A/N: This is a prequel to my story Remembrance of Things Past, and thus sort of a sequel to ToritC198's perfect reimagining of X Men: First Class, 'When an Unstoppable Force Meets an Immovable Optimist' (all the props, this is now more canon to me than canon is!). I have separated it out because it's a bit explicit and slash-y and I don't want to make my main story unenjoyable for people who don't dig that sort of thing. However, I do think it compliments the main story, as fanfics don't often address how Charles's disability would impact on his life beyond the obvious, particularly his relationship with Erik. I am trying to be realistic about the limitations they might face, whilst still believing that two resourceful people, very much in love, could surely find a way to... make things work. Enjoy!

Erik stood outside Charles's bedroom door, staring at it as if trying to bore through the antique oak with his eyes, to see if Charles was awake too; if his nights had been rent, as Erik's had these past two weeks, by dreams that left him shaken and bereft of sleep.

The dreams were of two sorts. In the first, Erik found himself again on the sub on that Cuban beach, using his power to drive the coin through Sebastian Shaw's brain. He felt again that savage elation, which turned into horror as the face of Shaw turned into that of Charles, as that unholy scream came out of Charles's mouth.

The other dreams were worse, however, took him back beyond Cuba to the night before that dreadful day – the night Charles had professed his love; the night he had held Erik in his arms, and given himself up utterly. The night the Erik had known every part of his perfect, pale body, and at the last, had known what it was to feel home.

The beauty of these dreams was agony. Erik would wake with a hard ache in his groin, and a savage yearning in his heart worse than any hunger he had ever known.

He and Charles hadn't shared a bed since that first night. When Charles had come home from the hospital, after two months of rehabilitation, he had been so exhausted Erik hadn't made too much of the fact that he would go up to bed without inviting Erik, either openly or mentally. Erik had thought he'd understood. By day, Charles was still kind, affectionate, and all seemed to be as it had been between them before the fight with Shaw. But as the days turned into weeks, and still they slept in separate rooms, uneasiness had crept into his heart.

Charles had said that he understood why Erik had killed Shaw, had accepted Erik's apology for the pain he had caused Charles by so doing, and had insisted Erik was not to blame for Charles's maiming. Erik knew that he had meant it – at the time, in hospital, probably whilst still in shock. But as time went on, as the reality of Charles's condition was borne in upon him, as he brooded on how it all had come about, how, even with the best will in the world, could he fail to become bitter, to blame?

Erik knew, whatever Charles might have said, that it was all his fault. He was the reason Charles was paralyzed, as surely as if he had fired the gun himself. He knew better than anyone how good Charles was, how ready to forgive, to see the best in anyone. But surely even he would find that in the end, he couldn't look on Erik without seeing the face of a murderer, the instrument of his own undoing.

So Erik spent his days in misery and guilt, his nights in desolation. Finally, two weeks after Charles had come home, he had found himself standing outside Charles's door in dead of night, burning with self-hatred and desire, remembering when he had stood just like this months before, gripped by Charles's nightmares. Now, I am the nightmare, he thought. Whatever Kurt or Kain Marco had done to Charles, they never broke him the way Erik had done.

He rested his forehead against the door, unable to quell the longing that rose up in him, threatened to burst out in an ignominious sob. He knew that he was utterly unworthy; but still his selfish soul cried out to be let in, to be forgiven, to be loved.

My love.

His head jerked up. Had his own yearning conjured up the voice that he most wanted to hear? But no; he felt unmistakably Charles's presence in his mind, tentative but utterly real.

My love, come in. I've been waiting for you.

Before Erik could stop himself, the memory of their bodies entwined flashed into his mind, and a sharp blade of desire cut through him. Charles's thoughts answered, velvet with desire.

Yes, yes my love, I want that too. I'm burning, Erik, I have been ever since that night…

Erik was through the door in one long stride, heard it slam shut behind him. Charles was sitting up in the big bed, his pale torso etched in moonlight. He had reached out, his blue eyes bottomless with love. Erik was in his arms without quite knowing how, responding to his hungry kisses with a desperation that contained no small measure of relief.

Charles's hands seemed to be everywhere – in Erik's hair, running over his chest, dipping down under the waistband of his pants where he found Erik strainingly hard. With a strangled moan, Erik pulled him down onto the bed, pushing aside the coverlet impatiently – then stopped, brought up short by the sight of Charles's splayed, numb legs, and the obvious evidence that Charles did not share – could not share – his passion.

Erik sank back in growing horror, his own erection sinking as he absorbed the full extent of everything he had taken from Charles. And of what they had lost.

"Erik?" Charles's voice, slurred with urgency, broke through his horror. Erik looked at his face, his confused, yearning expression. Wave upon wave of guilt slammed into the metal bender like a riptide, dragging him under, robbing him of speech. It was more than he could bear. He who had suffered so much and yet survived wasn't strong enough to bear witness the suffering of the man he loved. The suffering he'd caused.

Charles reached a hand out to him, but Erik sprang away from the caress as if it burned. He wasn't worthy of his lover's touch; he didn't deserve Charles's endless mercy.

Before he knew it, he was out the door, shutting his mind to Charles, on the almost panicked cry of Erik, WAIT- that rang out in his head as he ran down the hall, out of the mansion, through the grounds and onwards through the night, as far away as he could get from what he'd done.

Charles was in his study, entirely failing to read the piles of correspondence that were already flooding into the school, before the first term had even begun. He spent most of his days like this at the moment, sifting through application forms and enquiries from the bewildered parents of young mutants, tear-stained, angry or pleading letters from mutants themselves, and of course a goodly proportion of hate mail and threats.

Hank had offered to have these filtered out before the mail reached Charles's desk; but the telepath insisted on seeing them all, so that he could reach out to the sender's mind – either with Cerebro or with his own light mental touch – to make sure that the poisonous, bigoted ranting portended nothing more than a troubled mind, not an actual threat against their home.

He felt that he owed this service to his young charges; after all, it was only thanks to him (or rather, he and Erik – he pushed the errant thought firmly aside) that the world knew of mutants' existence. They were entitled to what protection he could afford them.

However, on this particular day – the worst he'd had since the moment the doctor had looked at him with pity in his eyes and told him he'd never walk again – even his devotion to his students wasn't enough to keep Charles focused on any task for more than a few minutes at a time. A letter hung listlessly from his hand as he stared out of the study window, beyond the grounds to where a satellite disc loomed over the rolling hills of Westchester. His fate was set into a frown as he tried to resist the pull of memory, to keep from playing the previous night over in his head for the hundredth time that day, and most of all to keep himself from reaching out for Erik's mind, to make him come back home, to make him love Charles again.

"Charles."

He spun around so sharply that he almost lost control of the chair, collided heavily with the desk. He swore under his breath, even as he sought to convince himself that Erik really was standing there in the doorway, hovering as if waiting for permission to enter – or a sign to flee.

Charles took a deep, shuddering breath. His own broken heart and hurt pride aside, the school would need Erik. And Erik, though he would probably die before he would admit it, needed the school. Charles had never been inside a mind so wounded, so orphaned, so desperately in need of a place to call home. Before fate had unmanned him, however, Charles had foolishly hoped that the place Erik would come to call home was him. He swallowed down his bitterness, forced a tight smile.

"I'm so glad you came back. We need you here. I want to assure you, I can leave what's passed between us in the past. I promise that I'll never force my unwanted attentions on you again-" he couldn't keep his mouth from twisting down as he indicated the chair – "not that I could, of course." He regretted the cynical remark as soon as it was out of his mouth. Erik's guarded expression cracked, and for a moment, he looked as if he'd been struck. Charles opened his mouth as if to call the words back; but as he did so, Erik seemed to make a decision. He quietly shut the door behind him, crossed the room, knelt beside Charles and began haltingly to speak.

"I'm not – good with words. I don't know how to make things come out right, the way you do. Feeling like this is all so new to me. I don't know what it is to need someone, to love someone. I don't know how to say the right things. Last night – when I realized what I have done to you – I knew I didn't have the words to make you understand how-" he drew a harsh breath in – "how sorry I am, how I would give up anything, even killing Shaw, even seeing you again, if it could give you back what I've destroyed. I couldn't say the words. I wasn't strong enough to bear the shame. And so I ran away; I was a coward; I let you down. And now I must beg your forgiveness for that, too."

All the while he spoke, Erik had kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Now he looked up, waiting for Charles's judgment. His jaw was set, as if ready to take a blow, but his eyes pleaded for understanding.

Charles smiled again – still weakly, but with less strain. "Erik, you don't owe me an apology. I chose to be there that day. I chose to side with you against Shaw. I chose to get between you and that bullet. I am living with the consequences of my own choices, not yours, my friend." He took a deep breath, and shut his eyes. "Please don't feel that you owe me – anything. I was kidding myself, thinking my new situation wouldn't change how you felt about us. I think I knew it had to, really, or why would I have put off confronting it for so long? God knows I wanted you to come to me much sooner than last night. I could have asked you any time; but I was too afraid you wouldn't want me now." Erik began to speak, but Charles cut him off, anxious to be understood. "I begrudge you nothing in this life, Erik, and I regret nothing. We had one night; that's all that was meant to be. One night like that is more than most people have in a lifetime."

Charles had shut his eyes, concentrating so hard on keeping his voice steady, on controlling his feelings, lest he accidentally project the grief he felt at saying this farewell to Erik. Now he opened them, and found himself looking right into Erik's hot grey eyes, suddenly only inches from his own. Erik grasped the arms of Charles's chair.

"You thought I ran because I – didn't want you?" Even if Charles hadn't have been a telepath, the metal bender's consternation would have been impossible to miss. The older man bowed his head, his grip tightening on the arms of the chair.

"How could you think that? Of course I want you. I've always wanted you; right from the moment you pulled me out of the sea. I came to you last night, even though I knew I had no right, because I wanted you so much I thought that I would die if I didn't." He tentatively closed his hands round Charles's wrists. "Nothing has changed for me, Charles. It never will. I love you, all of you, in every way. How could you not know that?" He looked at Charles, his bewilderment plain. Don't you know me? he asked, his eyes suddenly flashing fire.

Charles's eyes filled with tears as Erik's words finally undid the knot of shame and fear that had been tightening in him ever since he had realized it wasn't just the use of his legs he had lost. "I suppose I should have known that, my love. After all, I am a telepath. But I believe I may have needed to hear you say it. I'm so sorry, my friend. All this-" he gestured to the chair, his useless legs – "is as new to me as this-" he tentatively covered Erik's hands with his own – "is for you. I never had any reason to doubt my worth before, not really. I'm used to feeling – confident. And when you ran away last night, it made me feel what I've been trying so hard not to since this happened: broken; helpless; not – enough. Anymore."

Erik shook his head vehemently. Having apparently used up his small store of eloquence on his apology, he simply broadcast his feelings of love, of gratitude, of unworthiness to Charles, a balm for the younger man's lacerated pride. Out of the inchoate stream of emotion flowing off the metal bender, Charles picked out: You're everything, you're all I'll ever want. You're home.

Charles gave a soft laugh of pleasure and relief, and Erik answered with a small smile. On an impulse, Charles lowered the arms of his chair, pulled Erik to his feet and indicated his knees. The tall German quirked an eyebrow, but acquiesced, gingerly perching across his lover's lap. Charles wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer. "Don't worry," he whispered laughingly in Erik's ear. "I can't feel a thing."

They made an incongruous image – the rangy metal bender on the slightly-built telepath's knee, arms around each other, foreheads pressed together. Neither of them cared in the least. The breathed in the smell of each other, allowing the certainty to seep in that in spite of everything they had been through, in spite of all the challenges to come, they had not lost each other after all.

Eventually, Erik spoke softly.

"Charles, can we talk about it?" An involuntary mental image of their abortive tryst the night before flashed from him to the telepath. Charles stiffened, but he nodded, relaxing as Erik's hand began to absently toy with his hair.

"It doesn't matter to me Charles. None of that ever has. There have only ever been a few women before you, and that was just for release now and then – they didn't mean anything to me, nor I to them. I don't want anything we can't share together; we had our night, and that was more than – than anything. I don't need anything else."

Charles pressed his face into his lover's chest, but shook his head.

"Don't feel like you have to make promises to me, Erik. Love is a tricky thing, you know. You've spent your whole life avoiding it, knowing only that it had brought you pain. But I know it well, I'm afraid, and once you let it into one corner of your heart, you'll find it popping up like knotweed, in the most surprising places. One day, you may want to experience that sort of closeness with somebody else. And even leaving love aside, the pleasures of the flesh are powerful; the need for them can be compelling. I wouldn't want you to live a life of denial out of love for me.

"I'm not a jealous person by nature. I've never been in love like this before-" here Charles reached up and cupped Erik's cheek fondly in his hand – "so I don't really know how I'd feel if you sought comfort or release like that with someone else. But I hope that I could find it in myself to be happy for you."

Erik softly placed a hand over Charles's mouth and, pressing his own lips to the back of his hand, stared into his lover's eyes.

Never.

Erik pressed the word firmly into Charles's mind, so that the younger man would know that he meant what he said. Charles shut his eyes, kissed Erik's palm, then gently pulled his hand away.

"Well be that as it may, I'm not resigned myself to a celibate partnership, where you tuck a rug around my legs and wheel me down the leafy lanes for the rest of our lives," Charles joked, putting enough tenderness into the words to remove the sting. A huskiness came into his voice as he continued. "You said before that you want me? Well just to be quite clear, I want you too – even if the old chap is refusing to play ball just at present." Erik looked up sharply.

"At present?" Charles nodded.

"I had noticed this before last night, you know, in the hospital. Definite disconnect between thought and action, particularly after your visits I may say." At this point, Charles snaked a hand up Erik's thigh and shot him an unquestionably smouldering look. Erik's breath caught in his throat, but he refused to be distracted from the topic under discussion.

"I asked Dr Aston about it, of course. He was prepared for that, sexual function being apparently a major preoccupation of the newly paralyzed." The telepath's voice, previously playful, had taken on a detached, clinical tone, one Erik recognized as that Charles used to tamp down on his emotions when talking about his new condition. Erik did his best to quell his own guilt and anger – the guilt because it would just upset Charles, the rage because where could it fall but back upon himself? Charles continued.

"The nerves controlling my legs were sliced neatly in two by the bullet – barring a miracle, I'll never walk again. However. I have retained control of other matters south of the beltline, sparing me the indignity of catheters, colostomies and – well, the less said about all of that the better. I'm in danger of damaging my allure." Erik just shook his head again, with the ghost of a smile. It seemed like it might take some time to really convince Charles that there was no aspect of his disability that could have any impact on Erik's love for him. Still, if it took a lifetime to persuade him of that fact, it was a lifetime Erik was happy to give.

"Anyway, it stands to reason that the relevant nerves are damaged, but not dead. The scans apparently show some bruising which may explain the current situation. He's confident that I may yet regain some sexual function, in time."

May. Some. In time. Neither of them said how thin a reed this was to hang their hopes on. Neither of them had to.

"In the meantime, however," his voice suddenly changing again, becoming hoarse as he trailed kisses along Erik's jaw, "I'm not prepared to simply watch and wait. I've been waiting all my life for you, Mr. Lensherr, and I want you. Now."

While he had been speaking, Charles's hand had been conducting a leisurely exploration of his lover's thigh. Now he found what he had been looking for. Erik gasped, bucked on Charles's lap, as a keen flash of pleasure cut through him. He knew he should stop this, that it wasn't fair to start down this road that could go nowhere for Charles. But he'd waited so long, yearned so much for this, for Charles to touch him like he had the night before the mission in Cuba, for the rest of the world to cease to exist. He closed his eyes and shuddered as skillfully eased him out of his pants, began to stroke him slowly. Pleasure bloomed like a fire that consumed his whole body. Charles claimed his mouth in a hot, demanding kiss, and Erik gave a groan that was part pleasure, part frustration, part despair.

"Does that feel good, my love?" Charles whispered, quickening his stroke, and Erik convulsed, almost whimpered:

"Yesss…"

Suddenly Charles stopped, looked Erik in the eye, and raised his other hand to Erik's face, an eyebrow raised questioningly – asking if he could look into Erik's mind.

Erik's thoughts were always open to Charles, and so he knew that he was asking for something more than just the connection that they shared as a matter of course. He nodded slowly, holding Charles's gaze as the telepath reached into his mind and then – slowly – resumed his caresses.

The pleasure juddered through Erik, and Charles – joined to his mind – felt it as well. And Erik felt him feel it. The amplification tipped the feeling over to a level of intensity that was almost painful for both of them. Their joined minds created a feedback loop where every touch was magnified infinitely, weaving an urgent web of pleasure that tightened around them as Charles desperately increased the pace, stopping only when Erik gave a hoarse cry and almost blacked out.

When he returned to himself, Erik found that at some point the had both fallen on the floor. He was clutching Charles's sweat-soaked shirt, and both of them were breathing hard. A look of star struck wonder filled Charles's unreasonably bright blue eyes, as he pushed his tousled hair out of his face.

"My word. I had no idea that it would be like that. I never-" Erik stopped his next words with a lingering kiss, trying in that moment to convey what he felt: an aching desire undiminished by its fulfillment, a closeness never to be equaled, and a tender awe so powerful it almost frightened him. How could all this be real? How could he have been snatched from his destiny of hate and pain and death to be loved by this man?

Charles lay back on the carpet, a look of uncomplicated bliss on his face. Erik didn't need to be a telepath to sense his satisfaction. Erik curled up beside his lover, and felt an alien emotion – hope – strike a treacherous spark within his heart. Perhaps he could still help restore to Charles a fraction of what had been stolen from him. Indeed, what had been lost had opened up a new intimacy to both of them, one like nobody else would ever know. Perhaps – just perhaps – they could make this work, in a different way.

"Be careful, my love," murmured Charles sleepily. "For you, that sounded dangerously close to optimism."

Erik snorted, wrapped Charles in a bear hug, and then gave in to the wave of sated sleep that was sweeping him in. He knew that he would not dream this time of death, or pain. That Charles would keep all his nightmares at bay.