It's late afternoon when the usual sequence of sounds—the lock rolling open, the door swinging open and then shut, and again the deadbolt snapping back into place—signal Erik's return to the house. That's what he calls it, the house, never home. That word has been scarce in his vocabulary for years now.

Once he's shed his boots, coat and hat, he sets about performing the usual cursory check of the main floor, intending afterward to bathe and to head back out again. He's been restless since the...event, let's call it, unable to find much satisfaction in sitting around with a book or whatever, always wanting to be doing something, his motor always running. This coming Newdi should have been his first day back on the job, but he has been out on most days he's been able, regardless of the leave granted to him, maintaining plain-clothes patrol on foot or on horseback, compelled by the urge to maintain vigilance.

His inspection is not silent, but nearly so, his position betrayed only by the creaks in the floor. (He knows where each will occur and can avoid them if desired.) Not that his housemate needs such a mundane thing as a sound to track him, of course—perhaps Charles anticipates his intended presence in the doorway long before he occupies it. Or perhaps, thanks to the tea, he doesn't. Either way, Erik appears there presently, pauses, and then leans against the frame by one arm, wearing a look that is by now not unfamiliar to the telepath.
The telepath who is lying there in his jammies.

"Long night out?"