Chapter Text
Alex emerges from the fog. The bricks of the old factory building crumbling behind him as he steps through the door. Michael, having exited the building a second after Lincoln, is anxiously sitting in the passenger seat, rhythmically drumming his fingers against the map resting on his thighs. He already has the rest of their route planned down to the exact mileage. To fill the minutes they spent waiting for Alex and Sara, he’d decided to look it over one more time, searching for any small errors or potential shortcuts.
Lincoln sees her first. And, really, he should have noticed her sooner. With a sharp gasp, he drops his hands from the steering wheel to his lap.
“Oh, shit,” Lincoln curses, launching himself at the door handle and ripping it open. Before he’s even out the door, Michael’s head snaps up. His eyes land on the curled-up body in Alex’s arms.
His mind registers many things at once. The body he’s carrying is Sara. She’s limp against Alex. Her left arm dangling in front of her as Alex tries his best to support her head. There’s blood. A lot of it. So much that it’s soaking the front of her shirt and staining Alex’s hands. Alex meets his gaze with a wild, desperate look. Time warps and slows around Michael.
Before his mind can fully comprehend what he’s looking at, Michael is fumbling with the door handle. Trying and failing to get it open. On his third attempt, he nearly rips the chrome lever off its hook. His legs are weak underneath his body, causing him to stumble into the headlight of the car, tripping himself over the tire. He dents the hood with his fist.
Righting himself as Alex nears the car, Michael’s throat goes dry. “Sara,” Michael manages. It comes out as a whisper.
“What the hell happened in there?” The harsh voice is Lincoln’s, reaching Alex and Sara before Michael can catch his footing.
“Open the door,” Alex huffs.
“I don’t—,” Lincoln tries again.
“Open the door, Burrows!” Alex shouts, adjusting his hand on Sara’s shoulder.
“Is she…” Michael’s question fades in the air quicker than it escaped his mouth. “Sara,” he whispers again.
“Get in,” Lincoln is pushing him, two hands on his back towards the car.
He reaches around Michael’s waist, retching the door open and shoving his little brother into the backseat. Then, Alex is there, leaning in the doorframe, cradling Sara’s head as he and Lincoln lay her body across the bench seat, resting her head on Michael’s lap.
Later, his mind will recall the metallic smell of her blood in the air and the sound of her raspy breathing. But right this moment, in the backseat of this car, it’s as if time itself has stopped. Her eyes are closed, splaying her dark eyelashes against milky pale skin that looks as if it’s lost all color. If this was a different moment, even just hours earlier, Michael could believe she was simply sleeping. But the color lost in her face is easily found staining the fabric of her shirt. There’s a small hole, with the deepest color around it just below her collarbone. It’s weeping, crimson red against her blue top.
Sara’s breathing is shallow. Every intake of air leaves her body shaking in pain. Michael can’t stand to look away from her, terrified that she’ll slip away if he closes his eyes.
Michael’s mind absently notices Lincoln climbing into the driver’s seat and bringing the car to life. Alex, slamming the door of the passenger side, turns in the seat.
“Michael,” he spits, like a curse. And, when Michael’s gaze doesn’t leave Sara’s paling face, he shouts louder. “Michael!”
He’s moving through quicksand, hearing voices as if they’re speaking through water. It feels like it takes him ages to tear his eyes away from her sleeping face. But he finds himself looking into Alex’s wild eyes, watching his mouth move without hearing the words. Trying and failing to get his mind to focus on something other than Sara’s shaking body and her tight whimpering.
Then, “Michael,” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the fog and he’s meeting his eyes in the rear view mirror. Michael doesn’t remember if he’s breathing or not. “She’s gonna be alright. You gotta listen to Mahone. What’s he supposed to do?” Lincoln turns his head to Alex, Michael’s gaze following as if on instinct alone.
“She was shot. There, under her collarbone,” Alex says, pointing to the weeping stain. Michael is definitely not breathing now. “I didn’t have time to see if there was an exit wound, but I need you to put pressure on it. Try to stop the bleeding. Michael, can you do that?” Alex’s voice is even. Commanding but desperate.
“There wasn’t supposed to —,” Michael starts.
“Michael! There’s no time for that. You have to stop the bleeding,” Alex pushes again.
Finally, the words register in Michael’s mind. Adjusting her position slightly, Michael moves his arm out from underneath her head. He reaches around the seat blindly, searching for something to help soak up her blood. He finds his discarded shirt from the day before and firmly pushes the fabric into the bullet hole.
Sara winces weakly, her eyebrows furrowing into deep rivets. “I’m sorry. Sara, I’m so sorry.” Underneath his whispering, Michael can hear her whimpering.
Lincoln is driving wildly, swerving around the rare cars they do come across. “Where the hell are we going? We can’t take her to a hospital,” he yells into the windshield.
“She needs a doctor. That bullet might still be lodged in her shoulder,” Alex explains.
“No hospitals.” Michael and Lincoln say at the same time. As if she’s heard them speaking, Sara heaves in a deep breath, but it’s sucked in with a horrible wheeze. Her entire body shutters against Michael’s legs. The seconds drag on until he hears her breathe again.
“Well, then, what are we going to do?” Alex asks from the front seat. “Because we’re sure as hell not doctors.”
Ending up back in Chicago during the search for Scylla cards might just be convenient, if you can look past the sheer irony of it all.
“I think I know where we can go,” Michael’s mind finally clicks into place. He closes his eyes and pictures his old apartment wall filled with pictures and news articles, sticky notes and his endless research plans. In one small corner, tucked between Henry Pope’s marriage announcement and Governor Frank Tancredi’s latest proposal on tax reform, was an old phone book cutout of Katie Welch’s phone number and address. “But she’s not going to be happy about it.”