"Christ Almighty."

"Language."

The clipped reprimand catches Charles by surprise as he attempts to clear the thick, felty lining of alcohol from his throat. How much did he drink last night? Enough to feel like he'd also swallowed an entire beach's worth of sand, clearly. And the headache—.

"I thought we were past mother's favourite coping mechanism."

What?

Just who was this snarky arsehole passing judgement on Charles' habits, and his mother, as if they knew anything about him?

"That's quite eno—."

Charles' retort is cut short as he forces open his strained eyes only to immediately meet a gaze just as blue as his own frowning back.

The eyes, the nose, the little-mid-century-gent haircut - Charles knew this particular arsehole very well.

He was that arsehole. Had been that arsehole, too, back when he was thirteen, and more than a little overwhelmed with his circumstances.

"You aren't really awake yet, obviously, so I thought I'd drop by for a chat. I would've sent that alcoholic twat in the ugly shirt, but I do hate being around him. You know at least thirty percent of his thoughts revolve around suicide and another thirty percent are dedicated solely to locating scotch. I don't care to hear the rest."

Charles' snooty miniature perches delicately on the edge of a brocade sofa, one which the Professor recognises from his own study. His anxious eyes watch as the elder Charles groggily pulls himself up into a seated position with some difficulty, his limbs heavy with intoxication and regret. Mini-Charles waits, expectant and visibly nervous.

"So? What happened this time? Perhaps I can help."

Charles suppresses a sigh. "You're much too young to be involved in that conversation."

"And you're much too old to be behaving like this, but here we are."

Ouch.

Mini-Charles shifts uncomfortably in the wake of his (fair but somewhat mean) statement, before opting to take a gentler approach.

"Talk to me, you've found me out for a reason. I want to help us. Let me help."

There's a lengthy pause, one which Charles uses to gather his thoughts and clear his throat once more, futile as it is. He drags a shaky hand over his face until he feels somewhat composed enough to look his younger self in the eye.

"You're me, you have access to our memories. You know what's happened. I'd rather you didn't embarrass me any further by making me repeat it."