She looks over at the space next to her, untouched and as pristine as it was this morning. She heaves a sigh, and her gaze goes to the window looking over the back of the house and the better half of their property. Her lips twist in a look of worry and she slips out of bed, walking silently to the window, her nightgown a gorgeous silver in the moonlight. She peers through the glass and see him, his eyes screwed shit and his fists swinging back and forth into the wall again and again. Her eyes shift to the barrel next to the wall and she decides to make the necessary preparations for him to bandage himself so as to let him believe he has kept her in the dark. She walks over to the closet and grabs a fresh length of linen bandaging, cutting it thin enough to be wrapped comfortably around each knuckle and digit. Then she goes over to the sink, and fills a small bowl with cold, clean water. She knows that by the time he comes back in, it will be warmer and more soothing to the raw and sometimes ragged looking flesh. She pulls out a few herbal ingredients and a places them in a second, smaller bowl, calling upon her medical knowledge to at least grab the proper ingredients to make an ointment for his hands. She'll give him the pleasure of pounding out the plants himself, hopefully another release from his tension and frustration.
She stops moving and rustling under the sink when the sound of his hands pounding into the wall cease. She swiftly and quietly makes her way over to the window and peeks out again. Hes staring at his hands, his face neither happy nor upset. He walks to the barrel and plunges his hands into it, his jaw clenched and his eyes squinted in the burn the icy water gives to his wounds.
She shakes her head again and lines everything up on the window sill for him before making her way back into the bed, and looks again to the space next to her, untouched and pristine.

Its not the first time he's let her sleep when he's still near, or in, a pent up rage. He'll never tell her, but its the main reason his knuckles end up bloody and raw. Its on nights like this one, when he refuses to tell her hes close to losing it so she can get the sleep she so deeply needs, that he goes out back and beats the brick walls like the bodies of so many enemies before him, until they buckle under the rain of blows and his hands are as heavy as lead, and as red as the sunset. He holds back the cries of anger and frustration, hoping not to alert her to his actions, glad she has never caught him doing this. He knows that if she ever realizes the reason behind his damaged hands, she won't be happy and might blame herself. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, the vivid imagination he possesses turning the wall into wave after wave of zombie hordes, reveling in the satisfying thump of his fist on the wall as his mind sees another zombie's skull crushed inward, flesh on flesh and the brunching of bone. He's smiling now, even as his hands drip blood. He pulls his fist back again, the wall now a hound of hell. His smile widens; he enjoyed fighting these the most in the war with Hell, something primal in him soothed as he has dominated more and more of these savage, slavering beasts. He strikes the wall again and again, his hands more and more beaten and bloodied, until he is out of breath. He stands straight and tall, breath like a bellows, his eyes now open and staring at his knuckles.
"Shit" is all he can muster before the pain sets in and he doubles over as he tries not to cry out even a little. His hands are like fire, the cold blue fire of war razing cities and destroying everything in its path. He walks over to the barrel next to the wall and dunks his hands in, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, the cold of the water painful at first, before it dulls the burning of his hands to a faint throbbing and he pulls them out to inspect the damage this time.
They're not as bad as the last time, of this he is certain. This time, he can bend them and make a fist. He shakes his shaggy head and walks inside, making a mental list of the supplies he'll need to bandage his hands properly. He looks at the wall before shutting the door; the red brick betrays nothing of his evenings events. He considers it a small consolation to his hands, and smiles a little before shutting the door.