Fandom: Prison Break
Rating: PG 13
Warnings: Alcohol; mild language; mild Season One spoilers.
Disclaimer: Not mine, sadly.
I can see the something in your eyes,
You just took a fall from paradise.
I don't want to lose my head today,
But I know there's something in the way.
Maybe I made a big mistake last night,
When I left you alone with Chelsea.
Origami. Such a strange prison-time occupation, she thinks. Such a strange man, she thinks, and giggles.
She takes another gulp from the bottle, shudders as the amber liquid makes its way down her throat and screams its alcohol content at her. She slumps against her couch pillows and twirls the object in her hand between her fingers.
Note: a drunken Sara is endlessly entertained by small things. Large things too, of course, but that's beside the point.
The red origami flower in her hand counts as both. The flower itself is small, but the man behind it? Definitely not. She giggles at the idea of calling Michael Scofield small. True, he's not the largest man she's ever met, but he has presence. She thinks maybe she isn't drunk enough if she can think about presence, so she swigs some more.
But she is angry at him, isn't she? She tries hard to think beyond the fuzzy haze the alcohol has so kindly provided. With a thud of startling clarity, she remembers. Right. Michael Scofield is a liar. A damned liar, with eyes so intense they send her reeling, and lips like heaven. But a liar, she reminds herself. Oh, and he used her.
And left her.
But she tries to ignore that thought. It doesn't work very well, but another gulp helps. She eyes the colored paper flower in her hand, appreciates the deft folds and precise work, and idly wonders what else his fingers can do.
Note: a drunken Sara equals a dirty Sara. Figuratively, of course.
And she is still angry at Michael Scofield.
Damn him and his eyes. Damn him and his hands. (And his chest, her mind fills in helpfully. Don't forget that tattoo, or the softness of his skin, or his voice, or his mouth.) She opens a new bottle.
The new bottle was on the counter. A bright colored lighter sits innocently close to where it was, next to the candles she lights after difficult days. Sara looks at the flower in her hands, and at the lighter on the counter.
Paper is flammable. She is angry.
Note: a drunken Sara is a pyro Sara. She is also a stupid Sara.
Damn Michael Scofield, with his charming manner, good looks, and sweet gestures. She picks up the lighter and flicks a flame into being. She watches it move for a moment; enjoys the unpredictable nature and the raw beauty.
Then she brings the edge of the flame in contact with the flower. She watches for a minute, puts the lighter down on the table, sits down on her couch, and watches the flame lick the edge of the flower, slowly turning red into brown into black.
And as the flame reaches its way down the flower, Sara panics. Damn it, Michael made her the flower, and other than the crane, it's the only physical reminder she has of him.
She desperately reaches out with her other hand, tries to smother the quickly growing flame with her fingers.
Note: a drunken Sara is never rational. Or particularly inclined to think, then act. After all, she is drunk.
She gasps with the pain as the heat on her fingers grows, but she keeps touching the flame, trying so hard to put it out. She closes her fist around the flower, holds it there until she doesn't feel the active heat anymore.
The flower lies limply in her palm when she opens her hand. It's crumpled, and more than a little charred, but it is the most beautiful thing Sara's seen and she cries.
Tears stream down her face as she gently straightens the petals and blows off the ash. Her hand aches, burnt, and she gets up and turns on her tap, cold, shoving her hand under it as she cries.
Her head pounding, her hand throbbing, and her face wet, Sara holds onto the edge of the sink for support and cries out the anger, the hurt, and the disappointment.
Note: a drunken Sara is a vulnerable Sara.
And the man standing in her doorway cries too.