In the end, without much else being said, Mordred stays the night again, curled up small and tight in the bed. Toward morning he turns restless, murmurs unhappily in his sleep, one hand clenched tight in the blankets. But he wakes brusque and self-contained as ever, conjures up a fairly reasonable breakfast, and parts at the door with barely a word of farewell.
But he's outside the building again in the evening, sitting on the curb with his short fingers in Theophilus' neck fur, as if there's no need to explain himself; and after that, somehow, it becomes routine: he turns up sometime after Galahad gets back from work, takes it upon himself to feed them both, lies down beside him, gets them both up in the morning. His temper remains uncertain, veering between prickling hostility and quiet, rueful gentleness. He never enters the apartment uninvited, and never leaves with any assurance that he'll be back, and every evening is back all the same.