The door opened before she managed to finish the knock, swinging open silently and allowing her in. From his perch on the chair, Mantis watched Cordelia enter the room---his little sanctuary, kept bare and controlled and quiet. Or as quiet as he could manage, anyway. Immediately, he could tell what she was trying to hide; he'd known as soon as the young woman had grasped the situation.
"Cordelia--" he breathed, closing the door behind her with a mental command. He hesitated, then rose to his feet, gesturing to the made (and almost entirely-unused) bed with one skinny, frail-fingered hand. "Sit." Let me help. Please. The desire to give something to someone, to give relief, wasn't entirely unfamiliar---it was, in a way, why he killed, as well. To take people out of the world and the pain it offered, it was the only thing he could give to most. But for Cordelia, one of the first and only people who had been kind to him, he'd offer something else.
He waited until she'd settled before folding himself onto the mattress near her. And then, surprisingly enough, his fingers were against her face---a willing touch, against bare skin, and so, so gentle, as if terrified of the contact.
I can take it from you. Just for a little while. Will you let me?