So, this is part of the sequel to No Yesterdays on the Road.
***
"It's trashed," Moira says. There's a note of wistfulness in her voice as she surveys the damage, leaning on her crutch.
"It's just things," Charles says. "Ugly things, mostly. Pointless things. My mother's things and my stepfather's things."
"Still," Moira says, "it's your home."
Charles shrugs as carefully as he can, hyperaware of the sling cushioning his arm. He didn't have any attachment to the objects in the room. Kurt had boxed up anything belonging to Brian Xavier long ago, and while Charles wants to remember his mother fondly, he can't seem to muster up any remorse at seeing her art and books and trinkets destroyed. He looks at the mess and he's frustrated at the cleaning that's ahead, annoyed at the set-back in converting the house into a school, dreading explaining the needed renovations to the workers, but he's not sad. Relieved, maybe, that everyone's okay.
He spots a blood stain on the carpet and shudders. Very, very relieved.
"It's our home," he corrects her gently. "And it still is. Just with...some minor alterations. At the end of the day, isn't the point that we're all alive and whole?"
Moira shakes her head in disbelief.
"You're something else, Charles," she says. "I have no idea how you can always manage to be so optimistic. I also have no idea how Erik doesn't smother you in your sleep."
As if summoned by their thoughts (and Charles hopes that isn't the unintentional case), Charles feels a flutter at the edge of his consciousness, the familiar presence of Erik as he orients himself to the waking world.
"Speaking of," he says, "it appears he's awake."
Moira rolls her eyes, but Charles can feel her relief, projected unknowingly. It mingles warmly with his own, for no matter how many times he assured her and the children that Erik was fine, he'd just hit his head rather hard and needed to sleep it off, he had quietly been just as concerned, the longer Erik slept.
"Well, go on then," Moira says. "I know you want to rush to his bedside to coddle him."
"I merely want to see that he's okay," Charles says, tipping his chin up mulishly, even as he feels his cheeks color. "I doubt Erik would allow himself to be coddled by anyone."
"I think he'd make an exception for you," Moira says. She offers Charles the arm that's not leaning on her crutch. "Come on. Let's go visit the convalescent."
Charles takes her arm with his free arm, though she won't let him support her weight despite the cast on her leg, and allows her to set the pace as they head towards the wing of the mansion they've taken over for day to day life, bustling with activity as the children flit about, so different from the cold, empty rooms they're surrounded by now, so different from what the house was like growing up.
If he needed any other proof that he was doing the right thing, he thinks that would be it.
"He won't appreciate you calling him a convalescent, you know," he says.
"I know," Moira says. "That's why I plan to do it at least twice. And also mention how you manfully saved the day after he was hit on the head. And maybe throw in two or three references to Jean's hit. Not because she's a girl, mind, but because she's twelve."
Charles tries to glare at her disapprovingly, but finds himself laughing anyway.
"You're impossible, the both of you," he says, but there's no bite to it.
"Yeah, but you like it," Moira says. "It keeps you on your toes."
"The teenagers weren't enough, then?" Charles asks.
"Nope," Moira says. "But spirited debate builds character, so we're really doing you a favor."
"Is that what your childish teasing is called? I'll keep that in mind," Charles says dryly.
no subject
***
"It's trashed," Moira says. There's a note of wistfulness in her voice as she surveys the damage, leaning on her crutch.
"It's just things," Charles says. "Ugly things, mostly. Pointless things. My mother's things and my stepfather's things."
"Still," Moira says, "it's your home."
Charles shrugs as carefully as he can, hyperaware of the sling cushioning his arm. He didn't have any attachment to the objects in the room. Kurt had boxed up anything belonging to Brian Xavier long ago, and while Charles wants to remember his mother fondly, he can't seem to muster up any remorse at seeing her art and books and trinkets destroyed. He looks at the mess and he's frustrated at the cleaning that's ahead, annoyed at the set-back in converting the house into a school, dreading explaining the needed renovations to the workers, but he's not sad. Relieved, maybe, that everyone's okay.
He spots a blood stain on the carpet and shudders. Very, very relieved.
"It's our home," he corrects her gently. "And it still is. Just with...some minor alterations. At the end of the day, isn't the point that we're all alive and whole?"
Moira shakes her head in disbelief.
"You're something else, Charles," she says. "I have no idea how you can always manage to be so optimistic. I also have no idea how Erik doesn't smother you in your sleep."
As if summoned by their thoughts (and Charles hopes that isn't the unintentional case), Charles feels a flutter at the edge of his consciousness, the familiar presence of Erik as he orients himself to the waking world.
"Speaking of," he says, "it appears he's awake."
Moira rolls her eyes, but Charles can feel her relief, projected unknowingly. It mingles warmly with his own, for no matter how many times he assured her and the children that Erik was fine, he'd just hit his head rather hard and needed to sleep it off, he had quietly been just as concerned, the longer Erik slept.
"Well, go on then," Moira says. "I know you want to rush to his bedside to coddle him."
"I merely want to see that he's okay," Charles says, tipping his chin up mulishly, even as he feels his cheeks color. "I doubt Erik would allow himself to be coddled by anyone."
"I think he'd make an exception for you," Moira says. She offers Charles the arm that's not leaning on her crutch. "Come on. Let's go visit the convalescent."
Charles takes her arm with his free arm, though she won't let him support her weight despite the cast on her leg, and allows her to set the pace as they head towards the wing of the mansion they've taken over for day to day life, bustling with activity as the children flit about, so different from the cold, empty rooms they're surrounded by now, so different from what the house was like growing up.
If he needed any other proof that he was doing the right thing, he thinks that would be it.
"He won't appreciate you calling him a convalescent, you know," he says.
"I know," Moira says. "That's why I plan to do it at least twice. And also mention how you manfully saved the day after he was hit on the head. And maybe throw in two or three references to Jean's hit. Not because she's a girl, mind, but because she's twelve."
Charles tries to glare at her disapprovingly, but finds himself laughing anyway.
"You're impossible, the both of you," he says, but there's no bite to it.
"Yeah, but you like it," Moira says. "It keeps you on your toes."
"The teenagers weren't enough, then?" Charles asks.
"Nope," Moira says. "But spirited debate builds character, so we're really doing you a favor."
"Is that what your childish teasing is called? I'll keep that in mind," Charles says dryly.