Olivia/Peter fanfic (post-Finale): In Reverse (XVIII)

[elialys]

A/N: Like I said with part 17, read with caution, this still is a very sensitive topic.

Previous parts: I. // II. // III. // IV. // V. // VI. // VII. // VIII. // IX. // X. // XI. // XII. // XIII. // XIV. // XV. // XVI. // XVII.



IN REVERSE

XVIII.

When Death comes that night, it comes quietly.

In retrospect, it isn't surprising. If Peter had to choose one word to describe that night, it wouldn't be 'unfathomable', or 'unreal', or 'so-painful-you-just-want-to-curl-up-on-the-ground-and-die', even though all of these terms apply, too.

He would describe this night as quiet.

Because silence has a sound, too. It's tangible and unbearable, and it makes everything oh so real, even when you just want it all to be nothing but a nightmare.

He is used to tragedies happening with a bang, with a rush of panic and sounds, with sirens and emergency squads. It's always hard, but at least he is prepared for it.

Peter is not prepared for this.

You're never prepared for Death, when it comes so quietly you don't even know it was there until it's gone. Until she's gone.

You're never prepared for Death to come and rip your heart apart.

It comes anyway.

…

Up until this point in time, Peter doesn't know what has been the most terrifying part of the night so far, slipping into bed only to feel the mattress soaked under his palm, or trying to rouse Olivia from 'sleep' and getting no reaction.

Again, in retrospect, these events actually were the easiest things to go through, though he remains blissfully ignorant at the moment.

Evidently, he thinks it's blood at first. It isn't. He almost sends the lamp flying when he frenetically reaches for it and turns it on, before pulling the covers away from her. The liquid is clear, and the smell is sweet and almost earthy; he has read enough pregnancy books by then to know what it is, and his mind is already reeling in slight panic. Sure, water breaking at thirty-five weeks is a bit early, but it happens, it happens, and they knew it could happen, and if she does go into labor today, the baby would be fine.

When he gently grabs her shoulder, though, her skin feels clammy and cool, and she doesn't react to his small shake.

"Olivia."

But he gets no reaction.

Less than three minutes later, an ambulance is on its way, as he tries not to really panic now, tries to remember something useful from all those books he's read, but it seems like his brain is already shutting down. It doesn't matter how many information you have stored in your head, it doesn't change anything that you have an I.Q. of 190. In moments like these, when your heart takes control over your mind, you're just as freaked out as anyone else. The most he ends up doing is feel her pulse, which is definitely there, strong and regular, though abnormally slow.

He rides with her to the hospital of course, while the EMTs hook her up to an impressive amount of machines in the back of the ambulance, talking fast and hurriedly, and he tries his best to answer their questions, and tries even harder to understand what they are saying to each other or in their radio. He definitely hears them say that 'they' should get ready to do an emergency C-section, a surgery she would never get because it was already too late, but he somehow misses the moment when they worry about the lack of fetal heartbeat; it's easier not to hear that part.

Everything is blurry, and he ends up standing shakily in a waiting room, still trying to make sense of everything that has just happened in the last twenty minutes. All he knows is that it feels surreal. They'd had the most normal evening.

Olivia had gone to bed early -as in 8:30pm kind of early- which hadn't been unusual at all; her sleep pattern was more disrupted than ever these days, and she had finally accepted the fact that if she wanted to get at least two or three hours of sleep in a row, she should let herself sleep whenever she got drowsy. She had gotten drowsy on his shoulder tonight, as they were watching some mindless show on TV, and he had gently touched her cheek to keep her from completely falling asleep, advising her to go to bed. She had grumbled sleepily but had gotten off the couch, in this slightly wobbly way he found terribly endearing, and when he had told her teasingly that he could try and carry her to bed, she had said without even turning back:

"Laugh all you want, Bishop, but you should get some sleep too. In a few weeks, you'll be the one getting up at night."

As he waits and waits for an excruciatingly long time -which turns out to be less than half an hour- he promises himself he will willingly and happily take all the night feedings for a year or two as long as both his girls are okay.

But they're not. Something is very wrong. That much he can tell as soon as a doctor approaches him.

There is this quietness about him. He's looking grave and almost tired; he's looking like someone who's about to deliver bad news. Peter dismisses it, because everything will be alright. It has to be.

"How's Olivia?" he immediately asks.

"Olivia is doing fine," the doctor says, and he's so overwhelmed with relief that he barely registers what he says about her blood pressure, because his relief is short-lived and he has to ask the second most important question.

"How's the baby?"

And there it is; the pause. The silence. The quiet, almost apologetic second before the pain, and Peter knows even before the doctor says the words.

"I'm very sorry, the baby died."

…

Breathing is hard. Focusing on anything is painful.

His denial is thick and powerful, but not thick enough for the reality of what is happening to remain afar. He's sitting near Olivia's bed -or rather slumped in a chair, bent forward, elbows on his knees, alternating moving his hands from his hair to his mouth, occasionally pressing their heels to his eyes. His mind is blank and yet incredibly acute, and he feels both numb and torn apart.

He wants to ignore the fact that nothing can be done, that their daughter is just gone, but even closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see her bump under the covers is not enough. The simple fact that there is only one heart monitor sound in the room tells the intolerable truth. He finds himself longing for that fast, drumming sound they had heard only a few days ago during her last appointment. It had been a healthy sound, a sound full of life and promise.

But all that is left is silence.

Except for Olivia's heartbeat, which remains slower than usual.

The doctors don't have an explanation for her 'slumber'. Physically, she's 'fine', they say. They got her blood pressure under control, and nothing explains why she's not simply waking up, because this is 'inconsistent with coma', whatever the hell that means, maybe they explained it, but the words didn't reach him in his foggy state of mind. He doesn't need their explanation, because he knows.

He could try and explain to them why she's sleeping, but they wouldn't understand. Because he knows that maybe, she's simply gone, too. Maybe, just maybe, her mind has gone with their daughter's when she felt her slip away. It would be just like her. Even unconsciously, she won't give her up without a fight.

Because this is definitely not sleep.

He has seen her in that state way too many times, has heard that slow heartbeat way too often, though she's usually immersed into water, a metal rod piercing the back of her skull.

This is trance.

And he knows how to bring her back, if she decides to come back at all. She hasn't won that fight, that much is obvious, and he wonders if she will want to wake up to this reality. The minutes go by, and he just sits there, feeling like acid is slowly dissolving his insides, and he simply wants to leave, to leave and not think, and not feel. He knows how to bring her back, but he doesn't want to bring her back. Not to this.

He can't let her sleep either, though, no matter how much he wants to shield her from the truth, how much he doesn't want to deal with this.

She can't be gone, too.

He needs her to come back to him. He needs her.

And so, with the most intense dread in his heart, one of his hands reaches out for hers, sliding his fingers under her palm, enclosing hers gently, yet decidedly. With a growing lump in his throat, he brings their joined hands to his mouth, pressing her knuckles to his lips, silently begging her to come back.

When he closes his eyes, he instantly feels this almost familiar sensation pass through him, as if invisible tendrils were forming between them, strengthening this unique bond they seem to have shared for as long as he can remember. As his breathing deepens and his own heart slows down, a beautiful picture start to form in his mind, or maybe it comes from hers; it doesn't really matter. The petals are nacre white, and feel as soft as satin. He focuses all of his thoughts on it, overwhelmed by a feeling of deep melancholy, which soon morphs into desolation when a single drop falls onto the flower; it traces a scarlet trail as it slides down, quickly spreading within the petal's skin, white turning red.

Olivia's fingers quiver against his lips, and Peter opens his eyes. Their gazes instantly meet.

She doesn't look completely aware at first, her eyes hazy and unfocused, as if her mind is neither here nor there.

It doesn't last long enough.

Quickly, way too quickly, he can literally feel her mind clearing as her fingers clench his, her eyes widening, staring at him in a way that makes him feel like she's looking right through him, another reaction he knows too well. He can almost see the Glimmer reflecting in her still widening eyes, and as her face constricts in what is the most unbearable pleading look he has ever seen, he understands that she knows. And in that strange, floating second, he finds himself having the most selfish thought of all.

I don't have to tell her

The stillness of the moment is gone in a second when she abruptly moves, her fingers leaving his as she brings both her hands to her stomach; the movement is so harsh that her IV pole shakes on the other side of the bed, and there is nothing slow about her heartbeat now; it's increasing with every passing second, her breathing loud and panicked.

"Peter," she breathes out, looking more distraught than he has ever seen her. "I can't feel her." Silent tears start rolling down her cheeks, and it's atrocious to know that they are only the first of many, many more to come. "Peter, I don't feel her anymore."

She's panting in terror, pleading him with her eyes to tell her that she's wrong, so wrong, that her baby is fine, but that is one lie he cannot tell. His can feel his own face crumbling, and her heartbeat peaks.

"Olivia…" is all he manages to utter, and she shakes her head vigorously, hands still clenched on her stomach.

"Please," she whispers, and he has to close his eyes, only to reopen them a second later when people rush into the room, nurses already busy around Olivia, trying to calm her down.

She doesn't listen to them, she's frantic, pushing them away as they attempt to get her to lie back down, and he sees one of them finally inject something into her IV. Maggie Stewarts, her doctor enters the room, then, unnoticed by Olivia, who's falling back against her pillow, her heartbeat finally slowing down; whatever they have given her, it's not enough to knock her out. He watches as she takes gulps of air, blinking at the ceiling, causing new tears to slide down as she hugs herself.

Her doctor barely offers him a look that he guesses is supposed to be sympathetic, before silently gesturing the nurses to leave the room. Peter is tempted to follow them, but he turns his gaze back to Olivia instead. Her eyes are on Dr Stewarts now, her breathing still too loud, and she's now silently pleading the other woman, someone she has entrusted with her baby's health months ago, to tell her that everything is fine. But she offers her no comfort, quietly sitting in the chair opposite Peter's. And he sees the same look in the doctor's eyes that was given to him a short while ago. His desire to flee the room increases, because he does not want to be here.

"Olivia," she says softly. "I'm sorry they had to give you this, but your vitals were worrisome." She pauses. "Do you remember what happened?"

Olivia shakes her head, trying to wipe her face with a weak, trembling hand. "I…I went to bed," she whispers.

Dr Stewarts nods slowly. "At some point between that time and when Peter came into the room, your water broke. He was not able to wake you up, that's why you were brought here." And there comes the Pause. "The EMTs who brought you here were unable to find a fetal heartbeat, nothing could be done. I'm so sorry, your baby died."

As Peter watches Olivia react the way any mother would react upon hearing that her child has died, breaking, he can't help but wonder with some sort of horrified shock how worse it would be if she hadn't been drugged minutes ago. Somehow, he's glad she was, because the diverse physical reactions to her heartbreak are already unbearable, her entire being shaking with pain and silent sobs. Numbness has taken over him again, because not feeling anything is better than yielding to this, but he knows he should do something. What can he do? He wants to hold her hand, maybe, but one of them is still firmly resting upon her stomach, almost in a shielding gesture, while the other is up to her face, yet not really touching it as she just rocks herself, shaking her head. He eventually has to avert his eyes, because it feels almost indecent to be staring at her in a moment of such sorrow and vulnerability. Also, he might simply crumbles right here himself if he looks any longer.

"What happened?"

He is startled by the sound of her voice an endless moment later, barely louder than a whisper, barely audible through her tears. He looks back up at her, but her eyes are on Dr Stewarts.

Her doctor's face hasn't changed much, and he wonders coldly how many years of bad news it takes to witness that kind of misery and not even look remotely upset. Up until tonight, he had always liked her, as much as you can really like a doctor, that is, especially when your childhood used to be full of them. She had been professional and informative, honest about pregnancy facts and expectations, exactly the kind of doctor Olivia liked. But right now, Peter wishes they had gone with a doctor who could offer some kind of compassion in a moment like this.

"We can't be sure yet, nothing is evident enough to explain it. It could just be an accident; it's sad to say, but it happens more often than one thinks." Peter might have slapped her right there for saying those words in such a matter-of-fact voice if she hadn't kept going. "But your irregular blood-pressure when you came in also makes us think of pre-eclampsia, though it seems improbable. You would either be in worse shape than you are right now, or you would have shown symptoms before, and I doubt it wouldn't have shown during any of your exams."

Peter's anger increases. This is all he needs, someone to blame, and right now, Dr Stewarts is giving him too many reasons to be angry. But his eyes are back on Olivia then, who is still crying with the most heartbreaking look on her face, and anger and desperation aren't so different from each other.

"I don't understand…" Olivia shakes her head, hugging herself tightly. "Everything was perfectly fine ten days ago at our last appointment. She was still moving when I-"

But she has to stop, seeming to break down all over again, eyes closed, rocking slightly.

"I know it's hard, Olivia, and I promise you'll get answer once the baby is born," Dr Stewards says then, which causes Olivia to reopen her eyes, now looking almost confused. The doctor continues: "Now normally in this situation, when there is no underlying risk for the mother, we give the parents a choice; they can decide when they want labor to be induced. I'm afraid that we cannot wait long in your case. Your water broke, which means that you could naturally go into labor, but this being your first child and under current circumstances, it could take up to a few days. That's why we would rather induce you tonight, to avoid any risk of infection."

Olivia has closed her eyes again, now looking defeated. "I have to give birth tonight…" she whispers. "Naturally."

It's not a question, more like she's saying the words out loud to make sure she's not making them up. Peter isn't surprised by the news. When he had himself asked the first doctor he had talked to why they wouldn't do the C-section, why they wouldn't try and get the baby out, try something for Christ's Sake!, he had been told that it would be an 'unnecessary risk for the mother', especially since 'nothing could be done'.

"We'll induce you tonight," confirms Dr Stewarts, "but there's no saying when you will give birth. Even with the induction, labor can take 12 to 24 hours to start, and it can then take just as long to go through the whole process. In other cases, everything happens within hours. It really depends on how your body will react to the drugs."

Peter thinks she has completely missed the point in what Olivia has said, and his loathing for her increases. But he remains quiet, powerless, unable to do anything but stare at Olivia as she simply sits there, arms around herself, crushed, tears slipping out from under her closed eyelids.

"It should go fast, then…" she murmurs.

For better or for worse, she's right about that.

…

Plic…Plic…Plic…

The water drips from his face, as he just stands there over the sink, grabbing both sides with shaky hands. The dizziness is mostly gone, but he still feels more wretched than he has in...well, he wishes he could say 'years', but his life is so fucked up that it hadn't been that long since he had felt so bad that it had physically affected him. It simply seems to hurt more now because of the few months without any tragedy they had just lived. He had honestly thought that the worse was behind them. Destroying universes, killing people (your own son), his dad imprisoned for life…he had felt miserable alright.

And then he hadn't.

They hadn't planned on getting pregnant, that much is true, but she had never been a mistake. She had been wanted as soon as her existence had been known. And yet, they hadn't gotten overly excited. After all, they were not what you would call the most optimistic people; Peter was too cynical and Olivia too down to earth and almost blasé at times to just run 'head first' into this without some caution. They were told that they should wait until Olivia went past the twelve weeks mark to 'start to prepare and plan'. They lived in a crazy world, leading an insane life, so they had listened and hadn't gotten excited. But soon she had been thirteen weeks pregnant and everything had been going well. Before they knew it, she was over twenty-two weeks pregnant, with that fascinating bump and the indescribable look on her face whenever she felt her move.

No, they hadn't been excited, not exactly. Weeks had gone by, one by one, and she had been growing steadily, healthily, and with a blink of an eye, there had been less than ten weeks to go. And it had felt good, to feel almost normal, to feel utterly unprepared and terrified about oncoming parenthood, and yet to be so ready, ready to meet her. To meet his little girl, to hold her in his arms and promise her to keep her safe, murmuring into her ear what he had been whispering against Olivia's tense skin for months now, like he had done only yesterday night.

And now, she is just gone, and his anger throbs as deeply as his grief, and he doesn't even know why he is mad, or whom he is mad at. He hates the doctors for being useless, he hates himself for not going to bed with Olivia earlier because maybe, just maybe, he could have done something, and he's mad at her too, for leaving them a month before she was supposed to be born, for letting him down like that, for putting them through so much pain, and God Olivia's face how could she just go that way?

That is the kind of thinking that had led him to leave the room to go throw up in the men's bathroom down the hall. He had thought he could allow himself that small moment of weakness -and it had been this or throwing up beside Olivia's bed. But now that his stomach is completely empty and that he has splashed some cold water on his face to try and get a grip of himself, he is crushed by the realization that he has just left Olivia when she needs him the most. What is most terrifying is that he's wondering if he's going to have the guts to go back in the room. He had escaped after a nurse had come in and softly informed Olivia that she was going to examine her so they could 'prep her'. It had seemed like the perfect opportunity, because not every man liked to stay in the room when their girlfriends were being 'examined'. Except that he now remembers feeling Olivia's eyes on him as he left, for the first time since the doctor had confirmed her biggest fear, and it's too easy for him to imagine what she might be thinking, left alone to be probed by a stranger so that they can 'prep her' to deliver their dead child.

With only a glimpse at his own reflection -quite a frightening sight, Peter escapes the bathroom, feeling almost worse than when he first entered it, stumbling a little, and he almost collides with a nurse coming down the hall. He recognizes her as the one who had been with Olivia, and he sees immediate recognition in her eyes too. She has kind eyes.

"Feeling better?" she asks softly.

He thinks about nodding, but he ends up just shaking his head, feeling like he owes this stranger honesty after she has witnessed him flee the room. "I'm…sorry, about…" he tries because he also feels like he needs to explain himself.

She does something that completely throws him off then; she briefly brings her hand to his face, gently patting his cheek twice before dropping her hand to his shoulder. "Nonsense, young man, don't apologize to me. Most people don't realize how hard this is for the dads, too." He honestly doesn't know how to react to such genuine kindness and understanding. Mostly, he just feels like breaking down.

"How is she?" He whispers instead, and knowing what kind of answer he's going to get.

The nurse -he would realize later that he never learned her name- squeezes his shoulder. "She needs you to go back in," she says simply, but again without any trace of accusation, and he closes his eyes, shaking his head in shame. "Hey, don't worry, I told her you would be back, that you obviously were one of these men who are too proud to display weakness in front of women."

He feels like telling her that most of the time, it's actually the other way around; they are both too proud for their own good at times, but of the two of them, she's the one who clearly hates showing vulnerability.

Tonight is hell, in every possible way.

When he doesn't say anything, and just stands there, eyes closed and feeling so selfishly tired, she gives him another squeeze. "Is there anybody you can call? Family, friends? Sometimes it helps to know that someone else is here."

He opens his eyes and shakes his head tiredly. "No. No family," he says a little too hoarsely, before adding. "She does have a sister in Chicago, but she wouldn't want her to…to see her like this."

"What about you?" The nurse asks softly.

He just shakes his head again, swallowing hard. "She's all I've got." The last word definitely sounds too squeaky and he sounds nothing short of desperate.

"She's going to be fine," she tells him then, reassuringly. "There is no word to express the pain of what she is going through, but you obviously love her. If you take care of her, she will be fine."

Take care of the people you care about

Less than a minute later, he's back into the room. He's still a bit shaky, and definitely overwhelmed, but he has just been reminded of what he is supposed to do, because that's what he's good at.

He will take care of her.

And so he walks back to her bed, on which she now lies curled up on her side -as much as she can lie on her side in her state. Both her arms are under the blanket, and he knows she's still hugging herself; it's as if she's decided on holding on to her child as long as humanly possible. Her eyes are closed, and her face still displays that intense, unbearable sorrow. Without a word, he puts a soft hand on her forehead, before bending down to press a kiss on her skin. When he sits back down in his chair, she has opened her eyes, and their gazes meet at last. No word is adequate, no word is strong enough. So they don't say anything at all.

They simply stare at each other and speak quietly.

Stay with me, her pleading, anguished eyes ask him.

I'm not going anywhere, he promises without a word.

…

Olivia doesn't speak a lot, that night. She's just as quiet as the rest of the world. But when she does, she always breaks his heart.

"No epidural," she says to the nurse with a small shake of her head, and her voice is throaty, as if she had been screaming her lungs out, when she has barely spoken at all.

The nurse -the kind one who definitely is a blessing tonight- doesn't look at her the way he knows her doctor would, with a bit of annoyance. She offers her a grave yet sympathetic look. Peter is just too shocked -yet again- to even try to intervene. They had talked about delivery options, of course, had been as far as researching methods like water birth, and she had quickly said that she wouldn't do an epidural. She had said she'd had enough drugs poured into her body for a lifetime, and that she would do fine without this one.

Admittedly, her reason for not wanting the epidural in the first place is still valid, but he knows her motives have changed.

This is not about it being a drug. This is about it being a drug that would numb the pain of childbirth, and she wouldn't allow herself that kind of relief.

"Are you sure?" the nurse asks. "Labor pains are extremely painful."

Olivia just shakes her head, not even looking at her, eyes hazy and almost empty. "I'm fine," she says, and her voice is hollow too.

The nurse sighs, and then, to Peter's surprise, she sits on Olivia's bed. Obviously, surprise is the reaction she was trying to get, because Olivia turns her head and meets her gaze.

"Look," the nurse says gravely, yet with the same kindness she had spoken to Peter with. "I'm not going to pretend I know what you are going through, or that I understand why you don't want the epidural. What I can tell you, though, is that I unfortunately had the occasion to see more than one woman go through what you're going through right now. The drug won't make it easier for you, because nothing can make this easier. But the pain will only make it harder. Do you understand?"

Olivia's face crumbles yet again, eyes full of tears, and she brings a trembling hand to her face, wiping her nose the way she always does when she tries to keep herself together. But it doesn't really work when you're already broken.

"I'm fine…" she repeats in a murmur then, averting her eyes, hand falling back on her stomach as more quiet tears roll down her cheeks. "I don't want the drugs. Just induce me."

And so that's what they do, reminding them that it can take quite a while for labor to start.

But barely an hour has passed when the contractions come. And when they come, they come hard.

The first one is enough for him to want and beg her to reconsider taking the epidural; he can't stand seeing her in pain, and the nurse was right, it just makes it a thousand times worse. But he doesn't say anything because he's not the one supposed to complain here. Olivia doesn't complain; she barely makes a noise, if not for these loud and somewhat controlled intakes of breath she takes whenever the pain hits her. He remembers seeing depiction of women screaming and swearing exceedingly, and though she remains mostly quiet, he can tell that all the bad things he has ever heard about labor pain are true. Her body literally shakes with every contraction, and all she can do is close her eyes, hands clenched over a stomach, almost curling into herself as the pain rolls through her. She's then left breathless and weak, hiding her face into her pillow as if to hide her newest tears.

The nurse comes back in regularly to check on her, and unlike Peter, she doesn't hesitate and offer the epidural again after one particularly intense contraction that has Olivia gripping the bed's rail in mere agony, bent over in half and barely able to breathe through this one. But when it's over, she just stubbornly shakes her head, eyes still tightly closed, pulling at her gown as if she still had difficulty breathing. With every new wave of pain, she looks like she's suffocating a little more into her skin, face flushed and skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, something both Peter and the nurse notice.

After the nurse is done 'checking', she announces that things are progressing fast. "You can try and walk around, if you want," she tells Olivia.

At first, it's another advice she ignores. But thirty minutes and five excruciating waves of pain later, she's pulling at her gown again, eyes closed in exhaustion as she tries to catch her breath.

"I need to move…" she whispers, and he barely has time to stand up from his chair that she has already thrown her legs over the other side of the bed. He has joined her in a second of course, but when he tries and helps her up, she pushes his hands away. "Don't…" and she manages to slide off the bed, clinging to her IV pole. After finding her balance on weakened legs, she heads for the door.

He follows closely, close enough that if she stumbled or anything, he would be able to keep her from falling. Not that she's going to go far, that's much is clear. They are barely out of her room and into the hall when she abruptly stops, her entire body tensing in a way that is already sickeningly familiar. He sees her knuckles turning white around the IV pole as her body starts to fold in half, and there is no way she's going to stay on her feet through this. He doesn't wait for her consent and goes around her to stand in front of her as she tries to breathe through the growing pain. She instinctively reaches out for him, letting go of the pole so both her hands grab his sides, fingers digging hard into his ribs as her head falls against his chest.

"Peter…" she moans against him, and his fingers curl into her hair, protectively, his other arm sliding around her to keep her steady as she sways through the pain.

"I've got you…" he whispers into her hair, and he feels her grip on him tightening even more. "I've got you…"

The pain seems to last forever, and for the first time since the contractions have started, she seems to allow herself the right to display her agony, a low, painful hum resonating through him, and all he can do is keep her close.

She eventually relaxes in his embrace, her entire being slumping against him, but he knows she's crying against his shirt.

"Olivia, please…" he doesn't even try to hide his own desperation as he whispers against the top of her head. "Take the epidural. You don't have to be in so much pain."

Her body shakes with what he knows is another silent sob, but she quickly shakes her head against him, before straightening up. She doesn't look at him, automatically trying to wipe her face -unsuccessfully, before letting go of him all together. Without a word, she grabs her IV pole again and walks around him, before starting down the hall, her other hand under her round stomach, wobbling away.

When the next contractions come, though, she clings to him every single time and cries some more against his shirt.

At some point, he just starts crying with her, his tears as quiet as hers; none of them even notices.

…

Part of him still expects to wake up at any moment, now, firmly believing that this is all a nightmare. But it is too real to be a nightmare. By the time she's ready to push, he's ready to collapse on the floor.

He has lost all notion of time, his whole world now limited and divided between the moments when she's in pain, and the moments when she's not. The latter are getting rarer and harder to discern, because even when she's not in the middle of a contraction, she's in pain.

But the time comes when she's fully dilated and positioned to push the baby out, and Peter has taken position too, standing next to her as she squishes his fingers. He almost feels like a normal father for a moment there, finding himself echoing the doctor's instructions to Olivia to 'bear down', though his voice sounds very foreign. He cannot focus on what is happening down there, keeping his eyes on her.

Again, when some women might have been screaming and sobbing in pain by now, she isn't, despite the fact that she would have every reason to behave that way. But she goes through this like she has always gone through every painful situation she has ever been in. With every last bit of determination she's got in her. There's no hiding the despair on her face, though, and her flushed face is glistening with an equal amount of tears and sweat. She listens to her doctor and her nurse and follows their instructions without a single word or complaint. And then her doctor says after a particularly long push:

"Alright, Olivia, you're almost there. I need you to give me two more big pushes when the next contraction comes and she'll be out."

Olivia falls back against her pillow. "Oh God…" she breathes out, before shaking her head almost drowsily. "I can't…"

"You're doing great, it's almost over," her doctor continues, and Peter wishes she would just shut up, because Olivia's face contracts even more upon hearing these words, eyes closed, still shaking her head.

"I can't…" she repeats as breathlessly.

And when the next contraction comes, she doesn't sit back up like she had been doing so far, crushing Peter's hand instead, with so much force that he wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a broken finger and he can't care less. She's panting frenetically, clearly trying to stop herself from pushing, though he knows it's nearly impossible; she ignores her doctor's almost severe demands to bear down, pointing out the obvious and saying that she won't be able to stop herself.

But leave it to Olivia to prove her wrong.

"Olivia," Dr Stewarts reprimands her when the cramps stop. "Your body is still pushing the baby out. You are only making this harder and more painful for you, don't fight it."

Peter's eyes leave Olivia's face long enough to meet the nurse's gaze, and she gives him a meaningful look. He nods almost imperceptibly before turning his eyes back down to Olivia, bringing his free hand to her sweaty forehead, gently pushing wet strands of hair away. She opens her eyes to look at him then, and she almost instantly lets go of his hand to grab his shirt, pulling him down nearer to her, her eyes quietly pleading him again.

"Olivia," he says softly and as steadily as he can, his fingers still caressing her skin. "I know you're tired, and I know you're hurting…but you need to push."

But she's shaking her head again, and she's beyond hurt, she's beyond tired. She's almost delirious with exhaustion and pain, every possible kind of pain. "Peter…" she almost chokes out his name, tugging at his shirt. "I can't let her go…"

He can feel the change on his face as it constricts, and he knows he must be mirroring her expression almost perfectly.

Of course she wouldn't possibly allow this to happen without fighting it, some way or another. She doesn't simply give up, and she cannot fathom the fact that she has to let her daughter go.

But what could she possibly do?

'She's already gone', a voice whispers in his ear, and for a second there, he almost repeats the words to her. But he doesn't. She doesn't need him to remind her of the truth; she doesn't need the truth, because the truth hurts too much. But he cannot lie to her either, cannot tell her that everything will be alright, that she will be alright, because the last thing he wants to do is lie to her right now.

He goes for the only alternative he's got, then.

His fingers still gently brushing her skin, eyes firmly locked with hers, he whispers: "Do you remember when you said you couldn't wait to see who she would look like the most?"

She shakes her head then, her face distorted in agony, trying to speak but she just can't, and he knows she's not shaking her head because she doesn't remember, of course she remembers, it hadn't been so long ago. She's shaking her head because when she had told him that, she had imagined their baby to be alive and breathing.

He knows how he sounds, but he's not doing it to be cruel, and so he keeps going. "You said the only request you had was that she didn't get my nose."

A broken sob escapes her then, but she still doesn't look away, and she starts to nod; he knows what she's thinking about, even though she cannot say the words. After she had said this, he had pretended to be offended, so she had added, quite honestly: "I hope she has your eyes, though. You have the most beautiful eyes." And he had silently hoped she would have hers.

Just like the sound of her laughter, it was one thing they would never know.

He cannot tell her that either, and so he whispers instead: "Let's find out, okay?"

After a few more excruciating seconds, she nods again. "Okay…" she breathes out, trying to swallow back her tears. "Okay…"

As he reaches for her hand still holding onto his shirt, she gets that look in her eyes, that look she gets when pain starts to tear her apart from the inside again. He helps her sit up, one of his arm bracing her while she goes back to squeezing his fingers with incredible force, and the nurse counts for her as she bears down with all her might.

The doctor had been right. Two more pushes is all it takes for the baby to come out.

Quietly.

The silence that takes over the room then is the most unbearable of all. There is no scream. There is no 'Congratulation, it's a girl!', and he thinks that it is actually very thoughtless of them; Olivia has just given birth after all, she deserves recognition for her pain. But her head falls back against his shoulder, then, and the silence is broken by her heartbreaking sob, a hand already up to her face, and he doesn't think anymore.

Time almost seems to stop at that instant, as he almost instinctively averts his eyes, incapable of keeping his gaze on her, and he has to look at the other end of the bed. Oddly enough, his eyes don't stop on the nurse, who is the one holding his child; no, his eyes stop on the doctor, just when she looks up at one of the walls, and he follows her gaze. She's looking at the clock, mentally noting the time.

It's 6:02 AM.

And in this one surreal, suspended instant, everything suddenly makes sense. He has gotten the answer to the question that had been resonating in his head all night long. Why?

WHY WHY WHY?

It was 6:02 AM when Walternate first activated the Machine over there, and Walter had told him at some point that 6:02 AM was also the time when the Other Side had been destroyed, when he had destroyed it. When his son had died. That's why.

A daughter for a son.

And he thinks of Walter again, of one of these times when he hadn't been rambling but had been lucid, telling him about how Nature was all about balance and unbalance.

But the nurse speaks, then, and Walter slips his mind.

"Do you want to see her?"

Again, he doesn't look at the nurse, turning his gaze back to Olivia. Part of him, that same part that still believes this is not really happening, almost wants to say no.

What's the point? It won't bring her back.

But Olivia drops her hand and reopens her eyes, nodding her answer because she's still unable to speak, eyes glued to the other woman who is now walking around the bed. She then delicately puts her in her open arms, and Peter hears her murmurs to Olivia: "She's perfect." And that is all the congratulations she needs.

She hasn't wrapped her up completely in a blanket like they usually do to newborns, and he instinctively understands that she hasn't done it so Olivia could see and touch more of her; and that's what she does. Her trembling hand comes to rest on her chest, gently tracing her skin, and more tears roll down.

"She's warm…" Olivia somehow manages to say through her tears.

And that voice is back again, that nasty little voice.

'Of course she's warm, she was still part of you a minute ago, but soon she won't be anymore, she'll never be warm again.'

The thought dies in mind, though, because he is now looking at her, too, looking at their daughter.

And she's perfect, indeed.

Even if he knew that babies only five weeks away from being due were basically 'ready' anatomically speaking, he is still shaken to the core by how perfect she is. In other circumstances, even being born now, she would have lived. She would just have been a little peanut.

He doesn't even realize that he has reached out for her until his fingers touch her face, his thumb delicately brushing her cheek, and her skin is so incredibly soft.

"She's beautiful," he whispers, and then his hand moves up, fingers sliding through Olivia's hair as she drops her head, until her face touches her daughter's.

"I'm sorry, baby girl…" she murmurs against her skin, overwhelmed by her sorrow.

It's not your fault, it's mine

That's what he should say, because he knows.

A daughter for a son.

And he finds himself almost praying at that instant, as Olivia rocks their sleeping angel against her and cries, he prays to Nature, or to God, or to Fate, whichever force is responsible for this.

I get it. We're even now, we're even. Please, no more.

Unfortunately for him, Nature, God, or Fate, are not the only seekers of balance, in this case, seekers of revenge. To some, a child for a child isn't enough.

He has destroyed a Universe, after all.

Someday, someone will destroy his.

(September 2014)

TO PART XIX