Madeline internally sighed with relief as Charles broke their mental connection. Even though the telepath had been in broadcast mode, showing Madeline his conversation with Erik, she wasn't able to fully relax, aware that she had no way of defending her thoughts from him, her secrets. After his visions withdrew from her mind she felt safer, however illusory that feeling might be. And able to give some thought to the matter in hand.

"Charles this is ridiculous. You love him; he loves you – that's obvious."

Charles inclined his head.

"I rather think he does, yes. In a way, a reconciliation of some sort would be a lot easier if he did not."

Maddy shook her head. Just like the conversation she had just witnessed between the two men, Charles's remark seemed backwards to her. But Charles insisted.

"No really, it would be. It's because he loves me he can't get past – this." He gestured across the room to his chair. "He can't make his peace with the past, because he can't forgive himself for what I've lost. Unless that changes – or unless I should happen to be the recipient of a passing miracle-"

He broke off at that, the attempt at levity not quite managing to fly. He bit his lip.

"If only Erik and I did not love each other, none of that would matter. We could change the world together, we could do great things. But I'll tell you a secret, Maddy, a selfish secret – I still wouldn't give it up. I'm sure Erik would if he could, for the good of the cause – he's a better man than me, in many ways. Not to mention more pragmatic. But loving him has been the making of me, has changed me completely from the shallow boy I still was when we first met. And the privilege of being the only one to whom he has dared give his love, to have been the instrument of undoing even a fraction of the grievous damage done to him… it has been the honour of my life. If nothing ever comes of it than that, I will never consider it to have been wasted. Never. But oh, what we could have been – if I'd jumped right instead of left that day on the beach."

Charles leant back on the sofa, turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes with a long sigh. Madeline looked at his downturned mouth, the tight, trembling eyelids, the long white throat turned up towards the light.

And suddenly she knew, knew in her bones what she had to do. Knew it had to be now. Silently, she moved closer to Charles, then gently but firmly took his chin in her hand. His eyes opened, and turned to meet hers questioningly.

"Charles?" she said, quietly.

"Yes?" he answered, disconcerted by the look of intent in her eyes.

"Trust me," Maddy said. Then with a lunge, sank her teeth into his throat.

Everything was wrong. She felt that straight away.

Instead of the usual rush of bliss, Madeline's head was full of a destabilising roar, a ripping, ragged sensation, as if her mind was being torn in two.

She could feel Charles' blood filling her veins, not the usual heavy velvet heat but a burning, sick acidic sting which made her convulse, her skin trying to escape from itself in shock.

She clung on to Charles, a last vestige of caution reminding her not to crush his bones in her strengthening hands; but instead of the usual surge of power drinking blood gave her, her hands were trembling, barely able to clutch at his coat as he tried to push her away from his throat.

Finally a terrible nausea seized her, and she fell from the sofa onto the floor. Her lips were swollen and numb, her airways burned and heaved with every laboured breath, and her head buzzed like a wasp's nest, angry and shrill. Through her blurred vision she saw Charles try to wriggle from the sofa to his chair, fail, fall down hard next to her on the floor. As she pulled herself up painfully to her knees, he cowered, tried to drag himself away.

"Charles-" she rasped, trying desperately not to vomit. "Don't- don't." He was pale and limp with blood loss, but it wasn't weakness that stayed his attempt to escape.

Why? Why Maddy? What are you doing? What's happening to you?

She choked, felt a hot wetness on her lips and realised her nose was bleeding. She fixed her eyes on him pleadingly.

Only way. It will work. I know it will work. Help-.

Not understanding, he dragged himself across the floor to her, tried to pull her to a sitting position. She took his hands in hers, appalled to see how her skin was mottling, her fingers spasming. Charles' mutant blood was poisoning her; she hadn't anticipated this – or not that the reaction would be this extreme, this violent. Could she have been wrong? Could this be a terrible mistake?

No, came a voice from within. The blood remembers. His blood in your blood. All of it. More.

With a huge effort, she lifted her chin from her heaving chest, met Charles' wavering gaze as he reeled. She showed him Jessica, showed him everything, showed him what she meant to do.

More. Everything.

He hesitated – then nodded, leaned towards her. She heaved in a shuddering breath, gulped, and then reopened the wound in his throat and drank again.

This time the pain was even worse, but through it she could feel Charles – his mind, his life, indistinct and shadowy, not like the rapture of a human life rushing into her, but muffled images, emotions, growing more distinct the more she pulled and pulled at the fount of his blood. Eventually the pain and sickness became too much and she broke away.

Charles was pale and still, stretched out on the floor beside her, and for a hideous moment she thought she'd gone too far and killed him. Then with a rush of relief she heard his sighing breath.

All her senses, which would usually be razor sharpened by the draught of blood, felt woolly and dulled. She wanted to vomit; she wanted to lay down and sleep.

No. Charles. Have to help him.

With a monumental effort, she lifted her spasming arm to her lips and tore a jagged gash in her wrist. Unusually dark and thick, her blood spurted out of the wound, onto his lips.

"Charles," she rasped, shaking his shoulder desperately. "Charles. Wake up. Drink. Drink now. Drink it all."

The blood ran down his chin, slid over his cheeks like tears, trickled into his ears; he didn't move, didn't open his eyes. Desperately, weakly, she smeared her wrist against his mouth.

"Charles!"

Nothing. And then his tongue flicked out over her lips. Once, and then again. His eyes slammed open.

YES.

The force of his thought slammed what little strength she had left out of her and she fell on top of him. He clung to her arm, dragged her wrist to his mouth again and drew on her with a strength that surprised her, a strength that grew as she swooned and spun down into a dark red dream. But slowly, as he took his blood back into himself, the poisoned fog melted away from her mind, leaving only a limpid lassitude, and the oceanic roar of his mind filling hers, as open to hers as hers was to his, was no rush of blood thoughts, the cacophonic stream of a victim's life as it rushed down her throat. She knew him, everything of him and all at once; and he knew her, more fully than even his enormous mental powers had ever given him to know another soul. There was no world; the point of what they were doing here, his paralysis, mutantkind's peril, even Erik dwindled to star-like specks of light against the utterness of that knowledge, that unity. They became one.

Far below their entwined minds, she felt peace return to her tortured body – and strength returning to his as they drew closer together, as he lifted her in his arms and pressed his mouth harder into her wrist, his teeth breaking the skin again even as it healed itself, both of them desperate to prolong and deepen this total bond. Clothes came away, bodies mimicking minds as they joined, and there was no shame and no surprise – just what was, the two of them, together, rising to a pinnacle from which her mind abruptly fell away into a silent dark.

She woke to a different world, alone in her own mortal mind, helplessly weak in her mortal body, Charles leaning over her with fear in his eyes.

Oh God, please wake up, Madeline, please please wake up –

Charles. It's alright. I'm alright.

But was she? She couldn't lift her head, couldn't move her arm to reach out to him. Her vision spun and dimmed, and for a moment she was outside of herself, looking down at a pale, gaunt version of her own face. She shuddered and forced her own eyes to open.

Charles… help me. I'm dying…

Panic. She felt it rock through him, felt him scrambling for a solution, call Hank, call somebody –

The blood. Charles, I need blood. Human blood.

He sprang to his feet and ran out of the room, returning what seemed moments later with a blood bag from the infirmary, which he splashed all over her in his hurry to get it to her lips.

Drink it, please drink it. You can't die. You mustn't die!

It took strength that she didn't have even to raise her head enough to swallow – but she did. Her body's response was sluggish – but still, if not the usual rush of heady strength, her breath came easier, her limbs felt less like lumps of straw. She gulped it down, pulled herself into a sitting position next to Charles, and gave a sigh.

Well, she thought, that was a thing.

His laugh was high with adrenalin and relief. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezed her tight against his chest, kissed her forehead long and hard. She leant into him willingly, and felt as close to home in that moment as she had ever felt in any place.

They fell silent, in mind and word. Both knew that with the next words that they spoke, this moment would be broken and be gone forever. There was no clear path to carry it forward into the futures that waited for them both, no place but this where it could survive. They were resigned, but both reluctant to let it go at last. So for a long moment, they clung together, ignoring the enormous repercussions of the last hour, ignoring everything that Charles now knew about Madeline's many murders, ignoring all the competing loyalties that would clamour for something to be done about so many things. They held together, ignoring it all, and in a fragile echo of the unity that they had briefly known, gave each other to know the other's love, deep, awed, profound, eternal. Love you. Love you. Love you.

Finally, with a bottomless sigh, Charles released her, leaning just away enough to let her go, to let the moment go. She sighed, and looked up at him through her bangs, suddenly shy.

So, you can walk again.

He smiled, nodded, clasped her hand briefly in token of thanks.

I can. Thank you. And you can read minds. You weren't expecting that. Any regrets?

She shrugged.

You tell me! I barely know what I'm thinking right now. And anyway, it may not last. The other blood memories don't.

But even as she thought it, they both knew she didn't really believe it. Whatever Charles's blood had left in her, whatever it was that had nearly killed her, felt a permanent part of her now. His gift. And the memory of what they had briefly had, had briefly been. She had changed in a fundamental way, as much as he.

She watched him staring at his brogues (which hadn't made it off his feet in their passionate union, though his shirt was ripped half off his chest and his belt was hanging negligently from one loop of his cord pants). The soft brown leather creased as he wiggled his toes. He smiled.

You saved me. Just when I had decided for myself I didn't need saving, you saved me. You took such a leap of faith to help me; if it weren't for the fact I've pretty well BEEN you, I could never begin to fathom such an act of selflessness. But I know now, for a fact, just what a remarkable person you are, Madeline. I know how and why you have done what you have for me; and for Erik. I'm only sorry he will never know the way I do how much you love him, and how well. I wish he could know it, for both your sakes.

She nodded, but no more. What was there left to say or think? She knew Charles now, as he knew her, and at the beating heart of both of them was a love – raw and hard and powerful – for the same broken, brittle, brilliant man. There could be no rivalry, not between two who had been one. Only a joint desire to see that man happy and safe. Someone would have to lose. She wrapped her hands around her knees, looked at him sideways, changed the subject.

So now you know it all. About me, I mean. About what I've done.

Visions of all her murders flew between their minds, making them both wince. She didn't ask him if he hated her now that he knew what she was. She knew implicitly that he did not. But still the knowledge insisted upon itself, and could not be passed by. First and foremost, Charles was good. He couldn't, not even for love, wash his hands of that goodness, and wink at the savage part of her nature. He looked at her sadly.

You can't stop.

It wasn't a question, but she shook her head anyway.

I can't stop. Yet. I've tried, so many times. One day, I hope I'll find a way. But no. I can't stop.

He put a hand on her cheek.

I could make you stop. You could stay here, and I could make you safe.

She sighed, and leaned into his hand for a moment, then shook her head.

You wouldn't want that, Charles. Neither would I. You wouldn't want to make a cage for my mind, however much I might prefer to live in it. And I wouldn't make a jailer of you, not even for my own good. You're the man who taught me to be free. I always want you to be that man.

His eyes were sad, but her nodded.

Besides, she thought, smiling teasingly, Erik wouldn't like it.

At the mention of Erik's name, Charles' lips involuntarily quirked into a smile.

Indeed not. He wouldn't like it at all.

Maddy's eyes closed, and she saw for a minute with perfect clarity the life she could have had if she was other than she was, staying in this place with the people that she loved, working with them for good, with clean hands. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. With a wince, she let the image go.

So it's settled then. I'll have to go.

Charles' face fell.

When?

Soon. I mean, I'll stay for Raven's wedding, obviously, which is… she glanced at the mantel clock and her eyebrows slammed into her hairline.

"Oh sweet suffering Christ, Charles, which is two and a half hours away!"

Charles lurched to his feet, sputtering.

"What what what what?! It can't be, We've had no sleep, I'm half naked and covered in bloody blood, I'm supposed to be in morning dress and walking her down the aisle in – well not walking her down the aisle but you know-" he stopped, and his gaze wandered over to his abandoned wheelchair.

She met his gaze.

"You should go and find her; oh Charles, she's going to be so happy for you. They both are. What a wedding present!" A huge grin broke across her face, mirrored in his, and she hugged him impulsively. He hugged her back, and for both of them the easy joy of it gave them a disconsolate pang. It should be like this, always be like this… but couldn't be. Abruptly he stepped back from her, pushing a hand through his hair thoughtfully.

"No. No, I'm not going to tell her now. It's her wedding day, it's the only one she'll have – I bloody well hope. I'm not going to steal her thunder, not even for this."

Maddy frowned.

"What are you going to do then? Use the wheelchair even though you can walk?" To her surprise, he nodded.

"Well why not? I've been confined to the benighted thing for bloody months, I've worn a crease in that seat which is really just right now – what's a few more hours? I'll roll her down the aisle, make my speech, and when the festivities have died down a little – ta dah!"

Madeline grimaced.

"Charles, did you just do jazz hands?"

Charles blushed.

"Possibly. What can I say, it's a red letter day."

"I wouldn't do jazz hands when you finally tell Raven. She's going to kick your ass when she realises, you do realise that?"

Charles nodded happily.

"Mm-hm! I imagine a good arse-kicking will indeed come my way in the fullness of time. But just this once more, I'm going to obnoxiously decide what's best for everyone on their behalf. One last hurrah before I fully repent."

Madeline couldn't help but laugh. Charles, her wise professor, was very nearly giddy. That young man she had seen fleetingly after the procedure beamed out of his face. And this time, she knew, he was here to stay.