You could have argued he was tricking her, giving her the illusion of power when he was still in full control, when he could turn the tables on her any minute.

But Sara knew, simply knew, in her bones, this wasn't true.

Michael sat on one of the armchairs in her living room. Plump, fake-leather into which he sank demurely. The couch, opposite the television which had enabled Sara to follow the news so closely these past few months, was more comfortable, but Michael blushed at the mere sight of it.

Sara, too, could remember the both of them embracing on a couch like this one…

John Abruzzi surprising them, like cursed lovers; but of course, that wasn't what they had been.

There was still that image in Sara's head, planting seeds in winter and waiting for flowers.

But that didn't take away all that had happened between them.

She remembered the force of his body, tackling her to the ground, half naked, in the woods. His silent agreement when they tired her up. The things he'd done and others he'd abided. She remembered.

"Coffee?"

"No. Please, don't bother yourself."

It was no bother. She was going to make some, anyway, because she'd never get through this without some sort of stimulant. Especially, she was looking for something that might stand between she and Michael, something concrete, a porcelain mug in her hand – anything between the vividness of their feelings, rising fresh from the ground, opening wounds she felt had never stopped bleeding.

Those dreams, she felt, those dream when she looked up and there he was, standing and –

Sara's hand tremored slightly around the knob of the kettle. In the kitchen, momentarily concealed from Michael's eyes, she took all the time she could. Pouring herself a cup, and pouring him one, while she was at it. If he didn't drink it, she would. Though it took effort for her hands to remain steady around the tray when she laid it on the coffee table, she pulled through.

It was only when the tray was there, between them, that the absurdity of it all struck her across the face. Icy and harsh. It hurt like a slap.

The sound of breaking glass waking her at night, the sight of Michael's shoes as she hid under the bed and he went to search her bedroom, to see if the house was occupied.

And here she was, having him in her home.

Sara wished she could throw the tray against the wall, boiling water and all. But it would only be a pointless show of feelings. After all, it wasn't Michael's fault. He'd objected to her making coffee.

"So," she said.

He looked at her readily. Yes, she could tell, completely in her power – if she asked him to give himself over to the police and subject himself to their trials once again, he would. Hell. She thought he might throw himself out the window right at this instant, if she demanded it.

"I thought I'd worked out all my anger issues."

He nodded. "You should be angry, Sara. You should probably hate me."

"And you shouldn't tell me what I should feel."

He nodded again. Though she could see it was hard for him, not having control (especially with her), he didn't lower his eyes from hers. Good. What had she to be merciful for?

Oh, she didn't wish Michael any ill, certainly – before this very moment, she had been very certain she actually wished him well, that he was a young man who'd been through enough in a lifetime.

Not right now, surprisingly.

Right now, he was only the man who'd violated her privacy, once upon a lifetime, and had turned her life into something of a nightmare. He hadn't done it alone. But, of course, none of the others had come here to take full blame.

"I came here because you deserve justice."

"How do you propose to give me that?"

His mouth opened on air that looked solid enough for him to choke. Maybe he'd been planning for her to tell him, like she had a revenge-plan well prepared in the back of her head.

"I don't think you can." She said. Merciful, in the end. "I don't think your being sent to prison would ease my mind at all – it might actually make things worse."

"There must be a way," he said, solemnly – as if his willingness to do anything she asked of him couldn't lead him to a dead end, "that I can do something for you. That I can repair what I've done."

"Why?"

He was silent.

"Because you want to?"

Sara wanted to smile. She felt it would have been easy to smile, and yet, her lips remained frozen, serious – maybe because of the way they'd looked at each other, when he was pinning her to the ground, both of them terrified, but it was her naked thighs against the dewy glass, her hands being held above her head.

"You think that because you're sorry, because you did all of that to save your brother – that there's some magical way you can fix what happened, Michael?"

"When we said goodbye." He spoke softly. Not trying to coax her. "At the cabin –"

"I said you'd paid enough. And I believe that. It doesn't mean that you can take away the things that happened to me."

The sharp exhale of air he let out was inaudible. She imagined this is what he must look like, in front of a difficult puzzle – and she doubted it happened to him very often, finding things difficult.

"So, where does that leave us?"

Sara reached across the table for her mug of coffee but didn't raise the brim to her lips. She didn't want to break eye-contact with him. "You want my best guess?"

"Do we have to guess?"

"What's our other option?"

He was silent again, waiting for her to resume.

"I think we should sit there for a moment." She said. "Look at each other. Give me time to look at you, when you have no power over me – set my mind at peace, with a little luck. Give you time to look at me in a better state than I was when you held me captive in my own home. Restore us as equals."

He didn't nod. Possibly, his mouth was too dry for words. "Then?"

"Then, considering all that's happened – I think, Michael, that I'll forgive you. And we'll both be better off."

"Forgive me." He repeated.

"Yes. Isn't that enough?"

She knew it wasn't before she had to ask, before she saw the look on his face. Of course, he could never forgive himself.

"You've done awful things to me, Michael." She said, not coldly, but without emotion – she'd resent for him to make her up to be a martyr. "But I believe that, according to the circumstances, you've also done what you could to make sure worse things didn't happen. You killed someone for me. I'll never forgive that. And I don't want you to walk out of this apartment and disappear from my life. I'm not ready for that. Though you're responsible for what happened to me, you're also one of the only persons who can understand it, and I'm not ready to face it alone. But, for now," she added, "forgiveness is all I can give you."

He shook his head. "That's what you want? For me to walk out of here – a free man? No punishment?"

"Well, if you want to get on your knees and whip yourself, go ahead. Just don't mind I won't be watching."

Michael actually chuckled – unsure, she could tell, whether she was joking or not, and plainly too surprised to help himself. "But you've said," he made sure, "you think you might want me to come back here?"

"Maybe not for some time. But, yes – I do think it wouldn't be the least therapeutic activity."

To be fair, she didn't really think "therapeutic" was the right word for it. She'd given up on therapy. But Michael didn't correct her. Didn't suggest there might be anything else to it.

The truth of each other's mind was, in the end, still as plain as it had been, inexplicably, in those woods.

"And there's nothing I can do, in the meantime?"

Sara considered this for a second. "Don't drink your coffee."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good." She had a sip of hers only, then she put her mug back on the table and stared at him.

They were no longer worlds away from each other, as they had been when she was a prisoner and he wandered freely in her house. Still, between them was the free flow of time, wounds that had tried to sew themselves shut, pain that had turned solid as crystal or left gaping holes, like mouths begging for a drop to drink. Sara knew about that, certainly.

But she felt there were certain wounds they could help each other heal.

…

End Notes: This was an important story for me, and rather a long one, all things considered. Please let me know your final thoughts and whether you'd like to see more of such darkish material.

Now, I'd just like to make one last statement before I close this story, and it might seem a bit contradictory: I really don't support the "abduction as romance" trope (though I did write a Mi/Sa fic that exactly fits that pattern, it was many years ago, before I had time to really reflect on the problems it posed in the representations of power relations between men and women). That is, I don't generally like or approve of fictions in which the female protagonist falls in love with a man who has held illegitimate control over her, under any circumstances. At the beginning, I had no intention for this to turn out as a romance: it was going to be a horror story, and it would be terrible to see Mi/Sa brought together in such a situation. Though there was certainly passion between them (and even some kissing) I really would appreciate if you wouldn't see it as actual romance – more of a desperate way to deal with desperate times? Maybe it's just that romance is so absurdly easy to write in an abduction story that it felt natural – or that I can't imagine any story in which Mi/Sa wouldn't end up together, even with some abducting in it. Anyway, I realize this is an awfully long end note, but it really felt to me like I had to get this out of the way.

Best to you all!