She ignores the crick in her neck - that's what an hour's steady needle work will do to you – in pursuit of that last, final, stroke. Her tongue pressing against the back of her front teeth, she holds her breath as she etches the last line of the most complicated tattoo she's ever done. "That's it," she breathes out roughly, her gaze travelling over her customer's skin with weary triumph. "Can I just, ah, you know, look at it for a minute?"

He smiles at her. Two months ago, he'd walked into her shop, told her his name was John and that he'd been told she was the best in Chicago. She'd been flattered, but she'd known a fake name when she'd heard one. Still, he was charming and always smelled of soap and cologne and never once tried to hit on her, which made him a valued customer as far as she was concerned. "You're an artist, Syd."

There's a finality in his words that tells her he's not going to cave into her frequent requests to let her photograph his ink for her portfolio. She sits back on her stool, one hand on her lower back as she stretches her spine. "You telling me you're just gonna walk out of here and I'm never gonna see it again?"

His smile falters, then recovers quickly. "There's a good chance of that, yes."

Well, fuck. The most impressive work she's ever done, and she's lost the bragging rights. Still, a tattoo like this one, it's not as though people won't ask him who did his ink. Making a mental note to stock him up with a fistful of her business cards, she takes one last, long look at her work. "Most guys start, you know, for the first one they start with something small. Mom. Girlfriend's initials. Something like that. Not you." She grins at him hopefully, wondering if she might finally discover the story behind his haste. "You get a full sheet of sleeves all in a couple of months. Takes guys a few years to get the ink you got."

Sadly, her gentle fishing finds no answers. He merely shrugs and reaches for his shirt, gingerly shrugging into it. "I don't have a few years. Wish to hell I did."

She opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it again. What is there to say? He's already thrusting a wad of cash into her hand, way more than he owes her, and buttoning his shirt with those long well-manicured fingers so strangely at odds with the artwork that's now inked into his skin. "Well, John, it's been a pleasure."

He shakes her hand, the one that's not tightly gripping his money, and gives her one last smile. "You're a lifesaver, Syd."

It wasn't until a few months later, when she saw his brother's face on the evening news, that she realised just how prophetic his final words to her had been.

The FBI guy interviewing her is handsome in a scary "Beautiful Mind" kind of way. His pale blue eyes zero in on her face, as though he thinks the answer to his questions might be tattooed on the inside of her skull. No, she doesn't have any of the sketches of the design. No, he didn't talk about his plans. That's right, he always paid her in cash. She answers each and every questions as best she can, but she feels increasingly reluctant to tell him anything about her former customer – Michael fits him far better than John ever did - but she's got her livelihood to think about, and she can't afford to piss off the Feds.

"He designed the whole thing," she says for the fourth time, making it quite clear that she was only the one who laid the ink down, not the one who thought of the design, then adds for good measure. "I always sort of had the feeling the whole thing was some sort of inside joke that only he was in on."

The FBI agent's gaze narrows, and she can literally see the cogs and wheels of thought whirling in his head. "Thank you. That's all we need for now." He gives her a smile that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and not in a good way. "Don't leave town, though."

She nods, suddenly worried he can tell she's halfway to rooting for the escaped convicts, rather than the long arm of the law. She gets out of that building as fast as she can, decline the offer of a ride back to work. It's not far, and she needs the walk to clear her head. As soon as she's on the street, she inhales deeply, not caring that the dust of the city street tastes far staler than the air-conditioned building she's just left, and wonders exactly what the fuck was hidden in that damn tattoo.

She follows the story on the news as best she can, given her erratic working hours and late-night downtime spent catching up with friends in the business. She's not seeing anyone in particular right now, hadn't been seeing anyone when she'd started doing Michael Scofield's tattoo, so neither has to explain why she was hauled in by the police for questioning or why she's mildly obsessed with the Fox River Eight.

Weeks go by, then months. One by one, she sees the names of the recaptured escapees emblazoned across the newspapers. But the two names that seem to matter most, Burrows and Scofield, never appear on the list of the recaptured, and she can't help being relieved. She knows what the papers and the right-wing media are saying, but she can't reconcile the cold-blooded mastermind they're describing with the polite college grad who looked like a male model but behaved like a nerdy brainiac, keeping her smiling with his half-assed puns while she worked for hours on his tattoo.

She starts dating a solid guy she's known for a while through friends, a good guy who makes her feel good about herself and her work. Business is booming - the word on the street is that she did the infamous Fox River tattoo, and she's not about to turn away customers just because they're motivated by curiosity – and the busier she gets, the less she thinks about Michael Scofield. She tells her new guy about him, of course, because he's in the business too and because it's nice to have someone to tell. When he jokingly suggests she put a commemorative Fox River Eight plaque in her store, she's able to laugh without the slightest trace of embarrassment. He's a keeper, she decides.

Then, one day, she sees Michael Scofield's picture, along with his brother (now there's a face that goes well with the complicated artwork she can see on his forearms, not like his baby-faced sibling) alongside the words 'exonerated' and 'pardon'. There is a muted scandal, the newspaper stories so convoluted she has trouble following them, but it ends with the President stepping down because of ill-health and the Vice-President being hastily sworn in. Syd doesn't care about politics - she didn't vote for either candidate, after all - but when she watches the footage of Michael Scofield and his brother walking free from a Chicago courthouse, she smiles when she sees the blue ink peeking from beneath her former customer's shirt cuffs.

There's a woman with them, a leggy redhead who sticks close to Michael's side and keeps her head turned from the media pack as they make their way to a waiting car. Just as Syd realises she knows the woman's face - it's the dead Governor's daughter, right? - Michael puts his hand on the woman's back, whispering something in her ear. The Governor's daughter - suddenly seemingly uncaring of the cameras - smiles at him, her lips forming around words that look a lot like, "Love you, too." The three of them climb into the waiting car and then they're gone, moving through the media pack that lines the street outside the courtyard.

When the weather forecast kicks in, Syd picks up the remote and zaps the television into darkness. She used to think she was a cynic, but she can't stop herself pondering the best place to squeeze in a girlfriend's initials on that freaking tattoo.

Chicago is a huge city. You can go years without bumping into people who live on the next street. So, she thinks as she stares in disbelief at the familiar cropped head in front of her in the line at the coffee shop, of course it was inevitable that she would run into him one day. "You've got to be kidding me."

It's been over two years since the day he walked into her place, but he instantly turns at the sound of her voice, his eyes widening comically at the sight of her. "Syd."

"John." She raises her eyebrows at him. "Or, should I say, Michael."

He has the decency to blush, and it makes him look about twelve years old. "Uh, I guess I owe you an apology."

She looks at him, trying to decide if she has the energy to be angry. She doesn't, she decides. "What for? I had a great time being grilled by the FBI."

His expression tightens. "I'm really sorry about that." He waves a vague hand towards the menu on the board. "Will you let me pay for your coffee?"

"Yes, because that will totally make up for being hauled off by the Feds," she shoots back, then belatedly notices the wedding ring. "Hey, you're married now? Was it the Governor's daughter?" Other people might not think it polite to ask such direct questions, but she's spent the last three hours tattooing four German backpackers whose English was limited, to say the least. It's fair to say that her small talk skills are a little rusty today.

He grins, his awkwardness falling away in an instant. "Yes, and yes. She's outside, actually." He glances towards the door of the coffee shop, then back at her. "Listen, let me buy you a coffee, and I'll introduce you."

They're slammed at work – her two apprentices won't thank her for staying out longer than she promised – but curiosity gets the better of her. "Sure. You can buy me the most expensive coffee on the menu," she suggests as she points to a particular item on the board, "and make sure you give them a tip."

He chuckles as he turns away to place the order, leaving her free to study him at her leisure. He's put on some weight since she last saw him, and there are a few grey hairs, making him look like a long-retired male model, rather than someone who has just stepped out of a J-Crew catalogue. Not her type, but she sees the appeal.

A few minutes later, he's leading her to one of the outside tables, where the red-haired woman Syd had last seen on the evening news is sitting, a bottle of water in one hand and the handle of a stroller in the other, nudging it gently back and forth. Oh. There's a baby, too? Syd feels her mouth start to stretch in a grin, and knows that her inner cynic has just taken a tumble off her perch.

Sara Tancredi, the late Governor's daughter and notorious Bonnie to Michael Scofield's Clyde (according to certain right-wing media outlets who still won't let it go) smiles at her warmly as Michael haltingly introduces them. "So you're the amazing artist." The other woman's handshake is firm and still cool from holding her bottled water. "For a long time I thought Michael's Syd was a man, which was appallingly sexist of me," she says with a self-depreciating manner that endears her to Syd straight away. "It's nice to finally meet you," she adds as she gestures to the empty chair next to her.

Syd slides into the chair, trying not to be too obvious about peering into the stroller, but the baby is right there, dark hair and chubby legs and arms and a pretty face that could be either a copy of its mother or father, it's too early to tell. Or maybe she just knows squat about babies. "Cute," she offers finally, and Sara flashes her a bright smile.

"Thanks. We like him."

Michael is intently studying his coffee cup as though the apology he's planning might be found in the cappuccino foam, then he looks up at her. "I'm more sorry than I can say." He glances at his wife, as if seeking reassurance, then back at Syd. "I didn't think they'd come after you." He pauses, and there's that dark flush again, tainting his tanned face. "Then again, I didn't think through a lot of things."

"I'd be lying if I said being questioned by the FBI was an enjoyable experience, but I gotta tell you, I'e had more work than I can handle since you busted out."

Sara Tancredi seems amused. "Even bad publicity is good, right?"

Syd reaches for her coffee. "Damn straight. Word of mouth brought no end of gawkers and memento hunters straight to my door, nearly all of them wanting ink done by the same woman who'd helped the Fox River Eight make their escape."

"I'm sorry." Michael looks pained, but Syd's not in the mood for more apologies. So he'd given her a false name and she'd spent an afternoon with the men in black. He and his brother and the Governor's daughter have all been pardoned, so she'd obviously been right to secretly root for the 'bad' guys. "If there's anything I can do to make amends - "

Again, that little smile curves Sara's lips, and Syd hazards a guess that she's had to sit through this particular conversation more than once. "He'll keep offering until you suggest something," she says cheerfully, dancing her fingertips over her sleeping child's head, "so you should probably get it over with."

Syd ponders her grande chai latte for a moment, then grins. Of course she knows exactly what she wants from this guy. "Okay, there are two things you can do for me."

Michael's gaze is steady, as though he's bracing himself, and for a fleeting moment she's tempted to draw out the suspense. In the end, though, she thinks of her two apprentices, who are no doubt panicking by now, and cuts to the chase. She points to his wrists, at the blue ink showing where the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt have ridden up. "One, you can let me photograph your tattoo for my portfolio and two, you can tell me exactly what the hell I was actually tattooing all those weeks."

Both he and his wife start chuckling, as though she's stumbled into an inside joke only they share. "You could hardly take a less flattering photo than the FBI did, I guess," he finally says, his bright gaze dancing with amusement, "and I'd be happy to tell you the deep, dark secrets of the design, but you're going to need a spare couple of hours."

Syd shakes her head regretfully, knowing she's already going to be late for her next appointment and oh, how she'll never hear the end of it. "That's something I don't have today, but you're on a promise, okay?"

Then Sara is pressing something into her hand – Syd almost expects it to be money, but why would it be? – and she looks down to see that it's a card, etched with both their names and a single Chicago telephone number. "Maybe you could come to dinner sometime?" Michael's wife smiles at her as she drums her fingers lightly on the handle of the stroller. "I can promise you we're no longer on the most wanted list."

Syd returns the smile as she stands, sliding the card into her pocket before she picks up her coffee. "That would be great," she hears herself agreeing without hesitation. Not her usual circle of friends, that's for sure, but since when did she care about labels? These two have obviously been through way too much to give a damn what anyone thinks, and she's gotta admire them for that. "I'll give you a call as soon as I work out my schedule for the month." Michael smiles at her. "Great."

Syd hesitates, suddenly feeling like an interloper for the first time. It's not them, it's her, and she's now so late she's never going to be able to rag on her apprentices for their crappy timekeeping again. "It was nice to meet you."

Michael's wife flashes her a genuine smile that reaches her eyes and makes it easy to forget both who her father was and what she must have been through. "Likewise." She looks pointedly at where Syd had tucked away their card. "I meant it about dinner."

Syd taps her pocket. "Sure."

Michael stands as well, and judging from his face, there's something else he wants to say to her. She waits, expectant, conscious of the ticking watch on her wrist and the gurgling of the now-awake baby across the table. "Thank you, Syd." He holds out his hand to her, his throat working as he swallows hard. "You were a lifesaver."

She shakes his hand, knowing it doesn't matter if she goes to dinner with them or if she never sees them again. If she believed in the elusive beast known as closure, she's pretty sure this would be it. "So I heard on the news." He smiles at that, and she feels compelled to add, "Speaking of which, tell your brother that if he wants any more ink done, it's on the house."

"Are you sure? He'll probably take you up on that."

Syd shrugs. "Not every day I get to help bust an innocent dude out of jail."

Michael's smile widens. "I'm guessing that's not what you said to the FBI."

"You guess right." She raises her takeout cup to him. "And thanks for the coffee."

That night, she flakes out on the couch, her feet dangling over the armrest, a beer dangling from her hand. The television is flickering softly in the corner, and her man is on his way to the apartment after picking up an order of their neighborhood's best pizza and ribs. As she sips her beer, she thinks of Michael Scofield and the fear she'd seen in his eyes every time he'd sat in her chair. She'd thought it was good old tattoo anxiety, but it had turned out to be so much more. He'd had so many other reasons to be afraid, no wonder he hadn't baulked at a full torso and sleeves. She silently lifts her drink to Michael Scofield, to his pretty wife and their child and his innocent brother, still more than a little amazed that she'd actually been involved in one of the craziest news stories she's ever followed.

Maybe she'll put up that commemorative plaque after all.