to cover it. He had spent days – and several sleepless nights – writing her the letter, picking each word with his usual obsessive precision, carefully planning each sentence, ruminating every single comma, in the hope to start mending things between them, to bring some closure and maybe...

"Whatever you wrote to her, you did good, Mike. She's doing better. I think I might have seen her smile yesterday."

"You saw her yesterday?" he frowned.

"She didn't stumble to my place in a state, if that's what you asking. We just had dinner, like normal people. I even cooked. Didn't you want me to adjust to adult life?"

"Yeah, well, you might want to start by learning how to dress properly. You look like a worn out chippendale."

"Your girl loves it," he replied, chuckling.

--------------------------------

No matter how much he wanted to, Michael would never forget her first visit, three weeks after the sentencing. The mere memory felt like a wound forming and deepening slowly. A burning ache, the vicious bite of peroxide she had once poured on his wounded arm. Sitting stiffly in an uncomfortable prison chair, petrified and powerless, he had watched Sara cry, yell and beg him to give her something he didn't think he possessed, until he simply couldn't look at her anymore. The plexiglass wall between them stood as a physical evidence that she needed to be protected from him.

The sight of her swollen, tear-stained eyes, the sound of her sobs had been carved in his memory as surely and permanently as Fox River's blue-prints covered his body.

Watching her that day, observing her with his usual meticulousness, he had barely recognized the lively, amazing woman he had fallen in love with months before, against his better judgement. He saw her initial efforts to put on a happy face for his benefit crumple in seconds, giving way to defeat and desolation. He saw a disturbing paleness, dark circles, hollow cheeks. He saw the way her small hand gripped the phone handle, her defensive posture. He saw her gorgeous red hair still dyed brown like a moving, living, very visible scar. He saw the damage he had done.

Back in his cell, he was left with nagging questions that tormented him through the long, monotone days. He was becoming obsessed with the idea that she could be using again, knowing he could never bring himself to ask. He could only look down and hurt in silence. Let her go, wait for her to come to her senses and move on with her life. It was for the best. He had nothing left to offer her.

Every time she had come to visit afterwards, he had done just that: carefully avoid her eyes as he remained mute, all the while feeling his heart break slowly, continuously. The sadistic bastard of a guard who escorted him each time never once let him leave the room until she was done collapsing in front of him.

When she had told him she wouldn't visit anymore, he was torn between relief and an excruciating sense of loss. She had finally given up on him.

And then, just as he was struggling for a way to cope with her absence, to carefully erase every memory of her smile, of her voice, of her kisses, even, Lincoln had shown up with a piece of news. Sara hadn't given up, she was just drowning in her own misery, alone. Drowning, always drowning. As if his nightmares weren't already filled with images of her beautiful face fighting for air as it was forced into an overflowing motel bathtub. Sara had been drinking. Sara had been hitting on Lincoln, while drunk. Sara needed to see him, or else. So many pieces of information to process, each and every one of them making his head spin with guilt and pain.

He had given in then, and had patiently waited, day after day, to be called in to the visiting room. Only to find his brother sitting nonchalantly in the visitor chair where Sara's graceful figure should have been. Before Lincoln could reassure him that she was alright, his face had registered a dazzling whirl of confusion, panic, disappointment...

Oh yes, Linc had looked thoroughly amused.

--------------------------------

"You should have seen his face when he first saw me. Man, I can't remember the last time he looked so disgruntled. Or maybe I do," he added with a frown. Obviously, Michael hadn't look delighted the day his brother had been sentenced to death.

"Is that supposed to make me cheery?"

"Damn right, it is. Doesn't it?" Lincoln asked, resuming his previous peppy mood.

"No, of course, not..." Sara started, before shaking her head and amending with a sheepish grin, "Okay, it does. A little."

"Yeah, I thought so. Wanna come and grab something to eat? And I mean some serious food. Did you know teenagers can survive on chocolate chip cookies and their own overabundant hormones alone?"

"Sorry, not tonight. I, uh, I have a meeting, actually."

"Mmm, okay." He paused and blinked nervously. "Hey, Doc, is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just... About the other night. I thought I might need to bring meetings back into my routine. You know, just in case."
"Okay, then. Give me a call when you get home, alright?"

She couldn't help laughing at his new-found protectiveness. "Lincoln Burrows, you are aware than I am, in fact, about to turn thirty years old, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just do it, will you?"

"Okay. Enjoy your cookies, big boy."

--------------------------------

Even since the night she had made a clumsy move on Lincoln, an event she still was still far too embarrassed to discuss with him, or anyone else for that matter, he had started taking care of her. Discreetly in the first days, but soon enough she felt the full effect of Lincoln Burrows' protectiveness and intrusive, constant presence.

His constant scrutiny had been unnerving, at first. He expected daily phone calls, made her sit down for a 'Talk' every time she looked sad or despondent, and wasn't easily deterred by her cold shoulder or snarky comments. Not that she wanted him to quit. She had finally found a shoulder to cry on when needed, and the friend she had been lacking for a long time. He was allowing her to find a new confidence and an energy she didn't think she possessed anymore. He was also, of course, her most tangible connection to Michael.

She was perfectly aware she solely owed his latest change of heart, so to speak, to his opiniated brother. Sara had tried, of course, to find out how he had managed to do in one single conversation what she had failed to achieved in two months of regular visits. Lincoln wouldn't say a word. He only ended up teasing her obnoxiously about her "schoolgirl crush on his dork of a brother".

Her interrogation skills were clearly lacking.

--------------------------------

Sara was stomping around her apartment, looking for something to do – or break, maybe. She needed to keep herself busy or she would go insane. She had spent the night tossing and turning in bed, dutifully planning the drive to the penitentiary, including every possible traffic set back in her imaginary time-sheet. But even if a giant collision were about to happen, she would still be four hours early.

She was torn apart by a flow of powerful, contradictory emotions: a mixture of overwhelming trepidation and the deepest sense of dread. Lincoln had already called three times, apparently afraid she would melt down and bolt, or lock herself up inside her flat instead of visiting Michael as planned.

Not that the thought hadn't crossed her mind. But Gila and an unfortunate encounter had taught her to know better than to run from Michael.

After the absolute disaster that had been her last visits, she had no idea what to expect. Would he try to reason her? To convince her to move on? He would certainly not make it easy for her, she knew that much. Except this time, she was prepared to put a fight. She had every intention of coercing him into resuming a relationship with her. Any sort of relationship would do. The truth was, she had nothing left to lose or give up, nothing but him, and she wasn't about to let that go.

Just when she was starting to empty her closets for a vastly overdue spring cleaning, the phone rang. Again.

"What?" she barked agravated into the phone.

"Hey, Doc, don't bite my head off, I'm just checking on you."

"For the fourth time today, Lincoln. What essential information could you possibly have forgotten to ask during your three previous phone calls?"

"Uh, none, I think. I just wondered if you had started emptying your kitchen cabinets yet."

She looked at the messy pile of clothes on the floor, and smiled. "Try wardrobe."

"I see. Well, the kitchen was first step in Veronica's M.O. whenever she was driving herself insane. When she moved to the bathroom, I knew all hell was about to break loose."

"I am not going insane," she replied softly, surprised to hear him mention Veronica. He very seldomly did. "I happen to have some winter clothes begging to be sorted out."

"Oh my God, you're desperate. Like, err, what's the name of this show with the hot blonde and the one that keeps tripping on stuff and all the catfights?"

"I see someone's been watching too much Lifetime TV."

"I couldn't find the remote control. Besides, it's a nice change from MTV, let me tell you. Kids these days, you wouldn't believe the crap they listen to."

"You know he only listens to those emo bands to freak you out, right?"

"Of course. That's how the remote control got lost in the first place."

"I have to go, Lincoln. I have a clothes sorting party in the making."

"And only 3h45 to get it done. Man, that's a tense schedule you've got. Have fun."

--------------------------------

He had to blink a couple of times to make sure he wasn't imagining things: she was, in fact, waiting for him in the visiting room this time. She looked slightly better. Her hair was still dark, she was still too thin and visibly exhausted, but her eyes expressed a resolution that wasn't there before.

"Hi, Sara."

"Hey." She was searching his face, studying him attentively. Neither of them bothered to ask how the other was doing. It was written on their faces. "You know, I've thought about this for weeks and I still don't know where to start," she admitted.

"Maybe I should, then." He exhaled. The truth was, he didn't know how to go about it either. "What do you expect from me, Sara?" he asked gently. "What would you like to hear? I'm gonna be here ten years, give or take. I won't let you wait that long. Don't you want to move on? Have a life, a family?"

"I don't have your capacity to just give up everything with a shrug, Michael!" she replied, raising her voice. She was piqued by his questions. One step forward, ten steps backward. "I thought we were passed that. I'm not gonna turn my back on you and walk alone into the sunset. I want you in my life. Anyway I can get you . If that means just talking to you on this phone for now, then it is exactly what I want. Besides, what fabulous fate do you think I have to fly back to? I have no relatives, no career..."

"You're still a doctor."

She chuckled bitterly. "Right. I'm barely allowed to treat runny noses and STDs in a lousy free clinic."

"That's still better than Fox River," Michael mumbled, wincing.

"Is it? At least back there I could actually help my patients."

"You weren't safe," His jaw clenched as his mind filled with images of her trembling form and panicked eyes, as she clutched desperately to a piece of broken glass, back in the infirmary. One more trauma he was responsible for. "I've caused too much damage to your life already. I can't have you put everything on hold..."

"I swear, if you're going to say you're sorry once more, I'm breaking through this glass to come and strangle you with my bare hands. My life was damaged before you even came into the picture, Michael. I did a pretty good job at that on my own when I started using and alienating everyone."

"But you got clean," he insisted, "you started over."

"I checked myself into rehab. It didn't fix everything. It didn't fix me. I am, I'll always be a recovering junkie. Not drinking, not using... It's a conscious effort I have to make every day. Addictions are also symptoms, Michael. You're not responsible for each and every issue I have developed in my life."

"I just want what's best for you, Sara. And if that's mean leaving me behind..."

"How very vulcan of you."

Michael looked at her intently, and found himself short of a clever come back. She was smirking at him, looking determined and ready to counter anything he would throw her way. He was losing, he realised, and beneath his carefully crafted facade of calm and reason, he was more euphoric than he ever recalled feeling. "Will you tell me about your... issues?"

"Will you stop apologizing and just let me wait for you if I feel like it?" she asked in return, and he felt a large lump form in his throat and expand steadily to reach his chest, filling him with warmth and making his blood pulse faster.

"Yes."

"Good, because I plan to stick around until there's no more glass wall. And after that? I might just decide to stick around some more."

Putting his hand flat on the plexiglass wall, Michael watched Sara's smaller one rising immediately to rest against it on the other side. His heart was pounding deafeningly in his chest.

"I have issues too, you know"

"Oh, you do? I never knew." She replied, barely containing a chuckle while her eyes started shining with tears.

"I do. Lots of them. Self-worth issues, trust issues, social issues. Jealousy issues. You know, if my brother keeps prowling around you, I might have someone break his legs. I can make that sort of connection around here."

"I'm sure." Tears were rolling down her cheeks now, but she didn't bother wiping then. She looked as happy as he felt, and though life was still very far from perfect, it was something. Something to hope for, something to hold onto.

"Michael, I have to ask you something... And I only ask because I can't keep coming here without being certain of the answer. When you dismissed me before..." She paused and he cringed at the word. "Did you really want me out of your life? When all's said and done, aside from the self-sacrificing bullshit, is it really what you would have picked?"

"No," he answered, his voice hoarse. "Of course not. Do you really need to ask?"

"Maybe. Maybe I just need you to... say something."

He exhaled loudly. That was it. Time for definition. He braced himself and focused his shiny wet gaze on hers. "I'm in love with you Sara. I'm painfully, torturously in love with you. I think you're crazy to even consider waiting for me. But apparently, I can't stop you. And if you want me, I'm yours anyway you'll have me, because I don't think I'm gonna be able to love someone like that ever again. It's exhausting, and it's seriously messing with my mental balance. I have no idea how we're gonna pull this off. There's long-distance and then there's... this. I don't know how I'm gonna be able to function now I'm no longer forced to repress my memories of you. I have no idea how my brain is going to not implode from the idea that you still want me after everything, and enough to put up with this glass and this phone and the bulls listening to every word we say to each other. But if that's enough for you? Then it's fine with me."

"If that is not enough, I don't know what could ever be. And I love you, too. Actually," she added, suddenly certain she could feel the warmth of his hand from behind the glass, "I think all we need is a little faith, Michael."

"Faith will only get us so far."

"Well, it got us pretty far already, what with all the prison breaks, exonerations and presidential impeachments."

"Sara," he started, his voice suddenly shaky, "you need to understand that if I get my hopes up and you're not waiting for me in front of the building the day I'm getting out of here..."

"I'll be there, as close as they'll let me get," she assured him, watching his insecurities resurface visibly in his eyes.

"You know where you'll be in ten years? At what point in your life? What makes you so sure you're not gonna get tired of waiting? Or just meet somebody and..."

"I'm sure. I'm very sure, as sure as you can get. Besides, your brother keeps such a close watch on me I really doubt any man would consider asking me for out for fear of getting bitten."

"Lincoln tends to be overprotective," he said with a faint smile.

"Well, I hope that doesn't run in the family," she replied, and noticed with relief his smile was reaching his eyes.

"It's never going to be easy," he pointed out.

"Oh, so that's what I get for dating a convict with your track record." She paused. "It is, Michael. Life on the run, the fear, the tension, that wasn't easy. But you and me, what we've got, it's always been pretty simple."

"True, but I tend to complicate things."

"Oh, I can handle you. It's Lincoln I'm worried about. I think your bother is developing a very unhealthy fixation on our relationship. And his TV habits are concerning."

Before Michael could replied, a guard came to announce to visiting period was over. Both their faces fell.

"Okay, then. I'll see you next week, same place, same time," she announced, trying to keep her voice steady as she felt fresh tears burning her eyes. She hung up the phone before they could make any grandiose declaration or elaborate farewell.

This was not an ending, but a start.