The year is 1851. After the accident that took place not long ago, causing Charlie to lose his right arm, he had become incredibly mopey and a bit more snappy. He was determined to do things himself, no matter the struggle he seemed to have sometimes. His persistence was admirable, but equally as infuriating at times.

The light filtered into his bedroom, casting warm glows across the wooden flooring as he sat at his vanity, trying to cut his beard with his non-dominant hand — Which was proving very difficult — He would utter small curses under his breath whenever his old straight edged razor knicked his skin.

You had been leaning against the wall beside the threshold for a while, watching him with a subtle raised brow, with a soft sigh, you make your presence known with a small knock. His head perked, meeting your gaze in the mirror, "What?" He said simply, non-confrontational, but blunt.