una revenença
Who: Marie-Pierre ffff i spelled his name backwards, ot hans if he wants
Where: the secret apartment
When: evening

Coming back felt like as much work as the absence itself had been.

Places to check in, people to visit, messages to deliver, and all before he had even had time to sit down.  He ought, he knew, to go find Hans - he owed it, really, and not contacting him immediately would not count well in his favour - but Duclos was tired beyond the mere physical, and the thought of having to deal with the possible emotions involved in returning to Hans' company - he had probably been worried; would perhaps be upset at the lack of communication, even if he understood the requirements of the service; might expect explanations which would need to be refused - it would be a balancing act between who Duclos was and what he needed to be; it was exhausting to contemplate.

The second-nature careful journey to remain unnoticed, the trot up the back stairs, the quick examination of the room to be certain it was the same, it was safe, it had kept his secrets - and then he lay straight down on the bed without even taking his shoes off.

Was it a homecoming?  Was this his home?

Questions with no answer and therefore not worth asking.  Tomorrow - tomorrow he would call upon Hans, and stop by the café to see Mireille, and do a dozen other things both personal and professional that he'd neglected today.  Right now he was going to sit.  Right.  Here.