Charles is aware you're nauseas before you are. In the seconds it takes him to put together the phrase are you alright, it hits you though, and then there is bile and half digested food on the floor. They're a lovely hard wood, and the only thing to truly mourn is that they'll need to be cleaned. It's better than something like carpet, my love is what he presses into your mind before verbally calling in Scott.
And he's right, and you know that; carpet is fabric, and the puke would soak into it before Scott could even arrive. You're leaning against Charles' chair when he does. Not properly—you do not put your full weight on it. Just enough to remind your body that the ground is not an option. Just a hand against it and a small sway toward it, to remind yourself of what stability probably feels like.
Are you alright is the same thing Scott asks, and your response of I don't know inspires little confidence. This time when the world tries to fall out from under you, Charles is already saying something about it to Scott. One moment, you seem to blink and have all the lights go out. The next, you open your eyes, and Scott is shuffling you into Charles' lap.
"The upper weight limit is well and above what the two of us weigh," was what Charles was telling Scott as you actually regained consciousness. "He can sit here while we wait for Logan to come to carry him. You worry too much."
An attempt to talk goes poorly on your part, a slurry of unformed words coming out as a sickly moan.
"If you say so, professor." And like that, Scott is back to finishing up with the floor. The slight crinkling of his nose is the only indicator he is disgusted at all by what he's mopping up. Before you can comment though, he's turned away.
"Why does Logan have to carry me," and you ask it as if you didn't vomit and then faint.
Charles puts on a soft tone as he replies—"you're ill, love."
"Oh."
