[Someone else has missed the ferry, as he is increasingly wont to do these days. Benedict is slumped, quite drunk and Maker knows what else, against a post by the dock, cloak wrapped around himself as he gazes glassy-eyed out at the water. And now at Alexandrie, the look on whose face immediately activates his fight-or-flight response. He can't do either. Too comfy.

He offers an innocent little smirk instead.]

Didn't you have a house? [he asks drily.]