In his bedroom, Evey sat at the foot of a freshly-changed, freshly-made bed. Beside her, folded neatly, were a pair of jeans, boxers, a black leather belt, and a charcoal gray pocketless t-shirt. She watched her feet and counted the minutes in her head, slowly and with precision. When it reached the 7th minute and no more noise came from the bathroom, she finally stood from the edge of the bed and gathered what she'd set aside. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of what must be done. She was so used to doing this. Her brain just kept her moving, kept her occupied, and let her retreat (for now) from the real reason she was here.
A few gentle knocks on the doorway - nothing firm and certain like what she'd used before - and she found herself waiting again. It was hard to see him like this, for so many reasons. She remembered how he looked, how he felt. She knew that his expression had never been so blank as this. Aidan knew something about misery, but he seemed to have outdone himself on this one. She sucked in a breath.
Was it right for her to be gentle? Another part of her wanted to slap him out of it and tell him that he was worth more than this - more than what he was doing to himself. Part of her wanted to shake him until he remembered that he was stronger than he clearly thought at this moment. But did she have the right? She was sure that she didn't. And, she knew, she never could quite understand what it was that he struggled with.
So she waited quietly, and hugged the fabric bundle against her chest.