A huge 'thank you' to the reviewers; especially JT4Life—for whipping my butt into posting another quick update. Mistakes are mine, the characters are not.

While she had never served overseas to witness a close range bombing she decided that this is what it must be like. A bomb had imploded, shattering neurons and all the sensors that gave her clarity. The blaze was overwhelming. Through the absolute darkness she dragged herself out of the bed in search of the esteemed thrown where she would kneel. Feeling the wall where she should have felt a door she began to panic.

She felt large hands on her clammy shoulders. She almost didn't hear him over her own piercing, ragged breathes.

"Olivia, what's wrong?"

Honestly, the small sounds of exasperation, swallowed in the darkness, woke up him from a sound sleep that was only supposed to last a few minutes. He was up and towards her in mere seconds when he awoke.

An influx of questions flooded him but the first to escape from his tongue was, "What are you doing?" He longed to see her face in light—to fathom a better analysis of her current state, but he didn't want to risk leaving her side in search of a light switch.

"…bathroom…," she mumbled with eyes closed tight; an effort to rid herself of the throbbing.

"You're shaking," he finally gathered. He rubbed his warm hands forcefully up and down her arms in an effort to subside the quakes.

"I'm going…to…be," she trailed. He knew what she was going to say before she finished her sentence. Acting quickly, he gently but firmly gathered her arms and hoisted her up, feet planted firmly on the wood-laden floor, and lead her to the bathroom down the hall. This time she seized the opportunity to turn the faucet on and let the violent water drown out her purging.

Peter lifted his head that leaned against the adjacent wall when a light from downstairs flickered on. He heard his father call to upstairs, "Peter, son, is that you? Are you all right?" He closed his eyes and grinded his teeth, trying to come up with a reply.

"Yeah, Walter, I'm fine." Peter slowed his breathing, anticipating another interjection from his father. Hearing the water still gushing, he headed downstairs.

Olivia emerged from the bathroom still feeling awful but less panicky and disorientated. Normally, in any other circumstance, she would have grabbed her things and rushed out the door muttering apologies and excuses; but not tonight. The pain was overbearing and believe it or not the last thing she wanted was to be left alone to her own devices.

From where she stood in the doorframe, the soft glow emitting from the bedside lamp was beckoning her to the bed. Swiping the tears from her eyes—an outcome of the pain and anxiety that remained to rid her body completely—she padded over to the bed and climbed in.

The smiling face bearing a gift of Ginger Ale melted the menacing insecurities and 'unsure-ities' that elicited when she made the decision to get back into the bed. Peter opened the tab, small droplets fizzing over, handed her the can with a "let it sit for awhile." She smiled strangely.

She watched as he made his way over to the dresser and rummaged through the drawers. Her pupils slightly dilated when he brazenly sat next to her—right next to her. Her eyes widened as he leaned in towards her. She merely watched his lips move, the words not registering.

"Relax," she finally heard him say as a finger swept over her burning cheek.