Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Giving the circumstances, she can be forgiven for being a little slow on the uptake. After all, it's not every week you find out you're pregnant. She walks around in a pleasant haze for several days, only vaguely aware that Michael's habit of over-thinking every single thing in the universe has swiftly escalated. In fact, she's so blissfully distracted that it takes over a week to notice that his usual solicitous behavior has graduated from endearing to suffocating.

Ten days after they discover they're going to be parents, Sara decides that if she hears the words let me get that for you one more time, she isn't going to be responsible for her actions. Having managed to convince Michael to let her prepare dinner (he's either cooked or brought home takeout every night for the past week), she pours herself a glass of chilled juice and contemplates the contents of their freezer, enjoying the welcome sensation of the icy mist kissing her heated face and throat. It's been yet another humid day, and while the air is now thick with the promise of a thunderstorm, she's beginning to wonder at the wisdom of insisting she be the one inhabiting the too-warm kitchen this evening.

Pasta, she decides, mentally flicking through the requirements of fresh tomato and basil and garlic. Quick and easy, not to mention something she suddenly really feels like eating, a rarity at this point in time. Her choice made, she pulls the container of dried pasta from the pantry, then turns to grab the largest pot they own.

"Let me get that for you."

Perhaps she should be impressed Michael still has the ability to sneak up on her without her noticing, but the words hackles and raised are flashing through her head like a neon danger sign, and she knows she's had enough. She wraps her fingers firmly around his wrist as he reaches past her to the shelf next to the stove. "It's okay, I've got it."

"It's too heavy for you."

She tugs his hand down, putting herself between him and his goal. "Michael, I'm pregnant, not incapacitated." Even to her own ears, her voice holds a faintly strangled tone, and she's not surprised when he hesitates, his bright gaze holding hers. She can almost see the cogs turning in his mind, cataloging everything he's researched about pregnant women and hormones and mood swings. She hates to admit it, but the thought annoys her almost as much as being treated as though she's suddenly lost the use of her limbs as well as her common sense. She loves that he's so thrilled about her pregnancy (more than she can say) but she has no intention of spending the next six month trying to convince him she's capable of carrying out the simplest of tasks. "You've got to stop this, okay?"

A frown puckers his forehead as he gently tugs his wrist out of her grasp. "Stop what?"

"This." She nods towards the pot on the shelf, torn between the fear of sounding petty and the knowledge that she can't bear another six months of this. "Worrying that I'm going to hurt myself if I lift anything heavier than a coffee cup, not letting me cook dinner or do the laundry, suggesting I speak to the clinic about shortening my hours."

He lifts his hands as if in surrender, then drops them as if in defeat. "I just want you to be safe."

Her heart twists at his wistful expression, but irritation has her firmly in its grip, and she can't shake it off. "I'm a doctor, Michael." She flicks her fingertips over the worryingly limp bunch of basil lying on the counter, wishing her life was as simple as tossing together a pasta sauce. "I'm not going to do anything I shouldn't."

His mouth twists in a wry smile. "I seem to recall hearing those exact same words before. Ten seconds before you almost cracked your head on the rocks off the point, remember?"

Her irritation combusts, morphing into a cold rush of anger. "Seriously?" She stares at him. "I misjudged a wave almost a year ago, so I'll probably take unnecessary risks with my pregnancy?"

He looks pained, frustration dulling his usually vivid eyes. "I didn't mean it like that."

She steps around him, neatly avoiding his hands as he reaches for her. Her skin feels hot and itchy, as if it would feel like sandpaper if she let him touch her. "I'm going for a walk."

"Where?"

Her bare feet slap on the wooden floor as she hastens her stride towards the door. "Anywhere."

"Anywhere but here?"

The obvious distress in his voice momentarily stops her in her tracks, but she doesn't turn to look at him. If she looks at him, she will stay and pretend it doesn't matter, and she knows she desperately needs some solitude, for both their sakes. "Something like that," she mutters, her own frustration making her cruel in a way that would shock her if she could think of anything else but the need to be alone.

"There's a storm coming."

His voice is closer now, and she knows he's almost at her side. "I'll be fine."

"Wait, I'll come-"

Wrenching open the door, she closes it on his voice and walks away from the house. She watches her feet as they move, pale against the overgrown grass, then sinking into the soft clasp of the warm sand. With each step, she tries and fails to swallow the tears burning her throat.

God damn it.

She walks down to the water's edge, letting the waves lick at her feet as she makes her way down the beach. The sky is dark with a thick bank of rolling clouds, turning the normally blue horizon into a dull gray, the scent of salt and brine and the promise of rain filling her nose. The wind stings her eyes, almost disguising the tears silently rolling down her face.

Smoothing her hand over the almost indiscernible swell of her belly, she thinks of the man she's just left behind. This should be so simple, because she loves him more than she ever thought possible, but life with Michael Scofield has made it clear that sometimes the simplest things are the most complicated of all.