Author's note: So I'm a big fat liar. Haven't had the time to write at all lately (what with the Holidays…AH!). Took me a while to realize this part was basically already written and I could've probably posted this weeks ago…

Anyway, some angst. Because we all know my terrible affinity for writing that :-)

Stephen Hart. She knew the name, never the man. This man who had been close to Cutter, who Connor and Abby talked about with affection in the brief moments they allowed themselves remembrances. How brave he was. How good a tracker. How handsome (mostly Abby's assertions). How dry his humour was, but nonetheless amusing. And Sarah had always accepted their descriptions with the sort of respect due such a loss of a friend.

But she had never known him.

And she hated him.

In that instant Stephen Hart had taken the place of the man she loved, pushed him entirely out of her world, to be remembered by no one with such fondness, with no evidence that he had ever existed, she loathed him with every fiber of her being.

It might not be his fault. It probably wasn't his fault.

But he was not Becker.

This Stephen Hart would never look at her with those expressive brown eyes. He would never touch her with those surprisingly gentle soldier's hands. Never kiss her with those tantalizing lips, that teasing tongue. He'd never hold her in those encompassing, comforting arms. He'd never place soft kisses down her spine while laying in bed in the early morning light. Never whisper shockingly sweet nothings in her ear late at night.

He could never love her like the man whom was lost to her. And she would never love Stephen Hart or anybody else.

And it made her angry. The pain was still there, but instead of a profound sadness, a panicky fear, it had transformed into a seething, boiling rage. Rage at the universe for being so cruel. Resentment at her friends, anger at herself. For they had surely been the ones who had unintentionally altered the past, changed their present into this hell-on-earth.

It was basically the same for them. For all of them. Hell, Connor and Abby were even happy at the prospect of being reunited with their long lost friend, the usurper of Becker's life. They tried not to show it. But they couldn't hide it.

She knew she came off as cold and distant towards a man who was supposedly her husband. But she couldn't look at him without the remembrance of what she had lost stabbing her through the heart.

And Lester had no clue what a 'Code Brown' was. That whole insane Claudia Brown situation had never occurred in this timeline. It had always confused Sarah, but now, now she felt she truly understood what Cutter had gone through, what Jenny Lewis must have felt. She wondered if Stephen Hart felt the same when his 'wife' looked at him like he were a stranger?

"What's wrong, Sarah?" the man asked, disrupting her thoughts as she packed up her things to go 'home' for the night. What home? She swallowed back the lump. The only three that held the knowledge of the altered timeline had quick discovered the need to keep their mouths shut or risk serious repercussions, namely questions as to their sanity. She tried to play along. But the pain and loss was still so damn fresh that she was bleeding sorrow like a recently opened artery.

Sarah wanted to scream 'Go away and bring him back to me! Die if you have to!'

"Nothing," she said instead. Blue eyes pierced her, so she added, "Not feeling well."

"The baby?" Real, heartfelt concern darkened his features. He thought she was his! Well, of course he did... God, she couldn't be, could she? A brief moment of panic struck her. Sarah just couldn't handle losing the only piece she had left of the man she loved. No, Sarah hadn't been changed by whatever event had altered the timeline. They had been outside of it, as had her daughter, safe in her womb.

Her hand had instinctively gone to caress her offspring, like the touch of her fingers upon her belly could connect her to the child anymore than she already was. Her daughter, Becker's daughter was still restless inside of her.

"She's giving my insides a thrashing," she said.

Sarah couldn't fight the flinch as his hand caressed her belly uninvited. Only one person was allowed to do that without permission. And it was not this stranger. She did manage to bite her lip, however, and stifle the snippy remark, swallow the frustration. His caress was gentle, affectionate. It wasn't as if he were trying to hurt her. It wasn't his fault the fact of his existence was breaking her heart in two.

"You need some rest," he leaned in a bit, kissing her forehead. "Let's get you home."

Sarah blinked back tears.

…

God help her, she tried.

And more than anything she would've liked for it to have succeeded. Then, for just a moment, everything would be all right. Her husband wouldn't have been wiped from existence because she breathed on a butterfly and altered its flight path 136 million years ago.

The flat was unexpectedly, unaccountably, the same. What was the likelihood of that? And rather than comfort her, the familiar surroundings only cast in sharper contrast what -who- was lacking.

Still, she tried.

But squeezing her eyes tight and willing her thoughts to the absent man, Sarah could not force herself to believe that it was her Captain Becker spooning her close. Stephen Hart was of a similar athletic build, relative height. But even had she fallen asleep and forgotten all that had passed, she would've known it was a different man sleeping beside her. He felt different, smelled...well, sort of the same -of guns and a bit of sweat- but not the same.

She couldn't pretend, let alone sleep.

Slipping from bed as quietly as she could manage with her awkwardly giant belly, Sarah fled to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The rug was plush, but not soft or thick enough to keep the cold, hard tile's presence from being felt when she curled up on the floor. She gave in to the silent, hysterical sobbing because she had never known a pain such as this could exist in the world. Not in all the relationships she'd had. Not in all the lives of people she'd known. Not in the tragic stories both ancient and modern. Not in the mournful, wistful, pining melodies of classical composers or pop artists. Never had she ever had a glimpse, an inkling, that such a pain existed.

If she had, she would've probably locked herself away in a dark cupboard to die alone, for the agony of that would be a solace compared to this wretched heartache. A heartache that sapped every bit of her energy, drained her soul from her body, etched weariness in her bones.

So, then why should what happened next have been a shock to her?

She hadn't slept an hour in the past twenty-four, eaten even less. Her mood was vacillating from consuming rage to terrible depression faster than she thought possible. Hours had been spent choking, drowning in tears. And her pathetic little heart was shattered into a million pieces.

Why would her body, the baby it carried, handle the stresses any better than her mind?

Nevertheless, she fought the pangs of labour when they came, barely recognizable under all the raw hurt of loss and grief. It wasn't denial that caused her to do so. It was pure stubbornness that drove her to battle her body's insistence that she was going to give birth. Most wouldn't peg her for possessing such an intractable streak, but she was an archaeologist after all. Determination was in their blood. Who else would spend hours researching, methodically removing layer after layer of earth, sifting through tons of soil just for the smallest clue, analyzing terabytes of data for the most meager of validations?

No, for her generally amenable nature, Sarah could be severely headstrong. Just ask...

She would not give birth without him by her side. She could not.

Gritting her teeth, she sat upon the hard floor in the cold bathroom of the flat that belonged to some other Sarah Page and her husband, a stranger to this, the real Sarah Page. (She would not allow herself to even consider the alternative.) If it had only been a matter of pure will, she would've succeeded in convincing her daughter to remain in the warm comforts of her womb, rather than coming into the cold, harsh world.

But her body had other plans...

A/N: Hopefully it won't be so long until the next bit…