(Backdated to this night
Nothing else carried that dark brown crust, nothing other than blood. It looked like a hand print, smeared and flaky on the door of apartment 702, and the sight of it had Evey banging on the door, uncaring about the noise she was making. She didn't call the name out; she didn't call out hers. She just beat on the door until her fist hurt -- and then she ran into her own apartment the next door down. Her hands were shaking as she searched through the pockets of a pair of jeans. A minute later, she was on her knees in front of Aidan's door, tugging out one of the tools in her lock pick set. But as she put her hand on the door knob to begin, it turned a little. The sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach increased. She paused, then glanced up and down the deserted corridor. Then turned the door knob.
The apartment door opened, and a cold wind gusted over her. She jerked to her feet and stowed the tools in her pocket. Aidan never would have left his door unlocked. Her eyes stung. It was the wind, it was the wind. She stepped inside, saw snow drifting across the floor... The window was open -- and it looked like it'd been open for a while. She closed his apartment door and leaned against the wood. For a few seconds, she did nothing. Her eyes burned. And then, squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself away from the door and walked into the apartment.
The pantry door was open. A few items were on the floor. There was a cleared space on one of the shelves. Tea, Evey imagined, the same tea he'd been looking for the night of the garlic feast. Unconsciously, her eyes drifted to the open bathroom door, then jerked away again, fell on a kitchen drawer that was half-closed. Familiar bits of paper were just inside; when she lifted one, she saw her own handwriting. Very carefully, she replaced the note and closed the drawer. Snow had caught on her face and left wetness. Of course, it was snow.
Most of the clothes that would've been in his closet were gone. Some hangers were on the floor. She'd seen this sort of thing before; she'd seen it when people left in a hurry, pursued by Norsefire or Fingermen. Quietly, she began collecting the hangers from the floor and putting them back where they belonged. She gently shut the closet door, and then went to the window and stood staring into the night. She didn't know what she was trying to find. The drop was so far... so far. But she knew what had been living beside her. Perhaps it wasn't so far for the likes of him.
"Damn you, Aidan Waite," she said, pulling the window closed, then closing the curtains, too. But there hadn't been anger in her voice, no matter how angry she wanted to feel. One arm wrapped around her waist, she went back into the apartment, this time, going slower. There was a blanket tacked to the wall that their apartment shared. Under it, traces of broken wallboard, chipped paint. She lifted the edge, looked... Her free hand traced the myriad indentations briefly, before she straightened the blanket back over the scars again.
She set the pantry to rights, next. She washed a glass and dried it and set it in the cabinet. There was nothing much else to do. There was a basket of dirty laundry, which she set on her hip before heading back for the apartment door. When she passed by a chair tucked under the dining table, she noticed he'd left his jacket - the same one she'd seen him in the first night they'd met. A whisper of a smile slid across her mouth. Before she could think too much about it, she tugged the supple black leather jacket off the chair and tossed it over her shoulder. He could have it back when she saw him next.
And that thought straightened her back, squared her jaw. She walked out of his apartment and closed the door softly. Then she took the time to lock it from the outside.