A/N: I've been posting these stories on tumblr, and figured I should bring them over to FFN, too. This first one is in reply to a prompt I received (Jeller + "You had a nightmare."). The stories that will follow this one will be in the same universe, but not necessarily in chronological order. I tend to write in this world during the dead of night, on off-days, and at random intervals, so I can't promise any sort of regular updating. But, I've got this to start with, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

"You had a nightmare."

"Sorry," he mumbles, still half-asleep even after she's shaken him awake. He pushes himself up on one elbow as he comes back to reality, which, she guesses, is no different from his nightmare. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she lies, obviously, but he doesn't seem to notice.

Jane watches him in the dark as he rubs a hand over one side of his face, and then pinches the interior corners of his eyes. She feels her throat tug at the sight of him so exhausted; even in the darkness of their bedroom, she can see the sagging curves under his eyes. She knows she must look similar; she hasn't slept well in months, either, not since they lost the baby.

And despite the exhaustion that comes with such constant insomnia, part of her hasn't even wanted to sleep. She dreads dreaming the way he's been dreaming, dreads having her erstwhile fantasies turned into nightmares. Living with the reality day by day is bad enough; she can't handle it in her sleep, too.

Kurt groans softly as he lurches up into a sitting position, and then gets heavily to his feet. Jane watches him from bed as he shuffles over to the bathroom, and then shuts the door behind him. She listens to the water run in their silent apartment, and pictures him splashing it on his face. Pictures him looking himself in the mirror, long and hard, and not liking what he sees reflected there.

She can't say she blames him. She doesn't like looking in the mirror much anymore, either. But then, she's never much liked looking into the eyes of murderers.

He doesn't say anything when he comes back to bed. He just pulls the covers up, and slips into his side, lying down in silence. He doesn't make a move to hold her or touch her or kiss her; they haven't interacted like that in months, at least not with any feeling.

She stares at him in the dark as he situates himself, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder with his left hand. A sliver of light not blocked by their drapes falls across the bed, and for a moment as he shifts around, it illuminates the golden wedding band on his ring finger.

She wishes the sight of it made her feel good, and proud, like it used to, but now it just makes her feel sick and alone. She hasn't felt like his wife in months. And it isn't just because they lost the baby; it isn't just because they haven't been having sex.

It's because she doesn't recognize this person she sleeps beside every night anymore. He's cold and distant and so interior that at times she doesn't even feel like he's here with her even when he's close enough to touch. She knows he's suffering, of course he is, but the way he does it is doing more damage than necessary, she thinks. It can't be good for him to hold all this in, to continually keep himself calm and cool when she knows he must be as torn apart inside as she is—emotionally, at least, if not physically.

We should talk about it.

She could say the words, she knows. She could ask him to talk; she could demand that he talk. But she can't bring herself to do it. She can't hurt him any more than she already has.

So instead of saying anything, instead of insisting that they have a conversation, she just reaches a hand out, and places it tentatively on his cheek. He closes his eyes at her touch, sighing softly through his nose, and she does her best to swallow the anxious fear in her. They touch each other so little these days, she keeps waiting for the moment he'll push her away.

But he doesn't tonight. He just shuts his eyes and lies there beneath her hand, and she tries to feel good about that. She tries to paint a nice picture from this moment: perhaps he's needed this touch all day; perhaps he's been craving this small bit of comfort all week.

But she doubts it. Likely, he's just doing his best not to snap at her; doing his best not to pull away as he likely wants to.

She brushes her fingers lightly against him, searching for the skin of his cheek but finding only the rough hair of his now-full beard. She hates that beard; his misery beard, as she thinks of it privately. It's horrible and coarse and too long and its existence makes it so that any and every time she looks at him, she knows exactly how long it's been since their baby left them. Because just like they haven't really spoken or touched or kissed or made love since their baby died, he hasn't shaved.

She thinks about it, about that little tiny human that was, for a couple months, theirs, and she wonders if it knew, somehow, that something was wrong. Did it know that they'd be bad parents? Could it foresee them growing unhappy and resentful and distant like this? Did it not so much abandon them, as save itself?

"Anything I can do?" she asks finally, just for something to say, something to drown out both her thoughts and his own. "Anything at all, Kurt?"

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, as she knew he would. "There's nothing you can do."

He's trying to reassure her, she knows. He's trying to say things are out of her control; he's trying to say that she shouldn't bother herself comforting him. But still, when the words come out they hit her like a slap in the face, because it's true—there's nothing she can do, certainly not anything right. She couldn't even keep a baby alive inside her for four months; no wonder he doesn't want any help from her. All she does is kill things.

She withdraws her hand quickly, curling onto her side away from him, so once she's situated, all he has to look at is his own name on her back. She wraps a weak, powerless arm around herself, her hand instinctually moving to cup her stomach, even though there's nothing there left to hold, not even the little rise that used to linger in the few weeks after the baby had left.

She cranes her neck, staring down at her stomach, willing it to be full and round and full of life as it was just a few months ago, as it was, perhaps, in her husband's nightmare. She stares at the myriad tattoos inked there, frowning at each one, and feeling her eyes fill, not because they are there, but because they're still the same as they were before. She feels like they should be distorted, ripped, torn-apart; they should mirror the horror that went on inside.

It doesn't take more than a couple seconds, and then, like clockwork, she's practically sobbing outright, her whole body shaking, convulsing, her teeth tearing into her bottom lip so hard they draw blood, just so he won't hear—

But of course he does. It's so quiet in their apartment, he could probably hear every breath she took before they started coming in gasps. His hand is at her back immediately, warm through her tank top, and though she knows he's trying to comfort her, his touch just makes her shake more, and cry harder.

"Oh, Janie..." His voice is ragged, exhausted, hurt. He hates seeing her cry, she knows. That's part of the reason why she put her back to him in the first place. "Hey, now..."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, but she hardly gets the words out before he says, "You don't have to apologize."

She ignores his claim like usual. She knows it's a lie. She could spend the rest of her life apologizing to him for losing his child, and it still wouldn't be enough.

She swipes at her eyes angrily with the butt of her palm, all but gouging her eyes out in an attempt to rid her face of tears but not caring. It takes longer for her breathing to even out, for her heart to slow its frantic, fearful beat. But eventually even that part of her calms down, eventually she's in-control enough to roll back over and face him again.

The look on his face only makes her want to start crying again, and she has to press her lips together, hard, to keep herself in check.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out, her hands clenched tight into fists because she doesn't trust herself to touch him anymore without something bad happening. "I'm so sorry, I..."

Blessedly, he lets her trail off into nothingness. He doesn't ask her what she's sorry for; he doesn't ask her what else it is she'd wanted to say. He just stares at her, looking so tired and old and just so done, so finished with it all, and eventually she has to shut her eyes, because she can't look at him anymore.

She counts: one minute, two. She takes a few deep breaths. She tries to get rid of the horrible stretching, painful sensation in her throat. She only succeeds at a couple of these endeavors, but it has to be enough. She opens her eyes, and finds his, still before her as they were a few minutes ago, still wide open and concerned and anxious.

She tries her hand at a reassuring smile and, from the lack of change on his face, likely fails at this, too. "You know that I love you," she whispers, not knowing what else to say anymore. "I really love you."

Her husband nods, and smiles a little, but it doesn't even begin to light up his face the way it used to.

"Yeah," he murmurs, tired again. "I know, Jane."

It takes him a couple seconds to realize that wasn't the proper response. She listens to him start to curse himself before he shakes his head, closes his eyes, and calms down. Cuts himself off.

"Love you too," he says finally. His voice is quiet, measured. Rote.

She watches him say what needs to be said, and wonders if the lie tastes as sour coming out of his mouth as it does meeting her ears.

A/N: Thanks very much for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts.