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Story Notes:
A ten year old co-write Jess has given me permission to share with everyone! Previously unpublished, we wrote this for ourselves over the course of a summer after the end of season 2, and i couldn't not share it with you guys! Really hope you enjoy it! Side note: some of these chapters are very prophetic for later seasons - we had no idea!
Author's Chapter Notes:
The start of Lincoln and Sara's friendship whilst Michael is in prison starts with her seeking him out following Michael's rejection.
The damn door was knocking. "What the...?" Lincoln growled. He had been in the shower less than five minutes and already he was being disturbed. It wasn't LJ because he had a girlfriend now, which meant he shouldn't be home anywhere between dawn one day and dawn the next. Lincoln was a bachelor again. He threw the shower door open, ready to pummel whoever was bashing at his door so eagerly at ten at night and wrapped a fluffy white towel around his waist. He stalked from the bathroom, his blood boiling under his skin and making all the tiny droplets over his finely toned body evaporate into the air as steam. "Yeah...hold on!" he called out annoyed, as he purposely walked slowly to the door. Maybe, if he didn't get there in time, they would go away.

"Heeeey!" Sara exclaimed when the door flew open. She had been knocking forever, it was about time Lincoln opened the door. She stumbled forward a bit, running a finger down his bare wet chest to where his towel started. "Wow! It's like you were expecting me!"

"Sara?" Lincoln asked confused, catching her when she stumbled into him. "Expecting you...what?" he asked confused. Her hair was flat and fluffy, a few strand sticking out here and there. Her eyes were heavy lidded and she couldn't keep herself upright without his help. Lincoln grabbed her wrist and pulled it from his skin. "Sara, are you...drunk?" he surprised himself with his words, pulling her into his apartment and closing the door behind her.

"I'm not. . . drunk!" Sara giggled at his words. She swayed a little and wrapped an arm around Lincoln's waist to steady herself. "I'm just tipsy!" She giggled again. "You look good, Linc. Do you know that? You look good."

"Uh...okay..." he said slowly, unclasping her hands from behind his back and removing them from his skin again. "Where have you been?" he asked her, taking a step from her body to minimalise contact. "You shouldn't drink," he scolded her lightly.

"You shouldn't drink," Sara repeated in a masculine voice and then giggled. Stumbling out of her high heels, she broke into a sing-song voice. "I went to some baaaars! You wouldn't believe how nice guys are, Linc. They just kept buying me drink after drink after drink after drink. . ."

Lincoln scratched his head gently, unable to process what was going on in front of him. "Sara, why did you go to bars?" he asked her nicely, in a childlike tone.

"Because I wanted to feeel good!" Sara informed him happily, turning so that her body was pressed against his. She slid her fingers down to his towel again and lowered her voice. "Don't you ever want to feel good?"

Lincoln bit back his burning sensation in his stomach and stepped from her again, further into his lounge. "Sara..." he said, clutching at his towel in a desperate attempt to keep it on his body. "Uh..." he tried to think of something to say. "...Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, turning their conversation into a game. "Did you go and see Michael today?"

"I did!" Sara exclaimed, taking Lincoln by the shoulders and pushing him down onto the couch. She straddled his lap. "I definitely saw Michael today!"

"Sara, Stop!" Lincoln screamed at her, grabbing her wrists and stopping her from trailing her hands all over his body. He gripped at her smooth flesh tightly, the skin under his fingers turning pink. If he weren’t careful, she'd notice his arousal. "Why are you here?" he asked her seriously.

"Michael doesn't want me," Sara shrugged, trying to move into Lincoln again. "And I mean, you are his brother." She eyed him up and down and squinted her eyes. "Maybe if I pretend hard enough. . ."

“What? Pretend hard enough…Sara, you don’t want this,” Lincoln told her firmly. He moved to grip both her hands in one of his massive paws and tightened his hold on his towel. “Wait…” he stilled, frowning with confusion. “…Michael doesn’t want you?”

Sara yanked her hands from Lincoln's grasp and stumbled around a bit before grabbing onto an armchair. It took her a second to steady herself. "He doesn't want me. Who can blame him though? Neither do you."

"Sara..." Lincoln said her name softly, his head tilting sideways with empathy.

Sara tilted her head when Lincoln said her name. She didn't hear him though, she heard Michael, saying her name the way he had said it over and over. The way only Michael could say it. Turning back to him, Sara leaned in for a kiss.

"Whoa..." Lincoln whispered, reaching to push Sara's shoulders and hold her from him. Their lips were almost touching and Lincoln cursed the blood surging through his body to all the wrong places. "...Sara, I'm not Michael," he said softly, turning his head from her so the temptation was gone.

"No, you're not Michael," Sara whispered, leaning away from him. She hit against the wall and cursed under her breath. "No one wants Sara. Sara was just there to leave the door open. Sara was the key, Sara always has the key. Now it's done, it's over. No one needs Sara anymore."

"Okay," Lincoln announced, lifting her from his lap onto the couch cushions next to him. He stood up and run his hands over his face, exhaling hard. "That's the alcohol talking," he told her. "No one is more grateful for what you did than us, Sara. Believe me."

"Michael isn't grateful," Sara muttered, feeling dangerously close to tears. "Michael doesn't want me. Michael doesn't need me." She stood, stumbling down the hall. "I think I need to puke."

"Oh, okay, not in the hall..." Lincoln hurried after her, gripping her elbow and guiding her to the bathroom.

Sara barely made it to the bathroom, before she leaned over the sink, emptying the contents of her stomach. With each heave, came a sobering, racking sob. By the time she was done, she was near wailing and completely embarrassed.

Like any good friend, Lincoln consoled her, gently rubbing her back while she gagged and spluttered the burning alcohol into his sink. He held her hair from her face and noticed her tears as she gripped at the sink with a shaky hand. When she was finished, he helped her stand but her weakened body crumbled to the floor in a fit of sobs. Lincoln knelt down in front of her and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "This isn't how you deal with things, Sara," he told her, his own sponsor's words ringing in his ears.

Sara sobbed into her knees, so upset that she almost didn't care Lincoln was seeing her in such a state. "At least I'm not using."

Lincoln nodded in agreement and slid to sit beside her on the bathroom floor. “That’s good,” he said honestly. “Coming onto me? Not so much of a smart idea…” he shuffled on the floor so that his fading erection couldn’t be noticed beneath his towel. “You want to tell me what Michael said?” he pried gently.

"He said. . ." Sara drew in a deep breath as another sob, racked her body. Even though her tears had dwindled, she couldn't seem to control herself. She glanced Lincoln up and down and noticed he was still in nothing but just a towel. "Could you put some clothes on?"

"Sara..." Lincoln warned. "...Just don't look at me. Tell me what Michael said," he urged gently.

Sara closed her eyes and leaned her head back, banging it against the wall twice before finally stilling. "He said that he didn't think I should come anymore. To visit him." She felt the tightening in her chest again. "He said he doesn't want me to."

"To visit him, or..." Lincoln paused, choosing his words carefully. "...or be with him?" he whispered quietly. He wanted to reach out and comfort her but she was technically still drunk and still in desperate need of some comfort of a different kind. Michael had been in prison for almost 5 months. That was a long time for anyone to go without any. Lincoln took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.

"To visit him or. . . or. . ." Another sob racked through Sara's body as a fresh batch of tears found their way to her eyes. "Or to be with him." She sniffled and thought she might need to be sick again.

"Sara, you're not making sense," Lincoln soothed gently. He figured she didn't even know what she was talking about herself. "You need to stop crying," he told her.

"I'm not making sense? I'm not making sense?" Sara's voice rose. She flailed about for a moment, trying to find something to help her pull herself up. She finally caught hold of the towel rack and lugged herself up, staring intently at Lincoln. "I have done everything for him. Everything he has ever asked." She wobbled for a minute but didn't sink back down to the floor. "I love him. He knows I love him. But he doesn't want me to come back. So I said I wouldn't."

"You what?" Lincoln asked her dumbfounded. "Are you insane?" he crowed, standing to join her in her now wobbly upright position.

"Fuck him," Sara announced loudly. She knocked her hand against the sink, repeating it like a mantra. "Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. Fuck it all. I'm done."

Lincoln moved to grab her hand again, and she softened at his touch. "Hey..." he soothed, noticing the sudden bruising on her hand. "...look what you did," he sighed, turning on the cold water and holding her hand under it. "He's not thinking straight, Sara. He's been in prison...he’s been apart from you for too long. His mind is playing tricks on him.”

"What about me?" Sara whispered, shaking her head. She didn't even notice Lincoln running the cold water over her hand. "What about me, out here, without him? It's not like I have someone to go home to every night, Linc. I'm here, waiting for him. And if he doesn't want me to, I won't. I will. . . move on."

Lincoln chuckled and turned off the tap. "No you won't," he said slowly, wrapping her hand in a smaller version of the towel that was draped around his waist. He pulled on her arm gently and led her from the bedroom, leading her into his bedroom and pulling back the covers. "I'll talk to him," he promised, tossing the damp towel across the room. "You. Sleep," he told her softly, pushing her down onto the pillows and pulling the comforter up to her neck. He pulled open his bedside drawer, pulled out a box of painkillers and planted the yellow box next to his alarm clock. "You'll need these," he offered her a weak smile.

"Linc," Sara muttered, grabbing onto his wrist. She buried her tear-stained face in the pillow and sniffled. "You're my best friend."

"No, I’m not," Lincoln said firmly, giving her a wink as he left his room and pulled the door shut behind him.