A/N: Hi everyone! So as promised, I did as fast as I could, and considering that it was the Holidays and that this ended up being twice the size of the previous part (almost 9k hahahahaaa), I think I did pretty good! :D I had a real blast writing it, so it helps.
Thank you so much for sticking with me guys! I hope this will be a nice pay off for all the bad things I wrote in the past (part 18 of In Reverse, I'm looking at you). I know it felt very therapeutic to me haha.
I'll just shut up now and let you read :)
IN TIME
VII. THE BIRTH (2)
After some pitiful bargaining comes the ruthless and inevitable depression stage.
Olivia is not exactly sure how she has ended up in the bathroom again, very much on her own indeed –if not for the restless child still trying to move around within her. All she knows is that she has somehow managed to walk away from Peter and hide herself behind the door just in time, as less than a minute has passed before her newfound misery gets the last of her strengths, and she nothing short of breaks down.
That is why she is now sitting on the toilet's closed lid, with her face buried in her hands, a hopeless attempt to muffle the sound of her desolation; she knows Peter is standing in the hallway, behind the door. He's no fool, he knows exactly why she has retreated so hastily, unable to crumble in front of him. Her pride often still gets the best of her, no matter how many times he has seen her cry, or how many times she has welcomed the gentle touch of his fingers on her face, allowing him to brush her tears away.
She cannot let him comfort her right now, not yet, not when the enormity of it all has finally crashed down on her. It's not simply the fact that she may have to deliver her baby here without any medical assistance –though this alone would be more than enough to cause anyone in her situation to break.
The reality is, she is simply not ready to deliver her baby at all.
She has been so focused on going through each phase of this pregnancy, taking it one day at a time, hoping for the best all the while expecting the worst, that she has barely thought about the day when she would actually have to give birth again.
She has dismissed Peter's offer to sign her up for some Lamaze classes, telling him rather bluntly she remembered how the process went and what to do. But does she, now? When she rejected his suggestion, the memories of that night were still mostly blocked out, and she had no desire to try and make them reappear by doing anything that could unleash that kind of darkness.
But now…now, there is no escaping it. It has invaded every corner of her mind and every inch of her skin. The fear and the pain have unraveled what she had managed to keep locked up for so many years, her current situation forcing her to remember what had happened, and how.
She remembers now, how merciless the pain was, a mere physical embodiment of the despair she felt upon losing her child, each wave increasing her dread, as she knew the real end was coming closer and closer. She remembers it all, and feels it all over again.
She is not prepared to give birth to her son, because to her, birth is not the beginning of an incredible journey. To her, birth is where hopes vanish, dreams shatter, and babies die. It doesn't matter that her daughter was already gone by the time she was forced to push her out; by doing so, she had let her go.
She had let her go, and now, she is terrified she's going to have to her son go, too.
As if acting as an ominous omen, she feels the now familiar and excruciating stirs of an upcoming wave of pain creep from deep within her, another contraction she has once again failed to prepare for. Her lack of attention makes it that much worse when the big of it washes over her, especially distraught as she already is.
Her hands leave her face, one of her arms automatically coming down to brace herself as she clings to the edge of toilet with her other hand, swaying through the pain. She bites down hard on her lip, trying to keep in what she knows would surely be more than a moan, a wounded cry, maybe; her perception of reality has once again completely shrunk, rendering her unaware of anything but the pain and her desperate desire to make it stop.
She hardly feels any better when it withdraws. She knows the tide is only backing down to come back stronger in a few minutes. The throbbing ache in her lower back is still agonizing, and she has the hardest time breathing properly, her crying having already resumed as if never interrupted.
Her woe even worsens when she feels her baby's own distress, and she hates herself for being so overwhelmed that she cannot comfort him in any way, cannot do anything but yield to her own misery, letting it seep from her mind to his.
I'm sorry, baby, she keeps on thinking, still rocking and hugging herself. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…
She's sorry for being weak, for putting him through this, for putting them both in such an austere situation.
Lamenting over it is obviously not making her feel any better, though, psychologically or physically, and her need to leave her sitting position is becoming almost visceral; she's pretty sure the pain she feels is caused by his head pressing down on her pelvis bones, surely crushing some of her nerves in the process.
She feebly unwraps her arms from around her stomach and attempt to push herself up; she promptly stops. She feels so drained that this simple move causes her to get light headed, something she should definitely avoid. She has rarely felt so weakened, and every inch of her being is appalled by how easily she's been defeated.
Still trying to adjust her sitting position in the hope that it will lessen her discomfort, she takes a wobbly gulp of air and does what has to be done. "Peter!" She hardly cares about how upset she sounds, her pride having finally been overcome by how much she needs him at that instant.
Knowing that he had been waiting for her call -or any kind of authorization to come in, she's not surprised in the least when the door opens almost instantly. She reopens her eyes to look up at him, and watches as his face goes from a concerned expression to something beyond that. She knows how miserable she must look, with her tearstained face and bloodshot, puffy eyes, but again, she doesn't care anymore.
He seems to deflate at the sight of her in this state, and her name escapes his lips in a saddened whisper, as always saying so much more within that one simple word.
"I can't get back up…" she manages to breathe out, weakly wiping her nose off with a trembling hand, and even though her voice is as quiet as his had been, she hears the defeat in her own words, feels the warm path new tears are already tracing down her damp cheeks.
He walks to her without another word, too upset to be able to speak. He's always gentle with her when he helps her move, but his touch seems even softer this time; the moment she feels his hands on her and his strong, unwavering body within her reach, she holds on to him; she's not exactly helping him in the process of getting her back on her feet, but she yearns for him in a very primeval way at that instant.
Once she is up again, the relief is instantaneous; it is not only caused by the decreasing pressures and aches. It's him, his scent and body warmth, his hands already back on her face, the soft kisses he is soon pressing upon her wet skin, and the reassuring words he murmurs in her ear.
Incredibly, it makes her feel both better and worse, comforted by his mere presence and soothing gestures, and yet ashamed of her own behavior. It takes all of her remaining strength not to completely give in and break down all over again against him. All she wants to do is hide her face in the crook of his neck and pretend this is all a nightmare.
She doesn't, trying to get a hold of herself instead, something that turns out to be incredibly hard. Tears keep on rolling out of her eyes without her consent, sliding along his fingers on her cheeks, and when she allows herself to drown into the stormy sea of his eyes, she sees his own plea, silently begging her to let him in, to let him help her in any way he can.
And right now, there really is nothing he can do but listen to her, as she finally dares admit what causes her to be so heartbroken.
"I just wanted him to have a normal birth…" she manages to whisper between two loud and spasmodic intakes of breath, her grip on his shirt tightening instinctively.
"I know…" he says softly, his fingers now gently moving on her face, pushing wet strands of hair from her skin.
"I wanted to give him the best chances," she continues, her voice slightly louder, making the despair in her tone that much stronger. "He deserves the best care, Peter, and now, we have no way of knowing if he's okay. We have nothing to help him, if something goes wrong." And she feels her face crumbling all over again as she confesses her biggest fear: "I can't do this on my own. I can't fail him, too."
She sees his pupils widening, darkening the color of his eyes, as his fingers stop moving to cup her face again.
"Livia…" he says gently, but his voice is as firm as the grip of his hands on her cheeks, and she has no other choice but to hear every single word he says next, to hear them and integrate them. "You never failed Elizabeth. And you won't fail him either. You will do everything in your power to protect him, because that is what you always do. I won't lie, this is definitely not the best birth scenario, and it's true that we don't have any medical instrument to check on him. But you can check on him, in ways doctors can't even comprehend. And I know he's okay, because if he wasn't, you would have felt it and let me know."
Making her focus back on the fact that she knows their baby is still as lively as he ever was, not only because she can feel him move but because he's constantly inside her mind, is the best thing Peter could do. Her panic hasn't gone anywhere, but at least, she's comforted by the feeling of her child.
She still shakes her head in his hand, snuffling pitifully. "He's not liking this at all," she feels the need to let him know, and he actually manages to smile sadly at her observation.
"None of us is liking this, honey," he says then, truthfully. Despite his obvious dislike for their current situation, he still manages to keep his eyes soft and reassuring, speaking in a low, confident tone. "But we'll get through this. I promise you he will be fine, and even if I know you don't really care about that, so will you. You are not on your own, Olivia. I'm right here, with you two, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this together."
She closes her eyes, feeling a wave of incredible gratitude and trust wash over her, not even having the strength to feel the guilt she usually feels whenever she momentarily forget she isn't alone at all, something she often tends to do during a crisis. Right now, he is her and her baby's lifeline, and she's decided on clinging to him with all her might. She feels his lips on her forehead and allows herself to sink into his touch.
"What are we going to do…" She eventually whispers, and even though she has finally stopped crying, she still feels so lost and utterly unprepared. And scared.
He moves his hands, then, sliding his fingers from her cheeks to her hair, and his fingertips slowly start moving upon her skull, pressing into the skin in such ways that she can feel the muscles of her neck losing some tension already.
"First thing first, we are going to change the mood of this labor and help you relax," he says softly.
Even though the way he's massaging her skull feels heavenly and she already wants to ask him to move his magic hands to her lower back and try to do something about those aches, she's not convinced so easily. She reopens her eyes and moves her head slightly away from his to look at him.
"How exactly do you expect me to relax right now?" She asks him, more confused than aggravated.
His gaze is unwavering, warm and tender. "Let's look at this in a more positive light," he says then, and before she can laugh at that, he continues: "I'm serious. Even if the paramedics reach us soon enough, I highly doubt they will take you to a hospital, not with what's going outside, so it's safe to assume they would simply assist you through the birth, here. So I'll get everything set up for you to deliver him here. If they arrive in time, then great, they'll take over. If they don't, we will still be prepared, and we'll do this together. How does that sound?"
The most stubborn and reluctant part of her wants to answer with another break down -anger or tears, it doesn't really matter at this point, feeling the selfish urge to throw a tantrum to indicate just how much she does not want to give birth in her house. This kind of thinking is hardly productive or helpful, though, that is why she lets out a defeated sigh and nods shortly. "That sounds reasonable, considering our options."
Never taking his eyes away from hers, one of his hands leaves her hair, then, coming down to rest on the firm bump between them, and his gaze gets even more intense. "And Olivia…I know this is not what you wanted, and not the safest way to do it, but it doesn't change the fact that…he's coming. This, this is him trying to be born. And I know you don't want him to feel like all we feel is fear. We can still make sure he knows how much we can't wait to meet him."
Something shifts within her, then, and she almost hears the click in her brain when the meaning of his words sinks into her, when she finally realizes that because the circumstances are not the best, it doesn't necessarily mean the result will be catastrophic. She doesn't have to lose him, too.
Because whatever happens from this moment on, she will be holding her child in her arms within the next few hours.
And if she listens to her deepest instincts, she knows that this time, she'll get to hear her baby's voice when he'll take his first breath. She'll get to feel him move on the other side of her skin. She'll get to see him open his eyes, and take in the whole world.
Once again, she's overwhelmed with emotions, but for the first time today, it is the good kind of tears that invade her eyes, a kind of serene and baffled comprehension that leads her to let go of his shirt to bring both her hands down to cover his upon her stomach, and she squeezes his fingers as she inhales shakily, their gazes firmly locked.
"He's coming…" she repeats, and her voice rings with her newfound bewilderment, and a beautiful small smile pulls at the corner of his lips.
She feels instantaneous relief when she becomes aware of her baby's tranquility; he has calmed down, too, soothed by her rush of unexpected optimistic thoughts; from now on, she decides, she will do everything she can to make this about him, rather than about her and her fears.
"What can I do?" She immediately asks Peter, sounding more like the FBI agent than the laboring mother, which causes his smile to broaden a little more, and she realizes that even if he's doing a great job at looking composed, he's as affected by her general mood as their son.
"What you can do now is let me pamper you. I'll start by drawing you a bath."
But he has barely let go of her to bend over the bathtub that she gets a tight hold on his arm, and she's pretty sure he knows by the way she's digging her fingers in his muscles that another contraction has sneaked up on her, even before he turns his gaze back to her and sees her face. Soon, she's clinging to his neck, swaying and swaying and swaying, and then, somehow managing to listen to his words as he tells her that it's okay to vocalize her pain and that it will actually help, she's humming rather loudly, her forehead pressed upon his chest.
And shockingly, she's starting to think this baby cannot come out of her fast enough.
…
Olivia stays in that bathtub for a ridiculously long time.
At first, she was of course slightly dubious when Peter said being in the warm water will make her feel better, and will lessen the pain of the next contractions, all the while facilitating the progression of her labor. But as soon as she was completely immersed in liquid, utterly appreciative of their huge tub she usually rarely uses, she felt like half the strain she felt simply dissolved away, promptly deciding she would spend the rest of the day in there.
It doesn't take long for her to realize her body is instinctively responding the way it generally does whenever she finds herself floating in a fast amount of water –like tanks. Her muscles loosen, her entire being relaxing as her mind opens up. She briefly wonders if Peter counted on that, too, but she's too grateful for the fact that she's finally getting some real rest to ask him.
She learns a few minutes later that the downside of entering such a meditative state so easily is how incredibly intense her contractions unexpectedly gets. And it's not so much on a pain level, as the water does actually make it slightly less acute; she's disorientated by how aware she has suddenly become. She doesn't know what kind of force is invading her flesh with each new swelling pain, but it's powerful. Peter, who coaches her through it all, insists on how this is actually good, that she has to let it take over and 'surrender to the sensation'. She lets him know this is easier to say when you don't have a uterus currently trying to squeeze a human being out of you.
Nonetheless, she decides to stay in the tub, because said squeezed human being seems to approve of it greatly. He's still disliking the contractions with vehemence, but she welcomes his strong, disapproving kicks, each of them a reassuring proof that he's okay.
Between the waves of pain, Peter does pamper her, bringing her juice to drink, putting cold cloths on her forehead when she experiences hot flushes, adjusting the water's temperature, telling her stories he has read in his books, always trying to reassure her. Sometimes, he leaves her for several minutes, and she can hear him moving around their bedroom, but she doesn't really mind either, as she's often floating away during those moments. And he's always back before each contraction, always there to hold her hand and breathe with her, encouraging her and giving her advice.
At some point, he tells her that during contractions, she should try and visualize what's happening instead of focusing on the pain, and she almost wants to hate him a little for that, because almost instantly after that unnecessary piece of advice, another one starts, and she's suddenly picturing herself sitting in the front seat of a roller coaster going up an incredibly long and steep slope.
And it goes higher and higher extremely fast, filling her with dread and the strangest kind elation, because she knows the fall is going to be that much more terrifying and exhilarating; but every time she reaches the top of the slope, the peak of her contractions, just when she's convinced the endless descent is about to start, the pain abruptly stops, and she's back in the tub, relieved and frustrated.
She has never liked roller coasters, and she quickly decides this one is the worst of them all.
Eventually, her physical discomfort forces her out of the water. She can tell the baby has made some serious progress, and the intensity of each contraction is becoming too extreme, her grip with reality slipping away from her; she has to move. Peter helps her out of the tub and into her robe, and when she enters the bedroom, she understands at last what he has been doing in there.
He has transformed it into a birthing room. A rudimentary one, of course, but she's not going to complain. The entire floor is now covered with sheets, and every towel they possess is folded neatly somewhere on the ground, along with pillows, as if he wanted to make sure one would always be at arm's reach. She's puzzled by the excessive number of candles he has lit all around the room, though.
"Are you trying to make this romantic?" she asks him warily. "Because I'm telling you right now, I've never felt less aroused in my life."
He chuckles lightly at that. "I promise seducing you is the last thing on my mind. I'm being pro-active. It's in case we lose power." Just to prove him right, the bedroom's light flickers then, the way every light in the house has been doing for the past few hours. Satisfied by this answer, even though she doesn't like the thought of the power giving up on them, she turns her gaze back to the newly 'carpeted' floor.
"Why the floor, though?" she asks next. "What happened to women giving birth on a bed?"
He has an answer ready for everything. "Apparently, when it comes to unplanned homebirths, it is advised to try and deliver the baby on harder surfaces than beds. It's more rustic, but it will make it easier for you."
"Lovely," she sighs, hardly thrilled about this, even though she has finally accepted the fact that she's going to have to give birth here. She's doing her best to go with the flow, to make it as calm and safe as possible for the baby. Her extended bath has helped her greatly; she still feels strangely mellow, when she's not feeling unexpectedly grouchy. Like she is right now.
"Are you still allowed to check me on the bed, or do I have to be on the floor?"
That's another thing she's really not happy about. He has to be the one examining her, and no matter how many years they've spent together, or how many times he has seen that particular area of her anatomy, she doesn't enjoy the idea of her husband seeing it during birth. Once again, she doesn't exactly have a choice, and she doesn't want to be difficult and whiny, that's why she agreed that he should check her, so they would know how far along she is exactly.
"You can lie down on the bed," he answers calmly, and again, she's quietly amazed and grateful, reassured by how coolly is behaving through it all.
Her gloom about what he has to do swiftly disappears, as her body is wracked by yet another contraction, and this one manages to feel worse than anything she's survived this far. She realizes then just how much the water was helping, absorbing the surplus of energy maybe, like she was told years ago. On top of this unbearable, vigorous pain carrying her higher and higher on that endless track, it appears to be lasting even longer, now, her body letting her know she has undoubtedly entered a whole new phase.
By the time her muscles relax enough so that she can breathe again, she nothing short of splays herself on the bed like a wounded animal, throwing her robe on the floor as it has started to feel plainly horrendous against her skin, telling Peter he can do whatever he wants to her as long as he helps her get the baby out.
She expects some childish joke from him after such proposition, as it is how he usually acts in stressful situations, but he doesn't make any comment at all, simply joining her on the bed and helping her positioning herself with quiet instructions and gentle hands. Again and again she finds herself grateful for his practical attitude about it all, not showing any sign of hesitation, and not taking it lightly either.
She still covers her face with her arms as he does…what needs to be done, focusing on the other set of movements she feels within her, somewhat dazzled when she understands the baby is actively reacting to the fact that someone is probing his head –among other things.
"Well, I can't tell how effaced your cervix is exactly, but you're definitely close. I wouldn't be surprised if you had entered transition already."
She lets out a long grunt, the sound muffled against her arms. "Speak English to me, Peter."
She's relieved when it takes his hands away from her –something she never expected to think when it comes to him touching her on their bed- and she finally takes her hands away from her face, pushing herself up on her forearms to look at him.
"Transition is the last phase of labor before you can push," he explains. "You're almost fully dilated, the baby's head has descended into the birth canal, and even though it's the shortest phase, I'm sorry to inform you that all of your upcoming contractions are going to be very close together, even more intense than before, and longer than the ones you've experienced so far."
She falls back on the bed with another grunt that sounds more like a moan. Somehow, her wrecked body manages to feel both hot and cold at the same time, and she starts shivering forcefully, her insides twisting. She's not prepared for the sudden wave of nausea that washes through her, and before she can even say a word, she's adding her stomach to the list of her organs that have been squeezed unceremoniously today.
She finds herself throwing up all of the juice she had been drinking for the past few hours, having somehow managed to roll on her side, redecorating the sheet covering the floor on that side of the bed.
As she curses unhappily under her breath and spit very gracefully on the ruined sheet, she feels Peter's hands on her back, massaging her where it always hurts, and she hears him say: "Nausea and vomiting are also common signs of transition."
She wants to retort something heated at this unnecessary addition, but she loses all power of thought when pain seizes her once more; all she can do is moan out his name in a pathetic plea, writhing in agony on the bed as she rides this fucking roller coaster.
The next half-hour is a complete blur.
All she can say is that Peter was right when he warned her that this would be the most intense part of labor, the contractions following each other so quickly she barely gets thirty seconds of rest between each of them. And she pretty much loses all sense of inhibition, all sense of anything at all, her mind only set on trying to find positions that can reduce the pain. She's positive that she has tried them all by now; on her back, on her side, on her hands and knees, on the bed, on the floor, leaning against the mattress, against the door, against the dresser, against Peter. At that point, despite his constant encouragements and helpful, massaging hands, her poor husband has been reduced to being nothing more than a possible pain reliever.
Even when she manages to lessen her discomfort, the feeling of having completely relinquished her will power to her body is so strong she doesn't know how she still manages to breathe during her short breaks, feeling ludicrously delirious. She cannot remember feeling this insane during her first labor, but the circumstances were also completely different. Back then, emotional pain was even stronger than the physical kind, and she had taken each blow as a deserved punishment. She had been surrounded by strangers –with the exception of Peter- in a hospital, with a doctor basically ordering her around throughout delivery.
Right now, she actually finds herself unexpectedly grateful in some way for the fact that she's going through this in the intimacy of her own bedroom, with the person she trusts and loves the most in the world; he has told her a while ago now that she shouldn't hold anything back, even allowing himself to joke about how their neighbors wouldn't be able to hear anything anyway over the sound of the storm, even if she screamed her lungs out. She's not screaming her lungs her out, but she's definitely not quiet either.
The other massive difference this time is that her baby is definitely alive. Despite how it's getting harder and harder for her to differentiate her mind from his, every feeling and sensation melding together, it is such a relief to feel him so strongly, in every possible way. She has no doubt this sincere delight adds to the impressive amount of endorphin she knows is flooding her blood now, that wondrous, natural pain killer that causes the world to feel so bright and unsubstantial, even though the power has actually finally given up on them.
She doesn't care, because Peter's preparations have paid off, and he shimmers so beautifully in the candlelight.
At some point, she finds herself on the floor again, suddenly overcome with the intense urge to bear down. She pretty much commands Peter to check her again to see if she's ready to push, feeling like she's going to have to start doing it soon anyway, cervix or no cervix.
"All I feel is his head, the cervix is gone," he announces, then. "You can start pushing."
"Thank God…" she almost chants, not caring anymore about the fact that she's lying stark-naked on her back in the middle of her bedroom, a flushed, delirious, sweaty mess.
Only a few hours ago, she thought pushing him out would be the most terrifying part of this, that she would surely be too panicked to do it. But at that instant, all she feels is relief and determination; she's known for how efficient she can be when she sets her mind to something, but this has reached a whole new level of resolve. She will get her child out, if it takes every last ounce of energy she's got, and nothing, not even a damn hurricane, is going to stop her. And it is with that firm mindset that she starts to push, hoping this it will be as quick as the rest of her labor.
It turns out to be more difficult than she expected.
At first, the progress she's making are irrefutable, feeling him moving farther every time she bears down. But after Peter eagerly tells her he can definitely see the head and that he's about to crown –meaning his head is about to come out- she purely and simply stalls, unaware that she's unconsciously causing this halt.
The contractions are still going on strong, though, and she keeps on pushing with everything she's got, but after nearly thirty minutes of unsuccessful pushing, all she has managed to achieve is to exhaust herself and lose faith. She has just learned the hard way that there is a very fine line between mad elation and gut wrenching terror. Her lack of progress has allowed her worst fears to come back full force, slowing her down even more. What if she simply cannot get him out by herself? What if forceps are needed? What if his shoulders get stuck, even after his head is born? What if she needs an emergency C-section?
What if he doesn't breathe?
She has become deaf to Peter's supporting words, ignorant of his helping gestures, trapped in this state of negativity. The only thing that finally manages to get her to react is the realization that the movements within her have greatly diminished. Their minds are still tightly entwined, letting her know he's still with her, but he's definitely affected by the return of her anguish.
Her instinctive need to protect him from any harm, especially coming from her, is what allows her to break through her fear at last, understanding that it is now imperative for her to get him out.
"Help me up," she breathlessly asks Peter, now also realizing she's only been pushing on her back because she's been told all her life that it is how women do it, and that is how she delivered her baby the first time; but if she listens to her body instead of letting her mind block it, she knows it isn't the most efficient way to do this, knows it doesn't feel right. Even though Peter doesn't question her decision in the slightest, grabbing her firmly without hesitation, she feels the need to add: "Since Mother Nature decided to be a bitch and give us a hurricane, maybe she can also give us a hand a let gravity help out a bit."
He manages to get them both back on their feet surprisingly fast, and she finds herself clinging to his shirt again, hardly able to stand on her own; she's seeing him up close for the first time in quite a while, she realizes then, having been too lost within herself to really fully acknowledge him anymore, though aware that she would be completely hysterical without him right now.
She takes in his pallor, his strained features and the sweat on his skin. He's still looking impressively composed, but his eyes cannot lie, and she know he feels much more than he lets it show.
And true to himself, as they are so acutely aware of the gravity of the situation, he says: "Hey, I think you almost made a joke there, hun." His voice is too hoarse, proof that he doesn't think this is funny at all, but he's still trying to reduce the tension, for her sake and the baby's.
But Olivia has no energy left for this, for trying to relax, and so she chokes out: "I know, because this is obviously so hilarious, I can't contain myself."
She's trying not to break down again, but it's so hard, and she's too tired and too scared and what if everything goes wrong?
Desperate to find a way to soothe her, his hands are soon back on her face, pushing away strands of hair still damp from her bath and recent exertion, brushing off trails of tears and sweat from her rosy skin, his eyes stormier than whatever is going on outside.
"Peter…" she whispers, then, pleadingly, hardly believing she's going to utter these words, but she cannot hold them in anymore. "What if he dies?"
There is no smile on his lips, and he looks so stern and intent suddenly, letting her know he's aware of how serious this is, that he's as scared as she is, though he will never admit it, not now, not when she needs him to be strong.
But as always, his eyes are also soft and loving, filled with abiding confidence in her and everything he knows she can do.
"He is not going to die, Olivia," he tells her firmly, looking her square in the eyes, his hold on her face tightening to give power to his words. "You are going to get through this, and he'll be okay. He'll be okay."
She doesn't know what causes what she experiences, then. Maybe it's her exhaustion, maybe it's her strange state of enlightenment; it's surely a combination of the two. All she knows is that all of a sudden, his Glimmer starts to shine brighter than ever. It shines so brightly she cannot see anything but light, intense, dazzling light, along with his eyes, always so blue. It is such a beautiful shade, a unique color she has also seen on a few cherished occasions within her dreams.
And she sees her, then, sees Elizabeth, just like she had seen her in that ethereal vision she had, months ago; how she had looked at her so intently as she spoke, so seriously, so boldly.
"It's okay, mommy," her daughter had said, her voice as soft as a breath of wind. "He'll be okay…"
He'll be okay.
This image is as fleeting and fugitive as everything else to her in that moment, and soon, it's Peter she's staring at again, his aura just as blinding. But she clings on to him, physically and figuratively, the words ringing in her head over and over again, resonating in her soul, and she chooses to believe it is true.
Her face distorted with the intensity of her hopes and fears, she eventually nods in his hands, letting him know she is going to try again. She will try until she succeeds, because there is no alternative for her, certainly not failure.
Without another word, they move then, positioning themselves so that he's standing behind her, wrapping her tightly and securely in his arms, because once she gets going, he will be the only thing keeping her up. This time, when she gives in to that grand force, there will be no more stopping at the top of the slope.
She is going to plunge, and she will do so knowing he is there to catch her.
She still has a few moments of meager rest left before things get intense again, and she uses them to try and prepare for what is to come, breathing deeply, her head thrown back against his shoulder. Her entire body is shivering against his, but it isn't from cold this time, nor from fear; she's almost vibrating with anticipation. When she reopens her eyes and meets his gaze again, she knows he feels it too, somehow connected to her and to their son in that floating instant, and they speak the same sentence wordlessly, through locked eyes and intertwined fingers.
This is it
"Are you ready for this?" She asks him in a whisper, and she knows he understands what she means.
She's not asking him if he's ready to be her anchor when she lets herself sink, because it is what he has been to her ever since they first met. What she's asking of him right now goes way beyond that.
"I've been ready for four years…" he answers softly, and his words have the remarkable power to sting and heal her heart at the same time, offering her another lifelong promise she knows he will never break.
And it is more than she can take. Truthfully, she has reached her limits hours ago, and yet, she just keeps on going and going and going, because what else can she do? But what she feels now is simply too intense, and so she lets her tears run free, allowing herself to briefly nestle her face against his neck as he brings one of his hands up to press his palm upon her cheek. As his lips linger on her temple, she draws as much strength from him and his warmth as she possibly can.
He immediately can tell when it starts, feeling her body react to the imminent, ruthless pain, her head shooting away from his neck to rest against his shoulder again. She barely has the time to exchange with him a look filled with the untold, before she is forced to close her eyes once more, breathing loudly through her mouth as she's being strapped into this elevating car, propelled so fast towards a cloudless sky.
"I've got you," she still manages to hear him say into her ear through the blinding pain and overcoming rush. "Just focus on him."
What else could she do but direct of all her might on him?
This time, when she reaches the height of the slope and faces its interminable descent, there is no stopping her fall. She plunges, head first, speeds down with more energy than she ever knew she possessed, and she concentrates all of this colossal momentum upon her child also descending within herself as she bears down, with more force than any of her previous attempts.
The progress she's now making are unmistakable, and she feels all of it, quickly becoming acutely aware of a new excruciating burning sensation; she's not exactly sure when she has gone from standing to squatting, but that is definitely what she is now doing, increasing both the intensity of her pain and the efficiency of her pushes in the process.
She bears down through it all, bears down through the stinging and burning pain, bears down until she feels she might collapse from exertion and lack of oxygen. And just when she thinks her entire body is about to be torn apart, she's offered an impromptu and instantaneous moment of relief. There is definitely still pain, but it feels ridiculously dim compared to what she has just gone through.
She opens her eyes, and is greeted with a sight that incontestably competes with every single bizarre thing she has seen during all these years working for the Fringe Division. She stares at the back of her baby's head, now fully out in the open between her legs, and she's filled with wonder and astonishment. Elation does not have time to take hold of her, though, as she realizes something is not right, and sheer panic twists her heart, causing it to jump into her throat.
"The chord's around his neck!" She blurts out, her voice hoarse from all the sounds of pain she's been making, rendering her exclamation even more frightening, and panic morphs into horror when she takes in the darkening color of her son's skin.
Peter's hands are in action within seconds; she had been so focused on what she was doing, she had almost forgotten he was still most definitely there behind her, supporting her, which makes it look like his hands simply materialize from each side of her from thin air. He doesn't hesitate and immediately tries and hook his fingers under the cord, but it becomes quickly obvious he can't do it.
Still without a single instant of indecision, he grabs her hands with his own, then, guiding them towards the baby's head. "You're gonna have to do it, your fingers are smaller," he instructs her calmly but firmly. "It's okay, Olivia, this happens very often, you just have to get it over his head."
Her mind has gone completely blank, already trying to shield herself from a whole new kind of pain she knows will soon crush her down when she fails to save her child again. But she does everything Peter tells her to do, acting as if on autopilot now, and she manages to unwrap the chord from around his neck surprisingly fast.
"Okay, you need to push gently, now," Peter keeps on directing her softly. "We're going to get his shoulders out."
She obeys, staring blankly at their hands, hers over her baby's head, Peter's on top of it, as he guides her movements, helping her gently rotate his head to get the first shoulder out. As he does so, he begins to turn towards her thigh, his face finally coming into view. A face that is still very bluish. Peter's fingers move with incredible dexterity and delicacy, wiping his nose and mouth off to try and free his airways of mucus, and she keeps on pushing, soon delivering his second shoulder, and with one last gush of pink liquid, out comes the rest of his body. Peter is the one actively holding him up, even though both her hands are still on him.
Time freezes as she stares at her unmoving, breathless child, stares at his face. She knew he would look like her, like Elizabeth, but she had hoped so hard he wouldn't look so similar upon his birth.
It is the same stillness, the same lack of color, the same lack of sound.
The same lack of life.
As agonizing despair starts to seep through every inch of her flesh, she feels it.
She feels him.
It is during that infinite second following the birth of her son that clarity takes over, as she realizes he's still there, in her mind, a part of her soul, now.
She doesn't hesitate.
She fills her mind with that same energy she had been using to push him out, and duplicates it, makes it a thousand times stronger, and she commands him with all her might.
BREATHE
They take their first breath together.
As his lungs fill up with air, her heart fills up with hope.
The changes are instantaneous. His face crumples in pain as his lungs open up, his entire body curling back into his fetal position, his skin turning pink almost right away. When his voice finally pierces the deafening silence, pink is already changing into a beautiful, healthy red. He screams loudly, disapprovingly, all of his muscles constricted, causing his body to shake, and it is the most gorgeous sound she has ever heard.
And as he cries, she cries with him.
A blurry moment later, she's not squatting anymore, but sitting on the floor between Peter's legs, all of their limbs entangled as she rests against his chest, and they bring their child upon hers. He wriggles and whimpers against her, four hands covering as much of his skin as they possibly can, trying to feel all of him, to give him warmth.
"Hello, baby boy…" she manages to say through her tears, and Peter's hands let go of him, then, if only for a second, quickly putting them right back on his shivering body as soon as he has placed a thick towel over them all.
The baby settles down almost immediately when he hears her voice, and she can feel his recognition through his confusion and fear. She's beyond amazed by how strongly she still feels him. But truth be told, she's overwhelmed by absolutely everything, at that instant, adoring the sensation of his warm, wriggling body against her skin, and every little sound he makes is a pure delight.
His eyes flutter open, then, tentatively; she knows he won't be able to see anything correctly for a while, until his eyes adjust to being in the outside world, but she swears that when their gazes meet, he stares right at her.
He lets out a small whimper then, as if telling her 'Man, that was rough.'
She's completely unable to speak after that, her crying doubling in intensity. She didn't think she could cry harder than she already was, but she has absolutely no control left over her emotions; and in all honesty, she doesn't mind, doesn't care, having never before had a reason to shed such tears, tears of relief, of gratitude and love.
She uses their special bond to soothe him, letting him feel just how much she loves him, assuring him he will always be safe with them. Peter's hand moves again, then, coming to rest on his head, next to her hand.
"You're okay, baby…" he tells him softly, and his voice is so thick, she has no doubt they are sharing the same overwhelming elation at that instant; his words seem to be more for himself than for their baby, as he repeats them a few times. "You're okay…"
She momentarily turns her gaze away from their beautiful miracle settling down on her chest to raise her head and look up. She looks up at her best friend, at her husband, at the father of her child.
They don't speak, barely exchange a look, because this moment is too precious and ephemeral, too wondrous and intense, to taint its purity with words, spoken or unspoken.
She closes her eyes, and soon, she feels his face against her own, his nose nuzzling hers softly, lovingly, and she feels the warm tears that roll from his face, down onto hers. One of her hands dares slip away from their child's smooth skin to briefly rest upon the rough and damp stubble of Peter's cheek, before her fingers curl into his hair, silently telling him everything they will never need to say out loud.
She would never have thought in a million years that she would feel so serene in the aftermath of giving birth, her heart bursting with love for the two most important men in her life.
Lost into that endless instant that belongs to no one but them, they don't realize that outside, the rain has finally stopped.
TBC...
A/N: I won't ruin the moment by rambling too much. Just precising that this is not the end of the story at all (it should be around 20 parts long when I'm done with it, in 3 years), because I'm finally getting the chance to write them as parents, and write more angsty stuffs. Yes, I'm hopeless.
Reviews would really, really make my year :')
