Marilyn screamed.

Her head floated in a seemingly endless fog of drugs. Everything was softened at the edges, ethereal and not quite there, except for the pain. The pain was everywhere, razor-sharp, incredible in its power.

She supposed it might have been unbearable if the doctor hadn't administered the IV of painkillers that dripped slowly through the needle at the fold of her arm, but it just barely kept her sane — instead of taking away the pain, it only deadened it, like a bullet shot into a pillow to muffle the sound.

Another scream ripped its way from her throat as a series of knifelike cramps stabbed at her pelvis, insistent and unforgiving. Marilyn strained at the cuffs around her wrists but they held strong.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, struggling uselessly against her bonds. "Let me go, I hate you, you're insane, I want to go to a hospital, let me go let me go—"

Oliver straightened from his position between her legs and hurried to her side, his nose and mouth hidden behind a sterile white doctor's mask. He pulled it off and set it on the nightstand beside the bed so he could press his lips to her sweat-soaked brow.

"I know, Marilyn, I know," he said soothingly, brushing a wet tendril of blonde hair from her face. "Childbirth is the most painful event known to man, it can make you say things you don't mean."

His dark eyes were patient and shining with love. The sight made her physically ill.

She was like a caged wildcat; the pain and adrenaline coursing through her had wiped away any affection she'd once had for this man, this maniac who'd kept her prisoner in the basement for weeks until finally the labor pains began and he fastened the cuffs around her wrists.

The doctor looked her over once, twice, then leaned his nose against her cheek, utterly overcome.

"You're so strong," he whispered. "You're not like them. You're special. You can do this."

Them. The constant reminder of how — and where — she could end up if she didn't play her cards right.

But right now, fuck the cards, because there was a sudden terrible pressure between her legs and she wailed helplessly into Oliver's ear.

He jerked back and fetched his face mask at once, fixing over his mouth again.

"It's coming," he said excitedly, eyes bright as a little boy's behind his black-rimmed glasses. He hurried to the end of the bed where he'd strapped her legs apart, keeping them wide open and immobile.

"Oliver!" Marilyn screamed, her animosity falling away in the face of this fresh hell. All at once she hated him, she loved him, she needed him because she couldn't remember a time she'd ever been so scared.

The pressure bore down and sharp silvery cracks of white-hot pain splintered through her.

"The baby's crowning, Marilyn," he explained in a strangely even voice, the one he probably used with his patients at the asylum. "The head is coming, this is the hardest part. I need you to push."

"I can't," she whimpered. To push would be the end of her; she'd split in two, she was sure of it.

"You can." Oliver's tone was firm, as though there would be no more on the subject. His dark eyes flicked to her behind the glinting lenses of his glasses. "Push."

Marilyn felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She whimpered again, flexed her hands uselessly against the wrist restraints, and tried to push.

Pain swept through her in a paralyzing wave. The pressure intensified and suddenly she knew she was going to die here, in a pool of her own blood on this bed with the plastic sheets, just another victim of Bloody Face — and she wouldn't even get the front page story. Wouldn't Lana laugh at that.

"Good," Oliver said, leaning forward. "Good, just like that, I'm so proud of you. Again. Push."

She screamed and pushed again.

"Again," he repeated, and she could hear a sudden watery tremble in his voice, as though he were on the verge of tears. "Again, Marilyn, push!"

Marilyn screamed. Pushed again.

She was going to die and her child would be alone with Bloody Face.

Without being asked, she pushed again, enduring the steely slice of pain it brought on.

"Yes, that's it," Oliver said excitedly, and she felt him working between her legs, a place he knew very well indeed. The thought made her laugh deliriously. "Don't stop, the baby's almost here!"

Marilyn swallowed, braced herself, and pushed again, harder than ever. The pain built to an unbearable crescendo; just before she passed out there was a sudden release of pressure, a liquid sense of something letting go, and then there was nothing but the sweet, blessed relief of unconsciousness.

She resurfaced some time later, the world sliding slowly into focus as she opened her eyes.

She was looking at the crib, the sweet little crib with the lazily spinning mobile, but there was no baby in the crib.

"Oliver," Marilyn croaked, trying to sit up. Two things stopped her at once: the stab of pain that shot up from her lower half like a lightning strike, and the fact that her wrists were still cuffed above her head.

"Oliver," she said again. Her voice was frail, barely heard by her own ears.

The doctor was sitting in a chair near the workbench, leaning forward to stare at a small bundle of something in his lap. His eyes were wide, transfixed.

The baby. Why was the baby so quiet?

She began to struggle weakly against her bonds. Why was the baby so quiet? He wasn't a medical doctor, that was why, they should've gone to a hospital like she'd begged him to, oh god the panic was rising in her like an unstoppable murky tide, why was the baby so quiet—

Suddenly a tiny hand emerged from the bundle in the doctor's lap, five perfect little porcelain fingers flexing and grasping the air.

Oliver extended one of his own fingers towards the reaching hand like a man hypnotized. The little fingers closed around his immediately and held on.

She watched, relief flooding through her, as a single tear worked its way down his face.

"Oliver," Marilyn repeated, her voice slightly stronger now. "I want my baby."

He seemed not to hear her; the doctor moved his finger a little, but the tiny hand held tight.

"Oliver." She shook her wrists, rattling the cuffs against the bedposts, ignoring the unholy rush of pain that rolled through her. "I want my baby."

He was utterly engrossed, his dark eyes scanning the little bundle in his lap. She noted that his perfectly-styled hair had come loose during the birth and one piece hung unnoticed across his forehead.

A sudden animal instinct took hold of her when she realized he wasn't heeding her plea. Despite the pain it caused her Marilyn began fighting against her bonds like a wildcat that's been poked through the bars of its cage one too many times.

"Oliver!" she shrieked. "Oliver, I want my baby, give me my baby!"

His head snapped up, the trance finally broken, and a radiant smile spread across his lips.

"Of course," he murmured, getting to his feet. He cradled the little bundle of blankets carefully in the crook of his arm as he approached, but to her dismay he set it down in the crib.

"I want my baby!" Marilyn cried again, thrashing like a madwoman. The doctor crossed back to her and took her face in his hands to press a long, hard kiss against her forehead.

"He's here, your baby's here." He began to stroke her hair with one hand as the other quickly worked each wrist out of its restraint. She thought for one wild moment that he meant himself, that he was going to try to take her again but there was no way she could do it, she was utterly broken down there and would never be whole again, and the panic increased to a fever pitch when he slipped the white cotton nightdress over her head, leaving her nude.

"Imprinting," Oliver explained patiently, and turned back to the crib. "It's critical. The baby needs to imprint with its mother as soon as possible. Skin-to-skin contact. I wanted to do it right away, but you were unconscious."

He lifted an impossibly small body in his arms, a tiny naked squirmy thing with a head of fine dark hair and grabby little hands. The doctor turned to her, proudly, and placed the baby in her arms.

"It's a boy," he whispered, smiling.

Marilyn stared down at her son, trying to take in every feature, the perfect little nose, the smooth pale skin, the dark hair as soft and fine as down. Oliver had already cleaned him; he smelled of sweet soap and fresh skin.

His deep brown eyes stared up at her. She knew where she'd seen those eyes before.

She couldn't recall ever holding a baby but some dusty hidden part inside her suddenly kicked to life like unused machinery. Her arms folded effortlessly around him, his head resting gently in the crook of her elbow, her free hand pulling him against her as close as he would get, their warm flesh pressed together just as the doctor had wanted.

Her son's lips pursed and opened, pursed and opened. He made no sound.

She knew at once she loved him.

Marilyn looked up to find Oliver staring at her, an unnamable expression on his face. He looked as though he was witnessing nothing short of a miracle.

When her eyes caught his he broke his reverie and moved closer, pulling the chair close to her bedside so he could sit near her.

"He needs to nurse," Oliver explained in a strange thick voice.

Marilyn frowned, unsure of what to do, but his large hands were suddenly there, readjusting the baby and her breast so the little mouth could purse and open close to her nipple. He moved the baby a little closer and the tiny lips closed over her breast at once.

She felt an odd tugging sensation, a faint pulse of pain, and then everything was at peace; as her son nursed, a wave of relief flowed through her like sweet medicine, a warm sleepy feeling that enveloped her like a blanket.

She let her eyes drift closed and leaned her head back against the pillow. Oliver drew the comforter up around her — she noted briefly that the plastic sheets were gone, replaced by the much more comfortable cotton ones — then began stroking her face tenderly with the pad of his thumb.

"The hormones should be kicking in," he explained softly. "It will help with the postpartum cramping. It will relax you. Breastfeeding is…"

The doctor drifted off as though his medical knowledge suddenly seemed unimportant.

"What are we going to call him?" he asked instead.

Marilyn leaned into his touch. The sleepy sensation creeping through her seemed to shut out memories of the unbearable pain, the animal panic, the utter hatred she'd felt for him in her moment of agony. Right now all she wanted was to enjoy the comforting weight of her son in her arms, the relief filling her body like a warm liquid, the loving way the doctor was stroking her cheek.

She ignored the cold metal tug of the chain that had been fastened around her ankle.

"Johnny," she murmured, running her fingers over the soft dark hair of her son's tiny head. "I've always liked the name Johnny."