Dryer discarded, Louis looks at both of them in the mirror. Storm washed from their skin, recognizable in some ways, alien in others.

"Come on," Louis says softly, to Lestat's reflection. "We should get you something to wear."

And then fed, a thing Louis hasn't considered but must now. Will they need to hunt rats? Does Lestat still feed from the vein? Would he drink from a blood bag?

Questions for after. Here and now, Louis lets his hand fall from Lestat's hair. Turns from the steamy mirror, the warmth of this room, to walk into the next. Lestat will follow, or he won't.