My returning readers already know that I update very quickly. Sorry if that bothers anyone, it's just that I write very fast. So check back often. Chances are, I posted some more.

Part 3

The flight back was much like the flight to Antarctica. But this time, she had something much more interesting to do. The executives asked more questions, all of which Adrian expertly managed to answer while not actually answering. She could see it. And she knew they could too, but had decided not to pry.

So while they flew in silence, she tried to discreetly watch him. He hardly moved the entire flight. He stared out the window, keeping his right hand clenched so Luca and Campbell wouldn't see the injury. She could see the conflict… the utter chaos raging behind those sapphire eyes. The wheels were turning at light speed in his head, and she died to know what was doing this to him. He always made conversation with the people around him. He loved to be engaged in thought. Not many people actually made him think, but he liked a challenge. It was possible he was just reeling from Dr. Manhattan's attacks like everyone else, but she highly doubted that. No, this was something far worse. He was mastering this charade fairly well, but behind it, she could see the man she'd seen hunched on the stairs on the pyramid. His skin was recognizably pale, and his face was worn with something she couldn't quite place.

When they came in viewing range of New York, his face flushed even more, if possible. He looked like he was about to be sick, staring at the destruction. She could understand that, but there was something… personal about the way he reacted to the sight. She logged it into a mental notebook for later data. Of course, Mr. Campbell and Mr. Luca didn't even notice anything different about their boss. They were lost in their own worlds of anger and depression.

When they reached the building, Adrian graciously thanked Pilot Hargreeve, and led the other two men to the elevator, where he pressed the number 12; the offices. The offices were scarcely deserted, and Grace noticed Veidt's tiny reaction to that as well.

He led the men to an office, where he gave them several instructions, and bid them farewell. Glad to finally have something to distract them, the two men happily waved him off. He informed them that he was going to his penthouse to change, and that they could reach him on extension 1 if they needed him. He then graciously told them that if they needed to take the rest of the day for personal reasons, they were welcome. Grace noticed Mr. Luca, behind his spectacles, tearing up as he thought of whomever it was he'd lost. Her heart went out to him as Grace and Veidt walked away from the offices. He looked slightly perturbed that she was still following him, but he obviously resolved himself to the fact that she was going to continue questioning him in private. Which she planned to do.

He walked back to the elevator, and she followed lithely, knowing he would probably try to lose her any way he could. He inserted a key into a keyhole above the numbers, turned it, and pressed twenty. It was slightly awkward, the silence of the elevator. She had so many questions just bursting to be asked, but was determined to wait until they were alone in his penthouse.

She hardly even noticed the fact that she was going to be the first person to see his apartment on the twentieth floor of the Veidt building. As the elevator opened to reveal his penthouse, she remembered. Nobody had ever explained how it looked.

It was very modern looking; titanium counters and furnishings in all shades of purple, black, and silver. There was very little personalized material, only some paintings, one of which she was pretty sure was an original Van Gogh. The elevator had opened into a nice foyer, above which hung a silver chandelier, simple and elegant. The floor was black granite, perfectly polished. Beyond that was a sitting area, strangely with no television; just bookshelf upon bookshelf, all stacked high and wonderfully organized. Straight ahead, past the sitting area, the entire wall was one giant glass window, which would usually show all the brilliant lights of New York City, but now only showed darkness and lit-up construction sites. The sun's last grasp of the horizon was quickly fading, giving the decimated city an eerie glow. To her right was an open entryway leading into a kitchen, where a half wall revealed a wine cabinet with many aged, probably expensive wines. Beyond those, to the left and right, were hallways, which she assumed led to his bedroom and various other rooms.

Adrian took three steps out of the elevator, and stopped. He didn't bother to turn on any lights; just stood, staring blankly ahead. Grace stepped out behind him, and stared at him.

"Mr. Veidt, I have questions. You probably figured that. And I want them answered," she said, proud that she had found the courage to speak that way to Adrian Veidt.

Adrian took a deep breath, but didn't look back at her. "Please leave," he said, and that same broken, hoarse tone was back.

She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and said, "No."

He didn't react at all. So she continued. "I want to know what happened out there. There wasn't a blast anywhere near Antarctica, not one that could have caused that glass pyramid to collapse. And who on earth could even lay a finger on you? I've seen the ads, read the articles. Nobody can best you in a fight. Unless you let them."

That got him. He spun around to face her, his fists clenched tightly (which reminded her that there was a slice the size of a penny in his right one.) But he didn't look angry. He looked terrified. And now that she concentrated more, she noticed his entire body was shaking. He was also panting as if he'd just run a marathon.

"I said, please leave," he said through clenched teeth, and she noticed him become even more unbalanced.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice sounding frantic.

He broke eye contact with her, staring blankly at the floor, and barely reached out in time. His legs collapsed and he tried to catch himself on the half wall, but failed. He knocked a vase of flowers from the counter as he fell, and it shattered on the tile, spraying water, glass, and lilacs everywhere. Grace rushed forward, all determination for answers replaced with worry. She dropped to her knees next to him, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. He was clutching at his chest, gasping for air, his eyes wide in fear. She pressed onto his neck with her pointer and middle fingers and noticed that his pulse was racing. Classic symptoms of a panic attack.

"Adrian, what is it? What's wrong?" she said, using his first name again, hoping it would help.

He merely nodded "no," still panting and gasping, and muttered, "Allein. Alle allein."

At first she thought he'd misspoken, but soon remembered his German heritage, and made a mental note to look up what he'd said later.

She couldn't think of any way to help him. She'd never known anyone with panic attacks, and even if she had, was there even a way to stop them? She just tried rubbing his shoulder, and asking, "how can I help you?"

He lifted a violently trembling hand and pointed to the window. She was about to inquire as to what he wanted, but he elaborated.

"Close the curtains. Please, please, close them," he begged, his voice shaking so badly she hardly understood him.

She jumped to her feet and wrenched the black and purple curtains closed, making the apartment almost pitch black. She navigated her way back to him, and felt the nearby wall for a light switch. Thankfully, the building's electricity was still working; it had been on and off on the 4th. She returned to Adrian, kneeling next to him as he continued to panic. She only hoped she could help in some small way.

Slowly, his breathing returned to a somewhat regular rhythm and his shaking eased, but didn't dissipate. He relaxed only slightly, and collapsed backward to lean against the half wall. He looked at her, and she couldn't read what he was thinking. Then again, no one really could.

He waited for a moment, then took a shaky breath; slightly reminiscent of a child trying to stop crying. He held out a hand to her, which was still trembling, and whispered, "help me up, please."

She stood, shrugged off her parka and tossed it over the black leather couch, and took his hand. Halfway through pulling him to his feet, she realized he'd held out his right hand, because he gasped and staggered. She let go quickly so as not to hurt him any more, and steadied him with both hands on his upper arms.

"Easy. You okay?" she asked, her voice much more sympathetic now.

He meekly nodded and swallowed, as if trying to push back his dread.

He motioned to the hall to the right of the large window, and staggered as he attempted to walk. She held him under one arm as she led him, still shaking, down that hall and into what was apparently his bedroom. On any other day, she would have blushed at the fact that she was in Adrian Veidt's bedroom, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. He managed to stumble forward to his bed, where he solemnly sat on the edge, his eyes half-lidded and staring straight ahead.

"I must shower and change," he said weakly, his upper torso tottering dangerously forward. She jumped forward to make sure he wouldn't fall again, and put a hand under his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

"No, you need to sleep before you go into a coma. How long has it been since you slept last?" she said, examining his red and tired eyes.

"Not sure," he said, and stripped his gloves off and threw them to the ground. That's when she noticed that the wound on his hand was bleeding pretty badly. She must have broken what had formed of the scab when she helped him up.

"Wait here," she said, making sure he was stable before walking into the adjoining bathroom. In a mirrored medicine cabinet, she found a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze, and some bandages, and scurried back into the bedroom. Luckily, Adrian was still upright, and rubbing his temples with his good hand.

She knelt in front of him, and turned his right hand palm-up. He simply watched as she poured alcohol on the gauze and laid them on his palm. He didn't even wince, though she was sure it hurt like hell. After she was sure she had cleaned it thoroughly, she wrapped the bandage around his hand several times, and secured it with a metal clasp.

"Will you need help changing?" she asked.

"No," he murmured, and stood on shaky legs.

His breath hitched in his throat, and he began to collapse again. She jumped forward, catching him by his arms to steady him as he slowly sank back to sit on the bed.

"Yes," he amended, his voice starting to shake again.

Again, she usually would have turned a lovely shade of scarlet in this situation, but he needed her help, and that was all that mattered.

It was pathetic, really. He had trouble even holding his arms up so she could pull off the shoulder guards and breastplate. She couldn't help herself; she admired. Plus, he was so weak that he didn't notice the second of hesitation as she ogled.

She paused when he was bare from the waist up. The last time she'd taken a guy's pants off, she'd been in college and…. not going there.

He actually managed a small grin. "I think I can handle it from here," he said, a tiny bit more conviction in his voice. "Just hand me those clothes, there," he pointed to where a shirt and pants were neatly folded on a black lacquered dresser. She handed them to him, and he managed another small smile.

"Anything else?" she asked, not meaning to get back into her secretary voice, but managing nonetheless.

"Didn't you have some questions you wanted answered?" he asked, pulling his shirt on with some degree of difficulty.

"Oh," she stammered, looking away and brushing her hair behind her ear. "I'm sure we can talk some other time."

This time, he truly smiled, and said, "Yes. Some other time," he paused, turning his hand over and examining the bandage. "Thank you, Ms. Turner."

"My pleasure," she said, and left his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

So, the things she knew or had already figured out: he wouldn't look at the decimated New York, he wouldn't tell her how he came by his injuries or how the glass pyramid became half destroyed, and there was something desperately, painfully wrong.