A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: miscarriage/subsequent medical management/infertility/high risk pregnancy. With a happy ending. This is raw, guys, I don't make this warning lightly. If you've read my other more serious subject matter you know that I don't gloss over things. I have never walked this path. Miscarriage comes in many shapes and sizes, people grieve and process in many different ways; all are valid. This is an installment in the 'Care' series, previous chapters are 109, 114, 124, and 128. Briefly, a series re-write that begins after Fitz is shot. Teddy does not exist.


5 Minutes Later…

She walks out of the bathroom, a home pregnancy test incubating in her hand, and finds him sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for her. Smiling nervously, she sinks down next to him and keeps the test turned over in her lap. They both sigh, and glance at each other in silence, and Fitz wraps his arm around her waist. They're reflected in her bedroom mirror, and he watches her look down at the turned-over test in her palms, noticing that she looks nervous but her hands aren't shaking. She's nervous and excited, for the same reasons that he is; because they both know what the test is going to say.

But it's not real until the test tells them it is, so, they wait.

And wait.

They don't need to talk, and there aren't any words big enough for this moment anyway. Deciding to have a baby would be monumental in any case, but the fact that she's carrying their baby—it's breathtaking. Nobody gets to fall in love like this, and make a baby with their soulmate. It doesn't seem like it could be real, except…maybe it is?

Olivia looks at the clock on her bedside table, and then at him; his eyes are calm, and sure, like he's as sure of the answer as she is. He smiles gently and nods to the test in her hands, a silent, 'go ahead'. She waits two more seconds, and then turns it over—

Pregnant. Undeniably pregnant. Two dark, pink lines.

She's imagined what this moment might feel like…what it might be like, for them.

She's imagined that maybe Fitz might scoop her up and spin her around, whooping with joy; because that would be so…Fitz.

Or that maybe they'd fall back into bed and make love, desperately, not able to express themselves any other way.

She's imagined it could be loud, and surprising, or shocking, or maybe even a little frightening.

But it doesn't feel like surprise, or shock.

It feels like…finally.

She doesn't realize she's been staring at the test for so long, until he nudges his shoulder against hers. When she looks up at him, he's smiling, and she smiles back, letting out the breath she's been holding. He's looking at her like they've just been told the best secret in the entire world, and it's an instant shift. Instantly, she feels close to him in a way that's completely new, and different. There's a piece of him inside her; something that's fifty percent him, and fifty-percent her. She looks at the test again in wonder, imagining the hormonal shift that's happening, the massive event that's already changed a negative into a positive.

When their eyes meet again, she realizes they're having the moment she's imagined; but it's quiet, and soft, and still. His eyes are gentle and wet, and she thinks hers probably are, too; they still haven't said anything, and they still don't need to. Fitz reaches for her and draws her into his arms, wrapping her up in the way she's grown to crave; she melts against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and nuzzling her face into his neck. His scent is thick there, and it overwhelms her immediately, sending a wave of comfort through her entire body. She never lets herself cry, but this is big, and when she feels the tears well up she doesn't fight it. Her chest hitches, and she burrows deeper into his body, holding him more tightly, bracing herself against the tender emotions.

She turns and presses her lips to his ear, whispering. "I love you."


John

Three weeks.

They get three weeks with their first baby.

Three weeks of eye rolls while he talks to her stomach, even as she insists that her book says the baby is technically still an embryo and isn't remotely able to hear him.

Three weeks of saltine crackers in the morning, Gettysburger at night, and spicy Cheetos in between, of all things. He forces a vegetable whenever he can, and they settle on cucumbers because they're the most palatable.

Three weeks of sleep. The deepest sleep she can ever remember getting, especially on the nights he stays and raises the temperature of her bed by at least ten degrees.

It's not enough. Three weeks isn't enough.

Because it's her first pregnancy and she hasn't had any complications or complaints, her first ultrasound isn't scheduled until she's nine weeks along. But she's seven weeks when she goes to the bathroom and there's blood in her underwear. She sucks in a breath, puts on a pad, and tries to calm down.

She doesn't call him.

Spotting.

It's just spotting. That can happen. The book says that can happen.

But within the next couple of hours, she knows she's miscarrying. The bleeding intensifies, and she starts to cramp uncomfortably. Aside from the physicality of it, she just knows. Somehow, she knows she's not pregnant anymore.

She calls Fitz.

She calls her doctor.

She lies to her team, tells them something's come up, and makes her way home early.

Nobody else knows she's pregnant, of course.

Was.

Was pregnant.

It all seems very routine.

Her doctor asks questions over the phone for nearly twenty minutes, gives her some instructions and guidance, things to watch for, and she schedules a follow-up ultrasound for the next day. Fitz comes to her as soon as he can, to her apartment, silently moving to hold her.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into her hair, "Are you—I mean…are you sure?"

She nods against his chest, closing her eyes. "I'm sure."

He doesn't question her. They stand in the living room for long moments, trying to absorb the change. Only this morning, they'd woken up as parents, and they'll be going to sleep as…not.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently, pulling back to look down at her.

He glances down her body and she immediately understands that he's asking if she's physically okay; he doesn't need to ask if she's mentally okay or not, he can see that she's in shock.

She rubs her forehead, closing her eyes. "I'm cramping," she sighs, wrapping an arm around her abdomen, "I'm starting to bleed a lot. They told me to try a heating pad but I don't have—"

He's on the phone before she can finish her sentence, asking his valets to pick up anything and everything she might need, including high-absorbency menstrual pads and soup from three different restaurants, her comfort food of choice.

The soup ends up in the fridge, because the night is long and difficult.

It feels like it happens so fast.

It's unlike anything she's ever been through before, but her body seems to know what to do and she doesn't feel panicked. He doesn't leave her side and she finds that she doesn't want him to, trying to keep a hand on him at all times because it makes her feel better. The cramping goes from uncomfortable to painful, and around two o'clock in the morning she passes a few big clots, doubled over on the toilet with Fitz holding both of her hands in his.

It's messy, heartbreaking, devastating, and she knows she couldn't go through it with anyone else.

The pain starts to subside after that, and when she goes for her ultrasound and bloodwork the next day, they confirm that she's 'miscarried successfully'. It seems like a backward phrase to use, because she feels like she was actually 'pregnant unsuccessfully'. But she nods along while her doctor explains that she should abstain from sex until her bleeding stops, because she's at risk for infection until her cervix closes. She's surprised that after all of this, as soon as she's recovered, she's free to try to get pregnant again as soon as she feels ready.

She hasn't even thought about next time.

She still hasn't completely grasped that she's not pregnant anymore this time.


Isaiah

They get almost five weeks with their second baby.

It hadn't been long at all, only the month after her period returned, that she'd whispered to him in bed one night.

"I want to try again."

And he'd agreed, murmuring reassurances against her lips.

She gets a positive pregnancy test four weeks later.

Because she's now had a miscarriage, her first ultrasound is scheduled as soon as possible, in less than ten days.

They take a risk in getting Fitz to that first ultrasound, but she's nervous and she only argues with him a little bit when he insists on coming. He's not squeamish about the fact that the ultrasound is vaginal, and he charms the sonographer in ten seconds flat.

So typical.

The ultrasound tech warns them that at six weeks, they may not see a heartbeat. So, when they don't, Olivia tries not to worry; she squeezes his hand and tries to smile, tries to enjoy seeing a tiny embryo in her uterus for the very first time. The sonographer clicks and measures, points out the few structures that are there, and that's it.

They leave the office, and try to go on with their lives. But, for her, the innocence is gone. The sweet, beautiful excitement of her first pregnancy is just…gone. She can't un-know what she knows now, she can't un-feel what she's felt, she can't ignore the 'what-ifs'; because the what-ifs have already been her reality, her only reality of being pregnant.

She can't pretend it won't happen to her, because it already has.

Olivia tries to pretend she's not walking on eggshells, but he knows her better than that, and he spends a lot of time trying to help her be excited. He's not being insensitive, she knows, it's just different for him. He's processing it differently, he'd obviously experienced it differently, and she knows she has to accept that. The only body that's lived through losing their baby is hers, and she can't fault him for that.

"It's okay to think about it," he murmurs one night.

They're in their usual position in bed, spooned together while he traces gentle circles against her abdomen.

"I think about it," she says softly, covering his hand with hers, "You know I do."

He presses a soft kiss against her shoulder. "I mean to think about it in a good way."

"I do," she insists, annoyed with him now, "As much as I can. You have no idea what it's like, being pregnant again after—after—"

After losing a baby.

Fitz closes his eyes for a few seconds, breathing her in. "You're right, I don't. I'm sorry."

She instantly feels bad for snapping at him.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, pressing back into him, "I know that's not what you meant. You've been—I couldn't do this, without you."

She turns over and cradles his face, pressing her forehead against his, whispering against his mouth.

"I'm just scared."

"I know," he soothes, pulling her closer, "Me too. This is a new pregnancy, though. We have every reason to be hopeful. Right?"

"Right," she says softly, trying to let him reassure her.


But at nine weeks, her second ultrasound, it happens again.

It's different this time, because she's not bleeding or cramping; she doesn't feel anything at all.

She's alone.

Her doctor comes in and gently confirms that there's no heartbeat. She goes on to say that based on measurements from her last ultrasound and this one, the baby likely passed away about a week ago.

"A week?" Olivia manages to ask, ignoring the box of tissues the nurse slides toward her, "Shouldn't I have—why has it been a week?"

Her doctor patiently explains that, sometimes, even though the pregnancy is no longer viable, the body doesn't recognize that it should miscarry. She offers a couple of options.

And then she has to call him.

He's quiet on the other end of the phone, silently processing for a few seconds.

"What happens now?" he asks her softly.

For the first time, she feels like crying; she feels like crawling under the covers of her bed and stealing a few more weeks with this baby. That's what it feels like, it feels like she has to steal time with her own babies, like something doesn't want her to have them.

But she knows, and her doctor had made it clear, that from a medical standpoint it will be better to help her body along. Liv tells him her options; misoprostol pills, which she'll push up inside of herself at home, and might allow her to miscarry the way she did before.

"But it might take a couple of tries. It might not be over for days, or weeks, if it works. And the—"

She chokes on the words, covers her mouth for a moment.

"—the baby is bigger this time. There's more—umm—there's more that needs to come out, than last time. If I do it that way again."

She flashes back to sitting on the toilet in the middle of the night, holding onto him while her uterus clamped down over, and over—

"Okay," he sighs, and she can imagine him crossing one arm over his chest, "What's the other option?"

"I can have surgery. A d&c. In a few hours," she says quietly, holding the phone closer, "They'll put me to sleep for it."

"Livvie," he murmurs, "It's your body. What do you want?"

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes.

"I want it to be over."


They argue over whether he should come to the hospital. The office she's chosen mostly serves DC's elite and they give her the room, knowing preparations need to be made, talks need to be had; NDAs are signed for every patient, and security and privacy are greatly at risk, always.

"You didn't get pregnant by yourself, I'm not letting you do this by yourself either, I don't care what it takes."

"Don't be an idiot, we've come this far without—"

"—don't be so stubborn, Liv—"

"—the Secret Service are perfectly capable of driving me home afterward—"

"—I know that. At this point, there's no way I can get there before you go in and I feel like absolute shit about that. But I could be there, after. I can be there when you come out. If you don't want me there, just say so!"

She goes quiet at that, slowly realizing how it sounds when she argues with him about where he should take risks and when.

Of course, she wants him there.

She wants him with her now. She's wanted him all day long, even before. She's just deflecting, focusing her attention on him and his security, his image, his risks; all so she doesn't have to focus on herself. Because if she doesn't, if she thinks about what's going to happen, she's going to fall apart; she's going to completely fall apart and beg him to come to her now, to throw everything they've put in place out the window and take a full motorcade to come be with her.

And she knows that he would.

"Of course I want you there," she murmurs, "I—I just—"

"Please let me take care of you," he begs softly, "Please. I know you don't need it, but I do. I hate that I'm not there with you."

Her breath catches, and she sinks into a nearby chair, eyes burning. "Me too. I—please come. I need you to come."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he soothes, sounding relieved, "Lauren is cancelling and rescheduling as we speak, doing what she does best."

That makes her smile a little. "What would we do if she wasn't on our side?"

"I honestly don't know," he chuckles, "My approval rating would've plummeted a long time ago."

As his laughter trails off, he closes his eyes, letting the weight of what's happening rest more firmly on him. She's quiet on the other end, and he can hear her breathing slowly and deliberately.

"You should call Abby," he says softly, "She would come right now. You know she would."

Liv swallows, looking around the room at the medical equipment, picturing the operating rooms she's seen on television. "I've never had surgery before."

"Call her," Fitz urges gently, "She'll be discrete."

"I could have someone back in the prep area, they told me," she says absently, picking at a piece of lint on her immaculate dress pants.

"I don't mind," he says softly, "I can't be there. If I can't—Abby's my first choice, too. Do you want her there?"

She blinks away fresh tears, and takes a sip of the water they've brought her.

"Yeah," she admits, nodding a little, "I—I do."


Telling Abby is incredibly hard, but as predicted she barely asks any questions and flies out of the office with no explanation. Secret Service meet her in the emergency room and escort her to a private room for screening; she doesn't sign an NDA because Olivia had balked at the idea, but they vet her as quickly as they can until they're comfortable, and then bring her upstairs.

Abby looks unsure, having had no idea that her best friend had been trying to get pregnant, that she's been pregnant twice already.

They don't really talk about it.

She doesn't have to ask why they've kept it a secret.

Abby can tell she doesn't want to talk, that it's not how she needs to be supported right now. Instead, Abby sits down beside the narrow hospital bed and doesn't hesitate to reach for her hand. She doesn't stare at her, she simply reaches for Olivia's hand and clasps it between both of hers, leaning in to rest her head on Liv's shoulder. They sit together in silence, and Abby can see her wipe away a few tears out of the corner of her eye.

"Thank you for coming," Olivia says eventually, her voice raspy and soft.

Abby sighs, re-adjusting her grip on her best friend's hand. "Over a cliff, Liv."

Liv's shoulders hitch, and she nods, squeezing hard. "I know."

A nurse comes to put in an IV, and asks her to remove her jewelry, offering her a little plastic bag. Her clothes are already folded neatly into the bigger plastic bag they'd given her earlier with the hospital gown she's had to change into. She takes off her earrings, and the delicate diamond solitaire necklace Fitz had surprised her with a week after their first positive test.

The ring on her pointer finger is last. She can't remember ever taking it off, not since he gave it to her, and she hesitates to add it to the bag.

She offers it to Abby instead. "Can you give this to him when he gets here? I just don't—I don't know, I don't want to—"

But Abby knows the story behind this particular piece of jewelry, and she takes off her own necklace. She slides the ring onto the chain, and re-clasps it around her neck.

"I'll keep it safe, don't worry," she smiles, tucking it inside her blouse and giving it a pat for good measure, "I promise."

"He should be here soon. Before I come back out," Liv breathes, rubbing her finger.

"I know he will," Abby agrees softly, "And in the very slim chance that he isn't, I'll be here, okay? Someone will be here when you wake up."

She nods, trying to stay calm as her nurse comes back with something in a syringe.

"This isn't a sedative," she says kindly, before she moves to do anything, "It's more like Valium, it will make you feel relaxed and sleepy. I don't have to give it to you, but I would strongly recommend that you take it."

Abby sees her hesitate, and takes her hand again. "Take it, Liv. They wouldn't recommend it if you shouldn't."

Olivia nods, and then watches the nurse push the medication through her IV.

"Go ahead and lie back," she says gently, helping her recline back onto the bed, "You'll feel it pretty quickly."

Only a minute later, she starts to feel fuzzy and tired, and she can't help but close her eyes. She's still aware enough when they come back to get her, she acknowledges when Abby says goodbye to her, and she feels the bed moving.

She's glad that she's already half-asleep when they start to move her around, setting her legs into stirrups, talking to her in soft tones. Everything sounds far away, but she can hear what sounds like metal, machines, air blowing. Someone tells her she'll be asleep soon, but before that happens she can already feel people touching her; pressure in her pelvis, a strange sensation somewhere, and she has a horrible moment where she's completely lucid.

Completely aware that when she wakes up she won't be pregnant anymore.

Completely aware that she's vulnerable, that her legs are spread open, that she doesn't know anyone in the room.

Completely aware that she can't protect her baby anymore, that she's about to let strangers pull it from its warm, safe place inside of her. But she doesn't panic because she can't; the drugs are too strong.

In that moment, it doesn't matter that the baby's dead; she knows, she had seen with her own eyes, the stillness in her uterus. It's still her baby.

Blessedly, she's out in seconds, and later, she won't remember any of it.


The next thing she remembers is waking up and seeing Fitz next to her.

Fitz.

He puts down the brief he's reading and moves in close to her immediately, stroking her temple with his thumb.

"Hi," he murmurs, searching her face, "You're all done. Everything went fine."

Right.

It comes back in a rush, why she's been asleep. She nods, staring into his eyes, looking for…disappointment? Pity? Regret? But she doesn't find any of those things, only concern, and the same love that's always there when he looks at her.

She lifts her arms and realizes the IV is still in her hand, but it's not connected to anything, and she's able to pull him down to hug her. It feels like the first time she's been able to breathe all day, and she presses her face into his neck, holding him tight.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispers, closing her eyes.


They buy a house.

Well, Olivia Pope buys a house, for now. They'll add his name later.

It's not too big, not too small, not too modern, not too exposed, not too far, not too close—

How they manage to agree on one is a miracle in and of itself, but eventually, they pick a house and start to move into it little by little. The plan is for her to move in first, and when he officially leaves office a month later he'll join her. It still doesn't feel real.

It doesn't feel real that one day he'll just drive up, to stay.

To stay.

They both have dozens of boxes of books in storage, and that seems like a good enough place to start; the library. Slowly, the boxes are transferred out of storage to sit and wait for them, and one Saturday they make arrangements to spend the day putting them away.

There's a lot of discussion.

Should they mix everything together?

Should they keep and organize their own shelves?

They decide to combine all of the reference books, most of the fiction, and some of the non-fiction. They both have a few favorite biographies, treasured volumes they'd like to be able to find quickly, and they keep those separate; they each take two shelves for this purpose.

It takes them hours to move around the room and put everything away; alphabetized, which they both agree is the only sensible way to organize.

It's three weeks after their second miscarriage, and she's still bleeding a little as she slowly works her way through titles K-P of their law texts. It's mostly in the back of her mind for now, and she's not in any pain; but the pads are annoying and make it impossible to forget for an entire day.

She's sure he doesn't realize he's doing it, but he's following her around the room. There's a method to what she's doing, but he's unconsciously just going where she goes, working on the shelf next to her at random. It's sweet; it makes her smile every time he does it, and she doesn't point it out until he messes up their alphabetizing.

"Oh," he snorts, shaking his head, "I didn't—I don't know how I did that."

She comes and stands right next to him, so that they're working on the same shelf, and leans into him. "I really am okay, you know. Go do your Kennedy shrine."

He's developed a healthy obsession with JKF over the past year, confessing to her that there aren't many people who have been through what they have, and he finds himself drawn to every piece of information he can find on the Kennedy presidency.

He grins and gently swats her ass, leaning in to kiss her temple. Before he can walk away, she cradles his cheek and turns her face into a kiss, long and warm. He's observant enough to see the remnants of what's happening in her bathroom garbage can, he doesn't need to ask her if they're allowed to have sex yet; for the most part he lets her come to him for affection. She's starting to miss him a lot, and he can feel the difference in her body language when she presses herself into his arms.

"Libraries, huh?" he murmurs against her mouth, "I'll tuck that one away."

Her brow furrows, hands wandering into his hair, and then she laughs, giving him a playful shove. He bites the tip of his tongue and reluctantly lets her go, wandering over to the boxes labeled 'JFK'. He's put about ten books on the shelf when he hears her gasp softly.

"What are these?"

He turns to look, and she's opened an older box labeled just 'Santa Barbara' in rushed, messy writing.

"What are what?" he asks, coming over to look, "Oh."

The box is full of children's books.

"I forgot about these," he murmurs, kneeling down to look with her, "They were in storage this whole time."

"They're first editions," she says, in awe, starting to sift through them carefully.

It's a beautiful collection, well-preserved with dividers and plastic covers, and stacked carefully. A complete Beatrix Potter set, Alice in Wonderland, A Wrinkle in Time, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz are just the first few that they pull out, handling them carefully.

"Where did these come from? Were they yours?" she asks softly, eyes widening when she uncovers The Velveteen Rabbit, in perfect condition save for one water spot on the back cover.

"No," he says honestly, "They weren't mine. They were in our house, growing up, but just on display. I mean, now I get it, these are worth a lot. Do you want to put them out?"

She's already standing up and walking to a new shelf, carefully setting a stack down to alphabetize. He helps her unwrap titles and straightens plastic, but he lets her organize them herself, instantly sensing a different kind of purpose in what she's doing. He watches her as closely as he dares, working with her quietly.

When she sees the A.A. Milne pile she stops, fingers over her mouth for a second. He's not sure what it is about those books, but she pauses to look them over, reading each title.

After a minute, she glances up at him, still holding The House on Pooh Corner.

"Maybe these…I've always thought about putting these in a nursery," she says softly, swallowing, "First editions wouldn't be to read, obviously, but, on a shelf—"

"—I think they would look great in the nursery," he agrees, smiling gently, "On a shelf. Maybe with one of those Pooh Bear stuffed animals, the pastel ones—"

"—yeah," she sighs, relieved, returning his smile, "Exactly. Can you put them on the table over there, for now?"

He stands up and does as she asks, leaving her to work on the children's books by herself after that. He goes back to Kennedy, Jackie this time, giving her a shelf to herself.

"Sometimes I think it sounds easier," she murmurs, tipping her head at the titles in front of her, "If you can't conceive at all. Seems like there are more options. There's a path, you know? I don't know if that's true or not, but—"

"—yeah, getting you pregnant isn't our problem," he sighs offhandedly, grabbing two books at once and moving them to a different shelf.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that she's gone unnaturally quiet and still, and he instantly realizes what he's just said. What he's implied.

Fucking idiot.

She's turned around toward the windows, away from him, and wrapped her arms around herself. He wants to cry, realizing that she might think their miscarriages are her fault. They're not her fault. But in the same moment he realizes she's never heard those words from him; she's heard it from their doctor, two times now. Multiple nurses have patted her hand, brought her juice, and told her the same.

But she's never heard it from him.

He crosses the room and gently turns her around, feeling the way she steels herself and casts her eyes down.

"That's not what I meant," he murmurs, tipping her chin up with his finger, moving to catch her gaze when she still won't look at him, "It's not your fault, Liv. I don't blame you. Please know that I don't blame you, ever."

She knows.

When she finally looks at him, he can tell that she knows.

"I'm sorry I said that, I wasn't—"

Shaking her head, she shushes him with two fingers against his lips. She presses her forehead into his chest, squeezing two handfuls of his shirt in a tight grip, exhaling when he wraps her up tight.


Mila

When they conceive their third baby, they find out the same week his divorce is finalized.

It feels different, for obvious reasons, but she's surprised by how different it feels.

He's theirs, now, completely. He only belongs to his kids, the jelly bean-sized one included, and her.

He's hers.

They celebrate his divorce with sparkling cider (which she declares after two sips she'll never drink again), and two filets, seventy-five dollars each (she eats every single bite 'for the baby').


When their third baby's heart stops beating, she thinks she might vomit.

And then she does.

Hot, nauseating shock sweeps through her entire body, and Fitz finds a trash can just in time.

It's the most horrific moment of déjà vu.

Her first ultrasound had been too early to see a heartbeat, right before six weeks, and they'd assured her it was just too early. And this time they've come back at eight weeks, because she had advocated for herself and demanded it, for her own sanity.

Fitz is with her this time, because he's divorced, and he's left office, and he'll never, ever let her come to an appointment alone again; not after last time.

This isn't happening.

It's not happening.

After she vomits, everything goes numb.

Fitz watches her shut down, and instantly moves to take over, aching with his whole being; it has to be a dream…a nightmare. He tells her doctor they're going to need a few minutes before they talk about anything, and she tells them to take all the time they need, bowing back out of the room.

Brows furrowed, he kneels in front of her, taking her hands. She's still on the exam table, staring over his head, lips slightly parted, breaths slow and even. The room is quiet and still, and he hears a low murmur through the wall from the exam room next door. He searches her face, noting how pale she looks, how tired and devastated. There's a little glob of lubricant from the vaginal ultrasound still on the paper next to her, and he folds the edge over so she won't put her hand in it.

Abruptly, she shakes her head and starts to stand up.

"I should get dressed," she murmurs absently, letting the paper sheet slide to the floor, "Can you hand me a tissue? She used so much of that stuff, jesus christ—"

"Here," he offers quietly, watching her carefully while she cleans herself up and turns to get her clothes.

He unconsciously moves toward the door while she gets dressed, and then goes back to her when she picks up her bag, then puts it back down. She pulls out her cell phone to check the time, and he watches her open her email.

"What are you doing?" he says gently, resting his palm on her back, "Liv—"

"—I have to cancel everything for at least the next two days," she mutters, "What am I doing, I don't need—I need my calendar—"

"Liv," he tries, watching her unsuccessfully try to do something as simple as check her calendar.

He lets her click around for a few more seconds before he slowly moves to take the phone away, clicking the lock button and sliding it into his pocket.

"Don't worry about that right now," he soothes, trying to meet her eyes.

She looks around the room like she doesn't recognize it, twisting the ring on her index finger, and then finally she looks up at him. Her breaths are coming faster, and she swallows thickly.

"Is—is this real?" she whispers, letting him grasp her arms.

His heart breaks all over again when he has to nod his head. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

She nods, and covers her mouth; her shoulders bunch, and she swallows a waterfall of tears, pushing them away with her whole body.

"C'mere," he murmurs, guiding her over to the row of chairs in the room, "Come sit for a minute."

She lets him pull her onto his lap and fold his arms around her, burying her face in his neck.

"Just breathe," he soothes, rubbing her back, "Take a few minutes. We're gonna do this together."


It's the hardest thing she's ever gone through.

She hadn't realized how much hope she's had these past few weeks, until it's ripped away from her.

Surely not a third time.

Surely not a third baby.

She's never needed him physically close this badly before, and she wonders absently if her body would simply fall apart, if he weren't holding her together.

It already feels like she's falling apart.

It's not often that she lets him throw his weight around, but today, she sits back and lets him do it.

Because she can't.

She just can't.

"She's not listening, wait a minute—Liv? Livvie?"

She realizes he's trying to get her attention and she refocuses on him, blinking slowly. "What?"

"She's saying there's another option for the d&c. Where I can stay with you," he says gently, rubbing circles over the back of her hand with his thumb.

She turns back to the doctor, trying to focus. "Can you say that again?"

"Of course," her doctor says, kindly, "Instead of the hospital, I can refer you to an outpatient surgery center, where the policies are a little bit different. They'll put you in what we call 'twilight', which is a lighter form of anesthesia. And they do the procedure in more of an exam room setting, not a full operating room, so your partner is able to stay with you."

"Will I—so I'd be awake?"

The doctor shakes her head, explaining patiently. "No, not really. During the procedure itself you might feel a little bit of cramping, but you won't even be able to keep your eyes open. It will still feel like you blinked and woke up, and you won't remember anything."

"And Fitz can stay?"

"They encourage it," she says gently.

"Okay," Liv murmurs, "I want to do that."


She lets him make sure her surgery is scheduled as quickly as possible, and they end up driving from the appointment directly to the surgery center.

Twilight.

She feels like she's already in a twilight state, hovering above and watching this happen to someone else. It's some other woman who's lost her third baby in a row. It's someone else's hand being stuck with another IV, and stripping off clothes that she doesn't care enough to fold at this point, and looking away while they probe her with another vaginal ultrasound, where they confirm what she already knows.

Unexpectedly, they have to separate for a few minutes.

"They told me he could stay," she says quickly, sitting in a wheelchair, wrapping the hospital gown around herself more tightly.

"He can," her nurse soothes, "We're just going to take you back and get you settled. Then we'll bring him in okay? He'll be there before we do anything."

"It's alright," Fitz murmurs, kneeling down, "I'll bug them every ten seconds."

There's not much else she can do but nod, and let him press a kiss against her mouth.

She feels nauseous again as they help her up onto the table.

She doesn't need to be told to 'scoot down', because this is her third time doing this, today.

True to their word, they get her settled and drape her bare thighs with a sheet, and then a door behind her opens and he's back.

He's back.

"Right here, President Grant," a nurse says, pointing out a stool Olivia hadn't noticed before, "Remember not to touch anything below this point."

"Thank you. Hi," he murmurs, taking her hand, "You doing okay?"

She nods and squeezes his hand, breathing long breaths of relief. They've given her something through the IV again to keep her relaxed, to make her tired, albeit less of it than last time at her request.

It's worse, doing it again, because she knows what's coming.

The sounds.

The pressure.

And then, nothing.

"Olivia?" the anesthesiologist says gently, "I'm going to give you more medicine okay? They're going to get started."

She swallows hard and nods, glancing down as her doctor settles between the stirrups.

"Hey," Fitz murmurs, scooting closer to curl his arm around her head, gently turning her face towards him, "Look at me. I'm going to be right here. Just close your eyes, I'm here."

A powerful wave of drug-induced tiredness sweeps over her, and she blinks heavily. It could be the drugs, when she suddenly feels so much calmer and safer; but she knows it isn't.

"I'm…Fitz…"

She vaguely feels the cold, familiar pressure of a speculum sliding into her vagina.

"Shhh," he soothes, stroking her cheek.

The last thing she remembers are his eyes.


After she's asleep, the anesthesiologist reaches down to gently turn her head forward again, so she's facing the ceiling. They've already told him this type of lighter sedation doesn't require a breathing tube, and he's grateful for that.

Fitz strokes her hair during the entire d&c procedure, through the gauzy surgical cap she's wearing, eyes trained on her face. They had warned him extensively about what he might hear, and what he might see, that if anything were to go wrong he'd need to leave immediately and be forcibly removed if necessary; but the procedure seems to go smoothly. He tunes out their commentary on what's happening and focuses on her, trying to somehow let her subconscious know that he's there, that he hasn't left her side, that she doesn't need to be afraid.

He only panics once, when she grimaces a little in her 'sleep'.

"They're just widening her cervix a little more," the anesthesiologist tells him quietly, "She might feel like something's pinching her. She's okay."

Well that's nauseating.

It's only a second or two, and then her face relaxes again, and he breathes a sigh of relief. It seems both fast and slow when they announce that the procedure is over. He follows them while they wheel her into a recovery room, and because her sedation is light it doesn't take her long to come around. As soon as she starts to wake up, she's crying.

"This is normal," a nurse tells him gently, "Anesthesia can cause a lot of different emotions. Just talk to her, let her know you're here and that everything went fine. She might drift in and out for a little while."

And she's right. Liv doesn't wake up enough to open her eyes until the third cycle of wake, whimper, sleep.

"Fitz," she breathes, opening her eyes to look at him for the first time.

"Yeah," he says softly, leaning in closer, "I'm right here. You're okay, it's over."

"Fitz," she whimpers, starting to cry again, "Did they take our baby?"

It knocks the wind out of him, thinking about it like that.

"No, sweetheart," he soothes quietly, smoothing his thumb over her cheekbone, "They didn't. Something else made the baby leave us. The people here are helping you. They're helping. You're safe."

She's unusually calmed by this, and he knows the drugs are still in effect.

"Oh," she sighs, squeezing his hand, "Okay."

"Shhh. Just rest," he whispers, resting his lips against her forehead.

"Okay…"


Two hours later, she's quiet in the car next to him, staring out the window. It's an annoyingly warm, beautiful day, and he's thankful for the tinted windows because the sun feels like it's mocking them. Her discharge paperwork, some pamphlets, and a pink referral slip sit on the seat between them.

Instructions that they unfortunately don't need.

He thinks the referral slip may as well be yellow—gold. It's the golden ticket that will finally transfer her care over to Maternal Fetal Medicine; the specialists have finally agreed to see them. All the money in the world can't buy an appointment that medicine doesn't believe you need, apparently. But finally, she's had enough losses, and the next time—if there is one—she's pregnant, she'll be thirty-five.

She magically qualifies for more testing, maybe more answers.

'Enough losses.'

Fuck this.

"I don't know if I can do that again."

She says it so softly that he almost doesn't hear her. When it registers, what she's said, he looks over at her.

She looks devastated.

He reaches for her immediately, wrapping her up into his embrace, finally able to hold and protect her the way he's wanted—needed—to all day. She buries her face in his neck, drawing slow breaths, letting him give her some of his strength.

"You don't ever have to do it again, if you don't want to," he murmurs against her ear, rubbing her back, "I'm not—I want what you want."

Her breath hitches, and he feels hot tears wet his skin. She hasn't cried very much at all, stoically pushing forward and insisting she's processed enough to try again. But now he wonders whether they should have taken more time, if he should have tried to talk her into waiting another month here, another month there.

"I want to be pregnant. I want a baby," she admits in a soft rush, "But letting them—doing that—it's so hard, Fitz."

He closes his eyes and holds her tighter, nuzzling into her hair. "You don't have to decide right now. For right now, just let it be hard. It is hard. You're allowed to sit with that."

"I hate it," she moans, crying openly for a few seconds, "I hate it. I want all of them back. They're mine."

All of them. All of their babies.

"They're still yours," he murmurs, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "They're still yours. Shhh."


They take six months off.

It's precious time, they know. Neither one of them is getting any younger.

But somehow it's been over a year, and they need a break. Her third miscarriage, her second d&c, pushes her over the edge of emotional exhaustion.

She goes back on the pill, and they take six months off from trying. They don't talk about it, or dream out loud, or talk about when. Instead, they take the time to build their home; to learn how to live together, to settle in to new rhythms, to force old habits and patterns to shift when they need to.

They slowly decide what to do with each room in their house, except the one that's been waiting to be a nursery for what feels like forever. There's nothing in it, except for some Grant family baby heirlooms; a handmade wooden cradle, an impractical antique silver rattle and teether set, and the first edition A.A. Milne books. There's one bag that holds three soft, white cotton newborn onesies; the only things she'd purchased during her first pregnancy. They store those things in the room they both hope will be their baby's, and close the door.

They sit on the back porch and split a bottle of good wine at least twice a week.

They try cooking together and fail spectacularly, laugh hysterically…and then dive into learning how to feed themselves.

He turns his focus to the foundation, and she throws herself into OPA the way she always has; but they take more days off too, just to be together.


She has to learn how to trust her body again.

For years, making love hasn't been about making anything tangible, it's been about them. It's been about attempting to find a way to express a love that's so big, so all-consuming that words are never enough. Slowly, over the course of the past year and a half, making babies that they've never gotten to meet, something else has crept into their bed in a way that's uncomfortable.

Sometimes, she's horrified to realize, an unconscious sadness presses on her at the feel of his release inside of her; like her body is preparing for what may have just happened, and what has always happened after. Between three miscarriages, she's not able to predict when she might ovulate as well as she once did, and it starts to feel like every time could be The Time.

Her relationship with her own body has changed.

It doesn't feel like her body anymore, most days. Her body has always been hers, and then his, for years. But lately she's been poked, and prodded, and opened, and touched, so much; and it's clinical, professional, it's never been anything but. But it's invasive, in a way she hasn't been able to steel herself against.

She feels betrayed.

She feels ashamed.

She feels undesirable.

She's been able to push a lot of it away, especially at first; the aches and pains, the bleeding, the headaches, the weeks and months of constant adjustment; breasts too sore to touch, and a bloated belly with nothing in it.

Three miscarriages later, she forgets why she ever liked being touched in the first place. She doesn't ever turn him away, because he's warm and comforting, and she loves having him close. She loves kissing him, and touching him; she loves him. But when they decide to take their break it's been six months since her last orgasm, and she knows that he's noticed.

She feels broken.

She's tired.

She's tired of feeling broken, and she cries in his arms one night, two months after going back on the pill, finally telling him.

"What do you mean, 'broken'?" he asks softly, kissing the tears off of her cheeks, "You're not broken."

She scoffs, shaking her head. "My body can't do one of its most basic functions, what do you call that?"

"Liv," he murmurs, looking a little bit lost, "You're not—it's not your fault—"

"—then whose fault is it?" she whispers, eyes flicking back and forth between his.

"C'mere," he says softly but firmly, sitting up in bed and pulling her up with him.

They're both shirtless, in the middle of trying to make love; when she starts to pull the sheet up to cover herself, he gently stops her and she lets him. It falls to her waist, and he lets his eyes drag over her, cupping her hips, then her ribcage.

"Your body is perfect—look at me," he murmurs, cupping her chin when she looks away, shaking her head, "You asked me whose fault it is? It's nobody's fault."

Her eyes fill with tears again, and her expression changes a little. He doesn't blink, realizing how important it is that he helps her process this.

"It's nobody's fault," he says again, cradling her face in both hands, so she can't look away anymore, "It's not your fault, and you're not broken. You kept our babies safe for as long as we were supposed to have them. You gave them exactly what they needed. You sacrificed pieces of yourself for them, what you've been through, so that they could be with us. We haven't gotten to keep one yet, but you've been the most amazing mother to our babies."

He instantly knows he's said the right thing, that he's framed their losses in a way she hasn't thought of yet, because the guilt in her eyes disappears.

"Why didn't they stay?" she asks tearfully, sliding her hands up to hold his wrists, begging him to keep reassuring her.

"I don't know," he admits sadly, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers, "But it's not because of you. Can you see that? That's why I've never blamed you, because there's no one to blame. Truly, Livvie."

Later, she'll think it's insane to believe that something shifted in that one moment.

But she can't deny the flood of relief and warmth she feels at his words, when he flips her perspective completely upside down with six sentences.

"I wanted to meet them," she whispers, squeezing his wrists, breath hitching.

"Oh sweetheart, me too," he nods, throating burning, pressing a kiss against the bridge of her nose, "More than anything. I just keep thinking that the one we do get to meet, is gonna be one hell of a person."

She laughs a little, through her tears, and leans in to kiss him.

He groans softly against her lips, slowly trailing his hands over her body.

"You're so strong," he whispers, cupping her waist and stroking her belly with his thumbs, "You're anything but broken."

She can't catch her breath all of a sudden, and his hands are burning hot against her skin.

"Can I show you?" he asks softly, nuzzling her nose, laying her back down, "Please?"

"Please," she sobs, half crying, half gasping.

"Shhh…so perfect…"

He rubs his mouth across her nipple, and she settles when he draws it into his mouth, sucking gently. She moans softly, threading her fingers into his hair. He grins when she pulls his hair a little and tugs him over to her other breast, starting to get lost in the sensation.

"Fitz," she sighs, wrapping her legs around his waist.

He hums and suckles harder, drawing her nipples into hard peaks, slipping his thumbs into the sides of her panties. She covers his hands and helps him get rid of them, craning her neck down to kiss him slowly, sliding her tongue across his. He cradles her face and rubs away the tear tracks with his thumbs, pressing her down into the pillows, grinding their hips together instinctually. She whimpers and rocks with him, pushing her hips up to ask for more.

He kisses a trail over her chest again, and then down to her belly.

A sob clogs her throat again, and she digs her nails into his shoulders. "Don't."

"No," he rasps, nuzzling her abdomen, clasping her hands, "I love your body. Every part of it."

He lets go of her hands and grasps her waist, pressing his face into her belly, kissing his way lower.

"Fitz," she gasps, threading her fingers into his hair, "Please."

"So strong," he murmurs, sucking slow, deliberate kisses across her lower stomach, "You carried our babies right here. Kept them safe."

He refuses to move, nuzzling and kissing, until her hands relax over the back of his neck. Slowly, she lets her hands drift down to cover her own stomach, something she hasn't done in months, not since the last time one of their babies had been inside her. She's emotional at first, tears slipping down into her hair; but he stays with her and kisses her fingers, nuzzling the places her hands don't cover.

Together, they re-familiarize her with her own body, until she's not crying anymore; her touches are harder, feeling the muscles underneath, and then lighter, taking in the soft texture of her skin. She imagines the small, pear-shaped organ sitting low in her pelvis; she acknowledges it for the first time and hopes that it's healing, that it's enjoying this break as much as she is. She feels her hipbones and starts to let go of the blame, of the bitterness; she's wondered how much the bones would widen to accommodate a baby, cradling and supporting a full-term pregnancy. She still wonders, but she appreciates their structure now, too, pressing and following the curves until she can't feel them anymore.

"Nothing broken about you, baby," he rasps, watching her completely cup her palm over her lower belly, "You're incredible."

She looks down at him with warmth in her eyes, still running her hands over her abdomen.

"I love you," she whispers, eyes closing when he nuzzles her inner thighs.

One of her hands drifts lower, parting her labia with a soft curiosity, like she's exploring for the first time. Her breaths slow and deepen, and he watches her rub a few practiced strokes over her clit, testing. He can tell it feels good, because her hips shift and arch, and he watches without interrupting, wanting her to take control of her pleasure; he's determined to help her find an orgasm tonight.

She moans softly when he presses firm kisses against her thighs, rubbing harder, keeping her rhythm slow.

"Fitz," she sighs, reaching for him, eyes soft and hazy.

She brings him down and rakes her fingers through his hair, whimpering when he opens his mouth against her core. When he starts to use his tongue, it's with the same slow, deliberate rhythm that her fingers had started. He quickly finds a spot, a good spot, that makes her whole pelvis flood with warmth.

"Right there," she breathes, cradling the back of his neck, "Right there…don't stop that…ohh…"

A deep, deep ache creeps up through her internal muscles, and she laughs a little, grinning.

"M'getting wet for you," she murmurs, rubbing his cheekbone with her thumb, "I feel it—hah—"

He growls and presses harder with his tongue, and her eyes slam shut; she props herself up on one elbow and grabs a fistful of his hair, rocking, rocking, rocking…as soon as she feels a climax building, a real climax, she feels emotion rise up inside her too. She opens and seeps for him, swelling and contracting, sobs hitching her chest; she doesn't try to stop any of it, letting all the sensations move through her. Her body hasn't had release in so long, it feels like it's gathering everything, ready to let go of it. It's so familiar when he closes his lips around her clit and sucks on it, she reacts the way she always has; she gasps and moans, writhing against the relentless pressure.

The orgasm crashes over her, and she cries out in surprise, in pleasure. How could she have forgotten how good this feels? She loses track of the noises she's making, holding him against her, closing her thighs around his shoulders.

As she comes down, she throws an arm over her eyes and laughs, and laughs; she feels him laughing against her belly, celebrating with her, hugging her hips and kissing her skin.

"Get up here," she murmurs, pulling on him, "Get inside me."


After a full six months, she walks into their bedroom on a Sunday morning with three envelopes. Three sets of test results, one for each of their three embryos. The envelopes have come one at a time, one following each miscarriage, and each one has been placed in the same drawer; unopened.

He looks up from the paper, glasses perched on the end of his nose. She crawls onto the bed and wedges herself in right beside him, sighing and holding the envelopes on her lap. Her doctor had gone over the results with her over the phone each time.

Two chromosomal abnormalities, and one infuriating 'we don't know'.

But she had refused knowing the sex of each embryo, not in a place to think about that. That information is in these envelopes, with the complete test results.

"I think I'm ready to know," she says quietly, glancing at him, "If you are. I'm kind of springing this on you, I know, so if you're not ready—"

"—if you're ready, I'm ready," he agrees softly, folding his paper and setting it aside, "Do you want to do it?"

She nods, leaning forward when he slides his arm behind her, reaching around to hold her waist. Settling back down against his side, she picks up the first envelope and sets the next two aside, slipping it open.

There's a lighter moment as they laugh at themselves, trying to figure out how to read the results.

And then she sees it.

'normal sex chromosomes detected - XY'

She presses her fingers to her lips, humming against the onslaught of emotion, and points it out to him. He looks, and looks again.

"A boy," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She nods, blinking against the tears, smoothing her palm over the paper. "A boy."

A son.

They've had a son.

Suddenly, she's hungry for the information, desperate to know the most basic of information about their unborn children. It's like a weight is lifting, opening the envelopes she's been afraid to open, reading the information she'd feared she wasn't strong enough to read. She reaches for the next envelope and opens it, eyes trained to the correct line now.

'normal sex chromosomes detected – XY'

When she looks up at him he's giving her a proud grin, preening himself a little.

She sighs, rolling her eyes. "It has nothing to do with the manliness of your sperm."

"You don't know that," he shrugs, drawing her in closer, nuzzling into her hair and pressing a kiss there.

She chuckles, crying a little at the same time.

The third set of test results are from a different company, and they both end up searching for a minute to find the information. It's him that finds it first, and points it out to her.

'sex chromosomes detected – XX – normal'

It takes her breath away, knowing she's carried a daughter.

"A girl," she whispers, breath hitching.

She sees him turn away out of the corner of her eye, and she turns to look at him. He's emotional, tears slipping over his cheeks, and she sets the papers aside. She reaches for him and cradles his cheek, guiding his face down into her neck. Wiping away her own tears, she strokes her fingers through his hair, pressing her lips against his temple.

"Sometimes I can't believe this happened. All of it," he rasps, breathing her in, "What you've been through, Livvie—"

"I can do anything with you," she whispers, rubbing the back of his neck with her fingertips, "We went through it."

She wraps her arms around him in a proper hug, holding him tightly, and they sit with the new information for a few minutes.

Two sons.

A daughter.

He pulls back and cradles her jaw, kissing her softly.

"I think we should name them," he says softly, but confidently, "What do you think?"

She wipes her eyes, smiling a little. "Okay. God, we've never even—do you have any names that you like?"

He tips his head, smiling slowly. "Yeah. I do."

"Tell me," she breathes, turning toward him with interest.

"John," he says softly, looking down to take her hand, "I know it's popular, but I've always liked it. It's—I dunno, it's—"

"—it's strong," she finishes for him, nodding a little, "But it's soft too. Gentle. It's classic, but it's not outdated. I love it."

"Yeah?" he asks, eyes shimmering with tears again.

"Mmm-hmm," she nods, running the back of her hand over his cheek, "I have one too. Isaiah."

"Isaiah," he repeats, trying it out, "Isaiah Grant."

"Pope-Grant," she corrects, giving him a reproving look, "We're hyphenating. Poor kid is just gonna have to deal with it."

"Right," he grins, "Isaiah Pope-Grant. It's great."

She crawls forward into his arms, turning around to sit with her back against his chest, pulling his arms around her.

"What about a girl's name?" he asks, pressing a kiss into her hair, "I don't have one."

She sighs, lacing their fingers together. "I don't either. Not one I like enough to choose, anyway."

He reaches for his cell phone and Googles a list of hundreds of girl names, holding it out so they can both read.

They name their baby girl Mila, 'gracious', and 'dear', simply because they both think it's beautiful.


It's a bright, freezing cold day when she takes the pregnancy test that tells her they've conceived their fourth baby.

Fitz hovers in the bathroom doorway behind her while she checks the test, watching her face in the mirror.

It's positive. It's almost always been positive.

Either they're wonderfully compatible, or they have more sex than average, or both, but it's almost always been positive.

She turns around and nods, showing him the positive test, and then wraps her arms around his neck. He holds her and rubs her back for a long time, until she's ready to face the reality of being pregnant again.

Her new doctor, Zoe Caldwell, had ordered extensive pre-conception bloodwork for her; miraculously, her hormone levels have come back completely within the range of normal. It's consistent with the two genetically abnormal embryos, and it confirms that she's almost definitely able to sustain a pregnancy. Dr. Caldwell orders immediate hormone and HCG levels to monitor Olivia's new pregnancy, bloodwork every day for ten days; but it doesn't help assuage her fear.

She's always been pregnant for seven weeks, never any longer than that. It's painfully familiar when they're not able to see a heartbeat during her six-week scan, and she forces herself to stay cold and detached.

She wants to acknowledge the baby.

She wants to talk to it, and make plans for it.

But she can't yet, it's too hard.

She keeps herself distant, and hardened, and it completely backfires.


The day of their eight-week ultrasound she's a complete, unequivocal wreck.

An absolute fucking mess.

She just doesn't care, she can't be strong anymore, because she knows if she loses this baby she won't ever be pregnant again. They've already talked about pursuing a child through other means, likely adoption.

"I don't want to look, unless—I can't see another one," she says softly, closing her eyes on the exam table.

"Okay," he soothes, rubbing her shoulder, "I'll let you know when you can look."

"If."

"Shhh."

Their sonographer trips into the room.

"Whoops," she grins, smoothing the rug back down, "First thing you should know about me, I'm clumsy as hell. Alli."

She offers both of them a handshake, and then moves to the sink to wash her hands. Instantly, she can tell that her patient is incredibly nervous, and that Dad is the only thing holding her together. She can tell they're not interested in small talk, and she settles onto her stool and preps the vaginal transducer.

"Let's take a look," she says kindly, smiling sadly at the way Olivia's gaze is turned away, "Little pressure."

Liv squeezes his hand even harder, focusing all of her muscle tension there instead of around the ultrasound probe. It's quiet while Alli clicks buttons on the machine, orienting herself to the right spot—

"Livvie, look," he gasps, "You have to look."

Her heart stops.

"No," she whispers, staring at him with wide eyes, "Are you sure? Are you sure?"

But he doesn't have to answer, because at that moment the unmistakable sound of a fetal heartbeat fills the room. She immediately turns to look, and there it is; the beats are being measured in a wave pattern across the bottom of the screen, over and over, strong and steady. When Alli goes back to the image of their baby, there it is; a tiny, fluttering heart.

"That's really the heartbeat? It's alive?" she asks, covering her mouth.

"Oh yes," Alli smiles, clicking and measuring, "This little one is most definitely alive. Heart rate is one-sixty, which is great. And wiggling already! Check that out."

The embryo is indeed wiggling a little, back and forth, side to side.

For the first time during any appointment, Olivia bursts into hysterical tears, covering her face. It's the most intense relief she's ever felt, knowing that her baby is alive at eight weeks.

Slowly, she realizes that Fitz is covering her, holding her, whispering against her ear. The pressure of the ultrasound probe goes away, and when she's able to open her eyes Alli is waiting patiently with a tissue box.

"Is that it?" Liv manages to ask, taking a few tissues to wipe her face.

"No. I just didn't want you to miss it," she smiles gently, setting the box down again, "I reviewed your chart, I know what you've been through."

"Well, stick that thing back up there, I want to see," Olivia laughs through her tears, and they all laugh at that.

"I didn't ask before since you were so nervous, do you want to insert it?" Alli offers, banging the thick transducer cables around as she picks the probe up again, untangling it, "Stupid cables—I typically ask, it's usually more comfortable."

"Oh," Liv says, raising her eyebrows, "No one's ever asked me that before. Sure."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that. Here, this end."

"Does it matter which way I hold it?"

"Nope, I can adjust. Just—there we go. That okay?"

Alli takes over and starts the scan again, and this time Olivia's eyes are glued to the screen.

"This is your cervix; I'll just measure that real quick. Baby is here," she says softly, pointing, "Head, body. You can see the hands and feet developing here, and here. Hey there!"

"Oh my god," Liv whispers, fingers pressed to her mouth as the baby wiggles again.

"Kinda looks like a gummy bear," Fitz grins, stroking her arm soothingly.

"Movement is normal at this time, that's a great sign," Alli grins, measuring the embryo's length now and clicking a button, "Baby is measuring eight weeks and two days, and I have you at eight weeks, so that's right on the money. Let's just get one more heart tracing."

"Please," Liv sighs, laughing a little.

Alli zooms in a little so they can see the fluttering even better. She sets parallel lines around the tiny heart, telling the machine where to measure, and then they're watching and listening to their baby's heart again. Tears are still streaming down Liv's face, and Alli lets the trace go for a little extra time, letting them listen. After she stops the tracing, she tears off the strip of photos she's been printing and hands them to Olivia.

"Baby's first photo shoot," she smiles, gently pulling the ultrasound transducer out, "Dr. Caldwell will be in soon, okay?"

They both thank her, and then they're alone for a few minutes, staring at their pictures.

"Fitz," she breathes, running her finger over the picture of the heart tracing, "She has a heartbeat."

"I know—wait, 'she'?" he asks, tipping his head curiously.

Olivia looks up, mildly surprised herself. "I'm…not sure why I said that. Just came out."

There's a knock on the door and Zoe Caldwell starts to come in, looking down at the tablet in her hand.

"Hey ther—oh. Olivia, go ahead and get dressed, I don't need to examine you," she smiles, backing out of the room again.

"Oh, sorry," Liv laughs, handing the pictures to Fitz, "We were just—we got distracted."

"That's okay," she grins, nodding, "It's good news. I'll come back in a few minutes."

A few minutes later, Zoe comes back and pokes her head into the room. "We good now?"

She pulls up a stool and sits right in front of them, taking in the exhausted relief on their faces.

"Everything looks good," she says softly, in her most reassuring voice.

"Really?" Liv asks tearfully, still not able to believe it, "I'm still only eight weeks."

Zoe reaches out to pat her knee. "Everything looks good, okay? Baby's heartbeat is very strong, and it's measuring right on target. All of those things are very good signs. Your cervix is nice and long on ultrasound, your lining is thick. I have no reason to believe you won't carry this baby to term."

"It's just, the last three times," Liv breathes, melting into Fitz's side when he slides closer to wrap his arm around her.

"I know," Dr. Caldwell soothes, still resting a hand on her knee, "And because of your history you're in the right place, with us. We have a lot of information this time, remember. Your hormones are great, pre-pregnancy and now. Your HCG is through the roof; a dip in HCG is usually one of the first signs we see in early miscarriages. Yours is on the higher end of what we see at eight weeks, okay? This baby was wiggling and dancing already, its heartrate is fantastic, not sluggish in the slightest."

Liv nods and sighs, accepting another tissue, trying to wrap her head around the fact that she's still pregnant.

"I know I've told you before but, I think you've just had some really terrible luck," Zoe says sadly, glancing between the two of them, "You've gotten pregnant pretty easily, based on what you've told me, so I don't think there's a fertility component here. I don't see anything in your bloodwork or your physiology that would contribute to a miscarriage. Genetic abnormalities are more common than you might think, especially as we get a little older, and I know you already know that. You miscarried at home the first time, so what they were able to collect the next day likely wasn't as comprehensive as your surgeries. There's a good likelihood that first pregnancy had a genetic component, too."

She's repeating conversations they've already had, for the benefit of Olivia's nerves. She's been in these rooms with anxious, traumatized, devastated parents countless times.

"All that being said," she says kindly, "We're going to keep an eye on you and baby, for your piece of mind and mine. I'm going to bring you back for ultrasounds at nine weeks, ten weeks, and twelve weeks. I want to see baby continuing to grow, and we'll check for some different developmental markers at twelve weeks. After that we'll do a scan at sixteen weeks, and twenty weeks, which will be your anatomy scan. That's everybody's favorite, Alli will talk your ear off showing you every single fingernail. And then if everything looks good, we'll probably do some growth scans starting at thirty weeks, just to make sure baby is getting nice and chubby. In these next few weeks if there's anything happening with your cervix, we'll catch it. If there's a hormonal component, we'll catch it in the bloodwork. I have a lot of tricks up my sleeve to keep you pregnant, if we get to that place, okay?"

"Okay," Liv nods, pausing to blow her nose, making a face when Fitz takes the tissues from her to throw them away, "Sorry."

"Can you prescribe that she has to let me take care of her?" Fitz jokes, coming back to his chair.

"Those were actually my next instructions!" Zoe laughs, raising her eyebrows, "Seriously. What I want you to do for the next month is rest."

Olivia sighs, scrubbing her hands over her face. "I know."

"You may not be showing on the outside yet, but there are incredible, energy-intensive changes happening in there," she points, "I want you to pretend you're in your last trimester. Rest. Let the President here cook for you, get lots of sleep. Drink plenty of water. I know you're anxious, but try to keep your stress levels as low as you can. It's usually helpful to think about why you need to stay calm, so remind yourself that there's a little one in there trying to grow kidneys and intestines."

They both chuckle at that, beaming as it sinks in more and more…she's still pregnant.

Their baby has a heartbeat.

Eight weeks, and a heartbeat.


She keeps waiting for the anxiety to lessen.

The nine-week ultrasound is just as bad as the eight week one, maybe worse, because now she's let herself hope again. But when the image comes into focus on the screen, the baby is still there, wiggling even more noticeably now. It's even easier to see its tiny heart, and it's looking more and more like it's really pumping, instead of fluttering.

At ten weeks, the baby jumps. It jumps and bounces on ultrasound, so much that it's hard for Alli to get a heart tracing. It's the most delightful thing they've ever seen, and Olivia can't get enough, asking for just one more minute, one more minute to watch their baby alive and well in her womb.

Eleven weeks is their first week without a scan, and her anxiety is worse than ever. She takes a few days off of work, terrified to move, putting herself on self-imposed bedrest; convinced that if she does too much she'll make herself miscarry. Fitz is endlessly patient, plying her with all of her favorite foods and non-alcoholic beverages. He takes the days off too, to sit with her, to hold her when she wants to be held; they watch documentaries, and read, and answer emails when she feels like it.

Fitz is pleasantly surprised when Dr. Caldwell calls to check on her halfway through week eleven, after hours, and listens to her concerns for over twenty minutes. He's not sure what's said between them, but after their call Olivia shows him a recipe and asks if he wants to try cooking it with her. They place a grocery order and she curls back into his side while they wait, breathing the smallest bit easier.

Their twelve-week ultrasound is the most incredible milestone.

Olivia feels like she's really graduated from something when all she has to do for her scan is pull up her shirt, and Alli tucks a towel into her pants to protect the fabric.

"Dr. Caldwell is confident we can relax on imaging your cervix for now, so you're off the hook with the transvaginal scans. Alright, here's your introduction to The Goo," she teases, squeezing gel onto her flat belly, "Let's take a peek at baby. Wow, gorgeous."

Right away, the baby is posing for them, and she gets a perfect profile shot.

"Holy crap," Olivia gasps, covering her mouth, "There's no way."

Fitz laughs, glancing at her. "What did you think was in there?"

"She looks like a real baby," she marvels, awestruck, "I mean…are those her bones?"

"They are," Alli smiles, doing her usual clicking and measuring, "Did you find out the sex? I missed that in the chart."

"No," Fitz grins, watching their baby bounce and wiggle and stretch, "Not yet. I think that bloodwork is today, right? She's been saying 'she' for a month now."

"I don't know why, I just…I think she's a 'she'," Liv smiles, completely relaxed for the moment.

"Mother's intuition," Alli says knowingly, zooming in to measure something on the baby's neck, "I've seen it many times."

"Does she look okay? I know, you can't say anything," Liv sighs, trying to absorb every image on the screen.

"She's a show-off, is what she is," Alli grins, adopting Liv's pronoun pick, "She's just showing me all of her best angles. Good pictures today, guys."

It turns out their baby looks perfect.

She doesn't have a single marker for genetic abnormality, or an early physical issue.

And she is, in fact, a 'she'.


A/N: I wouldn't say this was fun to write, but it was extremely creatively satisfying. I do, in fact, know multiple people who've had two and three miscarriages in a row before carrying to term. This is not uncommon, in any way, it just isn't talked about. I wrote this for many reasons. I worked in high-risk pregnancy research for a time, and I remain in awe of the strength of the women who have to walk that path. I wanted to tell their story. Also, to highlight how irresponsible Olivia's canon abortion was: I'd say 95% of women are NOT wide awake, staring at the ceiling during a d&c. I digress. OBVIOUSLY you guys will get to meet their baby in the next part! I have pieces of that written but this was getting long and felt like it was complete for now. Thank you for reading and I sincerely hope all of you (and your families) are well. I would absolutely love to read reviews and chat with you guys, so review and/or message me!