This is based on a great prompt I received a while back. I won't post the prompt because I don't want to spoil the ending. I hope this meets the standards considering I only spent an hour on it, LOL. Trigger Warning: Death and stillbirth.

It's dark. So dark. It's so dark that he can't see his fingertips as he holds them up to his face. But he doesn't need to see them to know what's happening. He knows it is a deep red, almost brown. It's dark and it's sticky and it's covering the calluses of his fingertips. He breathes in and out, in and out, but it's all too much. The smell is nauseating, forcing itself into his lungs although he fights it. And when it masters his lungs, it moves on. It seeps into his tissues and they struggle in protest. His heart clenches, his stomach churns, and his vision starts to cloud. This can't be happening.

He begins to move without it being planned, without it being a conscious action. He assumes it must be the years of practice that has made this second nature to him, that allows him to be lost in his head and logical with his hands. Except this isn't a patient and it isn't a war zone or the OR. This is his wife. His wife, who is kind and selfless and turns his whole world. His wife, who has went through enough tragedies to last a lifetime. This can't be happening.

She's not waking up, but he assumes there must be pain. She's too far along; they've gotten so far, and yet, they are not free from pain and suffering. He shakes her, trying to wake her, but she doesn't move. He turns her off her side and she's limp in his arms. She's not in pain because she's not here. Not here at all. He's too late. Always too late.

This can't be happening, but it is.

"Owen," Amelia wakes up from her deep sleep after being shuffled around. She doesn't know what's happening and why she's suddenly so cold until she peeks open her eyes. Owen is moving her around, turning her, twisting her, before he finally picks her up bridal style and hugs her to his chest, crying. He's muttering things she can't even begin to decipher and his tears are dropping onto her neck and cascading down her shirt. So much is happening and she can't get a grip on any of it. Her breathing is labored and she reminds herself to calm down, that the stress isn't good for the baby. Finally, she meets his eyes. She sees the hollowness of his gaze. His eyes are voids filled with pain and suffering.

"Baby," she says calmly, bringing her palm to his cheek. "Baby," she repeats, trying to pull him out of this nightmare without causing harm to either one of them.

Instead, her words seem to send him spiraling, his posture becoming even more tense. His grip tightens and he starts muttering "baby, baby, baby." She doesn't know which baby he's talking about—her or their child—but it doesn't really matter. She can only imagine the horrors romping about inside his head.

"Sweetheart," she tries. She brings her other palm up to his cheek so that she has a firm grasp on his face. She uses her thumbs to wipe away his tears. "I'm right here. We're right here. We're okay," she says. "I love you. So much. You're okay. You're home and you're safe." Her words are soothing but confident and her tender strength seems to lull him out of his heightened state.

"Mia?" He asks, his voice trembling. His eyes are glued to her body, too afraid for this image to all be a dream.

"I'm right here," she whispers, tugging his face down so that his forehead leans against hers.

"You're real?" Her heart stops at his heartbroken words.

"I'm real." His tears are still streaming and his breathing has not calmed, so she pulls him closer. She leans up to kiss his lips, gently, firmly. She runs her fingers through his matted locks and tugs ever so slightly, willing him to see that she is real. They are awake.

Their lips continue their slow dance for several minutes, unhurried and full of love. She holds him tightly, not even letting go as she feels his heart rate slow. She just holds him and waits.

"You were gone," he chokes out. "You and our baby. Both of you. Just gone."

She shushes him, holding him tighter. "We're here. We're safe." She nuzzles her nose with his. "It was just a dream."

He breathes in and out, this time feeling some relief. "I can't lose you."

"You won't."

"You don't know that—"

"—I don't." She knows she can't lie to him. "But don't think I won't go down without a fight." She pushes away to see him more clearly, to look straight into his eyes. "I love you. You can't get rid of me that easily," she jokes.

Owen doesn't laugh but his eyes have a tiny glimmer. The glimmer that radiates his love for her. "I don't ever want to."

She gazes into his eyes, shifting to get closer to him before she realizes the position they're in. She chuckles, snorting slightly. His eyes grow confused before she lets out, "How are you still holding me? I weigh a ton." She motions to her large belly and how she is, quite literally, only supported by his arms.

"You do not," he says, a grin peeking through his defenses.

She keeps laughing, the feeling of joy radiating throughout her body contagious. She doesn't want this feeling to go away. She tilts her body toward their bed, urging him to place her down. Instead, he only shakes his head, a gleam in his eyes. "Maybe I don't want to put you down," he says, holding back a chuckle.

"Owen—"

"—Maybe I'll just carry you for the rest of our lives."

She smacks his chest lightly. "Seriously, though. What are you? The Hulk?"

"The Hulk? Out of all the superheros you pick him?"

"Yes." She looks at him seriously. "You're strong."

"And have a weak alter-ego?"

"I was going to say emotionally reserved…" she says, biting her lower lip.

"Take that back," he growls, using his arms to tickle her slightly, prepared for her startled reaction.

She giggles. "What if I don't?"

He raises his eyebrows, moving her toward their comfy bed. Laying her down carefully, he looms over her, entrapping her head between his arms. "Then I guess I'll just have to make you," he says, nipping gently at her ear after he finishes his threat.

The edges of her lips quirk up. "I like the sound of that."

"Do you?" he asks, his breath ghosting over her lips.

She moans lightly. "Very much."

"Oh well that can't be a punishment, now can it."

She opens her eyes wider. "Don't you dare leave me hanging."

He chuckles, before brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. Balancing on one arm, he uses the other to cup her cheek and plant a soft kiss on her lips. "Never," he whispers. He kisses her again, before pulling back. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I wasn't the one having the nightmare."

He nods before gently moving his hand to her stomach. "And he's okay?"

"Kicking up a storm. You should feel him soon enough." And, surely, within the next few seconds, he feels a well-timed kick move his palm. They stay like that, calm and loving, for another few minutes before Amelia gently brings his eyes back to meet hers.

"This is great and all," she begins, "but I believe you still have to make good on your promise." Her eyes are dark and full of lust, something he knows he must be reciprocating. Making him go from tender love to heady desire in a matter of seconds in her specialty.

"Oh," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. "I intend to."

So, whatcha think?