A/N: Hi everyone! Once again, so sorry about the delay :-S But my muse is back, and my semester is almost done, so now that I got this part of my system, the next one(s) should come definitely faster!

As always, thank you all so very much for your reviews; this story is special to me, so I'm glad to know others are enjoying it ;)

And as always, this is unbetaed. Oh, and sad. Did I mention sad?

IN TIME

IV.

(September 2018)

It's a beautiful day.

It is sunny and warm, yet not too warm; it is as if the hot humidity of summer has stayed trapped in August, allowing September to enjoy its last three weeks of warmth before fall takes over. The wind blows softly through the trees, ruffling leaves that are still firmly attached to their branches, creating a mellow, shivering sound as it moves around her. It's a beautiful day, the kind of day that motivates parents to take their children out to the park. It is yet another act of normality that has been taken away from her.

Taken away, then handed back to her, completely distorted.

Olivia is oblivious to the quiet beauty that surrounds her, from the bright blue sky over head, to the rich grass on the ground, for today will never be a beautiful day.

Today, she visits a cemetery. That is the only way left for her to be close to her child, now. Physically speaking, at least.

Getting there is always a slow, excruciating walk. She's even slower than usual, this time, as she feels weighted down by a strenuous heaviness that isn't simply metaphorical anymore. About halfway to her destination, the earth tilts upward slightly, and she's almost breathless by the time she reaches the height of this ridiculously small slope, her intakes of air louder than they should be. The physical aspects that are to be expected during the third trimester of pregnancy are truly aggravating. She hated this the first time, and she has no doubt she is going to despise it even more this time around.

Now twenty-eight weeks pregnant, she has officially entered said trimester, and she knows the weeks ahead are going to be agonizing, in every possible way. She has never been one to like feeling incapacitated, for any reason, and having a growing child inside of you definitely causes incapacities. And there is no escaping this reality: she's only going to get bigger and bigger, more exhausted and achy with every passing day, not to mention that constant anxiety that twists her gut without a rest.

She feels weakened, looks weakened, and she hates it.

Just two days ago, for example, she was waiting in line at the store, and the lady in front of her –a small woman who must have been nearing ninety years of age, insisted on letting her go first, cooing over her extended stomach. It had taken Olivia several similar situations to accept the fact that people tend to feel truly offended on a personal level when you refuse that kind of offer; and so she had gritted her teeth and faked a grateful smile as she pushed her items in front of the lady's. That's another thing that is only going to get worse with time, people looking at her as if she was a feeble little thing ready to faint at any given moment.

It doesn't help that she looks so huge already, carrying all in front. Every time Peter hears her complain about it, he likes to remind her that it's fairly common for women carrying boys, according to the two hundred pregnancy books he has read in the past few months. All she knows is that if she goes full term –and she will she will she will she will, she's going to give birth to one big baby.

Only a few hours ago, she had been in her doctor's office, and he had confirmed that her baby definitely still is 'above the curve', meaning that he's above average in size and hypothetical weight. These are actually good signs, signs of health, and strength. But Olivia doesn't take these as a guarantee that everything will be fine anymore. Exactly four years ago today, she was learning the hard way –the most unspeakable way, that carrying a healthy child does not necessarily lead to a happy ending.

It doesn't prevent the worst from happening.

That is why she met with her doctor, this morning, even though she didn't have an appointment. He found room for her without any complains, understanding her fears, and doing his best to keep them from blowing out of proportion. From the moment she awoke on this dreadful day after only a few hours of troubled sleep, she was plagued with terror, on top of the smothering pain of grief she had been expecting. No matter how often she felt her baby move within her, she knew she wouldn't be able to really breathe until she was told that everything was still fine.

And everything is fine, oh so fine.

It is so incredibly hard to believe, though, as she finally reaches her destination, and stops in front of the grave.

As always, she simply stands there. What other options does she have? This is such a masochist thing to do, to come here every year and think restlessly about the worst, memories that are never distant enough coming back so clearly that the pain becomes just as raw as it was on that day. But she cannot stay away either. She simply can't.

Some people talk to their loved one in cemeteries, but she was never one of these people. Because what could she say, really?

I'm sorry

It's beautiful out, today, I wish you could be here

I'm scared

Why

I miss you

Where are you

He looks like you

"He looks like her…"

These are the words she had said very softly this morning, her eyes glued to the screen on which the image of her son was depicted. Paranoid as she felt, she had drunk a small cup of coffee before driving there, the caffeine causing him to be unusually energetic, so that a moving arm kept on blocking the view of his face. But one glance had been enough.

There were still three months to go, and yet every detail of his face was already so definite, so clear and beautiful, enhanced by the high-tech used to look at what was going on inside her womb.

She had stared, unable not to remember another sleeping face that looked so similar.

"Where is Peter?"

She wished she could have ignored this question her doctor eventually asked after a long, interminable minute of silence. His voice was soft, genuinely inquisitive. And why wouldn't he be? So far, Peter had always been present whenever they met with Dr. Anderson. There was no questioning why someone would assume her husband should be by her side, today.

When she finally looked away from the screen to meet this kind man's eyes, she offered him a smile that undoubtedly reflected some of that unspoken pain and sadness she so rarely spoke of.

"Peter is never really around on September 5th," she admitted then with a small shrug, meant to make it seem unimportant. But her voice and entire body language betrayed her, quivering with quiet agony. "Not since that day four years ago, anyway..."

Just like she had wanted to ignore her doctor's words a minute ago, she then felt the urge to explain Peter's motives, to defend him.

He has his reasons, she doesn't blame him. She has never blamed him, and never will.

She knows him well enough to understand how his defense mechanisms work, to know what has started it all, what has led him to be so prone to pretending instead of acknowledging. He was only a boy when he was forced to make himself believe the world he lived in was the world he had always known.

Lies.

Peter hides behind the lies he tells himself, and she doubts he's even completely aware of it.

All she knows is that for the last four years, they have both been pretending. She wonders at times if he remembers at all. Even though she knows he does, of course he does, she also knows how good he is at burying the pain. Maybe that's why she murmured these words, in the middle of the night, when she was unable to go back to sleep.

"Do you remember her?"

He didn't answer; she didn't expect him to. Maybe he was asleep, maybe he wasn't. The way they were lying in bed didn't allow her to see his face anyway, or to feel him at all, their bodies separated by an icy space they never seemed able to fill on this day.

She didn't expect an answer, but the lack of response hurt anyway. Everything hurt.

She wishes she could bury it all away, too.

The memories of this day are unbearable.

What she recalls of the delivery isn't even the worst of it; she was in so much pain back then, exhausted to her very core, that she seems to have blacked out most of it. The hours that followed are still crystal clear in her mind, though; she remembers every minute of this ridiculously minuscule amount of time they had with their child.

She had been asleep all along, the kind of sleep from which there is no awakening. It hardly mattered at the time, not in that instant, when Olivia was so desperate to hold on to her that she was able to make herself believe her baby was simply sleeping, just sleeping… But reality had caught up with them, as it always does. Letting them take her away was like losing her all over again. And then there was the funeral, and going home without their child, facing a place that was already crowded with traces of her, even though she would never come home.

It is a pain that never ends.

No, she doesn't blame Peter for not being able to look her in the eyes on this day, when this pain is too raw for them to pretend properly, because they see it all, feel it all again, and it's excruciating.

But she cannot ignore the fact that she wishes silence wasn't so thick. She has accepted long ago that they would not talk about her, but she hoped this pregnancy would break that unspoken seal, that Elizabeth would become more than the fear that gripped both of their hearts, more than a shattered illusion, or a desperate cry during arguments. She hoped they would acknowledge what they almost had.

But she is seven months pregnant, now, and Peter's inability to talk about her is still as strong; she can't bring herself to force it upon him. Because what good can come from cornering him into this against his will?

That's why she let him get up this morning, pretending some more, feigning sleep so he could escape the house without having to talk to her, like he always did; she was left alone in their bed, trembling and inconsolable, and all she could do was focus on the regular movements she felt within her, telling herself he was okay, until she gave in and called her doctor.

And now she stands there, at her grave, staring at her name carved upon the stone, and all she wants to do is apologize for her weakness, for their silence.

She wants to promise her they're not replacing her. She wants to explain that, when people ask her if she's expecting her first child and she always deviates the subject, it's not because she has forgotten her, but because she cannot lie, let alone tell these strangers how she has failed to protect her.

Standing there with her eyes soon closed and her arms tightly wrapped around herself is the only thing she can do, as she begs her legs not to give up on her.

"What kind of father am I?"

At first, she almost thinks she's imagining the voice –it wouldn't be the first time she would hear him speak when he's not physically there. But she instinctively reacts to the sound of Peter's voice, reopening her eyes and turning slowly on the spot, and it is definitely not a projection of him that stands there, a few feet away from her.

No, this is her husband, looking sickly and shaky, his skin now an odd ashy color, bloodshot eyes contrasting with the dark shadows under them. She wishes she could say she has never seen him looking this miserable before, but sadly enough, she has. Too many times.

She is instantly torn between relief at the sight of him, and exacerbated pain, because that is one sight that breaks her heart, especially when she realizes what he has just asked her.

She is distressed, all of her efforts to stay in control of her emotions crumbling, and the baby feels it. She senses his own anguish growing, and forces herself to concentrate on sending him reassuring thoughts, focusing on the solace Peter's presence alone brings her.

It's okay, she thinks, he's here, I'm okay

Peter is not.

He has taken a few steps closer, but he remains too far for her to reach for him, and she doesn't trust her legs to let her walk to him. His eyes haven't left her face, and god he looks more wretched by the second.

"You know, all my life, I promised myself I would never be like Walter," he says then, and his voice is hoarse and quivery, a distraught tone she has come to associate with grief through the years, always hoping she will never have to hear it again. After a pause, he continues. "Growing up, I resented him so much…I thought he was the worst father in the world, and I swore I would never be like him. And I'm not. I'm the opposite of him." His eyes leave her face, then, his gaze focusing on what she knows is the grave at her feet. "He messed up and started a chain of destruction, but he did it all because he loved me too much to let me go. All I have managed to do so far is kill my own son, and spend the last few years pretending our daughter never existed."

"Peter…" she almost chokes out his name, unable to bear the waves of agony oozing out of him, but he shakes his head, eyes closed, as he swallows convulsively.

"I wish I didn't remember her, Olivia," he says then, shamefully, admitting that he had heard her question, last night. "And I've tried, to forget. I've tried so hard, because trying to keep the thought of her alive made me feel like I was going insane. And I've tried coming here, too, so many times…but I just couldn't. So I took the easy way out. I ran, like I always do."

"You're not running today," she points out softly, and he finally raises his head again to look at her.

He looks so lost, all she wants to do is wrap him in her arms and tell him she knows; tell him she understands. But that space is still there, between them, though she feels it getting smaller and smaller as he takes another step towards her, then another.

"You're the reason I'm here," he admits as he stops again, very close to her now. "I realized…I let my fears get the best of me. But you don't." She shakes her head to contradict him but he raises a hand, shaking his head too, tiredly. "You don't, Olivia." He insists, emphatically. "I'm not saying you're not afraid; anyone in your situation would be. But you face these fears every day. I know what it costs you, to go through this pregnancy, and yet, you never complain. You just do it, and you only think of him."

His raised hand has found its way to her cheek, now, his thumb gently brushing away a tear she hasn't even felt rolling down, trapped in the intensity of his gaze.

"I thought…if you do all of this for him, for our family, I can do it too. Because I owe it to you. And I owe it to him." His eyes move, then, looking downwards again. "Most of all, I owe it to her. I owe it to our daughter."

He lets go of her face, his gaze still fixed on the tombstone, and slowly, he kneels in front of it. For once, she ignores the tears now streaming down her face; she lets them run their course, curling her fingers in his hair instead, almost instinctively, the only gesture of comfort she can manage right now, as he reveals what he has been holding in his other hand the whole time, unnoticed.

"I'm sorry…" he whispers then, starting to lay the flowers on the ground, one by one, all four of them. Four white tulips, one for each year she hasn't spent with them. "I promise I'll do better, sweetheart."

When Olivia realizes that he's not speaking to her, but to Elizabeth, the last of her strength vanishes, and pain crashes over her. She doesn't even have time to worry about the possibility that she might collapse under this sorrowful weight she can't hide anymore, because as always, Peter and she are in perfect synch, even in moments like this one. Or rather especially in moments like this one, now that this unbearable space between them has gone.

He's back on his feet within seconds, and in a blur, they're clinging to each other, and their grip is nothing short of desperate, because what else can they do? She holds on tight to his jacket, burying her face against his neck as she feels his fingers twist in her hair, and the comforting pressure of his lips upon her head, his other arm holding her solidly, increasing the feel of her extended stomach against him.

And standing there upon their daughter's grave, with their son still safe and sound within her womb, Olivia knows this is as close to complete as their family will ever be.

TBC...

A/N: I know, I know. Things will get better I swear, I just felt this was needed in the progression of their story.

Next part, Astrid gets married soooo formal!wear XD No champagne this time though, because Olivia will be ready to pop :p

Reviews are always loved :)