Atlas, undignified, snorts. "What's Mom gonna do about it." They'll be lucky if she even knows they're coming home early before they show up at the door, and he thinks they both know that. But it's okay. He doesn't need their mom, or anyone. He's fine. His stuff is probably fine. He takes out his wand and waves it around to prove it. "Did you? Did you get hurt? Did they fix you? Did you hold still?"

This is a barrage of questions purposely meant to be annoying, but Atlas is betrayed by the fact that he really doesn't know, and he really does look worried. He just has to yap out all his nervous energy by being aggressive; he is occasionally a chihuahua shaped like a boy. His face falls, a little, with the quieter question he probably should've asked instead of the other ten. "...You're really ok?"