Charles stares at the men in the door way with a sick feeling, heart beating in his throat.

It was obvious of course, that staying in the apartment held the threat of seeing him again, but the reality of it is still a nightmare.

Erik is dressed in one of his usual dark suits over a turtle neck, looking like he's just coming in from work. His expression is placid, level, and yet he looks nothing but intimidating now that Charles has seen behind his civil facade, the very stride in his step a veiled threat.

Erik's hands, setting down the brief case, make him flash back to those same hands pressing his wrists into the carpet, into the bed...his lips, moving in a light greeting, has the hairs on the back of Charles' neck standing up to the memory of that mouth pressed to his, unasked, whispering terrible words in the dark.

The urge to run is suddenly so strong again that he can barely stay still. He should have gotten out while he could, risks be damned, should have climbed off the bloody balcony-

Erik's timbre interrupts his frantic thoughts, "Oh good, you're awake. This is Hank McCoy, I invited him over."

Distracted, Charles' eyes flicker to the man behind him, tense, expecting a lackey similar to Victor, but the stranger looks too young, too scrawny, too nervous, to seem like he could have anything to do with Erik's business at all. He is looking around shyly from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, clutching the oversized messenger bag hanging off his shoulder.

Charles doesn't have long to let confusion distract him, because Erik moves into the room and Charles' body goes on the defensive instinctively. He tenses, eyes snapping around to track the man's movements. A tiny flicker in Erik's eye seems to betray his displeasure at Charles' reaction, but it is quickly buried under a calm facade, and Erik acts 'normal' again.

"How's your wrist?" The question makes it sound like Charles sprained the limb playing tennis, not being thrown around by one of his fiance's lackeys.

It hits Charles like a punch to the gut, that same mixture of fear and anger he felt yesterday spreading in his chest. Is Erik actually doing this...trying to pretend like nothing happened? Like this is somehow fixable?

"Broken." He says the loaded word pointedly. 'Irreparably broken.'

"Of course." Erik doesn't even blink. "Hank is a doctor. He's going to take a look at you.

The young man, McCoy, nods hastily, pushing his glasses up his nose as he steps forward, extending a hand. "Mr. Xavier, if you would sit-"

He breaks of, startled, when Charles steps back abruptly, evading him.

'Don't touch me', every single fiber in Charles' body shrieks, shrill and unbidden. The young doctor looks harmless and well-meaning, blatantly so, but there have been so many unwanted hands on Charles in the past 12 hours, men moving him at their will without giving him a say...he can't feel any more powerless than he already does. He can't.

Plus, he is not moving one step closer to Erik. No.

"Uh-" Hank blinks in confusion, waiting, but Charles doesn't move an inch, silent.

Finally, it's Erik who sighs, a frown creeping onto his face. "Hank, if you'll wait in the kitchen for a moment."

Hank scurries off without having to be asked twice, leaving Charles alone with Erik yet again.