A.N. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed any of my stories. Any and all feedback is appreciated (including flames—they let me know what I'm not doing right). As usual, none of this belongs to me.
He hated it. Every moment of the day, Charles was reminded of what he had lost. He was reminded as he saw the elevators being installed, as he oversaw the bathroom renovations, as he bought a new bed, because the one he had slept in since he was a teenager was too big, and there was no room to pull his wheelchair up beside it. It was rough. Charles felt like crying as he was forced to call to Hank, because he had fallen out of his chair and couldn't move. He wanted to throw a temper tantrum as Moria helped him dress in the morning (the humiliation had made wiping her mind later a little bit easier). He actually found himself staring lethargically at the stairs one day, wishing for the first time that he could climb them—even though he had always complained about their length.
On these days, he felt like blaming people. Sometimes he blamed Moria. If Moria had let Charles talk Erik down from his rage, if she hadn't insisted on shooting at him like a bloody Neanderthal, then maybe Charles wouldn't have to sit in the garden and just watch the game of soccer that was going on. Sometimes Erik gains Charles' wrath. After all, it was his determination to get revenge on everyone for the past that had led them to that faithful day in Cuba. And God knows Charles didn't want Erik to have been shot, but if he had deflected it in a different direction, or frozen it, or crumpled it like the tin cans that Erik used for target practice, then maybe Charles would be able to join the rest of the family as Banshee tries out his new-and-improved 'wings' from the roof of the mansion. But most of the time, Charles blames himself. If he had adjusted Erik's mind to let him forgive, if he had frozen him before he put on the helmet, if he hadn't opened his big, fat mouth and made the matter unbelievably worse… then maybe he would be able to do everything that he had took for granted. Running, jumping, swimming, playing games with the boys. It was all gone.
On these days, Charles hates his condition. But when night falls, he finds his own way to cope. In the darkness, he reaches out with his mind for someone who's awake, and he slips into their thoughts. He never manipulates them, or makes them move. He just rests in their mind, and enjoys the feeling of movement. He dances in bars, with pounding movement and flashing lights making the world seem like a carnival. He runs along winding roads, appreciating the burn and feeling air gasp through his lungs. He swims in the lakes, paddles out along the streams on a midnight voyage, dances with a lover under a sea of fairy lights… Charles cherishes each of these moments, maybe even more than the person who is experiencing them first-hand. These movements return Charles' legs to him. These moments give him the strength and courage to face the dawn of the new day. These moments give Charles life.