This is a sequel to my story Bereft. If you haven't read Bereft, you may want to do so before reading this story.

I'm assuming this story will be either two or three chapters, depending on how much I decide to write.

Warnings: This story pretty much deals with every trigger warning that exists, so if you are particularly sensitive to such things, you may want to sit this one out, though I hope you won't.

Spoilers: None, this whole thing is pretty much AU.

He sits in the darkness, listening to Lana's soft voice on the other side of the wooden door. She is speaking in hushed tones, but he hears the soft pronunciations of the words that carry a soft lisp, and he pushes himself closer to the door frame. He cannot make out the words she is saying, but the softness of her voice tells him that she is speaking to the child, and that thought makes his lips turn into a soft smile.

He presses his ear against the door, though this is his house and this behavior is beneath him, and he can make out the gentle whispers of an apology; a light "I'm sorry," said over and over again. The words don't make sense at first and he sits back to reflect upon them before his mind wraps around the possible connotation of the words and he is pushing the door open, gasping for breath as his gaze falls upon Lana, sitting in the rocking chair with the child sitting peacefully in her lap.

Her eyes raise to him as he bursts through the door, and the child's eyes follow his mother's gaze. Both of them are watching him in a state of mild confusion, though it only lasts for a moment before Lana's eyes are lowering again, and the child settles back into his mother's embrace.

"You scared me," he tells her, and he doesn't mind saying it because for the past two years she has been his everything: his mother, his confidante, and, most importantly, the mother of his child. He has told her many things in the past two years that he had sworn never to tell another living soul; things he had only whispered to the lifeless bodies on his autopsy tables and once to the corpses whose skin he had so lovingly removed. And through it all, she remained as silent as one of his bodies.

He stands beside them for a moment before kneeling and ruffling his fingers through his son's dark hair. The toddler gazes up at him with his mother's eyes and smiles, reaching one tiny arm out toward him.

"Daddy," he grins, his tiny teeth revealed. He sees Lana's grip tighten on the toddler.

"I'm trying to get him to sleep, Oliver," she tells him, her voice quiet as she shifts him in her arms. "You'll just get him all excited. Can't you go somewhere else until he's asleep?" She asks softly. "I'll come find you."

"No you won't," he tells her, and she doesn't respond because they both know her words are true. "Besides, it's almost time for you to go downstairs."

She is silent for a moment before speaking.

"It's been over two years, Oliver. Don't you think the basement is a little excessive at this point?"

He ignores her question because they both know the answer.

"You're getting good with him," he says instead, watching as the child's dark eyes begin to drift close. The gentle sway of her body in the rocking chair is easing the toddler to sleep and she keeps her eyes focused on his tiny face. "Much better than you were at the beginning."

Without a sound from her, he notices the way her jaw is clenching and he knows they are recalling the same memory. He, freshly home from work after his paternity leave, searching for her and the baby throughout the house. Finding them upstairs, in this very room, in this same rocking chair; Lana holding a pillow to the child's face, his tiny limbs flailing uncontrollably as she attempted to smother the breath from his lungs.

By the time he'd thrown both the pillow and Lana roughly against the wall, the child's skin and lips already light blue, and he'd barely been able to compose himself enough to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation on the infant. He had worked relentlessly as Lana slid to the ground sobbing, and when the child had found his breath with a shuddering gasp, it had taken everything in him not to fall to his knees, tears sliding down his cheeks.

It had taken a long time after that incident for him to trust Lana with his child. He hadn't allowed her to be in the baby's presence without him being in the same room as them. Of course, he hadn't been able to separate the two of them completely; the bond between a mother and child was everlasting, and the baby needed her for nourishment, after all. It had taken months, perhaps even years, for him to get back to the point where Lana was able to close the door with the child in the room.

But now, watching her coddle him in her arms, it looks like the most natural thing in the world. Her eyes are locked on his cherubic face, his chest rising and falling heavily with sleep, and she blinks before looking slowly up to him as he stands watching her.

"Just let me have another minute with him," she requests, and the starkness of her face strikes him as if it's the first time he's ever seen it. Her face is so gaunt, eyes dark. He realizes with a start that he is worried about her, though even he acknowledges that it's merely the effect she will have on his child that concerns him. "In private. Please."

He sighs, looking at the clock on the wall.

"You have one minute," he tells her. "I'll be outside the door."

"You always are," she says quietly, her fingers tracing the round cheeks of the child in her arms.

He steps from the room and pulls the door closed behind him, leaving it slightly ajar. It is only a few seconds before the whispers begin from behind the door once again. He stands impatiently, glancing at his watch to count the seconds. Just as the minute hand on his watch prepares to move, he hears a strange sound coming from behind the door. He is prepared to push through and into the room again until Lana emerges, her eyes lined in red and her face puffy. She sniffles as she pushes past him and through the hallway.

Without a word to him, she opens the basement door and descends the stairs, pulling the heavy entrance shut behind her. He follows after her slowly, placing his hand on the door for a moment before securing the padlock that will keep her in for the night. It won't do to have her loose in the house, he knows. He wouldn't be safe, and more importantly, the child wouldn't be safe. She spends her evenings in the basement, which has since been converted into a somewhat modern living area. She has a bed, clothes, a toilet. She wants for nothing.

But he... there is so much he desires. Her touch. Perhaps the touch of any human being. He knows there are moments when she wants to touch him; he can feel the longing in his very being. But she will resist him. He knows this.

He would like to hear her voice, the way he heard it those few times so long ago. He would like to hear her display some emotion other than indigence, he would like to see her bitter, angry, or even hateful. But she has lost so much spirit in the past two years. The light in her eyes has gone out, no longer even a flicker of passion or desire remains. Her eyes are now empty, bottomless pits of darkness. He cannot read their expression.

But this is not about her, he realizes, as he turns from her padlocked door and down the hallway to his bedroom, which is just adjacent to his son's nursery. This is about him, and of course the child. Lana has served her purpose, but he also realizes that the child would not exist if he had not grown in her womb.

There is something to be said for the relationship they keep up, but he knows they are living in sin. Their coupling, which resulted in this child, was beautiful but unnatural. And now they are raising that child together. One day his son will grow up and want to know why his mother and father weren't married. And Oliver would have to be the one to answer for it. It is the only reasonable thing to do.

He makes the decision that very evening, after settling into his bed. By the end of the week, he and Lana will be married, with or without her consent.