He'd been fine, or however fine one could be after missing a month of sleep. Even though he really hadn't—not from his perspective, at least—leaving the casino time-warp had made his body lag with every step and his voice falter with every word. Perhaps it was the relief, or maybe it was the exhaustion that collapsed on him after an entire day of having to remain on his toes, but he'd just crashed. And that was after he'd handled all the reports; fortunately he'd not been left to handle matters related to the fog's culprit, as the on-duty law enforcement officials had been able to see how foggy his brain (pun intended) had become. A civilian report was filed and then he went home.

His first half an hour had been spent in the tub getting cleaned up, and then about halfway through that he realized, oh shit, he probably needed to contact friends, family, etc. (or in his mind, Febs). He lazily scribbled down a letter, only setting his quill down when he realized he'd descending into rambling.

He'd sent it off with an owl and then promptly fell asleep on the couch.

Until, of course, the sound of his fireplace stirred him from his sleep, though for a moment only his eyelids flickered as he tried, in the midst of his sleep-induced confusion, to figure out what the noise was. It didn't take much effort on his part; a moment later, he was holding a sniffling Febs in his arms. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel. Maybe he expected more passion, more excitement, more heat when she first arrived, but for a moment he did nothing more than wrap his arms around her smaller frame and stroke her back.

He turned his head to an angle where he could lazily trail light kisses against whatever skin he could find—in this case, her neck and the end of her jawline—in an attempt to soothe her.

"I'm sorry, lover," he said groggily. "I didn't know it had been that long. I would have written you if I knew." (Not that he'd really had much time to write, but she didn't need to know that much.)

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