This is rated M for references to physical/emotional abuse and brief mention of rape in future chapters.


Erik was woken out of a deep sleep by a familiar buzzing sound. Yawning, he disentangled himself from Charles and rolled onto his side to grab his pager and shut it off. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back. They needed him at the hospital.

"Don't answer it," he heard Charles mumble sleepily next to him.

Erik chuckled. "Sorry, love, but I have to go." He sat up, the covers falling to his waist. He rubbed his face, ran a hand through his messy hair, and threw the blankets off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Charles asked, "What time is it?" as Erik stood up.

Glancing at the clock, he groaned inwardly. "Little after four." He hurriedly got dressed, waking up more as he moved. Erik sat on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on and noticed with amusement that Charles had rolled over into the space Erik had recently vacated. He leaned over and kissed him. "I'll be back soon. Go back to sleep, Charles."

With a nod and a yawn, Charles pulled the covers up to his shoulders. "Good luck with the operation. Love you."

Erik smiled down at him and bent over to kiss him again. "Love you, too." Then, reluctantly, he grabbed his phone and pager from the nightstand and left, closing the door behind him.


Someone knocked on the door. Charles shifted, in the place between sleep and wakefulness, and figured it was in his dream. Rolling over, he tried to reenter his dream. When the knock came again, he realized he was awake. With a low groan, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Who the hell could be knocking on the door at—he glanced at Erik's clock—4:37 in the morning? It's not Erik; he's got a key. And if he didn't, he'd call me instead of knocking and hoping I woke up.

Fighting with himself for a minute—hearing another knock—Charles got out of bed, intending to look through the peephole and reassure himself he was just hearing things before going back to bed. It could very well be some drunk neighbor locked out of their own apartment.

He padded down the carpeted hall in his bare feet, the bottoms of his dark blue flannel pajama pants brushing along the floor. Biting back a yawn, Charles flicked one of the lamps in the living room on so he wouldn't stumble over any furniture in the dark. Reaching the door, he put his hands against it and stood slightly on his tiptoes to peer out the peephole into the corridor.

And jumped backwards a few feet in shock. No, no no no no…This could not be happening. Not now; he couldn't…

"Let me in, Charlie!"

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, putting his hands over his ears. He wasn't hearing Jon's voice. Jon was not standing in the hall, pounding on the door. He was. Not. Here. He'd finally got his life back together. No, this cannot seriously be happening right now!

"Charles! I know you're there; let me in."

He opened his eyes and tried to focus. Erik. He had to call Erik. Where the hell was his cell phone?

The door bounced in its frame and Charles felt a spike of fear as he realized Jon was trying to break it down. Landline. Erik had a landline; they'd used it just a couple days ago to talk to Raven. The door bounced again as Charles raced into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone. How did Jon know Erik wasn't here?

He'd figure that out later. Right now, he had to call Erik. What was his number again? The door bounced and a crack appeared along the side. Charles ran down the hall, dialing Erik's cell phone, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He slid into the bedroom, listening to the phone ring, just as the sound of wood breaking reached him.

The door. Jon was in the apartment. Charles muttered, "Pick up, pick up, pick up," as he shut the door and leaned against it. Erik's voicemail message answered him and his heart sunk even more. Oh, god, he was probably in surgery. This would have to work. Hopefully, Erik got it soon.

Just as he drew breath to speak, the door moved against his back. "Charlie…"

In a frantic voice, Charles said, "Erik, he's here. Jon. He's in the apartment, please, you have to get this soon—"

Jon interrupted him, "Stop being such a coward and get out here." He shoved the door and Charles stumbled further into the room, Jon entering behind him.

He cried out, "Hurry!" before Jon managed to catch him, making him drop the phone on the floor. He struggled to free his arm. "Let go of me!"

But Jon was stronger and he knew it. Charles still fought him, though, desperate to free himself. He latched onto the gap between the door and the wall, but Jon gave a forceful tug and Charles shot forward, slamming into the wall. A couple picture frames hit the floor and he heard glass shatter on at least one of them.

Jon grabbed his arm again and started down the hall. Charles slid across the carpet as he tried to stop, feeling the material burn his bare feet. They reached the living room and Charles grabbed onto any piece of furniture that had the potential to stop the inexorable slide forward.

Jon turned and glared at him. "Stop fighting me or it'll get worse."

"Let me go." He stumbled forward again, hitting one of the end tables and sending a lamp crashing to the floor along with whatever else was on it.

"Don't do this," he pleaded. Jon ignored him. Then Charles saw the door was swinging off its hinges. Hope bloomed in his chest, fragile though it was. If he could alert one of the neighbors…"Hel—"

A hand covered his mouth mid-word. Jon's eyes narrowed, anger and a sick sort of pleasure flashing in them. "Don't even think about it. We're leaving. I'm gonna enjoy breaking your spirit again; it was so much fun the first time."

Charles pulled his arm free, started to step back, and felt something prick his neck. His vision faded at the edges and then the world went completely black.


Did you really think Jon was just going to give up? (insert evil laugh here)

Also, sorry it's shorter than the previous couple chapters, but it's also getting near the end.