Thunder cracked in the sky. Lightning, as well. The rays of purple, white-hot light illuminated the pitch-black night, casting shadows on the objects in the room. It was during a particularly loud roll of thunder that Annabeth was jolted upright in bed, gasping for breath and panicking. She hated thunder. Abhorred, it actually. Thunder was nothing more than loud noises to wake her up in the night.

She turned next to her, where Percy should have been. He wasn't, though. His spot was vacant, the sheets and blankets tussled, the mattress just giving off a hint of his remaining body heat.

As another crack shook the house, and lightning lit everything up once more, Annabeth slipped from the bed, padding softly to the living room.

He hadn't been sleeping well, ever since the war. It had been months since he had steeped off the airplane, head held high, in his decorated uniform. People cheered him as he walked by; he was a hero. A child even asked for his autograph.

Little did they know, that he had collapsed in her arms, sobbing like a child, unable to breath. He shook with sobs, his tears silent, as he clutched onto her for dear life, his face growing red from lack of oxygen. Little did they know.

Percy had been the only one of his men to survive. At thirty, he held the guilt of ten lives. Countless times, he had told Annabeth of holding an eighteen-year-old boy in his arms as the boy bled out. Often this story was accompanied with tears.

Ever since the war, he hadn't been sleeping. He hadn't been eating. Nights meant waking up, screaming, and trying to attack your wife, for PTSD crazed belief that she was the enemy.

Annabeth had been patient though, deflecting his disoriented punches and calming him back to sleep. Holding him when he needed it. Because that was what you did when you loved someone. You couldn't just bail when things got tough.

Now, as Annabeth walked into the living room, she expected to see Percy pacing crazily, wringing his hands and muttering under his breath, or doing countless pushups. Take your pick; this was how most nights ended up.

Instead, she was met by the pitch-black room, silent, save for the rolling thunder. And then, once illuminated by lightning, she saw the blood drops along the floor, trailing off to the corner of the room.

"Percy?" She called, softly, calmly, so as not to scare him. "Are you alright? Have you injured yourself?"

Then. He came stumbling from the dark, his eyes glazed over, blood trailing down his arms. A knife held tightly in his hand, dripping blood to the floor.

"Percy. Why don't you put the knife down and we can talk? How does that sound?" She gulped back a scream, continuing on in a calm tone. Her voice wavered, though.

"You bastards think you can kill them? You fucking assholes!" Then, his face shifted, angry, hurt, and he lunged forward, striking her arm with the knife. Sharp, hot pain overcame her, and she grabbed for her arm, feeling the warm, wet blood on her fingers. And then he came at her again.

Annabeth swept into action, dodging his stabs, knocking the knife away from him with the back of her hand. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Then, he turned to her, bare hands clenching, and lifted a monstrous fist, cocked right towards her face.

In an instant, she had him pinned on the ground, sitting on his back, holding his fists. She glanced down at his thick arms. He had cut himself; there was blood seeping down his hand.

Grunting, she quickly grabbed the tie from the curtain next to her, wrapping it tightly around his wrists. Then, she stood, crossing the room to get to the kitchen, where they kept the first aid kit.

When she came back, Percy had rolled over, still dazed, but calmed down significantly. He sat still while Annabeth bandaged his hand, only cursing at her and spitting in her face a small handful of times.

Sighing, she placed the box on the floor and crouched next to him, resting her elbows on her thighs.

"Percy, honey, it's time to go back to bed, now."

"You bastards can't tell me what to do!" He muttered.

Groaning, Annabeth looked up to the ceiling, closing her eyes as she prayed for patience, and stood.

"Jackson!" She yelled at the top of her lungs. "This is your commanding officer! Get your ass off the floor!"

He suddenly perked to attention. "Yes sir!"

Annabeth stood in front of him and quickly undid the tie around his wrists.

"I want you in your bed, asleep in five. You hear me, Jackson?"

"Yes sir!" Percy yelled back, saluting her and then running from the room.

Annabeth sighed, shaking her head and picking up the first aid kit once more. She opened the metal lid, pulling out some gauze and disinfectant.

Her gaze fell to her arm, where a long gash lay. Though it was long; it was not deep, and she quickly dabbed away the blood and bandaged it with ease.

Then, her attention turned towards the room, where blood droplets covered the floor and the furniture was in various stages of disarray. Sighing, she put the cushions on the sofa back in place, righted the fallen lamp, picked the books up from the floor, and straightened the rug.

She trudged back off towards the kitchen, first aid box in hand, and returned with a sponge and bucket of water. She got down on her hands and knees and began to scrub at the blood, some of which had already dried. Pink foam bubbled as she pushed the sponge back and forth, sweeping the area in circular motions.

Annabeth awoke the next morning; face down on the rug, curled up in a ball. Beside her, the hardwood floor gleamed with cleanliness. She looked up, only to see Percy standing over her, concern in his eyes.

"My, uh…my hand is cut." He said softly. "Did I have a relapse?"

Ever since the night terrors had started, Percy had been aware of the toll they were taking on Annabeth. He hadn't even wanted to start a family; for fear that he would hurt their baby. And so Annabeth decided to give him some peace of mind, even if that meant forfeiting hers.

"No, babe, you slept like a rock through the storm." She answered, pushing herself up off the ground with a grunt. "One of my vases fell over when the house shook, though, and our bed got covered in glass."

"Why didn't you wake me? I could've helped you clean it!" He pouted. "Look at you! You cut yourself!" He said, tracing his fingers over the bandage on her arm.

"Yeah, well, so did you."

"Thanks for bandaging it." He smiled, reaching towards her for a hug. "Still can't believe I didn't wake up."

"Maybe your medication is working too well." She muttered, pasting a tight smile on her face as she walked away.

"Wait, honey, why were you sleeping out here?" He asked after a moment, rubbing his head.

"I gotta get ready for work. We'll talk later." She replied, closing the bathroom door behind her.

Once inside, Annabeth braced herself on the porcelain sink. She stared herself down in the mirror, and was immediately disgusted by what she saw.

Black bags hung on her face, and red veins popped up in the whites of her eyes. Her skin was pale, and she had even gotten so skinny so as to be able to trace her collarbone across her chest. She sighed.

He had to have known, right? He had to have known something was up. She didn't keep vases in their bedroom. There was no glass in their bed. Wives didn't just randomly fall asleep in their living rooms with cleaning supplies next to them. Certainly not in the middle of the night, at least. He had to have known.

Was he ignorant, or just stupid? Did he just not want the truth? Was he unable to face the truth? Could he even handle the truth?

She threw cold water in her face, to get rid of the bloodshot eyes. She brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. She slathered makeup on her face, a large quantity. To hide the bags, the premature wrinkles, the paleness.

Then, and only then, was she ready. Ready to help her husband. Ready to power through another day. Ready to lie awake another night. Ready to, once more, relive this nightmare that she had gotten herself into.