Impotent anger rose in coils within him. Illness knew no sense of wisdom; otherwise, this migraine of hers would have known better than to attack her while he was there. Or. Ever. It was foolish to allow himself to become so furious. He recognized, acknowledged, and dismissed the fact. He was angry. Every small sound she made, every twisting of her muscles deepened his response.
"Shh," he said -- and for all his fury, it was a very gentle, very quiet sound. She didn't need to be making jokes right now. She didn't need to try to put him at ease. It was futile, a waste of her time and energy, and he much preferred she reserve that for herself. The elevator door slid open and he stepped carefully into the hallway. In his right hand, he distinguished which of the keys on her keychain felt the most like his own door key, then pinched that one between his thumb and forefinger.
"What prescription do you need?" he asked, approaching her apartment door.