[ To say this is a period of adjustment is to cast this whole situation in a very kind and simplistic light, one Charles is not feeling near gracious enough to bestow. On a simplistic level, yes, he's grateful that they've been able to keep themselves together, the kids all whole and in one place (and not off somewhere getting into trouble, hurt, or worse: both). He's not so far gone as to think none of that overshadows his own gripes and inconveniences.
At the end of the day, he will only call them gripes and inconveniences. But right now? God, it all grates. The space they're in is cold, unpersonable, and barely different from the captivity they'd all taken such pains to escape. They're so lacking in resources it's almost laughable (in a horrible grim sort of way he'd never express in front of anyone dependent upon him). And he's expected to be such a rallying force here that any expression of these gripes has been swallowed and bitten down on as much as humanly possible, which only makes his internal irritation rise and his blood boil.
By the time the whole wing (it feels strange to call it anything else) is settled for the evening, Charles has thrown himself into one of the few chairs in his and Arthur's room with an intense frown. One hand presses hard into his eyes and nose, as if he could stave off the headache that's been building now for hours, and the other arm is slung dramatically over his forehead. ]
When do we wake up and find out this is the end of the Wizard of Oz?
[ It's petulant. It's immature. It's a complaint and tone years out of appropriate usage. He doesn't care. ]
[action - backdated to very early Oct.]
At the end of the day, he will only call them gripes and inconveniences. But right now? God, it all grates. The space they're in is cold, unpersonable, and barely different from the captivity they'd all taken such pains to escape. They're so lacking in resources it's almost laughable (in a horrible grim sort of way he'd never express in front of anyone dependent upon him). And he's expected to be such a rallying force here that any expression of these gripes has been swallowed and bitten down on as much as humanly possible, which only makes his internal irritation rise and his blood boil.
By the time the whole wing (it feels strange to call it anything else) is settled for the evening, Charles has thrown himself into one of the few chairs in his and Arthur's room with an intense frown. One hand presses hard into his eyes and nose, as if he could stave off the headache that's been building now for hours, and the other arm is slung dramatically over his forehead. ]
When do we wake up and find out this is the end of the Wizard of Oz?
[ It's petulant. It's immature. It's a complaint and tone years out of appropriate usage. He doesn't care. ]