Steve didn't think of asking her to stay with him while he washed up; he needed just a few moments to himself, to try and settle back into the here and now, and get his thoughts moving again. But as he automatically turned on the tap and splashed cool water on his face and neck, he still felt hollow. His thoughts were there, under the surface, but he could reach only the most superficial of things, and didn't have the mental strength to dig deeper for anything else. He glanced in the mirror and just stared at his face for a moment; he didn't feel anything, looking at his reflection gazing tiredly back at him. He noted dimly how he looked, but it was perfunctory and clinical. Just as he'd expected: bloodshot eyes, rimmed in red; bright red blotches across his cheeks and the end of his nose, the rest of his face a wan, almost sickly pinkish-white color under the bright bathroom light.

Moving at what was a slow shuffle for him, Steve ventured out into the living area, through to the kitchen. He sat docilely at the kitchen island, resting his forearms on the edge and leaning his weight heavily on his arms. He reached automatically for the orange juice and poured himself a glass, drinking in small, quick sips, more because he knew he needed it than for any want of it.