Snapshots of a life, lived

Nightmares

WARNING: Miscarriage (in a dream), discussion of and reference to past miscarriage

"Winter?"

The soft voice drew Winter's attention away from the stove. Autumn had gone upstairs to nap. She hadn't felt good. Winter had already decided to bring her dinner in bed. But she was behind him now. There was something in her voice he had never heard before. Fear.

Winter turned to see Autumn standing in the kitchen door, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were wide, bright with tears and pain. "My love?" he hurried over to her. "What's wrong?"

She let out a shuddering breath, arms tightening over her stomach. "I-I don't know. I think... I think I'm bleeding."

Her knees buckled. Winter caught her, holding most of her weight. One of Autumn's hands came up to clutch his shoulder. "It's okay," Winter said, trying to sound soothing through his panic. "You're okay. Let's—"

He started to take a step forward, and his foot slipped. He looked down in horror to see the puddle of blood under Autumn. No. No.

Autumn collapsed fully into Winter. He managed to catch her, but couldn't completely hold her weight. Instead he sank to his knees, blood soaking into his pants, and let Autumn rest in his lap. Her eyes was closed. She wasn't moving. She was so pale.

No.

"Autumn. Autumn!"

There was no transition between sleep and awake. One moment Winter was looking down at Autumn, the next he was staring up at the ceiling, gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest. The momentary paralysis wore off, and he rolled to look at his wife.

She was asleep. Peaceful. Her lips parted as she breathed softly, chest rising and falling. Her cheek was warm when Winter brushed his fingers against it. His other hand moved to cover the small bump — their baby. Also alive and well. Autumn could feel them moving, and Winter was so jealous. She'd said that it helped when she started feeling too anxious. He needed that right now.

Autumn started to stir, eyebrows furrowing. Winter rolled away again and sat up on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. He was okay. She was okay. The baby was okay. Everything was okay.

"My love?"

She sounded so drowsy. Winter cursed himself. He knew Autumn's insomnia had been worse than usual. She needed all the sleep she could get. And here he was interrupting it.

"Go back to sleep," he told her, struggling to keep his voice steady. Autumn didn't listen; there was a shuffle of sheets moving together as she sat up and crawled over to him. She wound her arms around him from behind and rested her cheek against the back of his neck.

"Tell me what's wrong." Even half asleep, it was obviously an order. Winter raised his hand to touch hers where they met right over his heart.

"Bad dream. That's all."

Her breath tickled his skin. "About?" she prompted. She wasn't going to let him get away with not talking, clearly.

"The... The miscarriage." Her arms tightened around him. "But it was worse. You were bleeding so much..."

The actual miscarriage had been bad enough without all the extra details his mind had supplied. He still remembered the desperate rush to the hospital, the way Autumn had spent the entire ride curled up in pain, crying. They both knew what was happening. And Winter couldn't stop thinking about all the stories he'd heard over the years of miscarriages killing the mothers as well.

Autumn kissed the nap up of his neck. "I'm right here," she assured him. "We're right here. It's okay."

We're right here. Winter took a deep breath, finally feeling like he could breathe again. "I know, my sweet. I'm okay. Go back to sleep."

"My darling you would never leave me alone after a nightmare. Why would you expect me to leave you?"

Winter opened his mouth to speak — then closed it. He still remembered the first time he said that it wasn't the same, that his nightmares weren't as bad as hers. That his feelings about the miscarriage weren't as important as hers. She had looked so horrified. One might have thought he had tried to hit her.

"Do I make you feel like that?"

"What — No, of course not, my love—"

"Then why would you think that?"

"You're right," he finally said. "I'm sorry."

Autumn shook her head against his back. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

They sat for a moment, until Winter felt Autumn leaning a bit heavier on him. She was falling asleep.

"Let's lay back down, my sweet."

"Okay," she murmured, drawing away. Her hand slid down to grab his, pulling him back with her. Falling asleep didn't stop her from taking control; she pulled him over to lie next to her, then guided his head to her chest so his ear was resting right over her heart. Then she took his hand and rested it against her slightly swollen stomach. He smiled.

"I love you," he murmured, shifting his head slightly to kiss her jaw before returning to the position she had put him in.

"Mmm," she hummed. "You too."

And then she was asleep again. It was entirely possible she wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. That happened sometimes when she was really overtired. She'd wake up, have a conversation with Winter, go back to sleep, and not remember it later. But he would tell her about it, and about the dream. She would be so upset if she thought he was hiding something from her. He didn't want to put her through that.

"I don't want to bother you with my feelings, that's all."

"That's not how this works. If you lock me out, then I can't help you."

Wanting to be open about feelings was something Winter had never expected from Autumn. The miscarriage had shifted something fundamental in both of them. And it had made them stronger in the end.

He curled his fingers slightly against the small bump, smiling as he closed his eyes to the lullaby of Autumn's heartbeat. They were going to be okay. All three of them.