This one takes place a few weeks after Magda's death and the Lehnsherrs' move into the mansion.

How to Fight the Nightmares

Erik Lehnsherr forgot that the war was over.

He huddled against the barbed fence, slathered in mud. Mud that reeked of decaying bodies. Of air that reeked of decaying bodies.

Everybody died freely in this camp.

"Get up," a deep voice spat in German.

Shaking, Erik raised his head to see the silhouette of a tall, sturdy man standing over him. Erik could only see the man's shoes; they were neatly clean, but the man stank of death.

The silhouette twirled something in his left hand. "I gave you an order, Erik."

Feeling like the eleven-year-old he had been, Erik shakily obeyed. And, as he rose, the hazy moonlight made the man's face distinguishable.

Shaw.

Shaw grinned at Erik's obvious surprise. "Did you think I wouldn't come back for you?" He took a threatening step closer. "For him?"

Erik was confused as to who the "him" was. Until he heard the scream.

Pinned into the rotting mud, little Peter thrashed and cried. The two armed men held him face-down, barely allowing the boy to breathe around the wet dirt.

Instinctively, Erik stepped towards his son as panic filled him.

But then Shaw held out a hand; Erik's body became helplessly frozen.

"You're going to watch me kill him, just as I did to your mother," Shaw said, drawing closer to Erik's side.

Erik couldn't move away. Erik couldn't move towards his son. And, beyond Peter, Erik recognized the grey-tinted skin of his mother's corpse, wasting into the earth.

Shaw smiled when he saw tears slide down Erik's cheeks.

"Please." It was the only word Erik could manage to get out of his frozen tongue.

"Eins." Shaw drew closer to Erik's ear.

"Papa!" Peter shrieked. His screaming was fierce, panicked.

"Zwei," Shaw said, his breath hot and moist on Erik's ear.

"PAPA!" Peter writhed against the mud. He screamed just like Anya had.

"Drei."

The men fired their guns at the boy's head, exploding him into bloody shrapnel of brain matter and bone.

With a jolt, Erik launched himself upwards. As he heaved in breath after breath, he came to realize he was in the dark of Charles's mansion. He was in bed. He was nowhere near Auschwitz.

He remembered that the war was over.

Erik threw off the sheets and stumbled to the ensuite bathroom. He didn't bother with the light as he yanked on the water and immediately splashed the cold onto his face. After a few scrubs, he shoved it back off and looked himself in the mirror.

He wasn't eleven; he was an adult, for Christ's sake. And Shaw was nowhere near him nor his family.

Erik yanked the plush towel off the hook and dried his face. He threw down the towel and left his room on automatic legs.

He reached the room quickly, just across the hall. Without a touch, the door swung open and Erik marched in. Because he had to see him; he had to know that Peter was alive and breathing and hadn't just—

With his blue sheets wildly strewn across his ankles, Peter slept on.

Relief flooded his vision, but Erik managed to stumble forwards and stare at his child. It was remarkable, really—that he had a child. This child was the world's last remnant of the woman who had given him hope in that godforsaken concentration camp.

This boy was now the only thing giving him hope in this godforsaken world.

Erik fell to his knees beside the bed and hungrily swallowed every detail. How little Peter's feet were, wrapped in those sapphire blue sheets. How he kept his small fist balled next to his face. How his young face glowed in the moonlight.

How his chest rose and fell, again and again.

Erik fell back and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Because his child was alive. He had family. And he was not alone.

With a glance to Peter's bedside clock, Erik rose. Three in the morning was just as good a time as any to have coffee.

Erik only turned on the lights once he reached the kitchen. He kept quiet, preparing the pot and letting it brew. As he waited, he was graciously given plenty of time to replay his dream's ending again and again. It was making his stomach sick.

"Not to intrude," Charles said as he strode into the kitchen, "but I could hear your anguish from my bedroom."

Erik scowled at the island. "Keep out of my head, Charles."

"I gladly would if I could," the telepath refuted as he opened the bread box. "You're projecting."

Erik forced himself to take a steading breath, if only to stop letting a complete stranger into his mind.

Charles threw him an unappreciative look. "I'd like to think I'm more than a stranger by now. At least an acquaintance."

Erik kept his frown as he watched his "acquaintance" pop a slice of bread into the toaster. He noticed that Charles had a severe case of bedhead and his blue t-shirt went nicely with his blue-based, flannel pajama bottoms.

"Happy to hear that you approve of my sleeping clothes," Charles chirped as he grabbed a butter knife.

Erik returned to scowling at the island as he massaged his temples. He needed to calm his mind so he could get the telepath out.

"You dreamt of Shaw, I presume," Charles commented as he moved to pull jam out of the refrigerator door.

"It doesn't matter," Erik said curtly.

"The concentration camp this time?"

Erik threw his dark scowl to the man. "I don't want to discuss it."

Charles studied him for a moment, but he nodded.

The toast popped. Charles moved to fetch it. "But if I may make a suggestion?"

Erik groaned quietly.

"I believe," Charles said as he buttered and jammed his toast, "that our nightmares are symptoms of a larger plague. And unless we explore the dreams, we will never find a cure for the disease."

Erik slowly raised his eyes to meet Charles's gaze.

"You want vengeance against Shaw," Charles said. "I understand that. But I believe that vengeance is not your plague."

Erik reluctantly began to mull over those words.

"Goodnight, friend," Charles said in a suddenly light tone. He grabbed his toast and took a large bite as he exited the room.

Erik slumped against the counter as his thoughts swirled. With a glance to his right, he realized that his coffee was ready. He grabbed the pot and poured himself a large mug.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Erik nursed his bitter drink.

Light feet padded into the room. "Papa?"

Erik looked up to see his little son, still in shark pajamas, tearfully look for his father. Erik set his coffee on the table. "What are you doing out of bed, Pietro?"

Peter's lower lip pouted as he hurried over and crawled onto his father's lap. "I had a bad dream." He cuddled closer into his father's chest.

Erik wrapped his arms around the boy, and he felt himself relax. "Another bad dream?"

Peter nodded against Erik's grey t-shirt.

Erik kissed the top of his son's messy, silver hair. "What was this one about?"

Peter shrugged.

It wasn't a hard guess for Erik. "About your mother?"

Peter reluctantly nodded.

Erik squeezed his son closer. "I'm sorry, son. But you are not alone. You have…"

"Charles," Peter mumbled into Erik's shirt.

"And you'll always have me," Erik added, his heart clenching at the thought of someone else filling his son's father-figure.

Peter relaxed his head against Erik's chest.

"Would you like another story tonight?"

Peter nodded sleepily.

"There once was a boy who believed that he was powerless," Erik began, thinking back to his dream. "He believed that he had no friends, and he had no family. And then, one day, everything changed…"

As Erik's mouth took over the tale, his mind began to wander back to Charles's words. It wasn't difficult to figure out Peter's disease.

Erik hugged his son closer. "And the day he met Pietro was the best day of his life."

And it wasn't difficult to realize that Erik suffered from the very same plague as his son.