Work Text:
It was time for the post. The House did not like the post, because it had to admit the postman onto the Grounds, and open the door to him. But the Master was rather adamant that the post was important, so the House put up with it, keeping a sharp eye on the intruder the whole time.
The Mate also liked the post, and came zinging carelessly through the House when he heard the bell. The House often had to move furniture and even doorways aside so the Mate wouldn’t crash into them, but somehow this did not annoy the House as much as it would have predicted. The Mate liked newspapers and periodicals, and letters from his friends, who were far away.
There was a letter for the Mate today; the House thought he would be happy to get it. But when the Mate saw the writing he became anxious, and opened the envelope reluctantly. When he read the contents he became faint, and the House moved a chair beneath him and read the note itself. Apparently, his Parents were coming to visit, and the Mate was not happy about this.
Tassels on the chair pillow stroked the Mate, the way the Master did when he was upset. “Oh, cheers,” the Mate acknowledged dully. “It’s just… my parents… well, my stepfather…”
The Mate was frightened. The House did not like that. Why should the Mate be frightened, when the House would protect him? Parents or not, the House would not admit anyone who frightened its Family. The front door was already shut and locked, but the House tried to convey this sentiment by further barring it with two battle axes, borne by suits of armor on either side of the door.
The Mate jumped at the noise, but seemed to get the message (the Mate was often better at this than the Master now). “Thank you,” he said with a thin smile, “but I don’t think we can keep them out.” The House would just see about that. “I’d better go tell Erik.”
**
Erik was in his studio, working on a new sculpture. He hadn’t been interested in it for a while, but Charles’s vivid imagination had inspired him. He had an advantage other artists did not, which was that he could tap into the house’s supernatural abilities to manipulate the metal pieces just so, bending and affixing them in ways he had only dreamed of when working in other locations. He kept meaning to ask Charles if he found that writing his stories was also enhanced somehow here.
There was a knock on the door and Erik looked up to see Charles in the doorway, but his smile died when he saw the Omega’s troubled expression. “What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.
“I got this letter—“ Charles began, but he didn’t get far before he was abruptly rolled up in an old quilt and stashed beneath Erik’s work table. At the same time the door to the studio slammed and locked, and the shutters clamped themselves over the windows, dimming the light considerably.
“What the h—l?” Erik demanded. “Charles, are you alright?” He crouched down but couldn’t actually see into the darkness under the table.
“Yes, I’m alright, Erik,” Charles assured him. “I think the house is just trying to protect me—“
“Protect you? From what?” Erik straightened up and banged his head on the table—he rated no protection from that, apparently—and added peevishly, “Could we get some light in here, please?”
The lights came up but the house began to wail and moan, like there was an approaching storm. The day had been clear the last time Erik checked.
“Protect you from what, Charles?” he repeated in concern, but then there was a frantic pounding on the door.
“Erik! Erik, something’s wrong with the house!” Emma called. “Have you seen Charles?”
“Let Emma in,” Erik ordered, and the door grudgingly opened to admit her, locking fast again afterwards. “Charles is here,” he informed her, gesturing vaguely under the table. “Would you stop the bloody racket!” he shouted, and the house quieted, sullenly. “If there’s something bad out there, it’s easy, don’t let it on the property.” They never got annoying salesman or pushy charity collectors, at least.
“What’s out there?” Emma wanted to know. “Why is Charles under the table? Are you alright?”
“Yes, thank you, Emma,” Charles answered politely, his voice echoing slightly. “How are you?”
Erik huffed at this absurdity. “Let Charles out from under there,” he insisted, and the bundle scooted out feet-first, allowing Charles to finally pop his head up. “What is going on?”
“The house seems very upset on my behalf,” Charles explained, “which is quite sweet of it, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I got this letter today—“ He managed to work his arm out and give the letter to Erik, before being quickly swaddled again.
Erik skipped to the end. “It’s from your mother,” he noted with some distaste. “What did she say?” Emma took one of the pages, helping him skim it.
“She and my stepfather want to come visit,” Charles relayed bleakly. “Perhaps for Christmas.”
“That’s not happening,” Erik stated immediately, then glanced down at Charles. “Er, did you want them to come?” he checked.
“Well, I don’t see how to avoid it,” Charles sighed.
“You avoid it by saying no,” Erik pointed out. Erik was very good at saying no to people.
“Oh, but I couldn’t,” Charles countered.
“Well, I will, then,” Erik offered, not seeing the problem.
“Here it is,” Emma said, finding the lines in question. “’We think it would be lovely to spend Christmas with you at Ironwood Hall.’”
“Unfortunately, that will not be possible,” Erik replied, as if dictating, “as I will be spending the holiday with my real family who actually give a d—n about me. Perfect. Sign it, send it.”
“Don’t send it,” Emma countered, prudently. “Not that it isn’t true,” she added hastily to Charles, who was beaming warmly at them, “but it’s not very diplomatic.”