Panic would serve no one, least of all this velvety, feminine presence beside him. He kept himself very still, to that effect, as his mind cleared away the paralysis pain instilled and began the swift work of categorizing his status:
Jittery. Moderate (but manageable) muscle weakness. Pain-chilled extremities. Warmth where she was touching him. And he could lose himself in those slow, rhythmic, simple strokes if he let him. There was comfort there, more than enough to surprise him, and more than enough for him to want it to continue. He noted his response to her touch. Better to know now and adjust than to be an awkward fool later. And then there was the matter of his sight. He didn't see light now; he didn't see darkness, either. It was a mixture of the same, a reversal of light, but not a darkness. Burnout. As if he had stared too long at the sun. And what disturbed him most of all was the strange, bestial shape in the center of his vision, lingering tenuously, frozen amid the mess of his sight.
"Ms. St. Giles," he said, slowly and with care. His voice was less strained, now, capable of transmitting meaning undiluted by pain. Its tone carried more than politesse: there was a care and respect in the way his mouth formed and voiced the three syllables. A sense of preciousness. From his lips, with his voice, it could only have been "Ms. St. Giles" -- not "Catherine" and not "Cat. "I am Elias Sandoa. I regret troubling you with..."
He stopped, uncertain how to describe what had just happened to him. There was not enough data for him to give her an adequate response. But he should say something to ease her mind.
"I've recently developed... migraines of a sort..."
This wasn't the same as those. And those had just begun the night of his move into this building. He could not know if the experiences - his migraines and this, tonight - were connected. Whatever was the case, he didn't want to mislead her; and in this moment of uncertainty, he felt less detail was more appropriate than wild suppositions. He let explanation slide away and abandoned the attempt at it altogether.
"My vision is... impaired. I cannot ask you to do more than you have, except perhaps to call the concierge over."
As soon as the words were out, something deep in him twisted un-gently. The thought of her absence had generated this response. He categorized it, removing himself from the answering alarm; it served no purpose other than to warn him that something was out of the ordinary. And he knew that already.
No. After his self-diagnosis, he recognized (setting aside answering shame in the presence of fact) that he did not have the capacity to try to make it to his room without assistance. But regardless of his response to the suggestion of her absence, it could not be appropriate or even kind to ask for her help in getting to his apartment. The idea did not even register in the realm of possibilities.