A crack of thunder. A scream.

A flash of lightning. A whimper.

A dark room. A storm. A scarred man.

Scarred. Scarred from the horrors he's seen.

Don't think he's weak, that's wrong. It's wrong! So wrong, too wrong!

He only thinks he is.

He isn't.

He's just seen too much.

"Arthur?" A voice calls, different to the voice before. This voice has an accent that's strong and rich, like coffee in the morning to wake one up and smother the evils in the darkness; or at least, that's what it means to the man whose scream echoed through the house.

That's what it means to Arthur. Which is strange, because Arthur never used to like coffee… Well, it did correlate with their relationship.

"You are alright, da?" The accented – Russian – voice calls again.

He receives no answer.

Will never receive an answer in a thunder storm.

Heavy boots clunk down the hallway, their owner – the Russian – in search of Arthur.

A crack of thunder. A scream.

A flash of lightning. A whimper.

It starts again, in tune with the cycle of the storm, but this time combined with the frantic stomping of the heavy boots; their owner hurrying at the sounds of distress.

The sounds of the boots make Arthur flinch. It sounds like soldiers storming in…

"Arthur? Are you in the bedroom?" The Russian calls again.

"No, Arthur isn't here!" A voice in the scarred man's head snaps, "He's dead, all gone; only his shell still remains. It's pitiful that a nation so full of promise could leave as sadly as that; a shell can be fixed, but it's still only a shell."

But the man doesn't open his lips. He's hugging his knees and quivering on the floor.

A crack of light. It's from the hallway, not the storm; but he flinches all the same.

He is unseeing; his mind's eye being assaulted by blood, bullets and bombs that ceased years ago.

Heavy boots. He shies away.

"It's only Ivan," The accented man soothes. He's now more careful with his steps.

Ivan kneels before Arthur – before the shell – and gently strokes a hand through the man's wild blond hair. "You are safe, I promise," Ivan assures and, when the other man shows no sign of resistance or violence, pulls him into a hug.

Arthur is in there. He knows it, he's seen it; but in these moments he has to calm him, make him feel better. He's not lost for good; only in thunderstorms, or hearing loud noises, or seeing scenes of war on the television.

Ivan will make him better; help him until the tremors stop. But even if they don't, he'll still stay.

After all, it's not like he isn't broken himself…

"Ivan?" It's a small voice, a small whimper, but Ivan smiles all the same.

"Yes Arthur, I am here," He assures, "I will always be here."