[ They've been tracking him - he asked for permission to do that, at least, with a promise that neither of them would pry further. Watching their precious little pile of sand drive to the French Quarter, and watching it not return home.

Sypha kept vigil over the map throughout the night, so she's dead to the world right now. He's just waking when there's the sound of the door. And then of the office door. And then of a vampire plummeting into a sofa.

Shit, he has to put on a shirt to go into the office.

It's about five minutes later when he makes his way in there, looking about the minimum amount of presentable that he's willing to be while in here (which is to say that all of the general clothing groups are accounted for and that his teeth have been brushed, but that he's wearing yesterday's crumpled clothes and his hair is Actually Everywhere and he's clinging to his mug of coffee for dear life). ]

Fuck, what have I told you about sleeping in here? [ He's too sleepy for consistent english, slipping in and out of french every few words. ] You have so many spare rooms. Use one of those. Th'office is for working.

[ Which is to say welcome home. ]