Disclaimer — I don't own them. If I did, this stupid "mind control" storyline would never have seen the light of day, trust me.

Author's Note — This story just kind of came to me while watching an episode of Passions maybe a week or two ago. Luis and Paloma were talking about Fancy's odd behavior, and Luis again used the phrase "mood swing" in description, yet still couldn't think of anything that could have caused Fancy's behavior while I was just, "Hmm, I just wonder what could cause mood swings in a sexually active woman of childbearing age with no known fertility issues?" Thus, a plot bunny was born, firmly bit my writing arm, and refused to let go.

I haven't seen any spoilers, so I have no idea if this is what will happen or not. I could totally see it happening, though, because Passions is so very predictable, so I suppose we'll have to watch and see.

Into this night I wander
It's morning that I dread
Another day of knowing of
The path I fear to tread
Oh, into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride
'Cause nothing stands between us here
And I won't be denied

— "Possession", Sarah McLachlan

April 9, 2008

He slowly sinks into the hard, plastic chair and sighs, propping his left elbow on the railing of the hospital bed and letting his forehead rest in his hand. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and straightens up, taking possession of his cup of coffee with both hands, feeling its warmth seep through the cheap styrofoam. Taking a sip of the bitter liquid, Luis finally forces himself to look at the bed's occupant.

It's been so long since he's seen her this tranquil. She'd been a constant source of serenity for him once, when he was on death row, but these past three months she's taken a complete one-eighty. For now, though, she sleeps, her chest slowly rising and falling in time with each breath; without the fury to twist her features, he can again recognize the woman with whom he fell in love. Like this, with her rosy-hued cheeks and blonde hair fanned out around her face like a halo, she appears almost angelic.

Gingerly, he reaches out to take her hand; sliding his fingers beneath it, he can feel the bandages covering the deep gashes there and pulls away quickly, leaving both her hands resting atop her growing bump. It's amazing, he thinks, how much she resembles a paradigm of innocent maternal bliss when just hours earlier...

No, he won't think about that, won't think about what she — it's just better to remain in the present. Like this, with her lying there so peacefully, he can pretend that they're just another couple, that he's just another guy watching his pregnant girlfriend sleep with awed and loving eyes. He briefly ponders what it might be like, a normal pregnancy — maybe Crane women are predisposed to dramatic situations while expecting?

Fancy stirs. "Luis?" she whispers, her voice thick with exhaustion and confusion as she struggles to focus on his face.

He places the coffee cup on a nearby table and leans in to stroke her hair. "Hey, baby," he whispers. "How are you feeling?"

Her eyes roam the room for a few seconds before comprehension dawns in them. Returning her gaze to his face, her expression shifts to one of abject horror. "Oh, God, Luis," she cries, tears filling her blue eyes as she slowly lifts her hands, staring at the bandages on her palms. "Luis, what have I done? What did I do?"

"Shh..." he soothes, gathering her into his arms as best as he can. "It's all right. Everything's fine now," he placates. Stroking her hair, he adds, "You're fine, and the baby's fine, and everything's all right now..."

"It's not all right!" she cries, pulling away from him; for a moment, he's afraid that another woman will be looking back at him. Sobs wrack her slight body, and between gasping breaths she asks, "What's wrong with me, Luis?"

"You remember what the doctor said," he replies slowly, mind briefly going a few weeks back in time. "Most pregnant women have mood swings —"

She cuts him off. "These are not mood swings, Luis. A mood swing is suddenly getting pissed at you for leaving a sock on the floor. I —" She stops abruptly, screwing her eyes closed as the memory of her actions washes over her.

Luis says nothing for a few seconds, because she's right; something is terribly wrong with her, and he's been clinging to the hormone excuse in a desperate attempt to believe that everything's okay. The woman he loves keeps disappearing, replaced by a belligerent, hateful woman who's nothing like his Fancy, yet wears her face, has her memories, shares her mannerisms...

"I know," he finally murmurs, meeting her gaze once more. Tears stream down her face, leaving shiny trails in their wake. "I know. But we both know it now — we both know that there's something wrong, and we can get you help..." he trails off uselessly.

She's quiet for a moment, then stares again at her palms. "Luis," she whispers, broken. "I... I tried to kill our baby. I took my father's bottle of brandy, and I... I tried to use the shards to... to..."

"Hey," he says, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. "You didn't do it. Even like that, you couldn't hurt our baby."

Tears fill her eyes again. "I wanted to, Luis — I don't know why I stopped, but..." She slowly runs her hands over her slight belly, as if trying to find evidence of the life within. "I did the math — we made this baby on Christmas, when we got back together. Do you remember? It was just you, and me, and us loving one another, and in the process we made something so beautiful and pure, and I... I tried to destroy that..."

Once more, he pulls her into his embrace. Slowly, he rubs circles on her back until her shaking slows to a tremor and her sobs become barely audible. "I've already spoken to your parents," he begins. "They're going to get you the best team of doctors the world has to offer, and they're going to find out what's wrong with you." He presses a kiss onto the crown of her head. "You're going to be all right, Fance — we're going to get this figured out." His words are for his own benefit as much as hers; he can't think about what will happen if he loses her because that's a world in which he doesn't think that he can — knows that he can't — exist. The doctors have to help, right? If Julian and Ivy are hiring them, they've got to literally be the world's greatest psychiatrists, and Fancy knows that she's sick, knows that she needs help, and that's the biggest step on the path to recovery, right? Admitting that you have a problem?

He can tell that she's not quite convinced, though. Pulling away, she asks, "And what if they can't help? What if there's nothing to cure?"

He scrunches his forehead in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm a Crane, Luis," she says, hands protectively resting on her stomach. "Maybe my Crane genes are finally taking control."

He shakes his head. "You can't be serious."

Her eyes flash with anger. "Fox pretended to be dying so that Kay wouldn't leave him, my sister ruined our wedding and tried to ruin my life, Chad cheated on Whitney with another man, Sheridan tried to electrocute your sister... they all used to be good people, Luis. What if what happened to them is happening to me?" Looking down at her protruding abdomen, she whispers, "What if I've doomed our child with my DNA?"

"Hey," he drawls, stunned by the way that her fear has twisted her logic. "Fox, Pretty, Chad, Sheridan... they're all still good people, Fancy. You're still a good person; you're not becoming a 'true Crane' or whatever it is that Alistair's calls it."

She blinks away her tears. "You don't understand! My family... we hurt people, Luis, even if we don't mean to. Right now, I can't imagine ever wanting to hurt you or Marty or our baby, but I have — I've hurt you all so badly." Her blinking has failed, and the tears are like rivers down her cheeks, raging with her grief. Voice choked with emotion, she whispers, "What if this is the real me, Luis? What if the woman you love, the woman you're talking to right now... what if she's just a façade? What if she's just an illusion, and I'm really... if I'm..."

Her throat has constricted so much that she can no longer speak; he takes hold of her shoulders and forces her to make eye contact with him. "I know exactly how you feel, okay? My father walked out on us when I was twelve years old, Fancy; my brother had to assume all of the responsibility, and then he ran off..." The bitter memories of his adolescence rush over him, and he has to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths to regain his composure. "For years, I was terrified that it was some sort of Fitzgerald male trait and that, when I had my own family, I'd end up running off, too. It took me a while, Fancy — I always knew it in my head, but the fear hid it so well — but I finally realized that it doesn't work like that." Cupping her face in his hand and rubbing the pad of his thumb over her soft, smooth cheek, he explains, "I love you, and every time I look into your eyes I know that I could never leave you; I look into your eyes, Fancy, and I see you, the real you... she's the woman I'm speaking to right now."

She whimpers slightly and takes his hand into both of hers, snuggling her face deeper into the comfort of his palm. "I'm so scared," she admits, voice barely audible.

"I know," he whispers, pulling her trembling body to his chest. "But, your grandfather aside, your family is made up of good people who have just made some really bad decisions. They're not monsters, and neither are you — you're the most wonderful, loving, compassionate, maternal woman I've ever met, and I won't rest until you're healthy and happy again."

He feels her nod through her ragged sobs, and she clutches to his shirt as if she's sinking into an abyss and he's all that she has left. For several minutes she cries, expending what little energy she's regained following her latest episode. Once the gasping stops he kisses her forehead and helps her rest her exhausted body against her pillows.

Taking one of her delicate hands into his two large, work-roughened hands, he softly exclaims, "Hey, I've been meaning to tell you — Eve did another sonogram before you woke up. She told me the baby's gender."

"Really?" she sniffles, eager though still too weak to raise herself to a sitting position.

He nods and kisses her hand. "We're going to have a little girl."

A beautiful smile blooms on her lips like a flower exposed to the sun, and he realizes that it's the first time he's seen her smile, truly smile, since they took Marty to the Boston Bruins game in January. The fact that this smile is now so frequently hidden by constant anguish and torment makes his heart ache; he wishes that he could freeze this moment, this moment when the pain and hurt are forgotten and all there's only them, and make it last forever.

"I've been trying to come up with names", he whispers, trying to infuse his voice with as much lightness and love as he can in an attempt to keep the sorrow at bay, "but, thus far, I've had little luck."

She purses her lips lightly, and her brow furrows in thought. Slowly, that stunning smile withers and dies, and panic grips his lungs. "What is it?" he demands. "What's wrong?"

She looks up at him, slightly startled, but her expression of surprise quickly falls into something mournful once more. Taking a deep breath, she begins, "Nothing's wrong, really, it's just that... either her first name, or her middle name, or her fiftieth middle name — I want it to be Nicole... for Fox. I know he did some really terrible things," she adds, the pitch of her voice rising slightly as the tears begin to form in her eyes again, "and I know that he hurt your brother a lot, but he was my brother, and he just... Ethan had mother, and I had grandfather, and Pretty had me, sort of, but Fox didn't have anyone growing up. He was all alone, and so miserable, and then he found Kay and Maria and had a family for the first time; to lose all of that..." Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she whispers, "He really wasn't a bad person, Luis."

He nods and takes her hand into his own, ignoring the way the bandages chafe his skin. "Fox did some horrible things," he agrees, "but he was a great friend to Theresa and a good person overall. I think naming our daughter after him would be a wonderful way to honor his memory."

"Thank you." Her voice is too choked with emotion to rise above a whisper. For maybe a minute they sit in silence, hands clasped together, fingers entwined. Finally, she murmurs, "He really was a good person... and maybe I am, too." Her blue eyes pierce his brown ones, demanding his attention. "But this baby comes before me, Luis."

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

Sighing, she explains, "Well, in one sense, I suppose I'm talking about if something happens to me, or to both of us, like with Gwen and Sarah. If you have to make a choice between the two of us, I want you to pick her."

He nods somewhat numbly in affirmation. "Of — of course... but please, let's not talk about stuff like this. It's so..." It's morbid, but he can't even force the word out because he can't even think of Fancy like that, of his Fancy dead, gone... for the first time, he really understands the agonizing decision with which Ethan had been faced, because the idea of life without Fancy...

Her eyes are becoming a bit watery again. "That's not it, though, Luis. I also... I need you to promise me..." She takes a deep breath. "If, after the baby's born... if I try to... to hurt her, or something, I... I want you to promise me that you'll protect her at all costs."

It feels as if she's just dropped a stone of ice in his stomach, making it feel cold and heavy with dread as it splashes his stomach contents up into his esophagus and makes him feel like he'll be sick. He gapes a bit before finally managing, "What... what are you asking me, Fancy?"

She doesn't avert her gaze, despite the pooling moisture in her eyes. "You know."

And God, he knows, he always knows with her, but right now he wishes that he didn't because maybe he could tell a doctor to save his baby girl at Fancy's expense, maybe, but to stop that beautiful heart of hers himself? To never again see her smile, hear her laugh, feel her tight around him while her hands are wrapped in his hair and her lips are crushing his and her breath is coming hot against his skin... to take away her life, to rob the world of this beautiful spirit, with his own hands? He envisions a gaping red hole in her chest, gun powder tainting his hands; the sickening crack of her neck between his arms; the tranquil façade of sleep upon her face, belied only by the hand-shaped bruises around her throat; and it's too much, he's going to be sick, he can't...

"You can't ask this of me!" he cries, standing quickly and kicking his chair to the other side of the room. She flinches. "I... I love you, Fancy! I could never..."

She takes his hand, but instead of holding it she presses it to her slightly rounded abdomen; she looks up at him with a pain that only a mother's eyes could contain, and he obeys and closes his eyes, concentrating on the nerves in his hand; it only takes a minute or two before he feels the lightest of movements against his open palm. He opens his eyes to find her staring up at him, her eyes holding all of the words that she might ever need to say to him. She's right, he knows that she's right, but he still can't bear the thought of Fancy pale and cold, so he focuses on their baby girl, on Nicole; he imagines her with Fancy's golden locks and radiant smile, and then he imagines her limp and lifeless like he'd once believed Marty to be.

A few stray tears roll down his cheeks, but he nods and croaks, "Okay. I promise."

She pulls him close, and he climbs over the bed railing to lie in bed next to her; he reclines against her pillows and she curls up to him, her head against his chest. He wraps his arms around her, and she wraps hers around him, and they grasp at one another with all of the strength they possess as her tears stain his shirt and his dampen her hair. Together, their bodies shake with anguish and fear, eventually stilling as he draws his strength and composure back and exhaustion takes her over.

She eventually pulls herself into a sitting position, tears still clinging to her long, dark lashes. She leans in close, sapphire eyes full of so many emotions that he yearns to hold her close again and make it all go away. "Thank you," she whispers, and he knows that she's offering her gratitude for more than the promise he's made. He closes the space between them and presses his lips to her eyes and cheeks, kissing her tears away, and then brushes them against her own soft, pink lips, offering her a light kiss. She accepts, responds, and he briefly takes her lower lip between his own lips, sucking and biting it lightly.

He releases her, and she rests her forehead against his own. Her breaths are ragged, and, when she finally pulls away, the agony in her eyes resounds painfully in his chest. He wraps his arms around her, tucking her head beneath his chin, and holds her tightly. She takes great, gasping breaths that make her body quake and bring forth tears to sting her eyes and wet his collar. He longs to take away her pain, to steal it away from her and bear it himself, because surely he could bear her agony better than he can bear witnessing it? Surely it would be easier?

In the end, though, he can do nothing for her; he just pulls her body closer to his, caresses her hair tenderly, and hopes that it's enough.