"It’s a power outage, not the apocalypse," Charles said. "Calm down."
His companion turned to look at him. His silhouette in the dark was even more attractive than his face had been in the afternoon light earlier that day. (Granted, Charles hadn’t seen another living person for months before this, but Erik would have been his type whether or not they were the last two people on earth. Or at least Westchester county.)
"Was that a joke?" Erik demanded, sounding not so much annoyed as—what was that emotion? It seemed telling one emotion from the other was a more difficult process when he hadn’t had anyone’s mind to read in so long—amazed that anyone could joke about this.
"Yes," Charles said, "and it was hilarious, if I say so myself. Which I do."
Erik was barely listening. Charles strained to listen to his thoughts, the conclusion Erik was already reaching—that without power, they couldn’t stay here, that this huge mansion was barely defensible now, never mind when the fences were off.
"Oh, don’t be ridiculous. We don’t have to go anywhere. We just need to turn the generator back on."
"Where is that?" Erik asked, pulling a weapon out of his belt and leaning down for another out of his bag.
"At the back of the house." Charles wheeled over to the shelf on which he kept most of his arsenal. The bazooka he’d used to rescue Erik earlier would be a little much now, he decided. Instead, he’d bring the Colt, and the bayonet, just in case. "Follow me—and watch yourself. Sometimes they get in."