Chapter 6…
Just past eleven at night, and Alex, Sean and Hank had made their way upstairs to their bedrooms. On the first floor, Charles lay in bed, working to pull his pajama pants to his waist. He was getting better at it, but just like everything else, it took time. He already had the pants' legs up to his thighs; as he took in a breath, he lifted his right arm. Jerking his upper body to the left, he rolled to his side and shimmied the right side of his pants to his hip. He did the same maneuver with the left, forcing his body the other way and wiggling the pants upwards.
Little victories. That's what Edie called them.
But Charles wasn't going to bed—there was too much to be done. He needed to inspect renovations completed that day, which was nearly impossible since he couldn't get to the second and third floors. But the first floor required so much more attention. The living room, kitchen and dining room were there, not to mention the entrances. He had a ramp installed for the front door, but not the back or sides. And the yard…the gravel pathways still needed to be paved over or he'd never see his lawn again. Even his motorized wheelchair had tantrums with the gravel.
There was also the school to consider. He had to get a teaching license from the state of New York and because he had graduated from Oxford, the international issue was becoming a process. Paperwork was piled up on his desk like miniature skyscrapers.
Past midnight, and Charles had made his way into his study. The blue curtains were drawn from the windows; outside, the moon shimmered a diamond white. As he sat behind his desk, his teal green and gold lamp warmed his hands as he continued rummaging through his notes. He'd already skimmed through them twice that night, but he always caught more to revise with each passing.
But the words were becoming blurry. His own writing was getting sloppy. With a shake of his head, Charles grabbed the cup of tea to his right and took a sip. He blinked until the focus returned and got back to his papers.
"Charles?" a voice called from the study's entrance.
Raising his head, Charles spotted the blue, furry figure of Hank McCoy from the half-opened door. "Yes, my friend?" he said with a welcoming grin.
Hank entered, hesitantly shutting the door behind him. Charles' grin fell.
"It's almost one in the morning," Hank said as he stopped in front of Charles' desk.
Furrowing his brow, Charles shook his pajama sleeve away from his wristwatch and gave a nod. "So it is. Is that relevant somehow?"
"Yeah…yeah, it is."
Charles studied his friend. The grim look on Hank's face made it clear this wasn't just about the late hour.
"We need to talk," Hank said as if he had something sour in his mouth.
Reluctantly, Charles lowered his pen to the desk. "All right."
Hank's expression didn't relax at that; it held firm—a mix of determination and concern. A man ready for confrontation.
Splendid.
"This isn't healthy, Charles," Hank started and made a sweeping gesture to the desk and all its papers. "I know you're working hard to build this school, but these long nights…they have to stop."
Charles cleared his throat. "Don't you think you're exaggerating this just a touch?"
"No—no, not really. Look, I understand that Alex and Sean think you're okay—that you're doing great—but I'm…well—"
"You don't agree with them," Charles finished. As he stared at his friend, Charles finally released a breath a laughter. "Hank, I know you've been concerned about me. And I deeply appreciate the sentiment, but…" he sighed, "truth be told, I've been concerned about you. You haven't left the mansion since your transformation. You spend most of your time in the basement. Surely, we can find a better solution—"
"Stop. Don't do that, Charles."
Charles blinked. "Do what?"
"Don't flip this conversation around! We're not talking about me right now—we're talking about you."
"All right." Charles raised his hands. "I'm sorry. I just don't understand where all this is coming from."
Hank released a growl, the frustration on his face not cooling. "I've been watching you, okay? And at first, I was like Alex and Sean. I thought you were doing so well. You returned home with all these ideas for the school. You didn't even seem to care that Moira and Raven and Erik were gone. And your injury…" He gestured to Charles' wheelchair. "You act as if it's nothing—like none of it matters."
Charles closed his eyes for a second. "So, you're concerned about me because I'm not feeling sorry for myself?"
"I didn't notice at first. But you never stop. You never take a break. You're always moving—either at the rehab clinic or here at home. Calling contractors, setting up everything, creating all these plans. You're going to bed at two or three o'clock in the morning, and getting up at six." Hank frowned.
Charles tried to keep his face impassive. But inside, his heart was beating fast enough to pulsate through his temples. This was not the conversation he wanted to have at that moment—or any moment, for that matter.
"Hank," he finally said, "did you ever consider that I'm simply busy right now?"
"No. No, this has been going on since you returned home."
"I've been busy since I returned home."
Hank groaned. "Charles, studies have shown that if you don't get enough sleep, you could impair your concentration, your immune system—you could suffer depression, headaches, memory lapses—"
"So what do you propose? I don't believe now is a suitable time to take a holiday."
"Give Sean, Alex and me more responsibilities. We can do more than box up items and carry furniture around."
"Hank," Charles released a sigh, "please—enough of this. I'm not sick or depressed, and my memory is just fine, thank you very much. I'm working on a thousand things right now because there are a thousand things that need to be done. I have to go to the rehab clinic each day because I still require physical therapy—"
"That's not what I meant—"
"I need to deal with the contractors and finish these countless renovations; neither Alex nor Sean know what all that entails, and you're in no position to take up that task. I haven't seen the upper levels of my home in six months; I haven't been able to sleep in my own bedroom. Do you know how frustrating that is?"
Uneasily, Hank shifted his legs.
"Hank," Charles went on, softer now, "it's not that I'm trying to drown myself in work. But with everything that needs doing—my rehab, the renovations…not to mention transforming this place into a school and getting my license secured—there's simply not enough hours in the day."
With that, all of Hank's strength seemed to drain away. He slouched over, defeat cast on his features.
Charles gave his friend a reassuring smile. "You needn't worry about me, Hank. Especially with everything you're dealing with right now, the last thing I want is for you to concern yourself with another person."
Head still lowered, Hank timidly motioned his hand to the paperwork in front of Charles. "Well, I still don't want you staying up all hours of the night anymore. Not when you're getting up at five or six every morning."
"All right. If it means so much to you, I'll go to bed this instant."
Hank nodded.
Charles waited a second to see if the other man would leave; when he didn't, Charles reluctantly extended a hand and pinched the chain to his desk lamp. Eyeing Hank, he tugged it down and the bulb flashed off. Only the bright, white moon from the window offered any illumination. With Hank beside him, Charles left his study and headed towards his room.
It took several minutes, but Charles finished his nightly routine. His catheter was soaking in a sterilizing solution; he had brushed his teeth. Rolling his wheelchair to his bed, he transferred onto the sheep skin laying on his mattress. As he rolled to his left, he grabbed a pillow and manually lifted his right leg. He wedged the cushion between his knees; just like the sheep skin, the pillow would reduce the chance of pressure ulcers. He drew his covers over the lower half of his body.
"Would you mind closing the door, please?" Charles asked as he reached out to his nightstand and switched off the lamp.
Observing him from the bedroom's entrance, Hank grabbed the knob and eased the door shut. Lying in bed, Charles fixed his fingers to his temple. He sensed Hank trudge away, up the stairs to his own bedroom for the night.
With a roll of his eyes, Charles reached back and popped the light on again. He opened the nightstand's top drawer. Inside was a pile of documents—international licensing procedures and contracts he still hadn't read through entirely. Dumping the paperwork to the right side of his bed, Charles flipped to the page he'd stopped at previously and began to read.
Somewhere close to three in the morning, Charles' pupils stopped focusing. His mind couldn't process what he was reading. Closing his eyelids, Charles dropped his head to his pillow, his fingers still curled around the paperwork.
End of Chapter