"I want to come."

"No, Zo, you're staying here with grandma." Her voice is firm, final. She's tired and exhausted and having this conversation on hourly basis isn't helping.

"But, mo-" And she cuts her off, taking them both by surprise, it's not something she ever does.

"We're done. No discussion, no buts, done. If I take you I have to bring Karen and Gerry too, and there is no way in hell that all three of you are missing school to sit in an ICU in Germany, watching him sleep. I spoke to their mom and she agrees. If-" And she stops, drawing in a deep breath, "when Fitz wakes up you can come. Until then you are staying here with some semblance of normalcy. You will go to school, go to ballet, hang out with your friends and be in bed before 10."

"But, I want to be there when he wakes up." She stops packing and looks down into the girl's eyes. She can't bring herself to say it; to say – he might not wake up and the doctors don't know when; and even if he does he, He could still be gone. She can't bring herself to hint defeat, to give her more to fear. So she lies through her teeth.

"Zo, you'll be there when he wakes up every morning for years to come." They exchange weak smiles; both appeased, neither satisfied.

She finishes packing. They say their goodbyes. Her mom bites her tongue – she agrees with the doctor, she doesn't think Liv should go, they're worried about her and the baby; she worries, but she does it quietly. She lets her do this. It's a long flight, but it speeds by – she reads Look to the Stars. Someone picks her up, but it's a blur; reality feels like a distant memory. She wants to see him. No, she doesn't want to go to the hotel first. No, she's not tired. No, she doesn't want to eat. She just wants to see Him.

The hospital seems unreal; everything's so light, so translucent. White halls with white floors; icy chairs and sterile scent; there are photos on the walls – happy, fake, radiating emptiness. The only pop of color are red lines on the floor – the lines to mark the ins and the outs; the lines that set the limit to what and who she can see; the lines guiding her to him. Red on white – to blend in with the blood? They give her a gown, a mask and gloves – sterile and clean – so unlike life. The doctor is nice; he knew James and he's a fan of Fitz; she's not really listening; she's just staring at the curtain through the glass; imagining – Him.

"You need to prepare yourself." She nods her head. "He's not like what you remember." She nods again. "His head is bandaged up; his face swollen. His body – the parts that aren't covered in bandages and casts are covered in scratches and cuts. He's hooked up to several monitors and there are IV drips; there are tubes and needles invading his body." She doesn't flinch, she knew this; she is prepared for it. "It's not him. Not right now. Now, he's medicine." With that, they go in.

The doctor pulls the curtain to the side and she flinches and closes her eyes. She opens them again, slowly, and forces herself to look. She flinches again; she is in physical pain. Her chest is constrained; her heart thumping crazily between her ribs; her lungs drawing in, inhaling emptily; her legs are weak, wobbly. She didn't know this; she wasn't prepared for it. Not this. She was prepared for seeing Him – seeing him cut and bruised; seeing him wounded; she was prepared for weakness and illness; she was prepared for injuries; she was prepared for that, but not this. This, this isn't him. It's his body, but, no, not really – there's nothing Him about it. It's a different color, or colors actually; his limbs are at strange angles, unnatural, so contrived. And then, his eyes. They're closed, of course; but they're puffy and big; shades of purple and grey; the skin tight and glossy; plasticy. She was prepared; she was prepared for seeing him alive, she was prepared fro seeing him in pain; but she wasn't prepared for seeing him on the brink of death. The doctor squeezes her shoulder and gives her a reassuring nod towards the chair next to his bed. She reaches out her hand, but then stops – "Can I… Is it OK to… Can I touch him?"

He nods. "We don't know much about this. Whether he can feel it, whether he can hear your voice; but I've seen patients react. Just, sometimes it takes time."

"And sometimes they just… don't wake up." She says it quietly, more to herself than to him. But he nods cautiously.

"Sometimes they don't."

He doesn't. Not the first day she's there. Not the second, or the third. Not the first week. She talks to Zoey, Karen and Gerry daily; even to Mellie. She speaks to her mom, reassures her she doesn't need to come; she's fine. It's a lie. With every day that passes by she dies a little bit more inside. But she keeps on sitting next to him. She keeps on talking. She keeps on hoping. He keeps on coding. The monitors start beeping loudly, the doctors and nurses swarm in. She knows the drill. In the beginning they'd push her out, but now they let her be – she just stands there silently. In the beginning there were tears rolling down her cheeks, but now she just stares, holding her breath; no air. It's been ten days. Still no change. Still the same. Coding; waiting; waiting for him to one time, not come back. They talk to her, bring it up – letting him go; maybe it's time. No, it's not.

She's sitting next to his bed. Reading the papers to him. Updating him. And then she feels that same fluttering.

"The baby's kicking." And before she can stop herself she's taking off the latex gloves; she's untying the sterile gown, she's taking his hand in hers – skin contact for the very first time. His hand feels different, stiff, heavy and dead – but it's still his hand; still his touch; their fingers laced – they still match. She lifts up her shirt and guides his hand to the side of her belly; she lets him feel the kicking. And she can hear his heart. It's a different sound. Someone else might not notice – the numbers are still the same, the monitors not picking up the change; but her, she can tell. It's no longer a spiral to death, it's a steady beat of life. They stay like that. And doctors come in and they leave – no one saying anything; they let them be. They let her be. They think she's letting go; they don't know; don't know that she'll never let go, that she'll never move on; that to her he'll never be gone. They don't know that she's holding on, holding on to him, she's holding on for him; fighting for him. They don't know that she's breathing life into him – it's not medicine; not science and fact; it's faith and love.

It's a Sunday night. She's falling asleep. Next to him. She's always next to him; she can't leave. Next to him is where she sleeps, where she thinks, where she breathes and where she dreams. Next to him is where she exists. She's falling asleep; it seems like a dream – the hand inside of hers is moving. It seems like a dream. His eyes are opening. It seems like a dream.

"Hi." And she swears he smiles.

Her voice cracks. "Hi."

There's a beeping sound.

I was writing this in a cafe today and the waiter actually stopped by to ask me if I was OK. This chapter just made me really sad; like Liv being alone and trying to hold on just broke my heart (and even the most amazing latte barely helped, although it's a remedy I recommend). I'll try to update in the next couple of days and in the meantime let me know what you thought. Do you think she was dreaming? And what do you think was beeping?