TRIGGER WARNING: contains details of the holocaust and the methods of torture used by the Nazis in the death camps; mentions of canonical torture and character death; mentions of historical homophobia.

Okay, this chapter is pretty heavy and needs quite a large disclaimer. I have never visited Auschwitz, but spent a lot of time on the website of the museum reading about the history and looking at pictures so I could get the descriptions as accurate as possible. Unfortunately the only relatives who've been are also ones I don't talk to, so I couldn't even ask them for information. Part of me would like to go, but another part suspects I would struggle as I suspect my anxiety would come in to play in a large way, as I am affected quite strongly by those things. But that is what allows me to be creative, so I can't complain too much. If I have made any glaring errors, PLEASE tell me and I will adjust this chapter. Usually I am willing to take liberties with the truth for the sake of a story, but in this case, out of respect, I would like this to be as accurate as possible. Also, if my translations of the German are way off, I apologise. Again, let me know and I will adjust them. I don't speak German at all I'm afraid!

However, when I was on holiday recently, I visited an old jail and as part of the tour we went to the gallows which were inside a small building. I don't know if it's just me and my anxiety, but it felt very oppressive. Perhaps it was the lighting, or the fact that I knew multiple people had died in that room, but I think this has given me a tiny taste of what it would be like to visit Auschwitz.

Finally, it's my headcannon in the movieverse that Peter's mother is Marya, because Erik's wife and Nina's mum was Magda. So although Magda doesn't come in to this story, I've stuck to this to make it consistent across my stories.

XXX

Ghosts

Part of him, a very big and vocal part of him, thought he was crazy. That same part insisted Charles would think he was crazy too. But Erik knew Charles, knew him better than anyone in the world, and he knew his other half - as he'd come to refer to Charles due to a lack of suitable alternatives - would understand why he felt the need to do this, to visit that place. If only he could figure out a way to bring it up.

Luckily, Charles solved that problem for him.

"What's wrong?" he asked halfway through dinner. "I can hear you thinking."

"I've told you before, you can look," Erik smiled.

"And I've told you, I'd rather hear it from you," Charles retorted. Then his voice softened. "What is it?"

"I think I'd like to go back," Erik blurted out, unable to meet Charles' eyes.

"Back?" Charles echoed.

Erik nodded.

"To... To..." He couldn't say the name. He settled for, "To the camp."

Only then could he force himself to look towards Charles. To his relief, he found no judgement there, only understanding.

"Okay," Charles said simply.

"You don't think I'm crazy?" Erik checked.

"No, I think it's a perfectly rational idea," Charles replied. "Psychologically speaking, it makes a lot of sense. Returning to a scene of trauma can be very beneficial in moving on from it. When shall we go?"

A sudden rush of affection and love for the telepath overcame Erik. Charles hadn't asked, hadn't even paused, before assuming he would accompany Erik to Auschwitz. Erik was reminded, as he so often was, of Charles' insistence that they were partners in this new life together. And despite holding on to the belief that working alone was better and safer for so long, Erik found he rather liked being part of this particular partnership.

XXX

Oświęcim is thirty one miles west of Krakow, so they took the train across the countryside. The Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum, founded in 1947, sits in the village of Brzezinka, to the west of the railway station. The museum includes the grounds of both Auschwitz I and Auschwitz II – Birkenau, covering a total of 470 acres.

Erik could feel his heart pounding in his ears as the gravel of the path crunched under his boots on the approach to the entrance to Auschwitz I. Charles was a comfortingly solid presence at his side and in his mind, lingering on the outer reaches of Erik's thoughts as a reminder that he was safe and not alone. The famous sign declaring Arbeit Macht Frei loomed ahead. The last time he'd seen it, it had been raining, and he'd been crushed on all sides by people taller and older than him. Now, it was dry, albeit dull and overcast, and only a few other visitors traversed the path towards the camp, and it was he who loomed over Charles.

"Are you sure about this?" Charles murmured. "You don't have to do this."

"I think I do," Erik replied. His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears.

"Okay, but you don't have to do it today," Charles said. "If you feel it's too much, we can come back."

"No, I want to do this," Erik insisted. He forced a brief smile, but from Charles' expression he gathered it wasn't very reassuring.

Charles quickly realised that hearing and reading about the horrors of the concentration camps could not compare with seeing them in reality. Even Erik's memories, as horrible as they had been, lacked something. It was the eeriness of the place. The hushed silence, out of respect for the millions who'd suffered, coupled with the knowledge of what had happened in these walls made his skin crawl. Staring through the glass at the objects which had been ripped from their owners – such simple and small things, taken for granted by most – made bile rise in his throat. Perhaps it was because he knew Erik, because he loved someone who'd gone through the horror of this place, that he felt it so strongly. But he could barely stand the sight of cloth woven from human hair, or the piles of spectacles not unlike the ones his grandfather had worn, or perhaps most chillingly of all, the mound of artificial limbs. Charles gripped the arms of his wheelchair. It would've been torn from him and him from it, before being thrown straight into a gas chamber, and that knowledge was terrifying. Then there were the shoes, and worst of all, the dolls. One reminded Charles so strongly of a doll he'd given Raven as a child, that he had to look away.

They moved from block 5 into block 6, where they found an exhibition on the children incarcerated there. Charles found himself glancing between Erik and the pictures of corpse-like children, the image of Erik as a boy coming to him from the memories he'd observed. They passed into a new room, where the prisoners were registered, with a display of the synonymous blue and white striped pyjamas. Charles glanced at Erik and realised Erik's right hand had unconsciously begun to claw at his left forearm where black ink still stood out against his skin.

An SS soldier pushed him forward with the butt of his gun. He stumbled, colliding with the back of several other prisoners. Blushing, he ducked his head. Then he scanned the room, hoping desperately to find his parents in the crowd.

Mama! Where are you?

He was too old to cry for his mother, but, oh, how he wanted his mother right now. He felt tears burn behind his eyes. A different SS soldier – they all looked the same – snatched his registration card, showed it to yet another SS soldier, who grabbed his arm and stuck a needle into his forearm. He cried out, much to the amusement of the soldiers. Black numbers appeared on his arm, and he realised in horror that he had been reduced to nothing more than a number. His arm still stinging, he was pushed further down the room where photographs were taken of him. All throughout, he was aware of being watched, of a pair of eyes fixed on him. A man in an immaculate three piece suit stared at him through round spectacles, all cold eyes and a small, cruel smile.

"Him," the man declared, pointing at him. "I want him."

Gently, Charles took Erik's wrist, pulling his hand from his arm. Erik turned to him in surprise; he hadn't even realised what he was doing, despite the fact his skin was marred with red marks from his fingernails. Upon realising what he'd done, Erik stuffed his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

Emerging from the room into a corridor, the walls of which were lined with row after row of registered prisoners; Erik moved slowly, Charles following. He watched Erik study the faces, waiting for an inevitable spark of recognition there. Charles turned to the opposite wall and found his breath stolen from him. There, subtitled with the familiar numbers 214784, was Erik. His vision blurred with sudden tears. Despite everything – Erik's memories, the tattoo, the coin – it was this irrevocable proof that drove home to him the fact that Erik had been here, lived here, suffered here. Charles quickly wiped the moisture away from his eyes. To his relief Erik had missed his own portrait, although he had stopped, a few metres ahead. When Charles approached he realised Erik was fixated on one photo, of a young girl with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. Charles frowned. There was something familiar about that face.

"Her name was Marya," Erik revealed. "We escaped together. We lived together then."

"What happened?" Charles asked.

"She left."

Charles returned his attention to the photo. He frowned. There was definitely something familiar about the girl's face.

"I know her," he said before he could stop himself. "At least, I think I've met her."

"How?" Erik frowned.

"I don't know..." Charles replied.

Then Erik turned and froze. Charles followed his eye line and found himself looking at the picture of a man not unlike the one next to him. Between the facial similarities and the look of horror on Erik's face, Charles knew exactly who he was seeing.

"That's your father, isn't it?" he whispered. Erik nodded, unable to speak. "Do you know... What, how...?"

"He was made to work as a sonderkommando, then when he became too weak, he was sent to the chambers," Erik replied.

Oh my love, I am so very sorry.

Charles couldn't speak out loud in that moment. He couldn't stop himself from saying something that could only lead to trouble. How ironic, that even thirty years later, standing in a place where thousands of men and women had been killed simply for loving the so-called 'wrong' way, he still could not comfort Erik the way he wanted for fear of persecution. Humanity had not moved on as far as it liked to believe.

They couldn't find the photograph of Erik's mother. Privately Charles wondered if this was for the best.

They passed through block 8 and 9 in silence, but when they approached block 11 – known, Charles knew, as the block of death – Erik stopped suddenly.

"I don't want to go in there Charles," Erik murmured. "I can't"

"Okay," Charles replied. "We don't have to go in there. We can leave right now if you want."

Erik didn't move; his eyes were stuck on the red brick building ahead of them.

"They put me in there," he revealed. "When Shaw ran, when the Russians were approaching. They didn't know what do with me, so they locked me in there. I thought I was going to die, I should've died. It's where I met Marya; four of us trapped in the standing cells. She'd tried to escape. They were going to shoot her, but the Russians arrived first."

Every nerve and muscle ached. If there was room, he would've fallen. But he couldn't; he was pressed against three other bodies, unable to move. He hated it, being this close to these skeletal strangers. He could feel them staring at him, judging him, because although he'd suffered, he was not as emaciated as them. He could hear them wondering where he'd come from, how he'd survived so well.

One of them was a girl. She might be his age, it was impossible to tell. Her face was impossibly hollow, the skin hanging off of her high cheekbones. Her eyes met his and he felt a spark of companionship for the first time in almost a year.

Charles sat silently, allowing Erik time to process his memories and emotions, sending him waves of love and companionship and safety as a gentle reminder that he was here by his side if Erik needed him.

"Do you want to leave?" Charles asked eventually.

Slowly Erik shook his head.

"Just... Just not in there," he replied gruffly.

"Okay," Charles nodded.

They turned and walked away, moving up and down the rows of red brick buildings in silence. Charles could feel the pain and anger coming off of Erik in waves, but other than a reassurance that he was here and Erik was safe, he didn't intervene. This was something Erik had chosen to do, however painful, and Charles would respect that. Still, the eeriness continued to haunt him. It was so quiet. Not just because there were only a few visitors that day – probably a good thing, what with the whole Erik's a wanted terrorist thing – no, the air seemed heavy, thick. Charles had always firmly been of the opinion that there was no afterlife; firstly because he was a scientist, and secondly because he'd felt people die. He knew that when they died, they were gone, because he'd felt them go. But here, in this place, he could almost change his mind. It felt... crowded and claustrophobic, even though they were alone. He didn't like it.

Suddenly Erik stopped. Charles felt the metal of his chair begin to vibrate, quickly followed by his watch and belt buckle. A quick glance around confirmed his suspicions that the wire fence had also began to hum.

"Erik," he said. "Erik, come back to me. Please."

Erik took a shuddering breath; the fence stopped rattling, but Charles could still feel the tremor in his chair and watch. Then he realised the cause of Erik's distress.

The building in front of them looked no different than the dozens of others they'd passed. But Charles knew this one was different. He recognised the building instantly. Above the door a sign declared: Haftl.-Krankenbau Chirurgische-Abt. Prison Infirmary Surgical Division. And below: Entritt Verboten. Entry Forbidden.

The building where Shaw or Schmit had performed dozen of operations and experiments on Erik to try to provoke and understand the root of Erik's powers. Charles had once noticed the face of the infamous Josef Mengele in the audience, eager to watch, if unable to understand. For a man driven by peace, Charles felt an overwhelming amount of hate in that moment, and found that he didn't regret Sebastian Shaw's death – or the pain he himself had suffered for it – one bit.

Then he turned back to Erik and the fury dissipated instantly. Erik's eyes shone, and his shoulder's actually shook with barely contained tears.

"Come here," Charles ordered gently.

It was all it took. Erik fell to his knees, arms instantly encircling Charles' waist, and Charles felt his shirt grow damp. He wound a hand into Erik's hair, the other running comfortingly up and down Erik's back.

"Shh, it's okay, you are safe, he is gone, and you are not alone," Charles whispered. "You are not alone. Erik, you are not alone."

Scalpels glinted in the light, but he couldn't stop it. He tried and tried, reaching out for the metal, just wanting to stop it.

"I'm going to count to three..."

The table was cold against his back. The vice on his head was tight. He tried to unscrew the clamps, but he just couldn't do it.

"Eins..."

He couldn't feel the coin. He couldn't move it.

"Zwei..."

She was gone, his mother was gone. They'd taken away his freedom, they'd taken away his name, and now they'd taken away his mother. He screamed. Suddenly he could feel every piece of metal in the room, feel it leaping to his command.

"Drei..."

BANG!

Charles noticed a guard looking at them suspiciously, but he would not and could not push Erik away for propriety's sake at a time like this. Instead he carefully unwound Erik's left arm from his waist, turning it so the guard could see the number tattooed on the forearm and fixing the man with a look. The guard's face dawned in comprehension, followed quickly by compassion. He nodded, Charles returned it, then the guard moved away, giving them a moment of privacy. Charles relaxed, turning his attention back fully to Erik.

"You are not alone," he repeated. "You're safe. I'm here. I love you."

XXX

The journey home was silent, from the train ride to the walk back to their apartment. Once Erik had closed the door and bolted the collection of deadbolts, he turned and found Charles standing shakily. His eyes widened. Charles was still very much in the early days of being able to stand again. But there he stood, arms open. For the first time that day, Erik smiled. He stepped forward into Charles' arms, keeping one hand on Charles' back for support. He felt Charles smile against his shoulder.

"Thank you," Erik muttered.

Despite everything, he felt better. He felt like a few of the ghosts that haunted him had been left back in the camp, where they belonged. He doubted he would ever have had the courage to face it alone.

Charles pulled back a little.

"Marry me," he said.