It hadn't been easy. Even now, inside this new body, he's not sure how, exactly, he'd done it. He knows he'll never be able to explain it. He's fairly certain, even if he did know how, there aren't enough words to describe it.

He spends the first few hours acclimating to his new body. The muscles are weak, atrophied, but he can feel his legs. In time, he knows he will be able to walk. He twitches his toes, and at the bottom of his vision, can see the sheet move. He goes into himself, a little more, aware of his heartbeat, the slow, steady rhythm. It's his, but at the same time, it isn't. It's strange how he's never thought that heartbeats might be as unique as fingerprints. That the muscles and valves and nerves might work just a little differently in each body.

When his eyes open, he becomes aware that the body he is in has imperfect vision. He'll need glasses. Perhaps contacts. His nostrils flare, inhaling the oxygen streaming in from the mask covering his nose and mouth. He makes an effort to control his breathing ... drawing deep breaths, then shallow ones. The simple exercise taxes the body unused to doing anything on its own.

He licks his lips, unsurprised to find his mouth nearly as dry as his lips. It is slightly uncomfortable, but a trivality compared to what he knows will come in the future. Once he wakes up, and begins using muscles that have lain dormant.

He flexes his fingers, to see if he can, and is pleased when they curl into a fist at his command. He relaxes them, and listens. The soft whirr of the machines. The steady, nearly subaudible beep of the heart monitor. The whish ... whoosh of the oxygen pump. Then, distant but growing louder, the sound of footsteps. The door opens, and he gathers the strength he knows he'll need for the next step.

"Hello." Her voice is distracted, but it's still her voice. He can hear the edge of sorrow beneath it, and only then does he wonder how long its been. Time has no meaning on the psychic plane. Has he been gone an hour? A day? Week? Month? Year? He doesn't know. His eyes track her motions, and when she settles at the computer, brows furrowing in confusion, he speaks quietly. "Hello, Moira."

The voice is his, now, only because he made it his - he needs her to know it is him.

She does. She looks up, confused expression shifting to shocked, before she murmurs, incredulous: "Charles?"

He wishes he could answer, but what he's done already today has greatly drained the limited resources his new body had stored. So he relaxes, closes his eyes, and whispers into her mind. Yes, Moira. I'm here.