Post by Pyro on Sept 10, 2006 4:34:00 GMT -5
NPC glompage to Kaylan, as ever.
Continued from here.
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He'd been back on the streets for a month when he picked up the phone and dialled Charlotte's number. He'd caught a chill which had devolved into a chest infection. He knew he was sick, and for the first time in his life, he swallowed his pride, desperate for help, desperate for a kind word, desperate for someone to be there for him.
He had no cash, so he called collect, not even knowing if she'd be home.
The old woman was screeching something about a collect call, ready to hang up when Charlotte dashed over to take the phone from her.
"Yes, I'll take the call." The apartment seemed so crowded sometimes with her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, but Charlotte would never kick her out. Even if she was horribly annoying sometimes.
The operator patched through the call and Charlotte answered with a hint of caution in her voice.
"Hello?"
"Charlotte? It's...ah...John. Allerdyce. Do you remember me?" His voice was hoarse and he sounded full of cold.
"Of course I do."
"Listen, I'm sorry to bother you...but you said you'd be happy to put me up for a day or two if I need..." He broke off and she heard him coughing at the other end of the phone. "If I needed it," he said, when he came back. "Did you mean that?"
"It's no trouble, really." She paused, a little worried about how he sounded. "Do you need me to come pick you up from somewhere?" Her mind instantly went to the medicine cabinet, where she thought the cough syrup was running low. Best to pick up from of that at the same time, if she was going to be going out.
He described a coffee shop to her, where they were sympathetic to the kids who sometimes came round there. "I'll wait there for you," he said. "Should I wear a rose in my collar or anything?"
She smiled to herself, and it was evident in her voice. "No, I remember what you look like. I'll see you soon."
Saying goodbye to her mother-in-law and Timmy, Charlotte grabbed a coat and headed downstairs. She was offduty today, so she was in her own car rather than a squad car. Probably a good thing for where she was picking him up.
On the way there, she stopped to pick up a few things. Unfortunately, John would be stuck on the couch, but it was better than nothing. If he looked as sick as he sounded, she was determined to fill him full of chicken soup and get him better. That he'd called her was a surprise, but a pleasant one, and Charlotte's expression retained something of happiness around the eyes as she pulled up outside the cafe, looking around for the young mutant.
Her eyes overlooked him several times, as he was huddled over a mug of hot chocolate in a corner table. He did, indeed, look as sick as he had sounded: he was pale and tired-looking, his hair was lank and greasy and he was visibly shivering despite the warmth of the cafe.
He had looked up when she'd come in and a faint smile came over his face. He was going to greet her, but then he was wracked by another bout of coughing which drew him to her attention almost immediately.
"Oh, John." As soon as she heard the coughing, she'd looked over, and upon seeing him Charlotte had rushed to his side. She left a couple of dollars on the table in thanks, pulling him outside and grabbing the picnic blanket from the trunk of her car to throw over him as she bundled him in. Might be best to take him to a hospital, but then she had been a trauma nurse for years - Charlotte knew how to care for the sick and injured. It had only been after her husband's death that she'd joined the police force.
She could remember how warm he'd been as he leaned against her, exhausted from putting out the fire those months ago. The fact that he was shivering now worried her.
"You should have called me sooner. Come on, let's get you home."
"Didn't want to trouble you," he said, his eyes bright with fever, but he still managed to smile weakly at her. He wrapped the blanket around himself gratefully. It wasn't a natural condition for him to feel cold, but right now he was chilled to the marrow.
The journey back to her apartment didn't take long and she left him sitting on the sofa whilst she went to run a bath for him, a cup of coffee in his hands and the biggest slice of chocolate cake he'd ever seen on a plate in front of him.
He felt the eyes of both an old woman and a kid on him and felt incredibly self conscious.
"Um...hello," he hazarded, anxiously.
Timmy was sitting next to John asking him questions when Charlotte returned, and his grandmother was looking at the young mutant with suspicion.
"This is Timmy, though I'm sure he's already told you that. And this is his Grandma." Charlotte shoo-ed the old woman into the kitchen before she could start.
"You can stay here as long as you like. Bath's run, you'll be sleeping out here but no-one will bother you." It seemed obvious that John hadn't called Xavier's yet. "I've got some of my husband's clothes still, they might be a bit big but it'll be better than nothing." Actually, it was pretty much guaranteed that they'd be too big - though her late husband had only been a couple of inches taller than John, he was about twice his size. Definitely a better option than getting back into dirty clothes, though - as soon as he'd changed she'd put a wash on.
"Thanks," he said, disappearing gratefully into the bathroom and the absolute luxury of a hot bath. A nice young receptionist at a hotel allowed him to sneak in and use showers occasionally, but he'd not just lain in a hot bath and soaked for...
He didn't care to start counting.
John closed his eyes and tried to relax, tried to ignore the burning of the illness in his lungs and appreciate the moment. He hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep in the bath until the insistent knocking at the door woke him up.
It wasn't until the wash finished and dinner was on the stove that Charlotte started to worry about John. The bath was nice and warm, but over time it would cool down, and that wouldn't be much good for his illness. She'd decided that they were all having soup - not knowing exactly what was wrong, she couldn't tell if he was contagious or not, but it would do them all good to get something hot into their bellies either way.
"John?" She was knocking insistently. "Dinner's almost ready, are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, getting out of the bath and wrapping himself in a towel - a warm, fluffy towel. So warm, so fluffy, so white that he almost wept. He glanced only briefly at the caked filth in the bath. When the water had run out he scrubbed at the tide mark with the conscientious sense of responsibility that had been instilled into him at the home - and by the last foster mother he had had.
Charlotte had given him a dressing gown and pair of pyjamas to get into, all of which were too big, but clean and very welcome. He came out of the bathroom, his dark hair sticking up in all directions where he'd towelled it looking like a completely different kid.
"Thank you," he said, again and rewarded her with a shy smile. "I'll only be here a day or two...I just felt..."
"You can stay as long as you want, John." The words were spoken softly. "And you're definitely going to stay here until you're better. Mind you, I used to be a nurse, so it might not take as long as some places." She gave him a warm smile.
They tended to eat reasonably early in the Jones household. With a grandmother and a disabled boy, the apartment wound down pretty early, and Charlotte was often left to herself for the evening. She'd made sure to cook more than enough in case John wanted seconds - most of the kids she dealt with from the streets didn't get to eat much, but it was possible he wouldn't want to eat much being sick.
He ate even less than she anticipated, pushing the bowl aside after only a few mouthfuls of soup and half a bread roll. "I'm sorry," he apologised again. "It tastes great, but..."
A quick glance at him told her all she needed to about how he was feeling. Several beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Thank god he'd seen fit to call her now. He was running such a high fever that another day - or more specifically, another night - on the street would probably have seen his inevitable death.
"I don't feel so well," he said, which illicited a fresh outbreak of complaint from the grandmother who started muttering about freeloading drug using no good brats. Normally, John would have simply ignored such comments, but she sounded so vehement.
"I should leave," he said, miserably. No matter where he went, nothing was working out for him. "I'll wait 'til my clothes are dry...if you could loan me the cash to sleep at the hostel tonight..."
"Ma!" Charlotte actually snapped at the old woman, which was unusual for her. Usually she could put up with it, but she wasn't letting John out of her sight while he was in a state like this.
"John, it's fine." She took his bowl, putting a cover of cling film over it so that he could heat it up when he wanted to have more.
"You come with me, we'll set up the sofa and get you settled. You're not going anywhere like this." She needed to take his temperature and get some cough syrup into him if he was going to get any rest that night. He obviously needed rest - life on the streets couldn't be easy.
His knees felt like jelly as she led him to the sofa and it was all he could do not to just sink to the floor. Little Timmy came with him, and slid his little hand into the older boy's and patted it gently with the other one.
Looking down, John squeezed the little boy's hand. "I don't want to make him sick too," said John in a small, unhappy voice. "I'm really sorry, Charlotte. I wouldn't have bothered you, but..."
Say it, John.
"...I was scared. I've never been this sick. I was scared."
Now that wasn't so hard, was it?
"It's no bother, John. I'm glad you called." From what she could tell about his condition, he had every reason to be afraid.
"I want to take your temperature, I have some cough medicine for you to drink if you can't sleep." She smiled down at Timmy, who was obviously doing his best to help. Charlotte didn't know if John was contagious or not, though, so she did agree that it might be best for her son to keep a distance.
"You go help Grandma finish her dinner and then I'll tuck you in, Tim-aroo." The pet name would no doubt embarrass him, but it was habit. She was at home, comfortable, didn't feel any reason to act differently around John.
Fussing around the sofa for a moment, Charlotte had it turned into a bed soon enough. Maybe not the most comfortable thing ever, but certainly better than nothing.
"You can watch TV if you like, I'm just going to go take care of the others, I'll be back in a few minutes."
She left him to his own devices for a little while, not paranoid about her knick-knacks as some people probably would have been. Charlotte wasn't like most people.
When she came back, he was laying on the sofa bed, still without pillows, sheets or blankets, and had fallen into a fitful doze. A hand to his head confirmed that he was burning up - but she remembered that he was pretty warm to start with. This was a different sort of heat, though: his skin was clammy to the touch.
He stirred at her touch on his head and his green eyes opened. He was half asleep and disoriented and had just started dreaming - as was evident from his next words.
"Mom?" he said. "Is it time to get up already?"
Shaking her head, Charlotte kept her face smooth even though she was worried.
"No, John, it's still night time." Everyone else was settled, thankfully, even her mother-in-law. John would be left to get a decent sleep tonight, though Timmy might wake him up early without realising that he was being a bother.
She pulled the pillows out from under her arm, fluffing them a little. "Here, I want you to put this under your arm." The digital thermometer would give her some idea, even though she was sure his normal body temperature was higher than usual.
He felt as weak as a day-old kitten, the 'flu taking full hold of him by now, but with effort, he got the thermometer in place and sat, shivering, as she made up the bed.
The reading on the thermometer was ridiculously high; the kind of temperature that would have probably seen a human in a comatose state - but then John was not fully human, but a mutant. Who knew how his system functioned differently? What was a crazy temperature to her might only be a slight increase to him.
Either way, it was clear that he was pretty sick - but she would have to trust to his mutation to keep his temperature from getting any higher.
He was sitting in the armchair, his eyes closed, his breathing light and shallow when she turned round. He looked so young when he was at repose, so different to how he seemed when he was awake. All the cynicism and bitterness was smoothed out whilst he was asleep.
A soft word from her woke him up and he gave her a vague smile.
Though his fever was dangerously high in regular terms, it was hard to know whether that was dangerously high for him or not. Little she could do for him without knowing, but she still wanted to get some cough syrup into him and let him sleep. If it was just a bad flu, there was nothing she could do for him - he'd get better with time, and putting a roof over his head was already a step in the right direction. If it had developed into an infection, though, she might be able to get some antibiotics into him to help his immune system fight.
"Alright, drink this and sleep. If you need anything in the night, my room is down the hall, I'll leave the door open a little. The bathroom has a nightlight for Timmy, so you should be able to find that - but don't hesitate to come and get me." She tried to impress the fact that it was no trouble upon him with her tone - she'd probably get up to check on him anyway.
She was woken at about four in the morning by the sound of retching from the bathroom. As a mother, her instinct for sickness in the house had woken her seconds before it started.
The bathroom door was open and John was sat by the toilet, his hair soaked in sweat, wiping at his mouth with a shaking hand. He looked up as she entered and gave her a weak smile.
"I think I'm feeling a bit better," he said. "You know how making yourself sick makes you feel better?"
A silence.
"I haven't said this in years," he said, in voice so quiet she barely heard it. "But I want my mother."
Oh, that feeling when you were sick and you needed your mother with you.
"Oh, John." She ducked over to the sink and ran a washcloth under the sink for him.
She'd read his file, she knew that he'd been taken from his mother when he was only young. Drug addict, from memory, but that didn't mean that she wasn't clean now.
"I can help you find her." It probably wasn't what he meant, but she still felt the need to offer. Kneeling down and handing him the washcloth, Charlotte brushed John's hair back from his face. She took the opportunity to feel his forehead with her wrist, though it was hard to tell whether he was still as hot as before. She'd take his temperature again in the morning.
"It's going to be alright, John."
"No, it's OK." He took the cloth and wiped at his face. "I don't really care. If she wanted me back, she'd have come looking for me, right?"
He had so few memories of his mother. He knew that she'd loved him, once. He had a distinct recollection of being held in the circle of her arms as they'd entered the United States on the flight from Australia, but he could barely even recall her face now.
With Charlotte's patient help and ministrations, he got back to bed and fell asleep again swiftly. She took advantage of his slumber to take his temperature again and was relieved to note that it had, in fact started to come down again.
She watched him for a few minutes to make sure that he was sleeping soundly.
Apparently his fever had started to break, though he was still far too warm to be considered healthy by normal human standards. She couldn't help but think of the way he'd stopped that fire. And the way he'd lit it in the first place. He was a dangerous young man to open your home to, but for some reason Charlotte trusted him. Whether it would come back to bite her or not was a worry for another day - right now all Charlotte was thinking of was John's wellbeing.
Continues here.
Continued from here.
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He'd been back on the streets for a month when he picked up the phone and dialled Charlotte's number. He'd caught a chill which had devolved into a chest infection. He knew he was sick, and for the first time in his life, he swallowed his pride, desperate for help, desperate for a kind word, desperate for someone to be there for him.
He had no cash, so he called collect, not even knowing if she'd be home.
The old woman was screeching something about a collect call, ready to hang up when Charlotte dashed over to take the phone from her.
"Yes, I'll take the call." The apartment seemed so crowded sometimes with her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, but Charlotte would never kick her out. Even if she was horribly annoying sometimes.
The operator patched through the call and Charlotte answered with a hint of caution in her voice.
"Hello?"
"Charlotte? It's...ah...John. Allerdyce. Do you remember me?" His voice was hoarse and he sounded full of cold.
"Of course I do."
"Listen, I'm sorry to bother you...but you said you'd be happy to put me up for a day or two if I need..." He broke off and she heard him coughing at the other end of the phone. "If I needed it," he said, when he came back. "Did you mean that?"
"It's no trouble, really." She paused, a little worried about how he sounded. "Do you need me to come pick you up from somewhere?" Her mind instantly went to the medicine cabinet, where she thought the cough syrup was running low. Best to pick up from of that at the same time, if she was going to be going out.
He described a coffee shop to her, where they were sympathetic to the kids who sometimes came round there. "I'll wait there for you," he said. "Should I wear a rose in my collar or anything?"
She smiled to herself, and it was evident in her voice. "No, I remember what you look like. I'll see you soon."
Saying goodbye to her mother-in-law and Timmy, Charlotte grabbed a coat and headed downstairs. She was offduty today, so she was in her own car rather than a squad car. Probably a good thing for where she was picking him up.
On the way there, she stopped to pick up a few things. Unfortunately, John would be stuck on the couch, but it was better than nothing. If he looked as sick as he sounded, she was determined to fill him full of chicken soup and get him better. That he'd called her was a surprise, but a pleasant one, and Charlotte's expression retained something of happiness around the eyes as she pulled up outside the cafe, looking around for the young mutant.
Her eyes overlooked him several times, as he was huddled over a mug of hot chocolate in a corner table. He did, indeed, look as sick as he had sounded: he was pale and tired-looking, his hair was lank and greasy and he was visibly shivering despite the warmth of the cafe.
He had looked up when she'd come in and a faint smile came over his face. He was going to greet her, but then he was wracked by another bout of coughing which drew him to her attention almost immediately.
"Oh, John." As soon as she heard the coughing, she'd looked over, and upon seeing him Charlotte had rushed to his side. She left a couple of dollars on the table in thanks, pulling him outside and grabbing the picnic blanket from the trunk of her car to throw over him as she bundled him in. Might be best to take him to a hospital, but then she had been a trauma nurse for years - Charlotte knew how to care for the sick and injured. It had only been after her husband's death that she'd joined the police force.
She could remember how warm he'd been as he leaned against her, exhausted from putting out the fire those months ago. The fact that he was shivering now worried her.
"You should have called me sooner. Come on, let's get you home."
"Didn't want to trouble you," he said, his eyes bright with fever, but he still managed to smile weakly at her. He wrapped the blanket around himself gratefully. It wasn't a natural condition for him to feel cold, but right now he was chilled to the marrow.
The journey back to her apartment didn't take long and she left him sitting on the sofa whilst she went to run a bath for him, a cup of coffee in his hands and the biggest slice of chocolate cake he'd ever seen on a plate in front of him.
He felt the eyes of both an old woman and a kid on him and felt incredibly self conscious.
"Um...hello," he hazarded, anxiously.
Timmy was sitting next to John asking him questions when Charlotte returned, and his grandmother was looking at the young mutant with suspicion.
"This is Timmy, though I'm sure he's already told you that. And this is his Grandma." Charlotte shoo-ed the old woman into the kitchen before she could start.
"You can stay here as long as you like. Bath's run, you'll be sleeping out here but no-one will bother you." It seemed obvious that John hadn't called Xavier's yet. "I've got some of my husband's clothes still, they might be a bit big but it'll be better than nothing." Actually, it was pretty much guaranteed that they'd be too big - though her late husband had only been a couple of inches taller than John, he was about twice his size. Definitely a better option than getting back into dirty clothes, though - as soon as he'd changed she'd put a wash on.
"Thanks," he said, disappearing gratefully into the bathroom and the absolute luxury of a hot bath. A nice young receptionist at a hotel allowed him to sneak in and use showers occasionally, but he'd not just lain in a hot bath and soaked for...
He didn't care to start counting.
John closed his eyes and tried to relax, tried to ignore the burning of the illness in his lungs and appreciate the moment. He hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep in the bath until the insistent knocking at the door woke him up.
It wasn't until the wash finished and dinner was on the stove that Charlotte started to worry about John. The bath was nice and warm, but over time it would cool down, and that wouldn't be much good for his illness. She'd decided that they were all having soup - not knowing exactly what was wrong, she couldn't tell if he was contagious or not, but it would do them all good to get something hot into their bellies either way.
"John?" She was knocking insistently. "Dinner's almost ready, are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, getting out of the bath and wrapping himself in a towel - a warm, fluffy towel. So warm, so fluffy, so white that he almost wept. He glanced only briefly at the caked filth in the bath. When the water had run out he scrubbed at the tide mark with the conscientious sense of responsibility that had been instilled into him at the home - and by the last foster mother he had had.
Charlotte had given him a dressing gown and pair of pyjamas to get into, all of which were too big, but clean and very welcome. He came out of the bathroom, his dark hair sticking up in all directions where he'd towelled it looking like a completely different kid.
"Thank you," he said, again and rewarded her with a shy smile. "I'll only be here a day or two...I just felt..."
"You can stay as long as you want, John." The words were spoken softly. "And you're definitely going to stay here until you're better. Mind you, I used to be a nurse, so it might not take as long as some places." She gave him a warm smile.
They tended to eat reasonably early in the Jones household. With a grandmother and a disabled boy, the apartment wound down pretty early, and Charlotte was often left to herself for the evening. She'd made sure to cook more than enough in case John wanted seconds - most of the kids she dealt with from the streets didn't get to eat much, but it was possible he wouldn't want to eat much being sick.
He ate even less than she anticipated, pushing the bowl aside after only a few mouthfuls of soup and half a bread roll. "I'm sorry," he apologised again. "It tastes great, but..."
A quick glance at him told her all she needed to about how he was feeling. Several beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Thank god he'd seen fit to call her now. He was running such a high fever that another day - or more specifically, another night - on the street would probably have seen his inevitable death.
"I don't feel so well," he said, which illicited a fresh outbreak of complaint from the grandmother who started muttering about freeloading drug using no good brats. Normally, John would have simply ignored such comments, but she sounded so vehement.
"I should leave," he said, miserably. No matter where he went, nothing was working out for him. "I'll wait 'til my clothes are dry...if you could loan me the cash to sleep at the hostel tonight..."
"Ma!" Charlotte actually snapped at the old woman, which was unusual for her. Usually she could put up with it, but she wasn't letting John out of her sight while he was in a state like this.
"John, it's fine." She took his bowl, putting a cover of cling film over it so that he could heat it up when he wanted to have more.
"You come with me, we'll set up the sofa and get you settled. You're not going anywhere like this." She needed to take his temperature and get some cough syrup into him if he was going to get any rest that night. He obviously needed rest - life on the streets couldn't be easy.
His knees felt like jelly as she led him to the sofa and it was all he could do not to just sink to the floor. Little Timmy came with him, and slid his little hand into the older boy's and patted it gently with the other one.
Looking down, John squeezed the little boy's hand. "I don't want to make him sick too," said John in a small, unhappy voice. "I'm really sorry, Charlotte. I wouldn't have bothered you, but..."
Say it, John.
"...I was scared. I've never been this sick. I was scared."
Now that wasn't so hard, was it?
"It's no bother, John. I'm glad you called." From what she could tell about his condition, he had every reason to be afraid.
"I want to take your temperature, I have some cough medicine for you to drink if you can't sleep." She smiled down at Timmy, who was obviously doing his best to help. Charlotte didn't know if John was contagious or not, though, so she did agree that it might be best for her son to keep a distance.
"You go help Grandma finish her dinner and then I'll tuck you in, Tim-aroo." The pet name would no doubt embarrass him, but it was habit. She was at home, comfortable, didn't feel any reason to act differently around John.
Fussing around the sofa for a moment, Charlotte had it turned into a bed soon enough. Maybe not the most comfortable thing ever, but certainly better than nothing.
"You can watch TV if you like, I'm just going to go take care of the others, I'll be back in a few minutes."
She left him to his own devices for a little while, not paranoid about her knick-knacks as some people probably would have been. Charlotte wasn't like most people.
When she came back, he was laying on the sofa bed, still without pillows, sheets or blankets, and had fallen into a fitful doze. A hand to his head confirmed that he was burning up - but she remembered that he was pretty warm to start with. This was a different sort of heat, though: his skin was clammy to the touch.
He stirred at her touch on his head and his green eyes opened. He was half asleep and disoriented and had just started dreaming - as was evident from his next words.
"Mom?" he said. "Is it time to get up already?"
Shaking her head, Charlotte kept her face smooth even though she was worried.
"No, John, it's still night time." Everyone else was settled, thankfully, even her mother-in-law. John would be left to get a decent sleep tonight, though Timmy might wake him up early without realising that he was being a bother.
She pulled the pillows out from under her arm, fluffing them a little. "Here, I want you to put this under your arm." The digital thermometer would give her some idea, even though she was sure his normal body temperature was higher than usual.
He felt as weak as a day-old kitten, the 'flu taking full hold of him by now, but with effort, he got the thermometer in place and sat, shivering, as she made up the bed.
The reading on the thermometer was ridiculously high; the kind of temperature that would have probably seen a human in a comatose state - but then John was not fully human, but a mutant. Who knew how his system functioned differently? What was a crazy temperature to her might only be a slight increase to him.
Either way, it was clear that he was pretty sick - but she would have to trust to his mutation to keep his temperature from getting any higher.
He was sitting in the armchair, his eyes closed, his breathing light and shallow when she turned round. He looked so young when he was at repose, so different to how he seemed when he was awake. All the cynicism and bitterness was smoothed out whilst he was asleep.
A soft word from her woke him up and he gave her a vague smile.
Though his fever was dangerously high in regular terms, it was hard to know whether that was dangerously high for him or not. Little she could do for him without knowing, but she still wanted to get some cough syrup into him and let him sleep. If it was just a bad flu, there was nothing she could do for him - he'd get better with time, and putting a roof over his head was already a step in the right direction. If it had developed into an infection, though, she might be able to get some antibiotics into him to help his immune system fight.
"Alright, drink this and sleep. If you need anything in the night, my room is down the hall, I'll leave the door open a little. The bathroom has a nightlight for Timmy, so you should be able to find that - but don't hesitate to come and get me." She tried to impress the fact that it was no trouble upon him with her tone - she'd probably get up to check on him anyway.
She was woken at about four in the morning by the sound of retching from the bathroom. As a mother, her instinct for sickness in the house had woken her seconds before it started.
The bathroom door was open and John was sat by the toilet, his hair soaked in sweat, wiping at his mouth with a shaking hand. He looked up as she entered and gave her a weak smile.
"I think I'm feeling a bit better," he said. "You know how making yourself sick makes you feel better?"
A silence.
"I haven't said this in years," he said, in voice so quiet she barely heard it. "But I want my mother."
Oh, that feeling when you were sick and you needed your mother with you.
"Oh, John." She ducked over to the sink and ran a washcloth under the sink for him.
She'd read his file, she knew that he'd been taken from his mother when he was only young. Drug addict, from memory, but that didn't mean that she wasn't clean now.
"I can help you find her." It probably wasn't what he meant, but she still felt the need to offer. Kneeling down and handing him the washcloth, Charlotte brushed John's hair back from his face. She took the opportunity to feel his forehead with her wrist, though it was hard to tell whether he was still as hot as before. She'd take his temperature again in the morning.
"It's going to be alright, John."
"No, it's OK." He took the cloth and wiped at his face. "I don't really care. If she wanted me back, she'd have come looking for me, right?"
He had so few memories of his mother. He knew that she'd loved him, once. He had a distinct recollection of being held in the circle of her arms as they'd entered the United States on the flight from Australia, but he could barely even recall her face now.
With Charlotte's patient help and ministrations, he got back to bed and fell asleep again swiftly. She took advantage of his slumber to take his temperature again and was relieved to note that it had, in fact started to come down again.
She watched him for a few minutes to make sure that he was sleeping soundly.
Apparently his fever had started to break, though he was still far too warm to be considered healthy by normal human standards. She couldn't help but think of the way he'd stopped that fire. And the way he'd lit it in the first place. He was a dangerous young man to open your home to, but for some reason Charlotte trusted him. Whether it would come back to bite her or not was a worry for another day - right now all Charlotte was thinking of was John's wellbeing.
Continues here.
