If Erik reads Charles' body language now and finds pity in it or those damnably blue eyes, he's probably going to end up melting together all the metal on his uniform, so his nod is spare, stance loping and more loose than the taut span of his thoughts indicates. Charles knows better, but Erik needs the facade sometimes, and there's a rough note of gratitude floating somewhere high up in that awareness.

"Should be livable," he shrugs, hazarding "however temporarily," with arched brow. To admit that this may be permanent is untenable, so temporary it stays. He braces one hand on the pillar of the back porch (he's standing above the steps, hasn't even really come down into the garden) and lets air out through his nose, considering. "If nothing else we won't have to spend the evening in leather and spandex. Although the man of the house was rather taller than you, and more broad. You may be obliged to tighten your belt."

Those are almost jokes, or at least they're wry, and maybe that's part of Erik's keeping his shields up too, but then they have been present for so long he barely knows what's underneath anymore. He beckons Charles into the house with one curled hand, stepping back toward the porch door that leads into the kitchen.