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Summary
Louis rolls his shoulders, leans back on the headrest, and smiles. He'd cracked the window as soon as the driver pulled away from the airport, and there's fall air drifting through, the smell of the city, jasmine and gasoline.
It hadn't even been too long a trip, but these particular type of tedious meetings have a way of leaving him drained after a few days anyway. But the deal's done, and the remaining loose ends will be tied up by the time he wakes up tomorrow, and he's nearly home. What he needs, he thinks as the car pulls down their street, is a long, steamy shower in Lestat’s arms, followed by or maybe overlapping with enough dick to kill a mortal man. Then sleep, cradled with him in the coffin, rinse and repeat. Seventy-two hours of that routine, at least, and he’ll be back to normal. Maybe a week. He blocks his calendar for ten days, just in case.
in which nothing much happens & everything’s easy