Erik's own thoughts have drifted a little; he's mostly thinking about how to make the remains of dinner more palatable, and also where to ....hide the rest of their food so no one else will get to it, the latter less conscious than the former. But he notices when Charles' gazes hones in on him, and presses a napkin to the line of his upper lip in considering the question. (Yes, he found napkins. Being civilized in such a place feels--strange, like he's regressing back into that ravaged twenty year old, all raggedy hair and hollow pale eyes, the boy who would eat anything that was thrown to him. That person might as well be dead, as far as Erik is concerned; he refuses to be that again, and so they have napkins, and neatly set silverware in the correct lines.)

"You collect strays with such avidity, why not?"

As he ...plucks the very words from Charles' head. Sometimes that just happens, especially since 'strays' is the least charitable word Erik can think of in the moment for their rag-tag bunch of marvels. He'd never gotten the chance to see most of them perform as soldiers, not after Banshee had jumped out of the jet, and the hot flash of anger that induces nearly surprises him. He feels--what, he feels cheated? Not to see what those lost children had become? When they'd started out at this endeavor, he hadn't cared what would become of any of them, and he wonders how that changed so quickly without his notice.

But then he knows the answer to that, or at least part of it--Charles. Charles, who cares with such wide capacity it's as if he's never had his heart broken, never been disappointed in the weaknesses of men. "I think you could do anything."

He says that ....so casually, with the simple grace of belief in gravity. Charles could do anything he wanted to do. "It's certainly more likely than putting my medical skills to work. I can stitch a wound or put on a tourniquet, but I've been told my bedside manner lacks charm."