He would have told her, again, that he was sorry, and that he never meant for any of this to have happened.  His jaw would have clenched to see her looking so pale and brittle sitting beside him, scarred but somehow more beautiful than ever.

She would have told him to stop apologizing as she pushed her hastily-shorn hair behind her ears with a customary swipe.  The knowledge that she was a mere by-product of his plan, just an incidental, didn’t make things any better. 

It’s not like that, he would have said, looking down at his hands, unable to meet her hard, level gaze.  It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

What was it supposed to be like, she would have countered, resentment bubbling up to the surface.  The tumult of emotions that seeing him again would have caused would've frightened her, so she would have found herself clinging to the one that was the most familiar.  The anger would have somehow felt the safest.

And he would have told her what it was supposed to have been like, because he knew he owed her at least that and because he hoped he could make her understand.  In minute detail, he would have explained to her exactly what his plan had entailed from the start.  He would have begun with the tattoos, which he now hid beneath a long-sleeved t-shirt despite the desert heat.  As understanding dawned in her eyes, she would have stared, stunned, at his arms, as though believing she could see through the shirt to the patterns beneath if she looked hard enough. 

Then he would have told her about the research he had done.  How he knew Westmoreland was D.B Cooper, how he had found Fibonacci to use as leverage with Abruzzi—

She would have cut him off at this, a dull, resigned kind of horror in her expression. 

Ghandi? she’d have asked quietly, the first crack in her stonewall exterior beginning to show.

He would have nodded slowly.

 
The unexpectedly deep breath she would have taken, as though that knowledge had knocked the wind out of her, would have flooded him with remorse, and the words would have poured out of him then, entirely beyond his ability to check.  He’d have explained how the plan wasn't supposed to hinge on her.  How she would have been innocent and uninvolved if the pipe had never been replaced.  Seeing a small easing in the tightness of her expression, he’d have continued, telling her how important it was for him to save Lincoln.  How that had had to come before everything.  How he’d had to subsume his conscience and his own desires to the one immutable fact that Lincoln had to be saved.

Because Lincoln was all that he had left in the world, he would’ve explained, his voice soft and gravelly and deceptively even.  And he was the reason that Lincoln was there in the first place.  He would rather die himself than have to live with the knowledge that he’d let his brother, who had protected him his entire life, be killed in that place for something he hadn’t done.

Her eyes would have gradually softened as his teared up.  He would’ve blinked the stinging back and taken a deep breath.

What else can I answer for you, he would have asked her, the smallest hint of desperation to the request.  I want you to know everything.  You have a right to know everything.

She would have paused for a long moment at, staring at a spot on the wall opposite that the painter had missed.  She would have realized, to her great surprise, that she knew everything she needed to know.  She had been waiting for answers for so long, screaming at him in her dreams and planning what she would ask him when she saw him again, but it would all seem suddenly unnecessary to her.  She didn’t need to ask him if it had been real, if he felt badly for what had happened, because the answers were all there in his face.  It seemed to most to be a guarded, mysterious face, but it was actually an open book to anyone who had taken the time to pick up the language.

And she had. 

The air would have hung tense and silent between them as she contemplated this.  He would have been watching her discreetly, a quiet war waging between his fears and his hopes.  The memory of kissing her would have risen unbidden into his mind, causing him to duck his head to study his shoes instead of her face.

I started drinking when I fifteen, she would have said abruptly.  When my mother died. 

He would have looked back up at her then, surprised to be receiving this unsolicited confidence. 

She would have continued, telling him how the drinking hadn’t become a problem until college and the drugs hadn’t become a problem until her residency.  She would have explained to him why she had chosen to get sober, clenching her hands into unconscious fists as she recalled the image of a boy and a bicycle twisted by sickening impact.  Recovery was difficult and uneven, she would have said, and she had given her father the ultimate trump card over her.  She hadn’t thought she would survive it, and most days she wasn’t sure wanted to.

He would have begun to reach for her hand as she said that but would’ve stopped himself. 

I’m sorry, he would have said instead, knowing it was inadequate.

Stop apologizing, would have been her reply, but the tone would have been very different than before.

Why did you tell me this, he would have asked carefully, and a deep breath from her would have marked the significance of the moment. 

Because being angry with you has been eating me up inside, she would have said.  And I’m sick of it.

Her name would have escaped his lips then, for the first time.

I don’t want to be angry anymore, she would have continued.  Or scared, or hurt.  And I don’t want to be alone.

The tight ball of emotion that lived in his chest whenever he was near her would have dissolved at those words, sending warmth coursing through his entire body.

I don’t want that either, he would have said, moving imperceptibly closer to her and preparing to take the leap.  I love you.

She would have squeezed her eyes shut tightly, not realizing until that moment how long she had been waiting to hear him say that.

I love you, he would have repeated simply, a little tremulously.

I love you too, she would have replied quietly, looking up at him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time.  Before that moment, she wouldn’t have trusted herself to get caught up in those eyes.   

And then, finally, he would have reached for her, wrapping his arms tightly around her.  And she would have let him, resting her head on his shoulder, feeling truly safe for the first time she could remember.  And they would have both known that things were going to be okay.

If Michael and Sara had ever spoken again, this is what they would have said.

-the end.