"She didn't do this, Erik. You did."
Charles's voice is low, barely more than a whisper, but the words hit Erik harder than a sledgehammer. He lets Moira go, and a tear falls slowly down his cheek and onto Charles's suit - he knew he should've tested them himself before letting him wear it into battle. He looks into Charles's blue, blue eyes, the colour of the summer sky, and sees pain and disappointment. Emotion, certainly, but no anger. Charles always was a better man than Erik.

Fingers reach up as they did before, and scrabble feebly at the helmet. That stupid bloody helmet, that not only kept Charles out, but Erik in, imprisoning him within the shadowy confines of his own mind. He closes his hand around Charles's, dwarfing it completely, and slowly and carefully takes off the vile thing and drops it in the sand by their feet. He wants so badly to rip it off and throw it as far out to sea as he can, but he's afraid of jolting Charles's spine.
The instant it leaves his skull, Charles fills his mind, utterly and completely. Their conciousnesses curl around each other like cats basking in the sun, and to Erik it feels like coming home to a warm house after an eternity outside in a raging storm. After all, Charles is his home now.
"Erik," whispers Charles, his fingers threading themselves into the hair at his temple, palm cupping the side of his face. Erik leans into his touch and closes his eyes.
"Charles."
"My... The bullet, it..."
Erik's eyes fly open and he stares down at Charles, horrified. Horrified he could be so selfish as to forget about what he did. "I'm so sorry, Charles, it was an accident I swear, I'd never have done that if I knew you were there, I never meant to hurt you, please forgive me -"

Charles laughs softly, and Erik thinks that it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard, even if it is interrupted by a wince of pain. "I will forgive you, my friend, but only if you get me to hospital immediately."
Erik nods, and signals to Hank (he can't call him Beast, not now, when there's that scared little boy hiding behind his eyes). He and the others rush forward as one and drop to their knees in the sand.
_

"You know, I sort of enjoy not being able to walk," says Charles mildly.
Erik is so surprised that he stops pushing the wheelchair and stands stock still in the middle of the path. "What?"
"I mean, I wouldn't like to be like this forever," Charles explains hastily. "Just temporarily, of course. But it's nice, travelling at a more sedate pace."
Erik grins mischievously and flicks his wrist forwards. The chair lifts a little way off the gravel and shoots down the path at around thirty miles an hour, Charles clinging on for dear life. When Erik catches up to him there is a decidedly unamused expression on his face.
"That wasn't funny."
"Yes, it was. And it was fair, anyway, for making me feel guilty again."
"I told you, you're forgiven," Charles murmurs softly, taking Erik's hand and cradling it in his lap. Erik strokes the back of the other one across Charles's cheek. "Always and completely forgiven."

Thank God the bullet didn't hit the spot that would've rendered Charles paralysed for life. Erik still remembers that awful moment.

Luckily the jet's radio was relatively undamaged, so they were able to call for help. Pretty soon the Cuban coast guard and an ambulance turned up, and Erik reluctantly left Charles to go and explain the situation in Spanish. He didn't tell them what they were doing in a foreign country surrounded by the wrecks of a submarine and a supersonic plane, and they didn't ask, save for a few quizzical looks. The worst part came when Erik went to lift Charles into the ambulance (he wouldn't let anyone save Raven touch him). As soon as he moved him, he whispered softly, in a broken voice, "I can't feel my legs." Those five words cut Erik to the core. Charles was paralysed from the waist down. The bullet must've hit his spinal cord. He'd doomed him to a life in a wheelchair, if he even survived. He'd never walk, run, jump, dance again. And it was all his fault. His legs shook and he nearly stumbled, but Hank steadied him with a strong hand on his shoulder, and he carried on walking across the beach.
Phone calls were made, money exchanged hands (for some reason there was a chequebook for an Oxford bank in the pocket of Erik's suit), and three hours later they were sitting on a private jet destined for JFK. Erik spent the journey harassing the medical staff with constant ishegonnabeokays and staring intensely at Charles himself, as if he could scare his spine into fixing itself with a mere look. Then it was another ambulance ride to the mansion; the doctor on the plane had wanted to take Charles to the hospital, but Erik point blank refused - no one was really brave enough to argue with him - and rang Charles's private doctor. The next few days were spent in a fug of little food and even less sleep, Erik sitting on the chair beside Charles's bed and holding his hand tightly. Then, at last, Charles had woken up, those bright blue eyes opening wide and looking up at Erik with so much love and adoration that a tear dropped down his nose for the second time that day. Which was completely unheard of, goddamnit.

"Erik?" Charles's voice jolts him back to the present.
"Yes, dear?"
"Catch me if you can." Charles smiles cheekily, suddenly looking much younger, and takes off down towards the house. Damn that Hank and his engineering skills, thinks Erik as he starts jogging slowly after him. He could run much faster, of course, or hinder Charles's progress. But he doesn't, because he wants to let someone else win this time.
The summer breeze ruffles Erik's hair affectionately as he runs on home.