[ He hears the lock clicking out of place and waits for the door to open, but it never does. Waiting is all he's done for a long, long time. He's good at it. And he lasts a good minute or so before worry overtakes patience. ]

Please excuse me-

[ And he enters. He closes the door behind him carefully, soundlessly to any but a viera or duskwight. Sets his basket on the table. Sniffs at the air - it smells like Theo, this room. But off somehow. And without the smell, he'd almost think that the room's owner was not here at all. ]

My friend? [ Oh. In the bed. He sighs, going to the sink. He knows full well, of course, where everything is. He had a hundred years to see to it that everything that might be needed would be here.

He tilts the kettle to one side as he fills it, so that the water runs down the side rather than falling into it with a splash. Like he knows that he ought to be quiet. Like he's spent a long time perfecting the art of performing daily tasks as quietly as possible. ]

You've taken ill, then. [ Let it just be a passing illness. Please let it just be a passing illness and not the light clawing him open from the inside. ] Apologies. Desperation forced my hand, but 'twas thoughtless to set you to such constant work since your arrival.