Chapter Four
Paige was holding his hand. Walter knew it before he even opened his
eyes. Knew it from the softness of her skin, the shape of her fingers, the
way her touch both calmed and thrilled him. Knew it from the faint scent
of lavender he could detect in the air.
Rolling his head to the side, he expected to see her beautiful face lying
next to his. So it came as quite a shock to see her through the railing of
a hospital bed. She was asleep, sitting in a chair with her feet propped
up on another. A blanket had been draped over her, a pillow wedged behind
her head.
Slowly he became aware of pockets of pain in various places of his body,
mostly in his lower back and head. Confusing images flashed through his mind;
working on Elia's rocket, being locked in the musty room, he and Paige. .
.having sex. . . And falling. . . Falling for far longer than it seemed possible.
He grew lightheaded, closing his eyes until the dizziness passed.
He must have squeezed her hand because she stirred, rolling over onto one
hip so she was facing him. The swell of her stomach stuck out prominently,
and he smiled as he imagined their child inside doing somersaults.
"Walter." She said his name in a panicked whisper. "Oh, God." She sat up
in her chair, the blanket and pillow falling to the floor.
"Hey, love." He pressed her fingers with his. "I'm okay." He tried to raise
himself off the bed but had to lie back down as an involuntary gasp passed
his lips. Spasms shot down his legs and he winced.
"You're not supposed to move too much until the swelling goes down," she
said, pressing him gently against the mattress. He must have appeared confused
because she then explained his injuries to him. ". . .and they said you could
be experiencing some memory loss."
Frowning, he let his mind drift to when he first entered the capsule and
figuring out Elia's engineers had tampered with his throttle design, the
terrifying (yet thrilling) moment he'd realized the rocket was going to launch,
making the split second decision to stay. . . He gave his head a shake. After
that, things got a bit fuzzy until he woke up while plummeting to earth.
He watched as Paige retrieved her purse and brought out a sheath of papers.
"They gave me a list of questions to ask you. . .you know, to test your head."
She smiled, but even he could see her anxiety. Was she not telling him everything?
"Okay, fire away," he replied, attempting to relax by folding his hands over
his abdomen.
"All right, first question," she said, consulting the paper. "Full name."
"Walter Patrick O'Brien."
"Good." She nodded. "Birthday?"
"24 February 1983."
She glanced up at him in surprise. "Really? I didn't know that. You've never
mentioned it before."
He shrugged, then wished he hadn't as his body protested with a sharp twinge.
"Not important," he commented through gritted teeth. "I did nothing special
to be born, why should it be celebrated?"
"Because it's fun," she stated with laugh,
"It's an inefficient use of time."
Paige rolled her eyes at him. "You big party pooper. You celebrate everyone
else's birthday, and Christmas, and Halloween, and. . ."
"Because it makes you happy."
Getting to her feet, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "What was that
for?" he asked, genuinely bewildered.
"Because you're so sweet." Sitting back down, she turned her attention back
to her list. "Okay, next item. . . Who's the president?"
"Of which country?"
She sighed. "Ours, genius."
He dutifully answered the rest of the questions before deciding to ask one
of his own. "What's the name of the submarine that recovered me?"
She seemed startled by his inquiry before furrowing her forehead. "Uh, Grand-something,
I think." Pursing her mouth, she looked pensive for a moment. "The Grandin,
that's it. Why?"
"I was thinking we could name the baby after it," he teased.
It was his turn to be perplexed as an expression of relief swept over her
face, swiftly followed by one of exasperation. "That's a terrible idea. People
will call him Grand."
"What's wrong with that?" He pressed his lips together in an attempt not
to laugh.
"One massive ego in the family is enough." She shook her head. "No, just
no." Narrowing her eyes, she stared thoughtfully at him. "You're not serious,
are you?"
"No," chuckled Walter.
"You're going to keep doing this, aren't you?" She leaned back in her chair,
crossing her arms over the top of her stomach.
"Doing what?" he asked innocently.
"Coming up with unacceptable names."
"Maybe." He grinned at her
"Oh, God, Walter." Her eyes grew damp again as she paled.
"Are you okay?" he asked, immediately becoming concerned. She usually didn't
cry when he joked around with her. Laugh, sometimes. Got annoyed with him,
most of the time. Tears were a new development.
"I'm fine," she replied, nodding as she brushed at her cheeks. "I guess it
just hit me I could have lost you today."
"But you didn't." He patted her shoulder, hoping to comfort her. "I'm just
a little bruised and battered but. . ."
"I don't mean just physically." She paused to take a breath. "I mean. . ."
Sniffing her nose, she went on, "I was so worried you suffered brain damage.
. .due, due to the hypoxia. And I thought you. . .you forgot about the baby.
. ."
"Why would you think that?" The fact she was carrying their child was one
of the most wondrous events of his life. One he would never forget.
"Because you didn't mention him when you woke up earlier."
"I don't remember waking up earlier." Walter held out his hand, and she took
it in hers. "I haven't forgotten anything important," he stated, "and I even
recall things I wish I could forget. My brain is fine."
"Well, Elia is flying in a team of neurological specialists from around the
world just to be sure," she informed him. "He's feeling guilty."
"It wasn't his fault." Walter knew who exactly was to blame. Himself. He'd
had plenty of time to escape the capsule. But instead he made the decision
to stay. He just didn't know if it was his God complex coming into play,
thinking he could fix what was wrong and save the rocket. Or if he'd just
wanted to fulfill his life-long dream of going into space. Neither reason
put him in a good light.
"I'm fine," he reiterated, seeing her concern. "So when do I get out of here?
I want to go home."
"Not until tomorrow. At the earliest."
"Oh." Out of nowhere, comprehension of what he had almost lost staggered
him like a punch to the gut. He should be dead. His odds of survival had
been infinitesimal. He would have missed meeting his new son. He wouldn't
have been around to help Ralph meet his full potential. And. . . A lump formed
in his throat as he thought of how Paige would have been abandoned once again,
with two children to raise by herself. Although this time, she had a family
to help her. Even so. . . His breathing shallowed as he thought of not being
able to be there for her, of not being able to love her for the rest of her
life.
"Are you okay?" she asked, worry once again marring her beautiful face. "Should
I ring for the nurse?
"No, it's just. . . I don't think I can wait that long to. . .to hold you."
He was surprised to see tears forming in her eyes. "What's wrong?"
"I want to hold you too," she replied. "But. . ." She gestured toward the
narrow hospital bed then her pregnant belly.
"We can make it work," declared Walter, gingerly sliding to the far side
of the bed.
"We'll get in trouble," she said as she lowered the railing.
"Don't care." He braced himself as she climbed in to lie beside him. Wrapping
one arm around her shoulders and placing his other hand on her stomach, all
his stress and worry drifted away, and he could finally relax.
"I love you," he murmured against her cheek, "and I love our sons."
"Oh, God, Walter." She wiped at her damp face, giving him a watery smile.
"I love you, too." She snuggled closer and kissed him lightly on the lips.
They were both asleep, wrapped in each other's arms an hour later when a
nurse came in to take Walter's vital signs.
"How's the big brain, Big Brain?" Toby's smart ass remark greeted them as
Walter and Paige walked into the garage the next afternoon. Happy and Sly
followed the doc to welcome the genius back to the garage.
"It's fine." Walter sounded irritated. And Paige couldn't blame him. Elia's
team of specialists had arrived the previous evening and had been poking
and prodding and grilling him for hours until he'd finally been released.
"Let's go upstairs," she suggested, placing her hand on Walter's shoulder
as he headed toward his desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Happy
whap the back of Toby's head as he opened his mouth to make what would undoubtedly
be a filthy comment. "So you can lie down," she clarified, shooting the shrink
a warning glance.
"I want to get back to work."
"The doctor said you needed to take it easy for at least a week." Paige had
to keep herself from laughing at his petulant expression. "Come on, upstairs,
mister. It's time for your pill."
"I don't like methylprednisolone," he grumbled. "It makes me jumpy."
Ignoring his protests, she steered Walter up the ramp. Honestly, he was worse
than Ralph when he was sick. Or Drew, for that matter, remembering the time
the ballplayer had strained his shoulder and she'd had to wait on him hand
and foot until it got better.
She led him into the bedroom. "Do you want to put on your pajamas or. . .?"
she asked as she helped him get comfortable on the bed.
"Can I have my laptop?"
"Yes, you can have your laptop. Pajamas. . .?"
"No, I'm fine." He shifted restlessly, grimacing in an effort to hide how
much pain he was truly suffering.
Paige sighed as she rolled her eyes. Men. "Okay. I'll get you a glass of
water to take your pill." She paid no attention to his repeated objection
to his medication as she headed for the kitchen.
Less than five minutes later, she was handing him the water and the pill,
both which he reluctantly took. She stood over him with her arms crossed
over her stomach. "What?" Walter asked as he handed her the empty glass.
"Are you going to check under my tongue to make sure I swallowed it?"
"Do I need to?" Something told her it was a trick he was quite familiar with,
which hardly surprised her.
"No." He dropped his gaze to his lap. "I'm sorry. I don't like feeling like
an invalid, but I shouldn't take it out on you." Raising his head,, his apologetic
dark eyes made her melt like the chocolate they resembled.
"No, you shouldn't." She smiled at him, letting him know she wasn't upset
with him.. "But you're in pain and you're frustrated and you're worried,
and I'm the big bad warden. I get it. Hey," she said, sitting down beside
him on the bed, "you want me to send Toby up here? You two could snipe at
each other for awhile. Take your mind off your misery."
"No." Walter rubbed his hand over his face. "I don't think I'm up to sparring
with him today. Just my laptop? Please?"
"Sure." Leaning over she kissed his cheek. "Be back in a jiff."
As she was unplugging the computer from its charger, Toby strolled up to
her. "So, how is he really doing?" he asked.
"He's a little sore, but he'll be okay once the swelling goes down."
The psychiatrist waved his hand. "I don't mean his physical injuries. I'm
talking about his head."
"His head is fine."
"So he remembers everything?"
"The important things," she replied, echoing Walter's words. "I. . .I. .
.," she began hesitantly, not wanting to tell the shrink too much, "I think
he doesn't remember much from when he was in the capsule."
"So none of the hand smoothing and the baby making?"
"I don't think so." She blew out a breath. "And you don't need to tease him
about it either."
"Who, moi?" Toby said with mock innocence. Then his face grew serious. "Have
you told him about the contractions?"
"Not yet." She gave her stomach a pat.
"I think you should wait." Before she could say a word to contradict him,
he added, "197 has enough to fret about right now. Recovering from his ordeal,
the trial. . . If he learns you were in labor. . ."
"False labor," she pointed out brusquely.
The shrink bobbed his head grudgingly. "Okay, false labor. He needs less
stress right now, not more. The brain is a fragile organ. Give it too much
to cope with, and it'll shut down. He may think he's fine, he may think he
remembers the important things." Toby air quoted the last two words. "But
until we know for sure, right now what he doesn't know isn't going to hurt
him."
"He's going to find out eventually. He comes to all my appointments and we're
starting childbirth classes next week. I can't keep something like this from
him indefinitely."
"I know." The psychiatrist sighed. "Just don't say anything unless you're
sure he can deal with it. Okay?"
"Okay." Paige thought about what the shrink had said all the way up to the
loft. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she knew he was right. Walter
had too much on his plate right now. She was fine, the baby was fine. . .
She needed to keep her stress to a minimum as well. And having Walter constantly
hovering over her, being even more overprotective than he already was. .
. Hardly the way she'd chose to relax.
And speaking of relaxed, she grinned as she entered the bedroom. Mr 197 was
propped up against a stack of pillows, fast asleep.
As quietly as she could, she set the laptop down on the nightstand beside
him. Unable to resist, she ran her fingers through the soft curls spilling
across his forehead. His mouth twitched into a smile, but he didn't wake
up.
Deciding to give in to her own fatigue, Paige walked around to the other
side of the bed and crawled in beside him. That's where the rest of the team,
along with Richard Elia, found them fast asleep an hour later.
Author's note:
In case you're wondering where I came up with the date of
Walter's birth, (not out of my bum, I swear!). The real Walter O'Brien was
born on 24 February 1975. In the episode "White Out" (episode 2x13), it is
stated Walter is 32 years old. "White Out" aired 4 January 2016. So, if his
birthday is in February, he would have been 33 about a month later, making
his birth year 1983. Plus Elyes was born in 1983. So 24 February 1983 seems
like a perfectly reasonable birthday for the fictional Walter O'Brien.