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THIRTY NINE ✖ TEXT/SPAM
Tony's in a coma and back on the Barge, just in case anyone's looking for him.
[Spam for Erik]
[As soon as they had stepped inside, Charles had decided he didn't like the Overlook Hotel.
There was no rational reason why, as far as he could tell. It was a nice hotel, and he'd been in many over the years, in New York and London and Paris and several other major cities, and this seemed like the sort of place people would come so that they could brag to their friends that they'd stayed at the Overlook for the weekend, to show they had taste and class and wealth, and they'd continue reminiscing about the dinners and elegant parties and interesting people they'd met here for years to come. This was a place presidents and movie stars would visit, and businessmen and their wives (or mistresses), a place to get away from the troubles of the real world, nestled safely in the mountains.
Despite all that, there was something that just put his teeth on edge, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and he realized about fifteen minutes after they'd entered the building that he'd been clenching his jaw tightly, and forced himself to relax. This was the first port he'd been in without thinking he'd always lived in the world they'd stopped in since they'd momentarily crashed on a desolate planet and been kidnapped and tortured by a hostile alien species, without their abilities, with his spine still damaged, and with no way to escape. Of course he'd be nervous, especially considering how much time had been spent thinking about all of that recently. He was still getting over the trauma, and this was digging up all sorts of bad feelings associated with that. After a while, the concern would wear off, and he could try to enjoy himself, while still keeping a wary eye out for anything about to go horrifically wrong.
Even if he could let himself relax, he wasn't going to be totally dropping his guard, no matter how long they stayed here. He'd been burned once before.
But the uneasiness hadn't tapered off at all. It had actually gotten worse. He couldn't really come up with a reason why - again, it was a nice hotel, there was no logical reason to be afraid of anything here (yet) - but for some reason, the more they saw of the hotel, the more he felt something unpleasant settling in his stomach, a pinched headache starting to form behind his eyes, and the general sense of foreboding left him distracted, incredibly tense and quiet.
He'd stuck by Erik without needing to think about it, partly because why not, really, but also because the tension meant he was reluctant to let his friend out of his sight for long, which was ridiculous because there was nothing to be afraid of (yet) and Charles' telepathy was completely unchanged by the port. Erik could be anywhere in the hotel, and he'd still know where he was basically instantly. But he'd still stuck close, and his friend hadn't questioned him on it.
He'd been asked a question a while ago, long enough that he really should have reacted to it by now, but he hadn't answered. Erik was staring at him expectantly, but he couldn't remember what he'd asked, and he reluctantly tore his eyes away from the door he'd been staring at - 217, the brass plate on the front said - shaking off the feeling that someone was standing on the other side of the door, waiting for someone to come in and looked over at his friend.]
Sorry?
[Spam for Erik]
[As soon as they had stepped inside, Charles had decided he didn't like the Overlook Hotel.
There was no rational reason why, as far as he could tell. It was a nice hotel, and he'd been in many over the years, in New York and London and Paris and several other major cities, and this seemed like the sort of place people would come so that they could brag to their friends that they'd stayed at the Overlook for the weekend, to show they had taste and class and wealth, and they'd continue reminiscing about the dinners and elegant parties and interesting people they'd met here for years to come. This was a place presidents and movie stars would visit, and businessmen and their wives (or mistresses), a place to get away from the troubles of the real world, nestled safely in the mountains.
Despite all that, there was something that just put his teeth on edge, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and he realized about fifteen minutes after they'd entered the building that he'd been clenching his jaw tightly, and forced himself to relax. This was the first port he'd been in without thinking he'd always lived in the world they'd stopped in since they'd momentarily crashed on a desolate planet and been kidnapped and tortured by a hostile alien species, without their abilities, with his spine still damaged, and with no way to escape. Of course he'd be nervous, especially considering how much time had been spent thinking about all of that recently. He was still getting over the trauma, and this was digging up all sorts of bad feelings associated with that. After a while, the concern would wear off, and he could try to enjoy himself, while still keeping a wary eye out for anything about to go horrifically wrong.
Even if he could let himself relax, he wasn't going to be totally dropping his guard, no matter how long they stayed here. He'd been burned once before.
But the uneasiness hadn't tapered off at all. It had actually gotten worse. He couldn't really come up with a reason why - again, it was a nice hotel, there was no logical reason to be afraid of anything here (yet) - but for some reason, the more they saw of the hotel, the more he felt something unpleasant settling in his stomach, a pinched headache starting to form behind his eyes, and the general sense of foreboding left him distracted, incredibly tense and quiet.
He'd stuck by Erik without needing to think about it, partly because why not, really, but also because the tension meant he was reluctant to let his friend out of his sight for long, which was ridiculous because there was nothing to be afraid of (yet) and Charles' telepathy was completely unchanged by the port. Erik could be anywhere in the hotel, and he'd still know where he was basically instantly. But he'd still stuck close, and his friend hadn't questioned him on it.
He'd been asked a question a while ago, long enough that he really should have reacted to it by now, but he hadn't answered. Erik was staring at him expectantly, but he couldn't remember what he'd asked, and he reluctantly tore his eyes away from the door he'd been staring at - 217, the brass plate on the front said - shaking off the feeling that someone was standing on the other side of the door, waiting for someone to come in and looked over at his friend.]
Sorry?
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Good thing she isn't here, then. Wouldn't want her crying ghost at every sheet covered chair. [Not that he'd actually expect that of her.]