out_there | PB Fic: Your New Twin Sized Bed

Title: Your New Twin Sized Bed
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Alex + Michael/Sara (or arguably Alex/Michael/Sara)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10,770
Notes: Future fic. Title from Death Cab For Cutie's song, "Your New Twin Sized Bed" which really set the tone for this. Sad to say, but I now have a whole playlist of angsty post-break-up songs. Huge thanks to

sdwolfpup for betaing and sticking with this, and making it a far better story than it would have been. (And for making me mentally think of this story as "The Ikea Furniture of Angst".)

Summary: Alex takes a two bedroom apartment that's close to his new office. The main bedroom is serviceably large, but it seems too big after months spent in a cabin, feels too empty after sharing a small boat with Michael and Sara, so Alex buys a large desk and makes it a study. The second room is tiny, but it fits a twin sized bed and a bedside table.

When Alex signs the contract -- after he's found out where his desk is, which view of rooftops, glass and concrete will be his for the next year or so -- he arranges to take the next day off to find an apartment. He doesn't want to live in small inner-city hotel room for any longer than he has to.

He ends up with a two bedroom apartment that's close to the office, has good locks on the doors and, most importantly, is available now. The main bedroom is serviceably large, but it seems too big, too empty after months spent in a cabin, so Alex buys a large desk and makes it a study.

The second room is tiny, but it fits a twin sized bed and a bedside table.

***

Being a consultant isn't like being an agent -- no weapons, no visiting crime scenes unescorted, no judgment calls -- but it's close enough. There are sudden cases, unexpected twists, surprise calls from Lang to run something by him quickly. It's challenging and exciting, and Alex genuinely loves it.

Loves his job more than he has in years.

Loves the exhilaration of slotting pieces together and the adrenaline rush of waiting for his phone to ring, waiting to find out if it worked or didn't. Loves the buzz of activity in the office when new evidence is found, loves working with agents who consider this important, who see nothing wrong with ordering Chinese and working until midnight.

Of course, there are things about his life that he's not happy about. The bare living room waiting for him, because buying a couch for one person wasn't a high priority. The cartons of leftover take-out in the fridge and the knowledge that if he emptied those out, the shelves would be empty.

The view from the study window -- hulking outlines of buildings, hard lines dissecting the sky as they stretch up -- and the way it always makes him think of Michael.

The NA meetings he religiously attends and detests; every first step into a room full of strangers and the part of him that always wishes Sara was waiting outside.

But he loves every hour he spends working, and that's something.

***

Alex is turning a whiteboard marker in his fingers, staring at the glass board listing sightings and dates. There's a pattern to the locations but he's tried three theories today and, so far, none of them match closely enough for Alex to be sure.

"Hey," someone calls out, and when Alex turns his head, Agent Clarke is holding up a phone. "It's your ex-wife."

Alex nods, capping the marker, and heads back to his desk. He and Pam don't talk often, but she knows his contact details, knows she can call if she needs him. Whatever's going on must be important for her to call, so he picks up the phone on the first ring. "Pam?"

"Close."

Alex has to close his eyes against the sound of Sara's voice. He raises a hand to his forehead, trying to hide his expression from the rest of the room. "Need something?"

"That was it?" Sara says, and Alex doesn't know how to read her tone. Wishes she were in the same room so he could see the set of her shoulders, the twist of her mouth. "You leave and you don't call, you don't write? You just disappear. No phone number, no forwarding address."

Alex tightens his grip on the phone. "I'm pretty sure I took all my stuff with me." He doesn't point out that she's calling him, that she didn't need his number to find him. He doesn't ask if Michael knows she's calling.

He doesn't want to know.

There's a sigh. Alex can picture her strained smile perfectly. "Really, Alex, is that it? One fight and... it's just over?"

"It wasn't--" Alex stops himself. He can still remember the anger sour at the back of his throat, twisting tight and sharp inside him; he can remember the things he said -- the petty, vicious almost-truths -- and the expression on Michael's face. Can remember Michael yelling, goading and accusing him.

The shock of Michael shoving him back is still clear, crystallized in his memory along with his own urge to hurt, to inflict pain. To punch and kick and draw blood. To lash out and break bones.

Alex still doesn't know what was worse: how close he came to violence or the flinch when Michael saw it in his eyes.

Alex has already been divorced once. Sometimes, it's a choice between walking away, or staying, watching as you destroy the person you love. "It's for the best, Sara."

"No, it's not. It was one fight, Alex. One stupid fight that blew out of control, and we deserve better than this."

"Yeah, you do." It's the most honest thing Alex has said in weeks. "You both do."

"That wasn't what I meant," Sara bites back, "and you know it. If you'd just stop being so stubborn, if you'd just think--"

"Don't try to fix this." If Alex sounds defeated, well, he is. But he's only got himself to blame. "It isn't in Michael's best interest."

"Maybe this isn't all about Michael."

Alex laughs. From the look Agent Clarke shoots him, there's a touch of hysteria to the sound. Alex rubs a hand against his mouth, claws his fingernails into control and drags it back. "Take care," he says and hangs up before Sara wastes any more time on a lost cause.

***

That night, Alex stays unnecessarily late. Skips the meeting he should attend. Dawdles down streets on his way home.

He passes a store window of golden bottles on metal shelves, and pauses. Finds himself staring at the black label of Jack Daniel's. For a moment, all Alex wants to do is buy it, take it home and see how fast he can work his way to the bottom of the bottle. He can almost feel the burn in his throat, and he knows that after half a bottle, he wouldn't feel anything at all.

Alex shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps walking. Exchanging one addiction for another isn't much of an improvement.

***

Sara calls again the next day. This time, it doesn't take him by surprise. Well, not as much. "What did you need?" he asks, after Sara says his name.

"Are you always going to be this rude?"

"Are you going to keep calling me for absolutely no reason?" Alex asks, relieved that it's lunchtime and the office is virtually empty.

"Being rude won't make me stop calling." Sara huffs. Either she's annoyed or she still hasn't cut her fringe out of her eyes. "Though it might make me give you an address, visiting hours and a hospital room number."

Alex grabs for his pen, grabs paper, thinks if something happened to Sara, Michael would be the one calling so it must have been Michael. Remembers the last time they sat in a hospital waiting room, the tired-looking doctor warning them that despite the operation's success, there could be complications. Reoccurrences.

"Where?" Alex asks, thinking of another possibility: the Company. They destroyed the organization but it was made of powerful people, people who'd have the resources to hold onto a grudge. "What happened?"

"Nothing, Alex. It's okay. Michael's fine," Sara says quickly but Alex keeps holding his pen, just in case. "We both are. I'm just saying, keep being rude and I'll prank call you with hospital visiting hours."

The pen clatters to Alex's desk. He has to swallow twice to force the fear out of his voice. "You think a prank call works with prior warning?"

"I think if we called and said we needed you, you'd be there. Am I wrong?"

Alex takes a deep breath, but he doesn't say anything. If it was a crisis, if it was life-or-death, do-or-die, he'd be there. He knows that, just like he knows he's good with emergencies. It's only the times between disasters when he fails everyone.

There's one of those horrible silences that lasts too long, tells too much, and then Sara asks, "Are you okay, Alex?"

"I'm clean, I'm fine," but what Alex means is that he's not, that as soon as he stops keeping busy, he's miserable. "I have a new apartment," and he hates every night he spends there. "It's got a hell of a view."

"And the job?"

That was what started the fight: the job offer. That Alex wanted to take it and Sara wanted to stay at sea, and Michael wanted nothing to change. He thought it was an excuse, an easy way for Alex to leave them without having to say goodbye. In hindsight, it's kind of ironic.

"The job's great," Alex says and he hopes it sounds genuine. It's the best thing in his life right now, and he hopes Sara can hear that. "I'm loving it. It's great to feel useful again, you know? Nice to have a purpose, to feel worthwhile again."

"You don't regret taking it?" she asks carefully, and Alex gives her the respect of thinking about it before he replies.

"I don't regret it. I'm sorry I--" Yelled at Michael, he thinks. Left angry and scared, and didn't have the decency to call, to tell them to go on without him. "I'm sorry I stayed for so long. This would've been easier on everyone if I'd... left earlier."

"I thought you were happy. With us. I thought--" Sara swallows, and it sounds painful. Alex wonders where Michael is. If Michael was in the same room, he's pretty sure Michael would have hung up the phone for Sara by now.

The collar of Alex's shirt feels tight and there's something wrong about having this conversation in a suit, at his desk. Like getting the divorce papers from Pam through the office mail. "I was. Part of me was." The part of him that married Pam, the part of him that played dinosaurs with Cameron, not the part of him that knows how to shoot a gun, how to bury a body, how to crack a man's neck with his bare hands. If he can't keep that dangerous side of him in control, it's not safe for him to be anywhere near the people who make him happy.

It's not Sara's fault. It's not Michael's. It might not even be Alex's, because he didn't know. He knew he was the cause of his divorce but he never raised a hand to Pam. He ignored her, snapped at her, hurt her in a thousand little ways, but he'd never punched her. He never hit her. He never thought he was the kind of man who did that.

But apparently he is. And all it took was one stupid argument to prove it.

Alex looks out the window at the bleak, blue sky and imagines Sara standing on deck, sunshine creeping across her toes. "What about you guys? How are you faring?"

"We're okay. Michael's getting supplies. You know what he's like about not running out of coffee and fresh fruit. And I'm--" A sigh, and Alex has a guilty flash of wondering if he's made this harder than it needs to be, if there was something he should have done to make it less painful for Sara. "I miss you."

Alex doesn't say he misses her too. Misses her laughter, misses her too-spicy curries and dislike of washing pans, misses the sight of her lying out on the deck, getting a tan while she flicks through the latest issue of Vogue or reads a biography on the Dalai Lama. He misses the way she'd poke him with her toes, then smile and politely ask for a glass of juice. Misses the way she stayed beside him on Cameron's birthday and didn't say it was okay or it would get better, didn't say anything as she sat vigil with him, just took his hand in hers and held it against her collarbone.

Instead, he asks, "Any big trips planned?"

"We're thinking of sailing to Hawaii," she says quietly, missing her typical confidence.

"Any excuse to get leied, huh?"

Sara laughs, but it sounds forced. "Exactly. Can't resist a good lei."

"Look after yourself. And take care of Michael." Some streak of masochism makes Alex add, "Send me a postcard."

"Yeah? I'd need your address."

Alex gives it to her.

***

Alex makes it to his next NA meeting. Does what he always does: sits in the back, stays quiet, listens while people whine about their daughter or their boyfriend, their boss or their car, whatever trivial setback made them long for a pretty white pill or a slender needle. Alex doesn't like self-help groups, he never has.

It's infuriating listening to tiny complaints about life. There are some that are life or death -- loss of a kid, death of a spouse -- and he can sympathize with those. But most of them simply had too much fun, didn't want to suffer any of the slow parts of life, and eventually found they had to pay for it. It leaves him with the urge to hold these people at gunpoint, to shoot, to tell them this is what pain feels like, to say this is nothing compared to war; to shock them into silence and out of their endless self-indulgent obsessions.

He stays quiet so he won't accidentally say any of that. It's probably hypocritical coming to a meeting and hating most of the people who stand up and talk, but it works for him. It keeps him focused. Makes him determined that he's not going to be one these people, not going to use something as pathetic as a break-up to rationalize self-pity and excess. He's not going to start drinking in bars, he's not going to see a doctor and complain about not sleeping -- because he could, knows all the things to say, knows how easy it would be to get that script signed -- because if he did that, he'd be one of these people.

He wouldn't be taking the pills to get through the day, to do what was necessary to protect his family. He'd be doing it for the same reason these people do it: because life was too hard, life was too painful. He'd be proving that he's as weak as everyone else in this room.

It works.

***

Then the postcard arrives. It's not from Hawaii -- couldn't have got here so soon -- but from Lima, Peru. Michael has a certain fondness for South American cities and hot breezes full of dust, so it doesn't surprise Alex. Hits him like a gut-punch, like a bullet through his torso, but it doesn't surprise.

Alex turns it over and it's written in Sara's hand. One simple sentence, four little words: Take care of yourself.

Not signed. No names. Absolutely nothing on it that could connect it to Michael in any way.

Alex leans his shoulder against the wall, scrubs a hand across his face, lets the thing drop from his fingers. It's stupid. He knows this is a stupid, irrational reaction. What did he expect? That Sara would keep calling, that eventually things would be impossibly right? Of course not, he tells himself, pressing his forehead against cool plaster. This was what he wanted.

He wanted them to look after each other, to go on without him. He wanted them to be safe and happy. He wanted them to sail off without regrets, to laugh and eat and dive into ridiculously blue waters without even thinking of him.

So he got what he wanted. He's even got confirmation in writing, proof that they've washed their hands of him, that Alex's only responsibility is to look after himself. It's best for everyone. Sara and Michael will be happy. They'll go to Hawaii, go anywhere they want, spend the rest of their lives free and joyful. And Alex...

Alex has his job. It's for the best.

It's not like he's any good at looking after people anyway.

***

The next night, Alex buys the biggest bottle of Jack Daniel's on the shelf. He tapes the postcard to it -- writing side up, black biro curves of Sara's messy writing -- and puts it under his sink. Drinking it would make him another sad example from some NA group, and that's not why he bought it. He bought it so that if he ever feels the urge to drown his sorrows, he knows it needs to be for a better reason than one meaningless postcard.

Losing a limb, maybe. Losing one of his senses, possibly. Getting what he wanted -- what he deserves -- doesn't make the grade.

He pulls the curtains open in the study, sits on the desk chair and leaves the computer dead. Holds on to his glass of Coke like it's a lifeline, like it's the butt of a handgun, and watches the buildings across from him. He waits until the last white square of light disappears behind blinds, until all he can see is dark shadows inked against the night sky. Then he turns on his computer.

If this is it, if this is his life, it's probably time he buys a couch.

***

Putting together Ikea furniture isn't as easy as it looks, but it keeps Alex busy. It gives him something to with his hands when he can't sleep. So after the couch, he buys a coffee table and an entertainment unit. Then a bookshelf for the study, even though he doesn't have any books.

His job is still the best part of his day. It's worth getting out of bed to spend eight -- or ten, sometimes eleven hours if he's lucky and they need him -- feeling like someone else. Feeling like someone necessary. Someone who does good work.

He hasn't bought a TV yet but he hasn't opened the Jack Daniel's either. It sort of evens out.

***

After a call from the field agent confirming that they've found the fugitive, Alex goes downstairs for coffee. There's a Starbucks across the road with tables on the street. In warm weather, like today, they're always full of students and young couples, friends and sometimes families. Alex ignores them from habit as he buys a double espresso but as he steps out into the sunshine, the light catches on brunette hair. Tanned shoulders. A bright yellow halter neck top.

She's sitting with a guy in a hoodie and baseball cap. Long fingers around his mug, dark from hours spent outside. Cap low enough that Alex can't make out his face.

Alex stares down into his coffee and walks back to the office. He resists the urge to look again, to double-check, just in case...

It won't be them. He knows that.

***

Alex joins a gym downtown. It's a ten minute jog from the office and a half hour walk back to his building. There's a certain practicality to it. The steady jog works as a warm-up, so Alex can stow his gear in a locker and head straight for the weights, think about nothing but reps and breathing, let his mind focus on the satisfying burn of muscle.

There's a late night market on his route home and after the second work-out, Alex stops living on take-out. He starts buying food on the way home -- whichever vegetables and meat catch his attention -- and carries the paper bags home, gym bag slung over one shoulder.

He likes the fresh air, even though some nights reek of pollution or the competing smells of different restaurants and cafes. He likes the crowds, even if his attention gets caught by smiling brunettes, by guys of a certain age. He likes hearing snippets of conversations in English, in Spanish, in Vietnamese and Croatian; he likes reading body language and guessing at the topics discussed around him.

He'd missed this while they sailed across endless seas in a tiny boat, while the three of them created an isolated world of their own. When they had to come ashore for provisions and pleasure, they'd investigate the temporary home. Michael would plan sightseeing trips, marvel at old churches in the same adoring way he'd stare at modern skyscrapers. Sara would drag them to local markets, laughingly haggle for colourful trinkets and trying foods she couldn't pronounce. Their enthusiasm made everything feel new -- even cities Alex had seen before -- and Alex loved that. But his favourite part of a city was always this: walking through flowing crowds, an arm-reach from people submerged in lives of optimism or weary acceptance.

Now, he's not just surrounded by them, he is one of them. Possibly more weary than anything else, but given enough time he might work his way to optimism. Or at least contentment.

***

He gets a call that morning from Lang, who's in his city on a case. They agree to get lunch. They have a history, a tradition of grabbing meals in unfamiliar cities, so when she offers to pay, he knows they'll end up eating somewhere nice.

When it was his treat, he always picked a diner, somewhere he could order pie and ice-cream for desert. Since it's Lang, they end up near the waterfront, finishing the meal with tiny cups of espresso and photos of Lang's nephew.

"I can't believe Leroy's becoming a cop." Alex stares at the photo of a twenty year old with a wide grin and pressed, new uniform. He mentally adds 'get a job' as another thing Cameron will never do, then forces the well-known ache to the back of his chest. "I fear for law-abiding citizens everywhere," he says, handing the photo back.

"You know what I can't believe?" Lang asks. Alex can tell from the tone of her voice it's a rhetorical question, so he raises an eyebrow at her and waits. "He said I was too old to be a hot aunt."

Alex splutters, choking on his coffee. Lang's always taken a scary delight in shocking him -- possibly because after years in the army and years in the agency, he's not easily shocked -- but he really should have seen that coming.

"Is that the sound of you agreeing, Mahone?"

"No, no," Alex says, valiantly attempting to save his shirt from coffee stains and finding himself unexpectedly smiling. "I know better than to support a statement like that."

Lang's smile only shows in her eyes. "And why's that?"

"Because it'd be suicide," Alex replies quickly. "And it's obviously a lie."

"Damn straight."

***

On the way back, Lang gets a call about her suspect and a hostage situation. Alex understands why she makes a sharp right and can't afford the time to drop him back at his office. She uses red lights to fish case notes out of her briefcase -- typical prison escapee, got lucky and ran across state lines, was spotted half an hour ago -- and then she gets details of the hostage: seven to ten years old, wearing a baseball cap, jeans and sweater.

"Have they called the ex-wife?" Alex asks, flicking pages of her strict capitals-only handwriting.

Lang parks and looks at him as she gets out of the car. "What?"

"He had a kid, right? Eight year old daughter? And the ex-wife moved here with her," Alex says, and Lang nods, mouth tightening to a frown. He knows she gets it because she turns to one of the other agents and barks for them to start calling -- the ex-wife's house, her work, her cell, the kid's school, wherever they have to -- and find a location for the daughter. Then Lang strides along the motel balcony and raps on the door.

There's no answer.

This isn't Alex's case. He doesn't have all of the background, but he has enough to think it through. Guy goes to prison, wife divorces him, moves interstate, stops visiting. Guy gets out, gets lucky, but he knows he'll get caught again. If he thought he'd get away, he'd run to Mexico but instead, he makes it to California. Alex is good at getting inside other people's heads, at understanding what makes them tick. He knows -- in a way he can't explain -- the fugitive doesn't expect to get away. He's not here to rescue the daughter and run away with her; he's here because if he can't have his kid, he's going to make sure the woman who divorced him, who betrayed him, doesn't get her either.

Alex elbows his way through the other agents, pushes his way to Lang's side. "Open the door," he says, as soon as he's close enough to be heard. "Get the door open now."

Lang's good with hostage situations. She's calm and controlled, knows how to take people's panic and direct it to where she needs it. She doesn't like to exacerbate the situation, but she gives Alex a long, hard look and then nods. Pulls out her gun and shoots at the door, just as the sound of a gunshot comes from inside.

As Lang kicks at the door, there's another gunshot. The door swings open and they see the fugitive crumple to the floor, dark pool of blood devouring the carpet behind him. Beside him, tied to a chair, is the daughter, light blue sweater stained dark with blood. Alex thinks there'll be bruises on the girl's wrists, thinks the rope will leave bruises on the body. Bruises he's seen before, bruises from the crime scene photos of Cameron.

Lang yells something -- his name, maybe -- but Alex isn't sure. He can't move. He has one hand frozen to the doorjamb and he's staring at the blood spatter on the wall behind them, blood from the girl, from the fugitive, shattered skull and brain matter mixed in there too, but Lang's running, yelling. Bellowing for someone to get the paramedics here now, spreading her hands across the girl's ribcage, palms pressed against blood, and Alex stands there.

Staring.

Staring at Lang, hands still and firm while someone else cuts through the rope on the girl's wrists. Staring as paramedics shove him out of the way in their haste to get the girl on the stretcher, to get her in the ambulance.

It's not until afterwards, until Lang's standing in front of him saying, "Alex?" soft and quiet -- like she's been saying it for a while -- that Alex blinks and pulls his hand away from wooden frame of the door. "You okay?"

"You need," Alex says, briefly giving in to the urge to look at the blood splattered across the off-pink walls. "You'll need a report, right? For what I saw?"

"Don't need it now," Lang says, still using that too careful tone. "Want me to drop you off somewhere?"

"No, I--" Alex stops. Closes his eyes. Pushes this -- all of it, the blood, the gunshot, the dirty blonde hair curtaining the girl's face -- back and down, down as deep as he can. Then he takes a breath. "Where are you going?"

"Hospital. Meeting the mother there."

"I'll come with."

Lang doesn't try to talk him out of it. She just pulls a wry face and fingers her keys, drives while she uses the speaker setting on her phone to instruct her team.

The hospital is painted a blue shade of white, like so many are. Alex doesn't like hospitals. Didn't like waiting when Pam had complications with Cameron, when she wheeled into an operating room for an emergency c-section. Didn't like pacing the disinfected corridors when Cameron got run over, while doctors told him they had to scan him for any internal bleeding. Didn't like camping in hard plastic chairs for hours, beside Linc, Sucre, LJ or Sara, playing musical chairs as they waited hour after hour for someone, anyone, to tell them what was happening with Michael.

He can understand the expression on the mother's face, knows why her voice catches -- "Lucinda, but everyone calls me Lucy," she said, and in the next breath, "They won't let me see her. They won't let me see my baby girl. She must be so scared, and they won't let me see her," -- and why she can't sit still. Alex understands the fear, the terror that cuts right through skin and bone, through layers of adulthood and armour, but the memory makes his voice hard.

"You have to be strong," he tells her, one hand on the cold wall, the other digging into his pocket. "Right now, your daughter's unconscious but when she wakes up, she'll be scared and hurt, and you need to be strong for her."

"But what do I tell her? How do I explain--" She breaks off with a sob, a wet wrenching gasp that makes Alex flinch in sympathy.

"You tell her you love her. You tell her no matter what, you will always love her." Alex's voice feels rough in his throat, caught between a growl and a plea, but he gentles it as much as he can. "You tell her that her Daddy made a mistake, that he made some bad decisions. You ask her if she remembers how Daddy used to treat you, and why you ran away."

"I kept it away from her," Lucy says, shaking her head. But Alex had time to read the report, to notice the history of ER visits. "He never hit her and I was quiet, I didn't want her to know. I kept it away from her."

"The kids always know," Alex says tiredly, leaning into the wall for support. "But tell her she's safe now, that it won't ever happen again, and that you love her. That she's your baby and you'll always love her."

Alex is saved by Lang and the surgeon, by the announcement of a critical but stable condition. He doesn't think anyone notices him rub at his face, swiping his eyes roughly, but as the doctor ushers Lucy to her girl's bedside, Lang asks, "Now you want to tell me if you're okay?"

Alex can't meet her eyes. The pity and concern there would break him. "No."

"You want a ride home?"

"No." There's a bottle of Jack Daniels and Alex... If he goes home, it'll be empty before daybreak. "I'm going to walk around for a while. Clear my head."

"You've got my cell. You need me..." Lang leaves the comment hanging, and Alex is thankful. He even manages a smile.

"Go and call your family," he says and leaves before he loses what's left of his dignity.

He walks down to the waterfront. Stops by an internet café and prints a list of NA meetings in the area. There's a cool breeze off the sea, cutting through Alex's shirt, and it doesn't clear his head but the chill gives him something to think about. Something other than Cameron, than that poor girl and the type of father who would -- who could -- hurt his own child like that. He walks until he feels each step under his heels, until all he's thinking about is breathing in and breathing out, the edge of stiff cotton around his wrists and neck, the weight of his keys and wallet in his back pocket, the goosebumps rising across his forearms.

Then he takes stock of where he is and heads for the nearest meeting on his list.

It's in an old community hall, and the seats are half-full. There's enough of a crowd that Alex feels mercifully anonymous as he slinks down an aisle and settles into a chair. He doesn't really listen to the people, doesn't want to know, but he needs to be somewhere away from temptation, needs to be somewhere safe until he can trust himself. Needs...

He doesn't know what he needs, not until he hears her voice from the front of the room. Hears her say, "Hi, my name is Sara and I'm an addict," and pause for the sad round of standard applause. For a moment -- for one insane, heart-stopping moment -- he thinks she's there for him, thinks this is every wish he's been too scared to admit, all of it wrapped up in one perfect flash of grace.

But she doesn't look at him. She rolls her coat-covered shoulders and looks at the first few rows, then down at her hands as she speaks.

"I've been clean for fourteen months now and sober for about four years. About a year back, my life got pretty stressful. I fell in love with someone in a complicated situation and there were other things. I lost my job, my father died. And I was weak. Just once, and it's not an excuse, but for a few months there life was very hard and I was tempted. More than once. But I've been clean for a year."

Sara takes a deep breath, pushes her hair behind her ears, twists a strand around her fingers as she keeps going. "The last six months or so, my boyfriend and I have been travelling. We never really stopped in one place and it was good. Life was good. And then..."

She pauses, and there's a tiny scrap of self-survival telling Alex to leave now, telling him he doesn't want to know.

He stays where he is.

"We discussed it and... Maybe I was staying out of contact for the wrong reasons. When we started, it was for freedom, to find space and time to just be us, to just be together, but maybe I stayed out there because I was running away, because it was easier. So we've moved here. We've got a place and he's getting a job. I'm thinking about volunteering somewhere, maybe. It's a good step for us, but part of me's a bit terrified that maybe I can't do this. That maybe this is going to be too hard, that I'll fall back into old habits, that I haven't done this before. Been clean and in a relationship and held a job. I--"

Sara pauses and when Alex looks up, she's staring right at him. He knows he should go but instead he sinks lower in the chair, hopes that show of defeat will let her ignore him.

"He's a good guy, my boyfriend. Gets upset and stubborn sometimes, but he cares. He cares a lot. And that's one of the reasons I'm scared. Because if I said this is too much, if I said that I, that I can't do this, that it's too hard for me, he wouldn't blame me. He wouldn't make me feel bad. He'd do whatever it took to keep me healthy, to keep me safe and strong. But I don't want him to miss out on something that'll make him happy because I can't, because I'm not strong enough to beat this. So I'm scared... but I'm trying anyway."

It's the soft round of applause that lets Alex know she's finished. He doesn't look up, doesn't want to steal one last glance of her when he has no right, when he clearly shouldn't be here. He just wants this meeting -- this entire day -- to finish so he can go home, be miserably alone and broken without feeling like he has to apologise for it. Without feeling like he owes something he isn't capable of giving.

He wants to go home and give up. Leave his job for people who don't freeze at crime scenes. Leave this city for Sara and Michael, and that hurts more than it should; they had the entire world to choose from, they didn't have to come here and find all the loose threads in his hastily sewn-together life. It's ridiculous that after everything that's happened, everything he knows about the world, there's a part of him that wants to complain that this isn't fair. As if life is ever fair.

"You haven't come here before." Sara's voice comes from beside him and it's not an accusation or an apology. It's a simple statement, nothing but an explanation. "I didn't expect to see you."

Alex keeps a hand over his face, the ridge of his forefinger cutting hard across his eyebrows. At the edge of his vision, he can see her slim blue-denim thighs, long fingers pressed nervously against them. "It's not my group. I won't--" But it's so stupid, so obvious to say he won't come back, that he doesn't belong here. Surely she knows that.

"This wasn't how we wanted you to find out," Sara says gently, and he wonders if she used the same tone on inmates as she told them they had cancer or HIV, told them the miserable existence they called a life was going to be over.

She probably never had to tell them that, Alex thinks, and it's enough to pull himself together. "It's okay," he says, adding, "Better than passing you on the street. Tell Michael it's... It's fine. I can organise a transfer."

He's only a consultant. He has no idea if he can organise a transfer. But he can probably beg a favour from Lang, sell whatever pride he has left and try building this meaningless charade again. At least the furniture should be easy to move.

"You don't have to--" She pauses, curls a warm hand around his shoulder. "Alex?"

"Can we not do this?" Alex drops his head lower, drags fingers through the hair at the back of his head and twists sharply, wishes he could claw out his insides, make himself empty and numb instead of aching. "Not today. Not now. You want to negotiate an amicable split, then fine. I'll show up, I'll smile, I'll shake Michael's hand and tell him there's no hurt feelings, but not today."

"What happened?"

Alex turns his head away, shakes it, holds his silence until Sara's hands are around his arms, until Sara's forehead is resting against his shoulder, until he can smell her shampoo and perfume and beneath it all, salt air. He cracks, falls apart in a tumble of words.

"I listened to a guy shoot his own kid. His eight year old daughter." Alex buries his head against the crook of her neck, soft warm skin pressed against his cheek, hot wet slide of tears caught between them. She makes soft hushing noises as he struggles for breath, slides her hands up and down his back. "He tied her to a chair and tried to kill her. What kind of a father does that?"

Sara doesn't let go until he pulls away, and that's when he notices that the hall has emptied, that there's only a few people left milling around the exits.

"How about some fresh air," she suggests gently, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze. She stays sitting until he nods, until he stands.

It's grown colder outside and Alex crosses his arms, hunkers down against the cold. He feels tired, drained, but he should leave now. Leave while it's still just him and Sara, and their shared weaknesses. He's just about to make an excuse when he spots Michael leaning against a wall, hands flat on the bricks behind him, shoulders low and loose until he spots Alex and stiffens in surprise.

"I should get going. Early day at the office," Alex says, as if mentioning the job -- the reason for that fight -- will be enough to stop Michael saying anything, to stop Michael making this somehow worse. Michael's always known his weak spots, known where the least pressure will force maximum results. "Good luck with the new place."

Michael's focus swings to Sara and they share a look. Once upon a time, Alex would have understood, would have been on the inside and known what it meant. But not now. "Alex," Sara says, and Michael adds, "You don't have to go."

"This isn't--" But it is and it was, and now it's not. So Alex shrugs instead. "I should go."

"You should stay," Michael says, taking three long strides and suddenly standing right in front of Alex, so close Alex can see the glint of grey highlights in his eyes, the worried pursing of his lips. So close Alex can feel the heat of his body, the warmth defrosting Alex's torso and chest, but maybe that's his imagination.

"You asked me to leave." But Michael didn't ask, he yelled. He spat the words at Alex like they were poison, shouted that if Alex wanted to leave he should leave right now, he should take his clothes and his books and every stupid trinket and get out of their lives. It wasn't a request, it was a command, and Alex followed. The way he's always followed Michael's plans. "So I left. Don't make this harder--"

Reaching over, Michael smoothes a hand around the curve of Alex's neck. Michael who never touches absently or from habit, who only reaches out with intention, with meaning. Michael stands there, hand dry and gentle against Alex's throat, and says, "I'm asking you to stay."

Alex swallows, feels his Adam's apple work against the curve of Michael's palm. He doesn't know what to say; he can't quite trust that this is what he wants. "I took the job," he says, and wonders if Michael can hear the apology.

"You signed a twelve month contract," Michael corrects as if it makes any difference.

"And we signed a twelve month lease," Sara adds. "So it works out pretty well."

"You should see it," Michael says. Alex knows him well enough to recognise that narrow-eyed, smug smile as one of Michael's plans coming together.

***

Alex isn't sure why he agreed. He's even less sure why he delayed, why he stalled and said he was free on Friday. Part of him thinks it's self-protection, that no matter what happens, he'll at least have the weekend before he has to face anyone who matters.

It gives him forty-eight hours to think the better of it. To research the practicality of transferring his job -- possible but an inconvenience for everyone -- to consider locking himself in his apartment and ignoring his phone from now until, oh, forever. He checks with his landlord about the cost of getting out of his lease, briefly dreams about buying a ticket to Hawaii and fleeing the state altogether.

Maybe Michael planned for his cowardice or maybe Sara knows his weaknesses too well, but either way, he gets a call on Friday morning. Sara says it's 'just to say hey' and if Alex's insides weren't twisted into pretzels, he might have laughed. "To say hey?" he asks, lifting his empty coffee cup for the sake of having something in his hands.

"And to make sure you still had our address."

"I've got it." He's stared at it, crumpled it, thrown it out and rescued it back from the trash. Several times. But he's not going to tell Sara that.

After an interminable stretch of silence, she asks, "You will come, right?"

Alex still isn't sure if he's made up his mind. If he wants it, if he deserves a second chance. Contrarily he says, "And if I don't?"

"The back-up plan involves breaking into your apartment and refusing to leave until you talk," Sara says brightly and it surprises a smile out of Alex. "Seriously, Alex, come over. Make this right."

Sighing, Alex puts the coffee cup down. He rests an elbow on the desk, shifts in his chair. "You ever think of telling Michael he's better off without me, that you both are?"

"Ever think you're being a self-involved jackass?" Sara bites back, and there's a hard sliver of anger in her tone. Alex has only occasionally seen her angry, and it's never been directed at him before. "There's a limit to how long you can beat yourself up over one fight. We love you, we honestly do, but there's a huge line between doing what's best for people and punishing yourself and everyone around you, and I don't think you're on the right side of it."

"I'm not trying to--"

Sara talks straight through him. "Remember who you're talking to," she tells him, and he does. He remembers her telling him about going through rehab and why she goes to addiction support groups, he remembers her crossed arms as she said that sometimes the high seemed worth it, and sometimes life felt so hard that she wanted to hurt everyone who made her keep trying, who made her feel bad when she couldn't be the person she aspired to be. He remembers saying that he needed the pills to sleep, needed them to function, and the way she'd looked at him as if she could see all the way down to the bottom of Shales' grave, could see the layers of guilt and self-hatred piled on top of those bones.

Sara has always been a surprising source of comfort and support, able to understand and challenge him as much Michael does, albeit in a different way. It's a challenge that Alex has always risen to meet, and he refuses to back down now. Ignoring his discomfort, Alex forces his fears into words. "I nearly hit him."

Sara doesn't ask who or when. "But you didn't."

"I could have. I was so angry, I nearly... and I could have killed him. If I lost control like that, I know I'm capable of--" Alex pulls his glasses off, squeezes them so tight the thin metal frame twists in his hand. "That's not safe for either of you."

"I was there," Sara says slowly. "You were both yelling, but as far as I recall, Michael was the one who pushed you."

"I never hit Pam."

"I'm pretty sure she never hit you, either." Sara sighs down the line, and her slow breath sounds like static. "He grew up with Linc. Don't get me wrong, Linc's a great guy and he loves Michael dearly, but do you really think they never got into a physical fight?"

Alex knows what kind of man Lincoln Burrows is: tough and macho; obvious and doesn't think things through; also loyal, protective and able to take care of himself. He's served beside guys like that, guys who had his back through everything, guys who followed even when the odds were stacked against them. Despite their past, Alex actually likes Linc but it's not hard to see that Linc prefers brute force to careful negotiation. It's easy to imagine him wanting to knock some sense into the obnoxiously smart teenager Michael must have been.

"I'm not justifying it, I'm saying it's understandable. I'm saying Michael shouldn't have taken it to that level, and you shouldn't make it all your fault."

"Anything else?" Alex asks, wanting to think about this in more detail when she's off the phone.

"Show up tonight. I'm cooking curry."

***

Alex knocks on the door, more awkward than he's been since high school. Last time he was this nervous standing at a front door, he was picking up his prom date and hoping her older brother wasn't home. He feels empty-handed, thinks he should have brought something. He considered non-alcoholic wine but that felt wrong. Now, he wishes he bought it.

The door opens, and there's Sara, dark hair messily pulled up, strands falling around her ears, snug denim jeans and loose cotton shirt, brushes of orange spices across the backs of her hands.

"I'm glad you made it," she says, and she clearly is. She steps forward to hug him but Alex doesn't pull his hands out of his pockets fast enough, so he's all elbows and shoulders, but Sara laughs and says, "Come in before something burns. You know what Michael's like in the kitchen."

It's a joke between the two of them and completely untrue. Michael approaches cooking as if he's working in a laboratory. Everything is measured to the ounce, timed precisely and anything that requires preheating is preheated to exact temperatures. Michael will actually use a thermometer to double-check. Alex is more of an 'anything that isn't burned to a crisp is a good meal' kind of chef and Sara's a good cook, but much more relaxed and likely to leave the kitchen a mess. Of the three of them, Michael is the only one who's never burned a pan, pot or meal, so it only seems fair to tease him for it.

Michael is carefully stirring a pan of sauce, white shirt sleeves folded up to the elbows, but he looks up when Alex comes in. Then he smiles. "Knew you'd come."

While Sara pulls the wooden spoon out of Michael's grasp, Alex shrugs. "You have a nice place. It was worth visiting."

"Thought you'd like it," Michael replies, and Sara shoos him away from the stovetop, suggesting he gives Alex a tour.

They have a two-story place at the edge of the suburbs. It's further from the CBD than Alex's apartment, but it has a small garden and that's worth a longer commute. It's a nice place: about ten years old, open stretch of kitchen and living room, late sunshine spilling over the solid wooden table in the dining room.

Michael shows him around while Sara cooks. Wherever Alex looks, there are subtle signs of them both. The boat's knife set is tucked in the corner of the kitchen and the cotton tablecloth was half price at a market stall. Near the front door, there's a pin board with Michael's handwriting caught on post-it notes and calendars, listing birthdays to remember and tourist spots he wants to see. Across the first queen sized bed is a blue and white quilt that Sara fell in love with in Puerto Rico.

"This is Sara's," Michael says, closing the door behind them and walking to the next doorway. When the door swings open, the room is small and empty of all furniture.

"Yours?" Alex asks wryly.

"We figured there wasn't any point setting up a bedroom for me."

Alex doesn't ask why. He knows Michael avoids sleeping alone. Michael likes his own space, will happily sit with pen and paper ignoring the world, but since they started their unusual arrangement, Alex has noticed Michael doesn't even nap without one of them in the same room.

Alex had noticed it before, been peripherally aware of how important people are to Michael, how hard he tries not to disappoint those he likes, but he hasn't stopped and thought about it.

Alex has spent weeks wallowing in self-pity, punishing himself with imagined scenarios: Michael and Sara perfect and happy without him. He hadn't stopped and thought about the person Michael is. That Michael hates losing people, hates being left behind, and hates the idea of them being unhappy even more. That Michael cared -- still does, judging by his attitude tonight -- and there's no way he'd leave Alex behind without a moment's regret.

Alex feels something click in the back of his head. It's a shock to recognise self-deception, but it's also freeing. The mindlessly happy Michael of Alex's imagination wouldn't be possible, and Alex should have known that. Would have, if he hadn't been so busy martyring himself and finding cold comfort in his own misery.

It makes him think about the other things he knows.

Michael likes doing his homework, likes knowing all the facts before stepping into a situation, likes taking time to prepare, and Alex knows that. He knows Sara hasn't settled onshore without thinking it through seriously, that it's a personal challenge she's willing to face. He knows Michael hasn't moved on a whim, but must have planned this, tried to work around the obstacles before he hit them. "When did you sign the lease?"

Michael's voice doesn't waver and he doesn't pause before replying. "Ten days ago."

Alex feels sharp, shocked awake and seeing clearly. He sees the quick shift of Michael's eyes, the knuckles standing out as his fist clenches tighter at his side, and he knows -- knows because he's looking for it -- the uncertainty Michael's trying to hide. Alex knows him well enough to work it back, to factor how long it must have taken to find a nice place like this, to inspect it, to sign a lease, to move in. He nearly smiles as he puts it together: Sara and Michael haven't spent weeks sailing on their own; they waited for a few days, and then came out to get him. "Took you ten days to say 'hi'?"

Michael shrugs; it almost looks casual. "We had to work out a few things first."

Alex takes a couple of steps closer as he infers the meaning behind the words. Michael plans for obstacles, plans around them, likes back-ups and options and alternatives, just in case. "You thought I'd say no?"

"I needed you to say yes."

Alex forgets this: the quiet intensity of Michael's voice, the way he throws himself into problems as if sheer will power can find a way to get the result he wants. There's something so seductive about that confidence, that surety, the plain way that Michael can break the world down into what he needs and what doesn't matter at all. "You could've just asked."

"You might have said no."

Shrugging, Alex allows that. Given the way he treated Sara when she called, it's possible. Stupid, but possible.

Michael's standing close enough that Alex could simply lift a hand and touch him. He knows Michael works on implied meanings, on putting patterns together, and wherever Alex touches, Michael will interpret it, search for meanings. So he doesn't touch. Not yet.

"I wanted the job." He knows this needs to be cleared up, knows that if it isn't, it'll be used as ammunition the next time. That's how married arguments work. "I wasn't trying to leave."

"And how would you have done it?"

Alex shrugs. "Taken the job, got a place. Met up with you guys whenever I could afford it."

"You weren't leaving us, you were just going away and planning to see us occasionally?" When Michael says it like that, it sounds a little ridiculous.

"A long distance relationship for a couple of months wouldn't have killed us. It's not like I told you to uproot your lives for what I wanted."

"You could have," Michael says softly. The fist at Michael's side is still tight and Alex finds himself reaching for it. He rubs his thumb over the jut of knuckles as Michael says, "We would have moved, Alex. We have. It's like you never even considered how much we care."

Alex keeps his hand on Michael's, feeling warm, dry skin and the ridges of hard bone beneath it. Michael's fist relaxes into a loose curl of fingers, and Alex says, "I know you care. I know you both do."

"Then trust us." From anyone else, that would sound ridiculously simplistic. But this is Michael. Michael doesn't trust easily or often, doesn't like taking anything on faith if he doesn't have to. He knows how much he's asking. "Respect the fact that we're not idiots and given half a chance, we can do things that seem pretty damn impossible. Trust that we're capable of making up our own minds."

Alex doesn't know what to say. He thinks of his bare apartment, his twin sized bed, the view from his study that makes him think of Michael every damn day. He thinks of how many minutes and hours he's spent miserable, longing for Sara's cheeky smile and Michael's dry sense of humour, for the anchoring touch of Sara's hand, for the taste of Michael's skin. "I wasn't trying to make you choose. I didn't want... I didn't want it to be an ultimatum, me or Sara, what I want or what she needs."

"So instead you gave us the choice of telling you to stay and knowing you didn't want to be there, or watching you leave," Michael's tone is soft and it takes most of the sting out of his words. "There's another choice here. We just needed time to figure it out."

"Yeah?" Alex needs to hear Michael say it, he needs to know he's reading this right. "What's your great plan, Michael?"

"You do the job, you move in here with us, we stay for the twelve months. And after, when the job's done, we discuss what we're going to do next," Michael says firmly. "Without deciding there's only one way to get what you want and that no-one else is capable of compromising. And without, you know, over-reacting and assuming that wanting something more means you don't want us. As I've been told I possibly did."

Alex doesn't mean to, but he laughs at the sheepish expression on Michael's face. The sound is breathy and uncertain, caught behind Alex's teeth, but it makes Michael smile and twist his hand around to squeeze Alex's fingers quickly.

Alex looks away, across the space of the empty room, needing a moment to capture this feeling, this perfect, terrifying, ecstatic moment of potential. "So I guess I'll need a bed for in here."

Michael hooks his thumb over Alex's pinky but sounds perfectly serious when he says, "No. This is the spare room."

"It's not mine?"

"Yours is at the end of the hall." Michael shrugs, and when Alex steals a sideways glance, there's a satisfied twist to Michael's lips. "We haven't worked out what to do with this room yet."

Alex drags in a breath and the air tastes like hope. "We should make it a study. I've got a desk that would fit across that back corner."

"And your bookcase would fit beside it," Michael says slowly, measuring inside his head. At Alex's sharp look, he adds, "We picked your lock, saw your apartment."

"Some people would find that an invasion of privacy."

"Some people wouldn't keep Jack Daniels under the sink," Michael replies, settling a hand on the sway of Alex's back and leaning close. "Do you want to see your room?"

Alex nods. Michael leads him to the last doorway.

Back at the apartment -- not Alex's anymore, he'll have to contact his landlord on Monday -- his bedroom is somewhere to sleep and somewhere to put a lamp. It's impersonal and functional, all clean lines and simple cotton. It's all about what Alex needs. When Michael opens the door and steps Alex into the room, it's clear that it's been furnished around what Alex wants.

There's a wide queen bed with a cover of tan stripes, tiny highlights of maroon that match to the dark curtains. There's the needless luxury of smooth, satin fabric and the soft contrast of velvet edging, and Alex can't resist dragging his fingers across the bedspread as he walks past.

"We weren't sure about the bedside tables," Michael says, "but you always seem to like that heavy, dark stuff..." He trails off with a shrug.

The bedside tables are short and wide, stained to a deep espresso colour, perfect for leaving a book or case folder. Alex has a flash of reading in bed, trying to resist the temptation of Michael's thigh warm over his hip, the strategically slow movement of lips and tongue along his collarbone, and Michael murmuring to go ahead and read if he wanted. It had only taken a few minutes for Alex to surrender the pretence, drop the book to the floor while complaining the bedside shelves on the boat were too small to be practical.

From the doorway, Sara's voice says, "I picked the lamps. I remembered your firm stance on pull-chains."

The lamps are wooden, old but in good condition, and Alex can see the chain hanging from beneath the shade. He likes pull-chains for bedside lamps -- hates having to struggle to find some tiny, hard-to-reach switch when he's half-asleep -- but for the life of him, he has no idea when he mentioned that to Sara. "They look good. It's--" Alex stops, his attention caught by a photo frame nestled under the lamp. As soon as he lays his fingers on it, traces the raised edges of silver, he remembers buying it for Pam nearly a decade ago.

"Where did you get this?" he asks, but he doesn't mean the frame. He means the photo inside. It was years ago, a few months after the separation when Alex had been between cases and Cameron's kindergarten had a school concert. In the picture, Cameron is standing up, grinning widely at the camera, and Alex is on his knees beside him, still a few inches taller. He'd forgotten that photo, but it all comes back in a rush: the sound of Cameron laughing, the rush of words as he tried to tell Alex all about his part and his costume -- a starfish, Alex thinks, or maybe an octopus -- the tiny tug of Cameron's hand in his, pulling Alex over to meet his teacher.

There's a sharp ache beneath it, but the memory makes him smile.

"We called Pam," Sara says from the other side of the room, standing as still as Michael, giving Alex space. "She sent us copies of some others, too. They're downstairs."

Alex runs his fingers over the embossed frame one last time, and places it back beside the bed. "I--" He doesn't know what to say, so he shakes his head, rubs a hand against his cheek. The two of them take his gesture as some coded signal to move. Suddenly Michael's standing in front of him, one hand clasped around Alex's, one hand cupping Alex's hip, and Alex can feel Sara beside him, the narrow warmth of her fingers rubbing circles against his back. "It's okay," he says, because he doesn't want them to worry, and deep down, it is. It just caught him by surprise.

"Yeah?" Michael asks, leaning closer until he's resting one smooth-shaved cheek against Alex's.

"Yeah. I hadn't asked her for-- I didn't feel comfortable asking--" Alex shakes his head. Tries for a shorter sentence, one he might manage to finish without his throat seizing up. "But it's okay. Thank you."

It's only a few points of contact: two for Michael's hands, one for Michael's cheek, two for Sara's hands now settled on his biceps. It's so little, but it's more than Alex would have ever asked for.

As always, Michael has a great sense of timing. He knows when to push an advantage. "Trust us, Alex. We'll look after you."

It's not that the phrasing surprises him, although it does. It's that the idea of being looked after, of being someone that needs to be looked after, seems so unlike him, so unlike whoever Alexander Mahone is now, that for a moment, he wants to argue it. It's silly, because he knows who Michael is, knows Michael needs to protect and care for those he loves. It's just that...

"Huh," Alex says, realising that regardless of how well the three of them fit together, regardless of how equally Michael shared his affections, Alex had somehow assumed Sara was the only one Michael needed to look after. Despite the evidence of his own eyes, he'd assumed that Sara was there first, that Sara wasn't used to danger and weapons, that Sara had been through bad times but she'd never done the things Alex has done, and that it was different. That Michael cared for them both, of course he did, but he didn't care in the same way, to the same intensity.

As if he didn't know Michael at all. As if he didn't know that Michael always means what he says, and when he makes a promise or a declaration, he means it forever.

"What?" Sara asks gently, and Michael pulls back to watch Alex answer.

"I think I've been a bit of an idiot," Alex says, and Sara muffles her relieved chuff of laughter against his shoulder.

Michael doesn't laugh. He just nods, seriously, eyes glued to Alex's. Alex doesn't know how he could decipher Alex's realisation, how he could understand when Alex has only just figured it out, but he's sure Michael gets it.

"Come on. Downstairs," Sara says, pulling her hands away and shooing at them. "Before dinner burns."

"You didn't take it off the heat?" Michael asks, stern and terribly concerned. To Alex, it sounds like being home.