This idea randomly came to me when I was walking home from school and I decided to write it out. Takes place... sometime after Always. Not really based on an episode, or sentence or anything really.

His lips ghosted over her temple, a motion meant for comfort her knew it probably wouldn't bring. Not while she was still sleeping, anyway.

Next to him lay his wife of nearly two years, the love of his life. However, the peacefulness that usually covered her face wasn't there.

It was another one of those horrible nights – the nights where he woke to find her shaking and sweating next to him, to the feel of her hand accidentally whacking him in her sleep. It was one of those nights where she was stuck in the horrible, dark world her sleep imprisoned her in.

He hated those nights. He hated seeing her in pain. He hated seeing her thrash against the mattress, struggle against the restrictions of her slumber. He hated knowing that only she could snap herself out of those dreams – that even his best efforts could not save her from the dark world her mind held her hostage in. He hated knowing that she was upset, hurting and he could do nothing about it.

He watched as she once again punched the mattress, as if she was fighting it. He could hear the moans and groans that escaped her throat, animalistic sounds that made it sound like she was in physical pain, as if someone was fighting back against her, even though she was really just beating up the mattress. He could see the thin layer of seat that had built up on her forehead and over the bridge of her nose, making her face almost glow in the dim lighting of the bedroom, sunlight that was streaming through the barely open blinds. The glow wasn't the one of happiness he had seen across her face a handful of times, though, and not the one she had been exuding for the past couple of months. It wasn't the glow he loved so very much, that made his insides stir with nothing but love for her, his heart swell and his pulse quicken with happiness, simply at knowing she was happy. Her features were contorted into a grimace, a frown spread across her tightly closed lips, a night and day contrast to the beautiful smile he had seen countless times over those same lips her loved. Her eyes, closed so tightly there were creases at the corners of them. Her nose, crinkled as if she had just smelt something horrible, not the crinkle he loved to see as she laugh at one of his bad jokes. This was an expression he hated, unlike almost every other thing she could express with simply her face.

His hand reached over on its own accord, the back of his fingers ghosting over the smooth, flawless skin of her cheek and up towards her temple, an attempt to smooth the stress that coated her entire face, her entire being. When he saw her squirm slightly, he pulled his fingers away quickly, as if her skin had been burned by hers. He knew what was coming, and knew that she absolutely hated it when he was touching her as she woke.

And there it was, as if on cue, she was released from her nightmare. First, she let out a loud gasp for air, trying to fill her lungs with oxygen as if she had just been brought up from underwater, as if she had almost drown in the dark world that held her captive rather often. The breath was ragged as it was let out just as quickly, and the air was quickly replaced by that brought into her lungs by yet another gasp, a breath fast and forced. Her eyes, which had popped open with the first gasp, were wide and clouded with a fear was so used to seeing, and that he hated for that very reason, and tears, unshed but about to fall. Her hands had flown to her chest instantly, fingers crossing over her sternum as if to make sure her chest was in fact moving with her breaths which had become pants as the seconds passed. The look of sheer panic didn't fade, however. Then again, it never did, at least not until she fell back asleep, usually cradled in his arms, face pressed to his chest.

The tears had fallen from her eyes as he watched her fight to push herself into a sitting position. Her arms shaky and weak from the work of fighting through the dream, and the extensive movements that came with it. She was still panting as if she had run a marathon, her chest rising and falling quickly as she took in one breath after another. He wanted so badly to pull her against him, to hold her and take the pain away, but he knew better. Kate hated feeling weak, and needing help to overcome something that hadn't really happened made her feel weak, but only when it happened before she reached out to him. So he sat there, on his side of the bed, watching as she finally managed to get herself half-upright, her upper-body's weight all being supported by still shaking arms.

Finally, she blinked. The simple movement looked forced, as if she had to think about making her eyelids flutter closed then open again. It was a slow motion, as if she was trying to focus on the world that truly surrounded her, as if she was trying to force the images her mind had created, had tortured her with, away. But, just as quickly as they had closed, they had widened again, shock and terror still covering her entire face, creasing her features, shining brightly through tear-glossed green eyes. And, despite his best wishes to help her, he sat there and watched as her features slowly settled, the stress slowly fade, the extensive rise and fall of her chest slowing.

And, after what felt like forever but was in reality mere minutes – probably not even five minutes, but he couldn't tear his eyes off of her to check – he saw her hand, still shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind, reach out for his, and he quickly reached out to link their fingers. Her grasp on his hand was tight, as if she was scared he was going to fade away, leave her and let her live at the mercy of the dreams that tortured her at night, that never left her mind completely. And he knew that could very well be exactly why she had such a death grip on his fingers, because she was scared he would leave. She had always been scared he would leave.

With those thoughts, his mind flashed back to the day he had found out about the nightmares.

It months into their romantic relationship – three going on four in only a week, to be exact. The night before had been a good night, and incredible night, one of the best they had shared since they got together that fateful rainy day. They had stayed in, drank wine, shared chinese food which they fed to each other, laughed as it fell off his chopsticks, smiled and exchanged glances, revelled in the fell the simple touch of their hands made run through them both, tried to fight of the magnetic attraction, the electricity that ran between them at even the simplest of contact, especially when her body was pressed to his as they attempted to watch a movie. That night had ended with them connected at the lips, stumbling into the bedroom as they stripped each other of their clothing.

It wasn't until about three in the morning that he was woken by the slap of her hand against his bicep. The sudden contact had startled him, and he woke instantly, only to find that she was no longer sleeping peacefully in the tight embrace of his arms. Instead, she was laying on the other side of the bed, twisting and turning, punching and hitting the mattress. Her face was covered in that same sheen layer of sweat. He would never forget the fear that overtook him at the sight of her laying there, struggling against some invisible force.

He had been shocked still, frozen with surprise as he watch her shift quickly from one side to the other, moaning groaning, sounding as if she was fighting to release a scream. And, just as he was about to reach out to wake her, to remove her from the dream that was obviously bothering her. He witnessed for the first time the way she gasped for air, the way he eyes opened quickly and remained wide for minutes, and the way the green orbs were filled with a terror so real it sent shivers down his spine and made goosebumps pop up across his skin.

That evening, his heart had broken for her. His whole being was taken over by pain, pain caused by the look on her face as her whole body shook, her eyes wide and not looking to close anytime soon, tears – which he hadn't been sure she knew she had shed – rolling down her cheeks and onto the sheets, leaving dark marks on the material. He had wanted to reach out to her so badly, his fingers itching to touch her smooth skin, to wipe the sweat from her forehead and wipe the tears with the pad of his thumb. He wanted to take it all away, each and every bit of pain, and hurt, and sadness and doubt. He wanted her to be okay, and happy and he wanted that beautiful, perfect look of peacefulness to return to her face, the one she had when she drifted off to sleep in his arms earlier that evening.

But he couldn't, and hadn't. The need to comfort her had been overpowered by the fear that he would trigger something – anything – that would only upset her more. He wondered if perhaps it was one of those dreams that still seemed so real, even after you awoke – and assumed it was as her eyes flashed around the room as if searching for something, or someone. So he had sat there and watched until her eyes returned to somewhat normal, her breathing became less erratic.

It was then and only then that she uttered out a sentence, a whimpered apology coming out between the sudden sobs that wracked her body. She was still shaking, shoulders rising and falling allowed with her chest as she gasps for breath once again, that time trying to fight the cries that were taking over her body. Another whimper had slipped through her lips, followed by a loud cough as she choked on her own tears, and saliva, and words. He could hear the lump in her throat as yet another whimpered apology slipped from her throat, reminding him so much of the night she had showed up at his doorstep soaking wet. And he wanted to reach out to her, ask why she was apologizing, and he was about to when another sentence had slipped from her lips.

"You don't want me. You don't want a broken girl"

It had triggered another sob for her, and confusion for him. How she could possibly believe he didn't want her, even as another layer of the mysterious Katherine Beckett was revealed to him, was beyond him. And quickly, he made up his mind and reached out to her. His hand made contact with her shoulder, and instantly he pulled her into him, pressed her entire body, which she had curled into the fetal position, against his chest. His arm draped around her shoulders, his hand resting against the side of her head, fingers running through matted curls. His other arm curled around her knees, hand resting low on her hip. He held her tightly, to him, refusing to let her go as she squirmed in his arms, still mumbling about how he wouldn't want someone broken, he wouldn't want her.

He shushed her, whispering into her hair, denying every world of self-rejection. He hated seeing her so upset, so hard on herself. He hated knowing she thought he deserved more than her, when he knew she was more than he ever dreamed of having. He had once told her she was a mystery he was never going to solve, and he meant it. Even after years of partnership, friendship and months of being lovers, each other's partner in more than just the work sense, but in every single sense of the world. Even after all that time, he was discovering new things about Kate Beckett. And, contrary to he belief, they only made him love her more.

Those nightmares had been no exception to the rule. They simply showed how strong she was, having put up with them for years – something he had found out later that night, when he let the question slip from his throat and out of the seam of his lips. A single tear had ran down her cheek as she told him that they had been happening since her mother was killed, which was over a decade before, and even more-so since she had been shot, going on two years earlier. He had wanted to cry, knowing she had woken up from such dreams so many times, alone and left to deal with them by herself. And he had whispered to her that it was okay, and that she'd never have to deal with them alone again. That he'd always be there for her, to hold her when she needed him, to soothe her with whispers and kisses to the head, to remind her that he wanted nothing more than her, that she was more than he ever wanted, to make sure she knew she was okay, alive and safe and happy. And, though one sentence had been left unsaid that night, it lingered in the air between them, heavy in the atmosphere, unspoken, not ready to be heard, but acknowledged all the same.

It had taken months for her to open up to him about the content of her dreams. Though she had admitted weeks after the first that they had been coming less often since they had gotten together. He had simply smiled, knowing she wasn't looking for a reaction, nor a response, that she had simply wanted him to know he had helped her. And for months he had wondered what she dreamed about in those dreams, always getting the same reaction from her, the same aftermath, and most likely containing similar content. He had asked once, but she had shaken her head against his chest, taking a deep breath as if preparing to speak, but never letting a word slip from her lips until after she woke up once again the next morning, when she apologized once again. He had known what that meant, though. It meant that she wasn't ready to speak of them just yet.

It was about nine months into their relationship when he asked again, and that time she had spoken another single sentence. One that tore his heart in two and all the implications it held, at what it could mean for their future, together.

"We had a baby"

It was a statement spoken through tears, as he wondered if that was the nightmare in itself, or if there was more. The latter was eventually the answer he had decided on. But that was the night he had decided that he truly didn't need children with her, no matter how much he wanted them, because he'd rather have his Kate by his side without any more children, then to have children with someone else. He had made up his mind that evening, and the next day had gone out to buy the ring he would put on her finger about three months later, at around the time of their first anniversary.

She had never further elaborated on that dream, not after they wed, not when they spoke of the possibility of children, not until the day they found out she was – much to their surprise – carrying one. It had been a happy day, a happy celebration. He had held her in his arms, holding her off the ground with his arms that circled her small waist, and hers held onto his neck like a lifeline. Though she hadn't given him some big announcement. Instead, he had found her in the bathroom when he returned from a meeting with Gina, about another Nikki Heat novel. She had been sitting on the edge of the bathtub when he first put light pressure against the door with the palm of his hand. As soon as she saw him, she had jumped to her feet and tried to push him out of the bathroom. It didn't take much badgering to get her to admit that she was waiting on the result of her pregnancy test. Well, the alarm on her phone had told him that. To say he had been excited when the words escaped her would be an immense understatement. He had been ecstatic. And when she reached over to grab the test and handed it to him, asking him to share the result, the hug he had engulfed her in was answer enough.

It was once against during the early hours of the morning that he had woken. Over the years, he had developed the ability to sense her nightmares sooner, no longer needing the wack of her hand, or the scratch of her fingers to wake him up. It was both a nightmare and a curse, as it had never gotten easier to watch her suffer, knowing he could do nothing to get her out of it. He had watched her, once again, as she thrashed against the mattress and muttered ununderstandable words under her breath between moans and groans. He had watched as the layer of sweat appeared, as she threw her head back as if some great pain had stricken her stomach. And, back still arched he watched her eyes pop open and heard her gasp for air.

It was the usual pattern, gasps turned to pants, eyes watered until the tears fell, eyes remained wide and filled with fear, shaking limbs struggled to push her upright. The only difference was that, rather than both hands flying to her chest, one did and the other flew to her stomach, palm splaying over the spot where they knew their baby was growing inside her. And he watched as the thumb of that hand ran circles through her shirt, as if she was soothing something. He watched as her eyes returned to normal, and then as she let out a sigh, and her eyes moved down as they filled with a new round of tears.

From that moment, it was uncharted territory for him. He could tell she was looking at her hand, at the spot where it rested, at the way her thumb still moved rhythmically. He wondered what she was thinking, as her free hand reached out to join his. And then he heard her softly speaking, and it took him no longer than a split second for him to realize she was telling him exactly what had happened in her dream. She told him about how she told him she was pregnant, a scene almost mirroring the one that had happened earlier that day. Then she told him happy snippets of her pregnancy, from when she first felt the baby move and when he did, to when they found out it was a baby girl. As she did, he found himself silently wondering if perhaps they would have a daughter, a mini KB. Those thoughts were pushed back, though, as she told him how she imagined the birth of their child. In her recap, the baby girl was never given a name, but was described as tiny and adorable, as he was sure their baby girl or boy would be.

He had found himself wondering what exactly made a dream whose recap made her smile so much such a horrible nightmare, until her tone dropped an octave, becoming low and somber, and she told him about a case she had been working on in her dream. A mother, murdered, and how she had to tell the child of the woman that she had lost her mother, and that the case was being handed over to the feds so she could do nothing about finding the killer. He knew it was almost an exact translation of when she found out her own mother had been killed, except in her dream, she was the cop. And then she told him about how she couldn't give up on finding the killer, and went behind the feds back, only to find herself killed.

By the time the last sentence fell from her lips, she was crying again. And he realized that the nightmare wasn't having a baby, that was rather a pleasant dream, but the idea of leaving her child motherless was what killed her inside. And he had moved over to her side of the bed, and pulled her between his legs. Her head rest against his shoulder, silent tears still rolling down her cheeks as her eyes drifted closed. His arms circled her waist, hands resting over hers, fingers intertwined with hers, over her stomach. And he murmured to her that it was just a dream. That they'd have a healthy baby, and she'd get to raise their baby, and that their baby would have their mother there to love them, and keep them happy and healthy. And she had nodded after a while, his words getting through that thick skull of hers. And eventually, she fell asleep in his arms, head against his chest, and he hoped that he had soothed her worries at least for a little while.

It had worked, but only lasted about a week. And the dreams were still coming, getting worse as her pregnancy came closer to its end. After she had entered her third trimester, they were coming every night or two, to the point where the doctor suggested she take an early maternity leave from everything, including desk duty. She had been hesitant, but agreed, because she wanted to do what was best for her baby, their baby. He also had sleeping pills, which she usually refused to take. He hated seeing her so pained, knowing that she feared leaving her child as her mother left her. But he certainly didn't regret having a child with her, because the moments of happiness that came during the day made it all worth it.

There were times where he would catch her sitting up in bed, early in the morning, hands on her belly and whispering in a barely audible tone to the baby growing inside her. Other times, he would catch her peeking into the nursery they had prepared, all in pink because, just like in her dream, they were having a little girl they already decided to name Hannah Nicole, after her mother and the book character that had brought them together years before. Other times, he would catch her on the phone with his mother – who had moved out after Kate entered her first trimester – talking about him as a baby and young boy, and laughing, and he could almost see her imagining their daughter doing some of the things he had done. And other times he had caught her on the phone with Alexis, telling her how excited she was and he could literally hear Alexis squealing through the phone about how excited she was to meet her little sister. And other times he caught an even more emotional side of her, when she spoke to her dad on the phone about what her mother was like with her when she was a baby.

He loved all those little moments, because they told him that, despite the nightmares that haunted her at night, she was more than excited to be a mother, to hold their daughter in her arms and to be able to look down at that precious little girl and know that they created her, that had it not been for her and him and their love for each other, that adorable little baby would not be there.

And, quite honestly, he sometimes loved the moments after she was soothed after a nightmare, because she laid in his arms, her body cradled by his, hands on her belly where baby Hannah was moving against their joined hands. She'd let out a soft sigh of contentment, always so happy when she realized that the world that haunted her wasn't real, and that she was alive and healthy and going to have their baby in mere weeks. And she pressed his hand against her belly, and he smiled against her shoulder when he felt the familiar feeling of Hannah kicking against his palm. It was a simple moment, the aftermath of a horrible one, that had her happy and smiling because she knew he was right. She would be there for their baby.

His lips brushed against her temple lightly. It was meant to be a motion of comfort, but she didn't need it in that moment.