Characters: Sara Tancredi (primarily), Michael Jr., Lincoln Burrows, Michael Scofield, ensemble
Word Count: 400
Spoilers: For the series, I guess.
Summary: A lot can happen in four years...
Author's Note: I think (but am cautious of shutting doors on myself) that this will be my last PB fanfic. It's multichaptered, but will not go on indefinitely; it has seven parts, plus this prologue. But what you all really want to know: is it AU, or is it canon? It's canon...all events through TFB apply. But after lots of thought, I think I've found some notably ambiguous weak spots in canon that I can bend to my will. *g* The concept of a fake death is not an original one, I know (we've all hashed it over and even hoped for it), and that made me think: if we all thought of it, wouldn't Sara have as well? I know there will likely be lots of fics that feature this concept in some manner, but it's my hope that this one might put a different spin on it. No beta, but there are a few special people with whom I brainstormed this idea, and if they ever want to be a part of writing it, I will be honored.
Each year, she dresses up, wears her hair down. She selects flowers that are not only appropriate for a gravesite, but also compliment her complexion as she lays them against the length of one lightly tanned arm, milky-white petals cradled against the light breeze as she would a newborn--as she had a newborn, not so terribly long ago.
She always dresses Michael carefully as well. She had chosen the Converse from his closet because they’re the sneakers he insists on wearing everyday; they’re indicative of him…his favorites, his own emerging tastes. This year, she had allowed him the tattoo on a whim.
Before handing the paper crane over for safekeeping in Lincoln’s breast pocket, she had penned a note, just three words, on the underside of one wing. She imagines it tucked there, against the fold, protected as a sea bird would conceal an yet-un-hatched chick against dense down until cracked open in offering.
It’s taken her three of the past four years to convince Linc that any of it matters.
She’s touched, as she is every year, that Alex and Fernando both make the pilgrimage. She knows they have lives, families, things they’d really rather forget. So does she. They embrace, pat Michael on the head, pay their respects. She squats, Michael resting between her legs, the sun on his dark shirt warming her bare shoulder, and she waits. She places a kiss to his temple and stares outward, her eyes trained on the stretch of beach just to the right of the headstone, her gaze rising to the ocean, then the horizon.
Maybe this year, she thinks, but in her heart, she knows she’s still a widow.
And yet--always--she’s convinced of two things: One, on that night, in that subterranean network of hallways and exit routes below the prison chapel, his Plan A had been to die for her.
And two, he never, ever, did anything without a Plan B.