Characters: Kellerman, implied Kellerman/Sara (Gen, Crack, Humor)
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: He's gunning for her love, but she keeps moving out of range...
Author's Notes: This was a backup story written for Round 4 of the Prison Break Fic Exchange, allll for ferrynheit who knows the power of good crack. :)
He's a planner.
He can improvise when he has to, pull out that old Owen Kravecki smile, but it's better when he plans. It's more fun.
Today, he's planning for Sara. For the next step— he's been working the moves on her for days now. He let her try to reach out to him at that first NA meeting— let her feel like she got through his defenses. Then there was the post-meeting follow-up where he made her laugh and she made him smile (a real one, not the instantly cheerful one he puts on when he's gotten really fed up).
They had pie together. Forkfuls of crust-by-the-sheet and canned fruit all thrown together, but surprisingly good. He doesn't regret it. That pie was neutral ground, a chance for him to work that Kellerman charm on her. It turns out she's prettier than her pictures, and he likes the look of her long, auburn hair. He'd like it even better spilling out over a pillow while he gets her to scream his name— well yeah, it'd be Lance that she was screaming, but that's still him, mostly. Close enough.
What he's working on now, though, is gaining her trust. Not in the "Oh, Lance" kind of way— though that could come later, and he's thought about that too much already— but in the "We're all friends here" kind of way. The way that'll get her to tell him stuff, like where the hell Michael Scofield is. That's the mission he sold to Kim anyway, though it's no coincidence that he picked the prettiest lead to work through.
So, tonight he has cookbooks and he's working on the details of his next move. He'll suggest cooking together, something so low-key that it hardly seems like a date. Unless it does turn into that, the two of them cozying up in her kitchen while he feeds her tiramisu nice and slow off a gleaming silver fork and—
Okay. Focus. Focus.
French cuisine? No, too fussy. Stir fry could be good— lots of preparation together by the sink, a little bonding over bamboo shoots and julienned carrots. Not showy enough, though. He wants to impress her, and then enjoy some downtime.
Pasta? Too simple. And too much garlic, in case, well— just in case. Fish is out, risotto's too much work.
Ah. Main dishes— flair and forget. This'll work.
He marks the chicken cacciatore with a post-it note, and maybe ice cream would be better for dessert after all. No making ahead, so it doesn't look too presumptive. Would bringing candles be too much? Women really get into that, the romance of it, and he can just imagine Sara's smile in that warm, yellow light— not that he's distracted by all that, but it's been awhile for him and maybe red would be good. Does she like the scented kind?
Okay forget that part, never mind. Only a weirdo would keep candles around in his car. So, no candles just yet.
He wonders if he should memorize the recipe for chicken cacciatore, to make the get-together seem more spontaneous. Would tomato sauce be cheating? Ah, who's he kidding— he's not going to boil and peel fresh tomatoes at Sara's house. That'd drive him nuts, and he already has this tendency toward inappropriate humor already.
A shower would be good now, definitely a shower. With some light cologne, just a touch right—
The phone. He really hates that fucking phone.
He checks the number, and it's Kim. It's always Kim. Because the man has nothing better to do than second-guess every single strategy or lead and—
"Kellerman." He keeps his voice level.
Blah-blah-I want results on this today or you'll be reassigned!-blah-blah-blah.
He tries to avoid thinking about Kim as much as possible, but intrusions like this just never stop. Multiple calls a day, one bitch-whine after another, and how the hell did Kim zip up the ladder so fast? Smirking, smarmy know-it-all asswipe, the kind of guy you'd run down in a crosswalk without a second thought. There are times he'd like to string Kim up by his ankles and decorate him with leeches until he begs for mercy. Or until he cries— crying would definitely be good.
All right, enough of that. Into the shower. He soaps and scrubs, washing the taint of Kim off of his skin and out of his head.
In front of the mirror afterwards, he takes stock of himself.
Less pie, more vegetables obviously, but it's far too late for that now.
His eyes are good— long lashes, expressive when he wants them to be. He'll stick to that, try to dial the intensity down. Sara likes the shy types, if Scofield's any indication.
He tries to imagine the kinds of places she goes in her off-hours, where he might accidentally run into her. On purpose. Bookstores probably— she looks the type. Intelligent and thoughtful. And the grocery store, definitely— everyone has to eat. There's one a block from her apartment, where they might meet over the produce aisle someday soon, just two people trying to put their lives back together and helping each other along the way…
He catches sight of his own smile in the mirror, and puts those thoughts aside.
Stay on task. First things first. Got to get a foot in the door before you can settle in on the sofa.
Flicking through the closet, he searches for the right clothes. Jeans, definitely. He forgets himself in a suit and becomes all business, and that's not who Lance is supposed to be. So. A good shirt— not too Fed-like or stiff, but he doesn't want to look like a bum. Lance is in recovery.
He takes a look at the recipe again, and he's got the basics— chicken, sauce, seasoning, wine and olive oil. He's going to wing it, make the approach seem more casual.
He can't afford to screw this up.
She's at the meeting, just as he expected. Her skin looks so soft, he can almost feel the smoothness of it along his fingers.
Walking back to her apartment— he's allowed to know where she lives now, officially, though he knew it before— their talk is quiet smiles and well-placed humor. Now's the time. He's making his move.
He broaches the idea of getting together to cook, using his smooth voice and tempering it with hesitant charm. It's a masterful performance, and god— he can practically see her in a black lace teddy sipping wine in front of the fireplace and easing onto his lap.
But wait— something's off. Something he missed, and Christ, she's getting all weird now.
Fall back, fall back… Whoa. His mouth runs on without him, and suddenly he's gay and pining over his vacationing partner (which, yeah—he used Danny's name, the partner that he personally killed, but it happens, not that she has to know).
Before he knows it, he's standing in the "unavailable" box he backed himself into. Which he'll never get out of, now that she sees him that way and did he have to pick that particular angle— what the hell is wrong with him, anyway?
Great— he's gay and he's in a committed relationship, just in case she might have been the type to take on a challenge.
His smile's on auto-pilot now as they head into her apartment, but the fun part of this assignment is already over. Clearly he's not getting any tonight or anytime soon, and his hopes stall slowly out on.... Fuck.
Deep down, he's sure this is somehow Kim's fault, or maybe it's a curse from good old dead-boy Danny Hale.
Either way, he'll get the goods and move on with the manhunt. He's a professional.
But damn if he doesn't hate the suckfest that pretty much always defines Plan B.
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