Geneva had taken refuge in her old room, the one she used to sleep in before she had Jefferson began to share a bed. They had not shared one since her fall. He had hovered, something so unlike him, for days after he had brought her back from AniWaya and Dawali Amara's healing touch. But she had turned away from him, as best she could physically in her condition. She would face the wall and lie prone, or stare at the ceiling listlessly. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want him to see her like this. She didn't want to see herself like this, but she had nothing left to give to him, or to anyone, right now.
But when the sunlight spilled in through the yellowed-lace curtains of her bedroom and washed the wall with pale light, she forced herself to sit up stiffly. She had confined herself to this room for two reasons. She did not want to deal with anything - to confront the looks of surprise and sympathy from her packmates as they gazed upon her uneven, broken face - and she did not want to see what this had done to Jefferson. She was not certain what had happened, but there had been a change, a rift. Something in him had shattered, as certainly as she had. And she didn't know what to do.
It was early still, and she crept as quietly as she was able. Her movements were halted and slow, punctuated by deep exhalations of discomfort and pain. It was hard for her to move and shift her upper body. She had stayed in Optime form since she had fallen nearly two weeks before and had not really moved much, letting her bones reknit as she remained in her daze and her self-impose imprisonment and isolation. She was glad that she had not encountered anyone, and she was fairly sure that Jefferson would still be in their old room, perhaps still asleep, if his routine was still the same. Geneva had always been prone to rising before him.
There was something that she could not keep to herself anymore - a small, hard, sharp bit of pain from this experience that did not belong completely to her. And while she did not want to hurt him, Geneva knew that this was not just her cross to bear. With some uncertainty, she raised the hand of the uninjured shoulder and knocked softly on the door. "Jefferson?" she intoned, with a voice that was rusty from days of disuse.