It doesn't surprise her that Lincoln comes to the hospital.
"What happened?" he asks as he comes through the door. "Frank called me—he asked me if I had gotten you pregnant."
Olivia makes this little choking sound of laughter and then sobs raspingly; the damp patch on her pillow from the tears rubs against her cheek uncomfortably. She doesn't look up, though, just keeps staring in the other direction. A nurse came and turned the lights off at some point, and the last thing Olivia needs to look at is Lincoln Lee silhouetted in the doorway all heroic-like.
"Tell me," he says, and steps into the room.
She rolls over but keeps a hand over her face, watching him through her fingers. He flops down in one smooth, careless movement into a hard-backed chair, his legs sprawling out in front of him. There's something strange about the way he slumps forward, spreads his palms across the tops of his thighs; he's tired, weary, and Olivia very fiercely wishes that she could fix it. Lincoln is a cocky smartass even when recovering from burns covering most of his body, and she's not used to not being able to cheer him up.
And she hesitates. What can she say? That she abandoned him and Charlie, left for another world and fell in love and got herself pregnant, all the while leaving some other version of her to trick them? She'd probably be breaking so many levels of protocol, probably just be getting herself in so much trouble.
But there's a baby inside her, a baby she loves with every molecule in her body even though rationally she doesn't want to; and because of this baby, she's already in so much trouble. Lincoln's probably only a day or two from being filled in about all of this, anyway, if he's going to have to take over Broyles's position.
So she tells him everything, from beginning to end, and watches him as she does. He is of course a good audience, all relevant questions and cocky smartass comments and occasionally a reassuring word or two. But he doesn't move much; just sits there, bits and pieces of him illuminated from the lights in the hallway shining through the door. He mostly ignores the part about him being tricked by some other Olivia, except to say this: "Charlie knew, and I told him he was imagining things."
When she's done with the whole sordid tale—ending with Frank leaving her, because why leave anything out?—she looks up at him and says with this half-hearted little grin, "I'm not mad, because you couldn't figure it out. Peter couldn't figure out that I wasn't—I wasn't her. And he was…is in love with her."
There's a quiet moment, and for once—or maybe for the millionth time—Olivia can't quite figure out what's going on inside his head. For a second, she's inexplicably afraid, but then he smirks and says, "Well, I am not changing any diapers."
"Like I would trust you anywhere near my first-born."
And things are going to be all right, she thinks; she hopes, she prays, she would pray if she were the praying kind. Lincoln is the person who would go to hell and back to fix things for the people he loves, and she knows instinctively she's one of those people. She remembers what he said to her earlier that night: "I'm gonna take care of you." But he didn't really have to say it, because she already knew that he would. They're too much alike, really; searching forever for hell and other glories, looking to save the world and emerge battered and broken and alive.
Finally, he pushes himself to his feet and stretches his body cat-like in a way that makes Olivia want to simultaneously watch and avert her eyes. He looks down at her, scrutinizing her in her hospital gown, before saying, "You love him. Peter." She nods; it's so much easier to admit this to him than to Frank, and she thinks fleetingly it's because she knows Lincoln won't abandon her for it.
She can tell by the way that he leaves the hospital room, by the set of his shoulders, that something has shifted—or at least, she thinks that he thinks so. Before, she had always thought that maybe Lincoln understood that they were too much alike: people like them, heroes looking to get bloodied up and save the world, need people that need saving, and that was neither of them. Or maybe she's just crazy; that's a possibility. Because if she has to have saving from whatever it is that is threatening to destroy her, that can't mean that she isn't a hero anymore, right?
Or maybe, she wonders as she slips off to sleep, if the ones like her and Lincoln—the ones searching forever for hell and other glories—are the ones who need saving the most.
A/N: So first of all, I both really really hate and kind of like the whole Fauxlivia-being-pregnant plot. I don't know; this episode made me like her. WHY CAN'T THE ALT-UNIVERSE PEOPLE BE HAPPY IN THEIR CORNER OF THE WORLD AND WE'LL BE HAPPY IN OURS. JEEZ.
Anyway, so. I've kind of tentatively been on the Lincoln/Fauxlivia ship, but this episode-Immortality-definitely solidified it for me. Really. So much. I mean, Lincoln and his crush on Fauxlivia were pretty obvious, but am I the only one who thinks there is a chance she could feel the same way at some point subconsciously and/or in the future?