Current mood:	okay
Entry tags:	fanfiction, michael scofield, michael/sara, prison break, sara tancredi

ms fic: mornings
Title: Mornings
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Words: 2,145
Rating: PG
Summary: Sara likes to sleep in, Michael not so much.

AN: This is non-epilogue-compliant. No sadness, only happiness.

On the seventh morning in their house, Sara wakes to find Michael Blu-Tacking paint samples to the bedroom wall. He places them next to the bay window that had caught Sara’s eye when they first looked at the house not long ago.

"What do you think?" he asks, not turning around but knowing she's awake by the sound of the covers rustling: Sara is a still sleeper, at least since the chaos ended and freedom was found.

"Sleeep," she groans, muffled into the pillow.

He turns and sees her pulling the covers over her head. He makes a few steps over towards the bed and sits on the ground beside it, so to be at eye level with her. Running a hand over her quilt-covered head, he speaks softly.

"Just tell me which colour first, so I can go and get the paint."

She sighs, and sits up, her pregnant belly hidden beneath the baggy t-shirt she wears, only just noticeable. Michael watches her face form a look of concentration - and an attempt at annoyance he knows she doesn't really mean. She observes the wall opposite the bed and studies the colour samples: four different shades of yellow, a bunch of pale greens, a couple of blues.

"I like the top yellow," she says after a moment. "Or the middle one."

His eyes turn back to the wall, observing her choices. "Sandy Story or Summer Dust," he says, before standing and wandering over to the dresser. He picks up duplicate copies of Sara's selected colours - blue-tack prepped - and climbs onto the bed beside Sara, kneeling on it and sticking the duplicates to the wall, just above the headboard.

"You remembered the colours' names?" she asks, for the text is too tiny to read from such a distance. "Or do you have them tattooed somewhere here," she teases, running a hand under the hem of his black long-sleeve shirt, lifting it up and peeking under in joking search of ink.

"All in here," he taps his temple and gives a smug grin down at her.

She smiles and slides back down, pulling the covers up to her chest and nestling her head back into the soft pillow. Tilting her head backwards, she looks back at the wall behind her, observing it upside-down.

"What about on this wall? Do you like one more?" Michael asks.

“They look the same as they do on the other wall,” she says with a laugh.

“No, it’s different light here,” he says.

“Ohh,” she says, not surprised at his thouroughness. She extends an arm in the air, pointing to one of them. "I think that one," she says.

"Summer Dust it is," he says, pulling it from the wall and sitting next to her, tapping it a few times against his palm.

"Wait, are you happy with that colour?" she asks.

"I'm happy if you are," he says honestly. "But I was actually leaning towards the yellows, too." He smiles and presses a quick kiss to her lips.
"I'll be back soon, go back to sleep," he whispers.

"If you insist," she teases, unusually dramatically, and rolls over, nestling down into their comfy bed.

"Sweet dreams," he whispers, with a kiss to her head before leaving. Sara's eyes close as her heart skips a beat in eager anticipation; soon, he'll be saying that to their child.


On the twenty-first morning in their house, Sara wakes to the sound of Michael talking.

"Thanks," she hears him say, then the sound of the front door closing.

She waits, half-expecting him to come in and wake her with news. She hears nothing. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table - his bedside table - she sees it's 9:30. Michael would have been up for a couple of hours by now, at least. She feels a little bad for sleeping in late.

"What's that?" she asks, sleepily wandering into the living room a few minutes later. Feet bare, she wears pajama pants and a t-shirt, a warm dressing gown draped over her shoulders.

"Hey," he says. Then, in response to her question, he holds up a book. “Baby books,” he says, with a cheeky, youthful smile that touches her heart. “Oh, and DVDs,” he adds.

“That looks like a lot more than we chose.” A week ago, they had ordered a bundle of baby books and DVDs online, Michael reading reviews of each before they chose which to select.

“I added a few,” he confesses with an ever so subtle shrug.

“A few?” she teases, sitting down on the comfy blue couch and observing the large box on the wooden coffee table.

“Overinformed remember?” Michael says with a smile, sitting beside her on the couch.

“Okay,” she laughs, watching as Michael takes the books and DVDs out of the box one by one, stacking them in piles - systematically, she’s sure, which is why she lets him do it without removing any herself.

When the right of the two DVD piles is three cases tall, she can’t help but reach for the top one.

“Prenatal yoga?” she says disbelievingly, eyebrows raised as she reads the front of the box.

“I read a few articles about it,” he says. Then, as if expert, he adds, “It helps with aches and is meant to make labor easier.”

“Okay, then,” she says with a smile, pretending to be convinced.

“You don’t have to...” he says, embarrassed.

“No, no, no. I’m just kidding. It’s great, I’ll definitely try it,” she says, a hand on his knee. “But not when you are home to see.”

He smiles at her then tips his head to the side as if in thought. “Well, it does have a massage section as well, but you would need a partner to actually give you the massage so…”

“Fine, you can stay,” she says, a joking act of exceptional generosity. “But no laughing if I am hopeless at it,” she orders.

“I promise,” he says with a smile, his eyes meeting hers.

If there’s just one thing that their freedom has proven to her, it’s that Michael Scofield comes good on his promises.


On the fifty-first morning in their home, Sara wakes to find Michael beside her. He’s sitting up with two pillows behind him, a book open in his hands. He’s dressed in jeans and a basic long-sleeve shirt, socks covering his feet. She can’t help but think how good he looks. Not only in terms of his attractiveness, but his entire demeanor. He’s relaxed, and she loves it.

“Good morning,” he says, looking away from the book and down at her.

“What are you doing?” she asks, knowing that no matter how nice it is to see him relaxed, it is not common for him to be. Not, at least, so much so that he has obviously awoken, got dressed and then headed back to bed to … chill?

“Waiting,” he answers vaguely.

“What for?”

“For you to wake up.  I have something to show you.”

“Okay…”

“Come on,” he says, hopping up of the bed and holding a hand to out her. She takes his hand and gets up, letting him lead her into the hallway and then into the unfinished nusery, opposite their bedroom. In the centre of the room stands a complete, golden wood crib.

“I don’t know where it should go exactly, I thought we should decide that together.”

“We only bought it last night..!” she remarks, impressed and surprised that it’s already completely set up.

“You were so excited about it, I wanted to have it put together as soon as possible,” he says, a hand resting on the crib.

She tears her eyes off the beautiful crib and meets his gaze. “Thank you,” she says, touched. She moves to stand next to him and lets her hands carefully trace over the wood.

“Oh and it’s a good, solid design. I tested the construction and strength,” he says.

“I’m not even going to ask how,” she says with a laugh, leaning into him.

“Makes it real, doesn’t it?” he says after a few moments of silence, as they gaze at the fine piece before them.

“I think this right here makes it pretty real,” she jokes, pointing down at her large belly before laying her hand against it. Then, after a moment she speaks again. “Yes. It does.”

He kisses her head and places his hand over hers. “I’m excited too,” he breathes into her hair. “Insanely.”


On the eighty-third morning in their home, Sara wakes to find Michael sitting on the ground at the foot of the bed.

Pushing down the covers and sitting on the end of it, she peers down at him - tilting forward a little to compensate for her belly blocking her view.

"What are you doing?" she asks, a curious smile on her lips.

He looks up and sees her, messy red hair and sleepy eyes that somehow still seem alert. Smiling instantly, he places a quick kiss on her lips. "Good morning."

She smiles but raises her eyebrows, curiosity and confusion still apparent on her face.

Relenting, Michael looks up at her and she sees he is holding a tape measure.

"I think we put the bed in the wrong place. It would fit better against that wall," he points to the wall opposite, to the narrow space between the door and two bookcases.

Her eyes drift over to the wall. "Then we'd have to move the bookcases," she says.

"Just one of them," he argues. "And you are not moving any bookcases. Linc and I can do it."

She smiles. She has to admit, she doesn't entirely dislike his protectiveness. "But why not just leave the bed here?"

"Because if we put it there, then it'll be right next to the door."

"So..."

"If the baby comes during the night it'll be quicker for us to get to the hospital if we can get of the bedroom fast."

He watches her face break out in the big, beautiful smile he loves, a slight laugh escaping her lips.

"What?" he says genuinely.

She shakes her head and meets his eyes, wiggling forward a little and leaning down to kiss him, bracing her hands on his shoulders so as not to topple off the bed entirely. "I love you."


On the one hundred and fourteenth morning in their home, Michael wakes to find Sara standing at the end of the bed.

“Michael,” she says. “It’s time.”

“Time, time?”

She nods.

"Let's go," he says, grabbing her bag for the hospital - he'd insisted it be packed weeks ago.

"No, no, not yet.” she lays a hand on his arm as he reaches her. “There's a while to go yet," she says.

"Are you sure...?" he aks, worry evident on his face and comforting hands against her, one gently on her belly, the other on her neck.

"Yes," she says, nodding, her face showing subtle signs of pain. "You did all that research remember? No hospital until..."

"…the contractions are four minutes apart and last a minute,” he finishes her sentence, his newly-acquired knowledge coming back to him after an initial anxious fluster. “Okay, we've got to time the contractions," he says. He ushers her into the living room and onto the couch before standing up to go and get the stopwatch - bought months ago when he first read of this crucial aspect.

“Michael?” she says and he turns back and crouches in front of her when he sees a sudden glimmer of worry in her eyes.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” he says, hands gently on her knees. “It’s gonna be fine. Just think, we get to meet our baby today.”

“Didn’t your research tell you how long labor can last, especially for a first child?” she says, drawing out the word long as if to further make her point.

“Nah, this baby is ready to meet us too. They’ll be here soon,” he says confidently; noting how this may be the last time he’d have to use ‘they’ as the pronoun for their baby, rather than ‘he’ or ‘she’ - Sara had had to convince him that a surprise was best.

“You’re sure of that are you?” she teases.

“Definitely. Trust me.”

“I do,” she says, meeting his eyes and speaking generally.

He smiles and kisses her briefly yet tenderly before standing. “I’ll be right back,” he says, dashing out of the room in search of the stopwatch.
Sara leans back into the comfy couch they had chosen together just a few months earlier, her hands resting flat on her belly.

Another contraction hits just as Michael reappears in the room, but somehow, more than anything, what she feels is joy.