Author's Note: Apologies for not posting a chapter on Friday. That day turned out completely hectic, as did the rest of the weekend. But it was a good sort of hectic.

As always, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, particularly as it begins to deal with something all of you have been anticipating. ~lg

~oOo~

Day One of college was always stressful to students. Anne clearly remembered her own arrival at Oxford, how she'd struggled to understand everything while she hoped she didn't look like the nouveau riche American who thought she could waltz into a British university and take her place among them. That her father was a British expatriate and had also graduated Oxford did her a slight bit of good, but she had still wrestled with being accepted. Then, she met Franklin and Charles, both men having a profound impact on her life.

Only one of them still influenced her, though the other still managed to intrude from time to time. This morning, she rose early, making tea and then slipping upstairs to dress. She'd chosen another long skirt, this one white with orange, pink, red, and yellow flowers climbing one side, a matching orange top, and a brown blazer to match the leaves on the skirt. It was modern and pretty and made her smile to see it. The orange top fit much like her red dress, so she chose to cover her shoulders with the blazer and hoped to see that strange grin on Charles's face once she slipped it off. She'd seen that smile on other men's faces, usually when they either realized what she'd been or had hired her to be that woman. But, with Charles, it thrilled her while other men sickened her. She knew the difference and understood why. Charles saw her, and the effect her clothing had on him was born from more than mere physical desire.

Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she fastened the necklace he'd given her around her neck and smiled when it nestled perfectly into the V-neck of her blouse. Then, with her hair bouncing on her shoulders, she headed for the kitchen and breakfast.

Charles was waiting for her, a smile on his face that had nothing to do with the food or having slept well. He took a sip of his tea as she walked through the door and raised an eyebrow. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. Again." Anne reached for a plate and served her own breakfast. Class began somewhat early, the first one of the day for many students, and she knew Charles wanted to get to the college in time to settle into the room.

Hank and Alex appeared, too, both of them looking like they'd just awakened. Alex wore sweats and nodded on his way past. "Good luck, Professor."

Charles shook his head. "Thank you."

Hank fixed a cup of tea and turned to Anne. "You sure you want to do this? College is. . . ."

Anne laughed at the awkward look on his face, the only way she could avoid the panic that tightened her throat. "I went to Oxford, Hank. I remember my first day there. This can't be as bad."

"Right." Hank nodded and picked up the plate he had fixed. "Good luck."

Within the hour, Anne found herself behind the wheel of the car, watching Charles from the corner of her eye as he went over his lesson plans for the umpteenth time that morning. Then, when they arrived at the college, she found his reserved parking space near a ramp installed less than two years ago. Charles waited patiently for the small wheelchair he used in public, and then Anne handed him the brown leather briefcase he used to carry most of his paperwork.

Once inside, however, she took a moment to breathe. Charles hesitated in the doorway of the classroom, his expression thoughtful as he took in the atmosphere. The fall semester had just begun, and the room still smelled of disinfectant used by the janitorial staff. Anne waited patiently, knowing this moment was important. She followed him into the room and carefully moved to the desk. He would get there eventually.

While she waited, she took a few moments to pick her own spot. She knew Charles would need her help, but she hoped to slip to the back of the room and simply watch the other students. Their reactions to Charles would be just as important as the step he'd taken in coming here.

He chuckled, a sound that was both relieved and strained. "I wasn't certain coming here would. . . ." He turned to Anne. "I'm sorry, love. It's just that. . . ."

She nodded. "It's a big step, Charles. One you need to take."

"I know." He rolled over to the desk, taking a position behind it that made it look like he was just sitting there, not in a wheelchair. "But I worry."

"About what?"

He glanced up, not moving his head and choosing to simply focus on her with those intense blue eyes. "Students can be cruel."

The simple statement covered a wealth of meaning. Anne understood. When she first got off the streets, people weren't so accepting of her. They looked at her like the prostitute from down the road, expected her to act that way, and in general hinted at things in conversation that left her angry and ashamed. For Charles, it would be different, but no less emotional. "Can you handle the questions?"

He lifted his chin. "I need to." He met her eyes. "Can you?"

That was a good question. "I hope so."

"Good." He pointed to a chair near his desk, one that put her at the front of the room. "Would you mind staying there? At least initially. Passing out the syllabus is going to be the first thing to do, and. . . ."

Anne moved to the desk, putting a hand on his shoulder as she leaned against it. "Charles. Breathe. You'll do fine."

He nodded, his hands visibly shaking. And Anne knew why. Just as much as she was thrilled with his decision to teach, it had only been a couple of months since she came to work with him. He had made tremendous progress, but that progress did not undo years of isolation. Just being here had to be wearing on him in a way that Anne would never truly understand.

The door opened, and Anne straightened to move to the seat Charles had pointed out. She watched as the first student, a young man with longish hair and a tired expression, flopped into the seat furthest from the instructor's desk. Charles took a moment to study him and then gave Anne a tiny grin as if he knew exactly what the student was thinking. Looking at the kid, Anne had to agree. It didn't take much to know that he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

The other students arrived one at a time, carrying notebooks, textbooks, and backpacks. Rachel was among the last to appear. She gave Anne a friendly smile and included Charles in it, and Anne saw the genuine relief that flowed from him. At least he had one friendly face in the crowd.

Finally, at the appropriate time, Charles took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the desk. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is 'Introduction to Genetics.' If you have not signed up for this class, you may want to excuse yourself and find the correct classroom."

Anne watched the students carefully during this moment. As he'd spoken, Charles had wheeled himself away from the desk and into their full view. Rachel never responded, having known for some time that Charles was paralyzed. But the other reactions were interesting. Two students gathered their obviously different textbooks and scurried out the door while the majority straightened in their seats. Some looked at Charles with pity, but most seemed entirely curious and a few apathetic. The young man in the back of the room was unreadable.

Once the door closed after the two erroneous students, Charles smiled at the class. "My name is Charles Xavier. I graduated from Oxford University in 1962, and it is my pleasure to be here today. My lovely assistant, Anne Conrad, also attended Oxford and will be joining us for every class for obvious reasons." He nodded to her, and she stood distribute the syllabi. Charles continued, "Now, while Miss Conrad passes those out, I want to know why you chose to take this class."

Anne buried a grin at the way the announcement that both she and Charles were from such a prestigious university affected the students, as well as his way of leaning forward slightly in his chair. He hadn't moved much since revealing his disability, but he had managed to take control of the classroom with just a few words. Part of her was thankful he said she "attended" Oxford rather than graduating from Oxford. Either way, the students seemed to treat her with a bit more respect.

One young woman raised her hand, her voice timid as she spoke. "Um. . .what happened in January?"

Charles raised an eyebrow at her. "Could you be a bit more specific?"

She flushed. "Right. Sorry. Um. . .what happened at the White House in January?"

Charles nodded. "You mean when the mutant saved the President." At the numerous nods, he grinned. "That is part of what we will be discussing in this course. And, as I figured each of you would have questions about that incident, I plan to allow open discussion of mutation and all its effects on society as it relates to the study of genetics."

The young man in the back shifted in his seat. "Yeah, Prof, you seem pretty cool with all that."

Charles actually chuckled. "Because I was there." His announcement caused a slight commotion. "I saw what happened, though at the time, I was trapped under scaffolding. My point is, this subject is in our culture, and with mutants becoming known, it is important that we understand where they come from and why they exist."

"Is that when you were. . .uh. . ."

"Paralyzed?" Charles didn't hesitate to use the word. "No. I was injured shortly after I graduated, and that left me in this chair."

Another girl frowned at him. "So, you think because you know genetics that you can explain everything that happened at the White House?"

"No." Charles shook his head. "My thesis was on genetic mutation, and it was consulted heavily during January. As for explaining everything that happened at the White House, there is not much more than can be explained. The media has done a fair job of it already." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "In relation to this class, however, we will begin the study on genetics, and that leads us to the question of mutation. Why do some of you have blue eyes and others brown? What about hair color? Height? Weight? Why can one person write with their left hand while the rest of us use our right hand? All of these factors can be determined through genetics. And, in a portion of the population, these genes have mutated, creating individuals with powers such as the ability to control metal or to change their appearance."

And the class began. Anne sat in her chair, listening as Charles outlined his plans to begin helping the students understand the basic building blocks of humanity. He spoke with a strong preference for mutants while most of the class seemed a touch skeptical. But Anne smiled. No wonder Charles seemed to have no problem understanding and accepting what she'd done in the past. He had already been put in a position to accept something that, to most of the world, seemed impossible.

By the end of the hour, he looked absolutely worn out but incredibly content. Anne stayed in her seat, watching as most of the men in the room hurried out while laughing or greeting one another with slaps on the back. The girls grinned at Charles, several giving him looks that could only be labeled "seductive." Anne wanted to pull them aside and let them know that he was not interested in any of them, and she flushed when Charles caught her glare. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, his opinion on those particular girls obvious.

The young kid in the back of the room, however, stopped next to Charles's chair. "Thanks, Prof," he said quietly.

Charles narrowed his eyes slightly and then looked startled. "You're welcome."

Rachel was the last one to leave. She smiled at both of them. "Thanks for explaining everything, Professor."

Charles returned the smile, his tension easing out of his shoulders. "Don't worry about it, Rachel. And it's good to see you here."

Rachel glanced at Anne. "I figured I'd need to understand this subject soon, what with January's thing at the White House and all." She sobered slightly. "I didn't know you were there."

Anne couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. That tidbit had surprised her as well. "Neither did I," she said with a grin at Charles.

He looked from Rachel to her, his grin a bit sheepish. "I'm sorry, love, it just. . .didn't seem important at the time."

He was right, and Anne knew it. But she was curious. How had he escaped if he'd been buried under scaffolding? Had they brought in a crane to move it? Or had one of these mutants done so? If this mutant that could control metal had moved it, why? What connection did he have to Charles?

Rachel said goodbye, and Anne pushed away her questions to gather the bits of paper left scattered around the room. Charles shoved his material into his briefcase and set it on his lap while they headed for the door. Anne watched him leave, seeing the way his shoulders relaxed once he was out of the room. Falling into step with his chair while he carefully pushed through the students moving from class to class, she grinned at him. "So, how does it feel to be a professor again?"

Charles scoffed. "Don't say that." His expression fell a bit, and then he seemed to decide to move on. "Do say you'll have lunch with me."

Anne actually laughed at that, enjoying the hopeful glance he gave her. "I'll have lunch with you."

"Wonderful."

~oOo~

As Anne drove toward the restaurant that Charles had chosen, he sat back in the car and let out a deep breath. Class had drained him. He had heard every thought in the students' minds, from their pity to their questions to the way the young women looked at him in speculation. It had been everything he could do to stay in that room and keep the information flowing. Over the hour, however, the initial reactions faded as the students found that he intended to challenge their minds and their methods of viewing their worlds.

The one person's mind that had been completely inaccessible to him, however, was Anne's. And, more than anything, he wanted to know what she thought. Unfortunately, she seemed inordinately annoyed at the moment. "Anne?" He frowned when she parked at the restaurant he'd chosen for that day. It was a place that typically required reservations, but Graymalkin Industries' had purchased the small chain some years back. He was always welcome.

She sighed and actually flushed. "I'm sorry. It's just. . . .I see how they look at you, and it really irritates me."

Charles stared at her. "I'm in a wheelchair, love. The pitying looks are normal." But never easy to bear.

Anne snickered. "It's not that, Charles. I can handle the pity; I've dealt with that long enough. It's the girls."

He wanted to laugh but instead blinked. He knew exactly which girls she meant and couldn't help but agree with her. After all, they had been less-than-subtle in their thoughts about what they might be able to offer their "hot" professor in exchange for a good grade. "Anne Conrad, are you jealous?"

She turned an impressive glare toward him. "No more than you were the other night."

Charles shook his head. "You're an attractive woman, Anne, and I know other men notice it. Even Hank and Alex. And, given what you've gone through, it irritates me. This other. . . ." Then, he sighed. "This is just university life. There will always be one or two who think they can get a good grade in the class by seducing the professor. It happens more often than we like to admit."

"I know. I'm just. . . ." She blew out a deep breath. "I guess I'll have to learn to deal with it."

He reached for the door. "You might be surprised to find a few of the young men are looking at you the same way."

"Me?" She blushed at that, and Charles laughed. Then, he patiently while she retrieved his wheelchair. Inside, he gave his name to the hostess and followed her and Anne to their table. The restaurant was nice, much nicer than the cafe where Anne and Rachel shared their lunches. And Anne slipped into her seat with as much grace as she always possessed. Then, she slipped off her brown blazer, and Charles's brain short circuited.

How did she manage to look so amazing in something as simple as an orange halter top?

She clearly did not understand what watching her hair fall across her shoulders did to him. Rather than giving him a moment to re-start his brain, she met his eyes. "So, you were at the White House in January."

"I was." He frowned at his menu. His thoughts were still cluttered with the revelations several students gave him, from the girls to the young man in the back of the room. Anne hadn't helped with her outfit, though she obviously had no idea how difficult it was to focus on a coherent sentence. "As I said, I was trapped under some scaffolding for a time."

"How'd you get out?"

Charles knew the question was coming, and he still hadn't fully prepared an answer. Now, he tried to shrug it off. "You've seen the reactions of people to my. . .situation. Some pity me, others try to help with everything. I guess that was what happened with the guy who attacked the President."

Anne stared at him, her brown eyes obviously skeptical. But she didn't call him on the outright lie. It was part of what Charles wanted to tell her, but he could see she wasn't quite ready for that. Instead, she studied her menu. "You know, I never really gave the whole 'mutant issue' a lot of thought."

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch her attention. "And now?"

"Now, I don't know." She set the menu aside, folding her arms across the table and lowering her voice. "I know what it's like to not be acceptable, to be kicked out by your family and ostracized because of a decision you made. To be done that way because of who you are. . . ." She shook her head. "Frankly, I don't want to imagine it."

"But it does happen." And worse, Charles added silently.

"I guess I can understand a little of what people like them go through." She missed the tension in his shoulders, how he felt as if he hung on every word she spoke. "I mean, all they want is to live, to survive and not be hunted for something they can't control. It's no better than what happened to lead up to Civil Rights or Suffrage or any other social development. I have no control over whether or not I'm born as a woman or a man, and to be discriminated against because of that is. . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

Charles couldn't help it. She'd become so animated, so forceful that he'd sensed her frustration and righteous indignation against the injustices of society. "I'm sorry, love. It's just. . . .You are. . . ." He finally gained control over his laughter, lowering his voice and leaning forward. "You're right. But seeing you so fired up about it was. . . ."

"Amusing?"

"No." He spotted their waitress heading their way and sent a brief telepathic suggestion to check on a few more tables before approaching. He wanted to finish this conversation with Anne. "More like captivating."

Anne blinked slightly and glanced away. "You shouldn't say stuff like that."

"Why not? Especially if it's true." Charles reached for her hand, forcing her to look at him. "You are just as enchanting now as you were the other day when you first wore that red dress. And more so, because you have a way of making your eyes spark when you're irritated. Part of me wants to see it more often, but the other part of me wants to make sure you are never irritated at me."

She looked at their hands then, her face heating and a smile teasing the corners of her lips. "Thanks," she mumbled a moment later.

Knowing he'd embarrassed her—and feeling a tad embarrassed himself—Charles went back to studying his menu. He hadn't meant to have that particular tidbit slip out, and he reminded himself that he needed to keep things friendly. But Anne's words about mutants gave him hope. Because of her past and her choices in life, she had endured things that made her sympathetic to mutants. But that didn't stop his questions. Could she truly accept them? Could she accept him, knowing what he could do was outside the realm of what most considered possible? Or would she be like almost every other human, fearful of just how much power he truly held? Not for the first time, he wished he could just read her mind. It would prevent all of these questions and help him feel a little less out of control.

Anne, however, had no idea of what went through his head. She smiled when the waitress came, gave her order, and listened while Charles ordered his meal. Then, she looked him in the eye. "Going back to the original topic. Mutants might have abilities that are frightening, but not one of them asked for them. To hold that against them is wrong. And, as much as I had very little choice in what I've done, I can still say that the decision was ultimately mine. These mutants didn't have that courtesy given to them, and hunting them and fearing them for what they may or may not do is just as wrong as a strange man walking up to me now and propositioning me."

Charles chuckled at that for several reasons. First of all, her eyes were sparking again. However, her words stirred such a visceral reaction in his gut that he couldn't help reacting in some way. Laughing was better than growling, though Beast did that quite well. Charles suspected he'd fall far short of the intimidating, angry sound he wanted to make. In the short time that he'd known about Anne's past, he had done everything in his power to keep from reminding her of it. However, it obviously shaped who she was and how she thought, and he could not stop the instinctive urge to lash out. The men who had done that to her were long gone, and God help any other that tried to proposition her now.

His chuckle faded, and he leaned forward slightly, choosing to mimic her pose. "Anne, if any man—mutant or otherwise—ever propositions you and I find out about it, I will find a way to hurt them." More like obliterate their minds. "This chair will not hold me back. That said, what happened to you was a series of choices taken from your hands. And when you had the chance, you left that mess behind. It does not define you and it should not define you. As for the mutants, you're right. But, like you have to work to accept and overcome what happened in your past, they have to struggle to accept who they are at the very core of their being. That's not something that happens overnight, nor is it easily done in a world where these super-powered beings are feared because of what they might do." Charles was grateful he managed to get through that without a verbal slip. He'd almost used personal pronouns to include himself, and he was only just learning how Anne felt about mutants in general.

Choosing a different tact, he picked up his water glass and studied it. "What would you say if, at the end of class one day, one of those girls you were so irritated at walked up to you and admitted they'd been living and supporting themselves on the streets?"

Anne's eyes flew to his, her mouth opening and closing while she thought about it. Finally, she lifted her chin. "I would do what was done for me: give them a safe place and every opportunity to escape. A job if that's what I could provide, a home if I could, and encouragement to better themselves. But it's more than that, Charles. There's a mind set that goes along with working the streets. These girls are human beings, but they're demoralized so many times just because they feel like they can only do one thing. That they're good at only one thing. And the things that men ask them to do are. . . ." She shuddered. "I'm not a good person, Charles. No matter what you might think of me. And I have to live with that."

Charles took a moment to consider her words. "Now you know how mutants feel. All they want is a chance. And, many times, these mutants are demoralized, de-humanized, and made to feel like science experiments. Just as humiliating as it was for you to endure life on the streets, it is the same for them."

"This isn't some intellectual conversation for you, is it?" Anne frowned. "This is your passion."

"It is." Charles met her eyes, thinking about Angel, Emma, and what little he'd seen in Raven's mind. "Just as much as discussing what happened years ago is no intellectual conversation for you. The situations are quite different, but the results are the same. And a large number of mutants out there feel just as objectified and helpless as you once did."

Anne stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. "You're probably right."

"Probably?"

She frowned. "Charles, it just. . . .I haven't told anyone about what happened in so long that having it known feels like I should expect it to happen again."

"And now you know how these mutants feel."

"You know them!" Her eyes widened at the realization.

"A few, yes." He chuckled. "I'm a geneticist, Anne. If anyone is going to be able to find a cause for this or a way to help those who are out of control, it's someone like me."

She stared at him for a long moment and then hummed. "I guess I should have realized that." She shook her head, falling silent when the waitress delivered their meal and refilled their water. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for lunch to turn into this."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "There are things about ourselves that both of us have never told another person. Or, if we have, we've been burned in the past. Having a discussion about it over lunch is better than letting it build until we explode at one another." He picked up his fork, smirking as he did so. "And, frankly, I'd rather come away from this feeling like I can still ask you to join me for lunch after our next class than wondering what I said that was wrong."

She smiled at him, and he let the topic change. But she was thoughtful, a good place for her to be at the moment. Genetic mutation was his specialty, his life, and he so desperately wanted her to understand why he became so passionate about an "intellectual conversation." But, just as she was not ready to tell him about her past when she had, he could not bring himself to admit the truth. Not until she had the time to absorb that mutants were closer to her than what even she believed.

It wasn't until they'd returned to the house that something else she'd said finally caught up to him. She had just slipped past him, saying something about changing her shoes, when he caught her wrist. She waited patiently until he tugged her into a chair against one wall, putting them on the same eye level. Then, he sighed. "You said something at the restaurant, Anne. Something I want to address right now."

Her expression shifted slightly, showing a bit of uncertainty. "O—okay."

He deliberately took her hand in his, lowering his voice and looking her in the eye. "What happened to you will never happen again. Not while you're living under my protection. I understand that it's a new experience for you to have it known, but every man in this house—and every man that comes into this house—will not so much as think of touching you without your permission." He considered his next words for just a moment and then decided to plunge on. "And, quite frankly, to have it thrown at me every time we discuss something of any depth is. . .infuriating. You're a beautiful woman, Anne, and one I happen to care for a great deal. I want you to understand what all of us—myself, Hank, and Alex—see, not what others have tried to make you."

She blinked at him, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry. I guess. . . .I should be over this by now."

"This isn't something to overcome in a week or a month." He reached out and touched her face, brushing her hair away from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. As he did so, his fingers brushed her temple, and he gained a slight glimpse into her mind. Another blasted weakness, he thought as he tried to blink his discovery away. "But, just as you won't let me sit around and feel sorry for myself because I'm in a wheelchair, I refuse to let you limit yourself and keep yourself from pursuing what you want because of what happened in your past."

She looked away, her tears falling and smudging the light makeup she'd chosen to wear for the day. "Charles, I want to believe you. But. . . ."

He dropped his hand, waiting until she looked up at him in spite of her tears. "Sometimes, belief is a choice, not an emotion." He smiled slightly. "And so is hope."

She nodded, and her jaw worked as she regained control over her emotions. Then, she gave him a wry glance. "When did you become so wise?"

He laughed, as she'd intended. "Oh, I wouldn't say that's wisdom. That's just. . .life."

A few minutes later, she left him in the hallway with a thoughtful expression on his face. Charles watched her round the corner, still knowing she was blissfully unaware of how she appeared. But this stage of any relationship, when attraction turned into a greater awareness that led to time spent and intimacies shared, was always a dangerous one. He knew that. He'd experienced it with Moira and had been completely unaware of how blessed he had been at the time. He had never expected to share that again, let alone with a woman like Anne. She had her own struggles in her past, and she still did not see her own worth.

Smiling slightly at the quick revelation he'd seen in her mind, Charles forced himself to head for his bedroom and the motorized wheelchair. Getting around in it was a little easier, and it gave him a reason to be alone for a moment. When he'd brushed her temple, he had heard Anne's rather pointed thoughts. Just kiss me and get it over with!

You have no idea how badly I want to, he thought as if carrying on a conversation with her. But neither of us are ready, and we will only end up hurt. He knew where they would find themselves if that line was crossed that day. Or even that week. The first time he kissed Anne would be special, but he would need a lot more control than he had at the moment. But, he thought, continuing his inner conversation, if we ever get to that point in our relationship, it will not be because of what you can offer me. It will be because we are both ready to move beyond what we have now. Because we trust one another to never take an unfair advantage. The past will simply be there, nothing more than history and not something that defines us.

He just hoped he would not do something foolish before she was ready to accept that he could love her for who she was and not what she could do.

~TBC