There was a part of Erik that shouted at him to accept Charles's rejection for what it was— inevitable, unsurprising— but the overwhelmingly larger part was too exhausted to care what Charles wanted. He was filthy and singed and sore all over, the musty salt and smoke of Rapture still lying thick on the back of his tongue, and if he couldn't go back where he belonged, at least he wasn't risking imminent and bloody death by staying in one place.
Risking Charles's ire, perhaps, but that had never daunted Erik for long. "How are you walking?" he asked bluntly. Suddenly it was the only thing he cared about. He pushed off the door and crossed to the table, to Charles's side, resting both hands on the tabletop and dipping his head to try and catch Charles's eye. "If you want me gone, that's my price. Tell me that, and I'll go."
His voice caught in his throat toward the end— dehydration and smoke, most likely. The city had been a ruin, and supplies hadn't exactly been thick on the ground; he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a shower or a full meal. But none of it seemed as important as this, and Erik let himself stare, trying to imagine the answer to his question while he waited for Charles to look at him.
no subject
Risking Charles's ire, perhaps, but that had never daunted Erik for long. "How are you walking?" he asked bluntly. Suddenly it was the only thing he cared about. He pushed off the door and crossed to the table, to Charles's side, resting both hands on the tabletop and dipping his head to try and catch Charles's eye. "If you want me gone, that's my price. Tell me that, and I'll go."
His voice caught in his throat toward the end— dehydration and smoke, most likely. The city had been a ruin, and supplies hadn't exactly been thick on the ground; he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a shower or a full meal. But none of it seemed as important as this, and Erik let himself stare, trying to imagine the answer to his question while he waited for Charles to look at him.