SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!

Ah do not own the characters in this story nor the Movieverse in which Ah have placed them! This
is a fanfic for entertainment purposes only! No money is being made from the creation of this fic so
please don't sue moi! *eeeppp*

Rated PG-13 for m/m slash themes. So if'n such like offends ya'll, best skedaddle:):) Nothing
graphic though:):)

This one is dedicated to Sir Ian McKellen for daring to be himself, both as a man and as an actor.
For fighting the good fight bravely and openly. And to Alara Rogers whose plea on the new List
galvanized moi into action! Thanks Alara, Sugah:):)

Ah have not read the novelization of the movie nor read any of the associated comics published with
the advent of the movie. So if'n anything Ah have done heah contradicts anything there ... apologies
in advance. Ah have only three viewings of the film itself to guide moi in moi's journey through this
fic!

Ah will also admit to tampering with history for the sake of this story:(:( A serious matter for an
historian such as moiself! In reality it was the Soviet Army that liberated Auschwitz, not the
American Army. But Ah hope Ah can be forgiven this small conceit.

Feedback is adored and craved! Not to mention eagerly responded to!:)

Enjoy!:):)

Wolverine: "Why don't you just use the machine to find Magneto?"
Xavier: "He appears to have found a way to shield himself from it."
Wolverine: "How would he know how to do that?'"
Xavier: "Because he helped me build it."
from the X-Men movie

Erik?

Erik Lehnsherr looked up with a small smile to see Charles Xavier wheeling himself down the long
ramp to pause before Cerebro. Of their own accord, several metal cables snaked their way across
the floor and connected themselves flawlessly with the main console of the complex device. Through
the cables he held, the man who was beginning to call himself Magneto sent a magnetic pulse that lit
the interior of the machine with a brilliant harsh white light before dying down to a softer less blinding
luminescence. The Polish born mutant's arresting voice still bore lingering traces of a slight accent.
He'd only been here in America not quite a year, after all. And although Xavier had managed to
telepathically teach him English in considerably less than a single day, he was powerless to remove
the distinguishing accent.

"Ah, Charles!" cried Erik, sweeping an errant lock of dark brown hair off his forehead. "Just in time
to help me calibrate our mutant detecting computer." He pointed with one long, elegant finger to the
rather strange looking helmet laying on the console. "The induction module? Could you put it on,
please?"

"Of course, my friend."

Xavier leaned forward and slipped the device over his bald head. The circuits glowed softly and the
mutant telepath could feel a buzz, a tingling at the base of his skull as his power expanded, touching
many hundreds of minds simultaneously. Briefly, he was elated. They'd done it! The most
problematical aspect of Xavier's future plans would be finding young mutants to attend his proposed
School For Gifted Youngsters was the initial search. How does one, after all, find a mutant?
Cerebro was the obvious solution. He had faith in his Dream and his abilities as a teacher. After a
few moments, the pressures of all those minds began to press in on him, weighing heavily, and the
would be teacher scowled in pain. Swiftly, he disengaged the device and removed it to find an
anxious Erik Lenhsherr crouched before his wheelchair, fear dancing in his pale blue eyes.
Lehnsherr would have sworn he'd forgotten how to pray. But he hadn't.

Dear God, no ... not again ... not again ... Please let him be all right ... please ... Don't take *him*
from me as well ... Unbidden, punishing memories rose to the surface of his mind like clotted
cream. A boy, still a child really, he relived once more the horror of the moment when his parents
were ripped away from his side at the gates of Auschwitz, herded away like cattle to die in the gas
chambers of Birkenau. He remembered the boots and clubs of the guards when he tried ineffectually
to strike back, the only sign of his grief and rage the crushed, distorted metal of the Main Gate.

ARBEIT MACHT FREI, insisted the sign that hung there.

Labor liberates.

"Charles?" he demanded, his fear lending a sharp edge to his resonant voice. "Charles, are you
well?"

Breathing rapidly, still somewhat disoriented, the mutant telepath entwined his fingers with
Lenhsherr's. Such beautiful, lovely hands. Long and slender; strong but fine boned. Skilled at so
many, many things ... The hands of a great artist or a great lover.

One of the two he could certainly attest to.

Two, actually, if he were being entirely fair. Erik was definitely an artist with machinery. As he had
just proven.

Xavier squeezed the other man's hand in gentle reassurance. "I'm fine, Erik, fine," he murmured and
was very glad to feel the intense man relax. Embarrassed, perhaps, by such an open display of
emotion, the magnokinetic mutant turned away, ferociously studying the data readout on the console
before him.

"Cerebro is attuned to your brain waves, now, Charles," he said in triumph. "Between the two of us,
your knowledge of psionics and my talents as an engineer, we've built something quite
extraordinary. Part computer, part psi-amplifier, under your guidance it can tune in on the unique
alpha waves of any mutant brain and trace the signal immediately."

Xavier massaged his forehead and tried to ignore the piercing, throbbing headache that bit and
scratched for release just behind his watering eyes. "I hadn't counted on such intense feedback," the
mutant teacher murmured, throwing himself into a light alpha state to combat the pain in his mind.
Slowly, it faded, beaten back by the force of his considerable will. "It concerns me that the machine
could be dangerous to use," he observed. Magneto sighed.

"Nothing is perfect, I fear, Charles," he replied, sadly. "I will study the plans further and see what I
can do to lessen the discomfort and the danger. But, I suspect that Cerebro will never be something
to be employed lightly. And perhaps that's for the best." Around the two men, cables connected
themselves, electronic components attached and detached themselves, generators and circuits
sparked to life, seemingly without a human hand to guide or direct them. Erik was hard at work,
Charles noted, not without some small concern.

"But not today, Erik," Charles urged. "You've been locked away in here most of the day, my friend,
working on Cerebro. Even *you* have limits. You must be exhausted. Come. It's the middle of
the evening and you haven't even eaten supper yet. We're making fine progress. We can finish this
tomorrow. If you're not tired, *I* am. Take pity on a weary soul." He smiled in what he hoped
was guileless allure, his eyes shining brightly. "And there are ... other things ... to occupy us this
evening ... "

Lehnsherr said nothing, but his lowered his eyes and tiny smile of anticipation spoke his desire louder
than words might have done. In answer, the frantic activity around them slowly ground to a halt and
the tools all replaced themselves neatly in their proper places. The metallic debris of their days
work, the discarded pieces of cable, the metal scraps and filings, the burned out circuits and useless
components arranged themselves in an orderly pile and then, rising into the air, disposed of
themselves neatly in a nearby waste receptacle.

"Tomorrow, then, Charles," agreed Erik, running his hands through his thick hair and smiling more
openly now. Without the crippled telepath's knowledge he used his control over the forces of
magnetism to assist the other man as he wheeled himself up the ramp to the door. He had no desire
to shame Charles, after all. His lover was more than capable of taking care of himself, despite his
handicap. Still ... Charles had claimed weariness and it *was* a steep ramp ... It would not do to
admit to himself he supposed, that he took pleasure, even found a certain satisfaction, in helping his
lover in small, insignificant ways.

Before them, the vast metal door rumbled open and then closed itself behind the two men as they
exited the huge room. In the loudness of the sharp retort as the doors sealed themselves, locking out
any intruders, Xavier almost missed the soft gasp of pain at his back. But he did not, however, miss
the psionic echo of that pain that stabbed through him like a living thing.

Whirling as fast as his chair would permit he saw Erik stumble a bit on suddenly unsteady feet, then
lean back against the wall for support, clutching his temples. He watched in mounting horror as a
small trickle of blood began to flow from Erik's aquiline nose. In alarm, he wheeled himself as close
as possible to the other man, grabbing in desperation for his lovers trembling hand.

Instantly he was flooded with such pain and weakness that he found himself glad he was already
seated, lest he fall down. He had no idea how Erik was still on his feet. But then, the Polish mutant's
will had frequently been more than a match for any frailty of his body. Erik had long ago recovered
from the privations he'd suffered in the camps. Physically, at least. As much as he was ever going
to.

"Erik ... Erik ... " he chided desperately. "How many times have I warned you about overtaxing
yourself? Over using your powers? Why won't you ever listen me?"

Grimacing, the dark haired man responded. "Because I'm a stubborn fool, I suppose you'd claim,"
he gasped, still clinging to the wall.

"Can you walk?" Charles wanted to know, his brow furrowed now with building anxiety. If Erik
couldn't ... What was he going to do? There were only the two of them here. Silently, and not for
the first time, of course, he cursed his useless legs. "Can you make it to the elevator and then up to
our bedroom?"

With a great effort, Erik straightened his back, closing his eyes against the sudden dizziness that
Charles could feel assail him. "Of course, I can!" he declared in what was meant to be a strong,
forceful voice. "Give - give me a moment."

Somehow, the two determined men stumbled their way into the elevator at the end of the corridor.
As the elevator began to rise to the floors containing the living areas of Xavier's family estate, the
telepath noticed Erik's white knuckles as the suffering mutant clung tightly to the brass rail.
Miraculously, they made their way without incident to the master bedroom on the second floor
before Erik collapsed with a sigh of great relief onto the large sumptuous bed there.

Xavier wheeled himself to the side of the bed. Tenderly, he removed Erik's boots and loosened the
buttons of his shirt, exposing the pale expanse of his heaving chest. The other man's breathing was a
bit easier now, Xavier was almost ecstatic to note. Retreating into the large bathroom, Charles
quickly grabbed two washcloths. The first he soaked in hot water and the other he moistened with
cold water. With the cloth steeped in hot water, he carefully wiped the drying blood from Erik's face
and chest. When that was done he took the cold cloth and gently laved the other man's sweating
face, then lay the chill cloth against Erik's forehead. Erik sighed and his eyes fluttered open.

"Thank you," he said, squeezing the other mutant's hand in gratitude. "That feels wonderful."

Charles stroked Erik's forehead, smoothing the wrinkled brow there with tender caresses. "My
God, Erik," he whispered. "You frightened me so. This is serious, not just some minor ailment.
You need to see a doctor as soon as possible!"

Beneath his fingers Charles could feel the other man tense, his body rigid with denial. "No!" Erik
was firm, "*no* doctors! I ... I have had no pleasant experiences with ... doctors ... "

Soothing his lover with his hands as he might a skittish creature of the wild, Xavier crooned, "I know
... I know .. "

Charles never pretended to be something he was not and he was not, in general, a demonstrative
man. Neither was Erik. Not for them public displays of affection in the manner of most lovers. Erik
was loath to be touched without his express permission. Erik had been ... touched ... too often,
Charles feared. Still ... there was something immensely human and humane in their private gestures
of love.

For a moment Xavier's practical mind overwhelmed his concern and turned to the realization that his
school would need a doctor. Preferably a doctor well versed in the complexities of mutant
physiology. Perhaps a mutant themselves? He made a mental note. Finding a mutant physician
might not be a simple matter, he reminded himself. Best to start looking soon.

Muscle by muscle he could sense Erik relax beneath his soothing ministrations. The pain was
easing. But the bone weariness remained. His heart twisted, a heavy stone lump in his chest.
Against his will he remembered the horror that was Auschwitz.

The Third Battalion, First Army Corps pushed through the crisp cold night of a Polish winter,
pressing ever onward. And on January 27, 1945 in the early morning hours they came upon the
concentration camp of Auschwitz. There had been rumors, but nothing, *nothing*, could have
prepared them for the stark, hideous reality of Auschwitz that they faced with the rising of the sun.

In truth they smelled the camp long before they ever saw it. Even in the freezing senses numbing grip
of the icy cold of Winter the odor reached them. That sickly sweet, slightly nauseating smell of death
and decay mixed with the sharp acrid stink of burning meat. It seemed to permeate everything with
an all pervasive miasma that spoke eloquently of death and dying. Many covered their mouths and
noses with scarves or handkerchiefs. And not just against the cold. The smell burned the nostrils
and settled into the pores. Later, Charles remembered distinctly burning his uniform against orders in
a futile effort to rid himself of that smell.

Charles was never, ever going to forget that smell. It would likely follow him to his grave.

None of them knew what that smell meant, of course.

Not then.

For Charles it was an almost unendurable agony. So many thousands of minds ... in torment ...
dying ... Death sang a siren song, shrieking along his nerves and he staggered as he marched.
Swiftly, before he could betray himself further, Xavier erected his strongest psi-shields. Not since
the first advent of his telepathic gifts in his early adolescence had such powerful shields been
necessary. But ... Hell raged on the other side of those shields, clawing and raking at his mind with
sharp, bloody talons.

The camp itself was worse. A horror beyond description ...

Unburied bodies lay strewn everywhere about, row upon row of naked, stripped corpses, stacked
like cordwood or just left to rot where they lay. Gray faced, shaven haired living skeletons stared at
them with dull, uncomprehending, blank eyes, unmoving, huddled together behind barbed wire
fences like cattle, their bones protruding from striped prison uniforms. Even more disturbing were the
ones who *were* moving ... stumbling blindly from place to place, unresponsive, unfocused, locked
forever in the embrace of their hellish torment.

"Lord God have mercy ... " whispered Xavier's Platoon Leader, First Lieutenant Arn Mitchell and
vomited up the scant meal of c-rations that passed as breakfast in the U.S. Army. "Iron" Mitch was
one hell of a long way from Little Rock, Arkansas. Xavier saw battle hardened veteran soldiers,
survivors of the Battle of The Bulge and Kasserine Pass, retching and sobbing in the gray light of
dawn, stunned and sickened.

He joined them.

Someone broke the silence with a curse, then with a great roar the soldiers sprinted for the camp on
the double... their no longer weary faces twisted nearly out of all human shape by their rage. They
flung themselves down the road leading to the camp without any regard whatsoever for cover or
concealment, their leaders cursing them and demanding that they halt. They were roundly ignored.
No one was afraid, not after the sights that greeted them.

As the soldiers entered the camp, those living skeletons still able to walk crowded around them and,
though the fighters wanted to drive farther into the camp, to confront the enemy, the milling, pressing
crowd hemmed them in, denying them freedom of movement. The very sight of an American soldier
brought cheers, groans and shrieks. People crowded around to touch the stunned soldiers, to touch
the jeep, to kiss their arms-perhaps merely to convince themselves that this miracle was real. They
clutched at Charles' uniform, they spoke to him in the rusty little used voices of the damned. Charles
began handing out the small bites of food he carried on his person, chocolate bars and other sweets,
bread and hardtack. He saw others of his weeping platoon mates doing the same. Those prisoners
who couldn't walk crawled toward the jeep. Charles spied several who couldn't even crawl who
propped themselves up on an elbow, and somehow, through all their pain and suffering, revealed
through their shining eyes the gratitude, the joy they felt at the arrival of their liberators.

Over the next several days the U. S. Army struggled valiantly to save as many lives as they could.
Tons of food and emergency medical supplies were airlifted in for the relief of the 7,000 men,
woman and children left here to die. Doctors and nurses, Red Cross workers and volunteers from
many different organizations fought the ravages of starvation and rampant disease with their hands
and hearts and every weapon at their command.

In all too many cases the fight was in vain.

Upwards of 3,000 thousand of the pitiful remnants of a once proud, thriving European Jewry
imprisoned at Auschwitz still died. Not a day passed but a dozen more died, too weak and far gone
to be saved. But hunger and disease were not the only Horsemen stalking the inmates, Charles soon
discovered. Suicide was the second most frequent cause of death among the ghosts of Auschwitz.
They found them hanging from the rafters in the mornings, strange dark fruit of death ... they found
them curled up beneath their new, warm Red Cross blankets, wet and blood soaked, their veins
open and empty.

Charles understood.

"W-Why *me*?" one woman whispered in German, just before she died. "Why me? All the others
died ... so many. many others ... "

They searched for answers, these discarded husks of humanity.

And did not find them.

It was guilt that drove them to the final solace of the knife or the rope when all that their Nazi
tormentors could do did not kill them. They did the job themselves.

Charles found Erik Lehnsherr curled in a fetal position on a filthy cot in Barracks C, occupied with
dying; too weak to swallow the food or the medicine provided for him. On the bed Erik stirred.

"Charles? Do you remember Auschwitz? Do you? You were so young, so young ... hard to
believe you were a soldier ... you were barely 16 ... " Xavier smiled.

"I began losing my hair in my early teens when my telepathic abilities first manifested themselves. It
makes me look older. Since I was barely fourteen people have thought I was a grown man. It
wasn't hard to lie convincingly to the Army recruiters. They didn't ask many questions. And God
knows it's not as though my step-father Kurt Marko concerned himself with what happened to me.
He was glad to be rid of me." The stricken mutant closed his eyes and Xavier gently brushed a stray
lock of dark brown hair from off the sweat slick forehead.

"So much alike .. so very much alike ..." Erik tried to smile. "I was always tall for my age. It saved
me at Auschwitz. When the guards asked me how old I was, I lied and told them I was 17.
Because I was tall, they believed me." Lehnsherr squeezed Charles' hand.

"Marko's loss was my gain," he murmured. "Yours was the first face I saw, the first voice I heard
when I came back to myself. You fed me and bathed me like a child. You refused to let me die. It
was *you* who kept the nightmares at bay so that I could sleep at night. You were always there,
always with me, easing the pain and the guilt." Again Charles wiped his lovers face with the cool
cloth.

"I was ... drawn ... to you from the beginning," he admitted. "You fought so long and so hard ... with
such courage ... Your will reached out to me and would not let me abandon you. It was unthinkable
that you should die. I couldn't allow it."

He had never told Erik the other, never spoken, reason he rarely left his side in those days.
Although he suspected that the Holocaust survivor knew.

"Sondercommando!" the middle aged man hissed and spat down on the sleeping form of Erik.
"Whore! Let he die!" His English was broken, disjointed, but his meaning was all too clear.
Shocked, Charles wiped up the spittle and turned to face the enraged former prisoner.

"Vas ist das 'Sondercommando'?" he demanded in good German.

Surprised and gratified to hear his own language from the lips of a foreigner, eager to please, the man
told him.

Charles paled.

"A Sondercommando," the man explained, "was one who took the others to the gas chambers.
When the gassing was finished they removed and stripped the bodies. Cut the hair from the heads of
the dead, pulled the gold teeth from their mouths. Then they buried the bodies. They did all this and
... other ... things for the Nazis. For this they were given extra rations of food and allowed to live
when others died." He gazed down at Erik, tossing and turning in fitful, uneasy sleep.

"He does not deserve to live."

Charles recalled, then, the warehouses of Auschwitz. Filled to overflowing with all manner of useful
things .. human hair for the stuffing of pillows and mattresses ... eyeglasses and shoes; clothing of all
kinds and sizes. Suitcases ... and one entire warehouse brim full of over ten thousand pitiful childish
rag dolls ...

"You were at my side when I saw the world for the first time," Erik's voice drew him back to the
present. "Our travels and your company healed me much faster than any mere medicine could have
done. I saw those Displaced Persons camps after the War. God knows what would have
happened to me if you hadn't taken me with you when you left the Army ... "

"And God knows what would have happened to me in Egypt if you hadn't been there," Charles was
quick to remind him. "Amahl Farouk would have taken much more from me than just the use of my
legs, if you hadn't stopped him. He was a powerful psychic and, untried and untrained as I was,
then, I wasn't ready to face him. There was a reason they called him The Shadow King ... and not
just because he was King of the Cairo underworld. He'd have killed me if it hadn't been for you."
Lovingly, the telepathic mutant laved the other man's chest and lay his hand over the heart within,
feeling the rapid beat through the tips of his fingers, absorbing its reality through his skin.

"And who was it who sat by my side for weeks, months, in that Cairo hospital while I recovered?
Who was it that refused to let me give in to despair and self pity when the doctors told me I'd never
walk again? Who stood by me all during my physical therapy, prodding and lashing me ever
forward? You were the one who proved to me that I was still a man for all my handicap. That I was
yet capable of loving and being loved." Erik lay his hand atop Xavier's.

"We make a good team, Charles, my friend," he opined softly. "But this idea of yours for a school ...
foolish ... It depends too much on the milk of human kindness ... the goodness of man ... And that
doesn't exist. I *know*. Mutants must band together, yes ... there is safety in numbers ... but
*not* to hide themselves away ... that's fatal. My family tried to hide but the Nazi's found us
anyway. There is a war coming, Charles. And we must be ready. We must seize the initiative, we
must - " Xavier stroked Erik's brow.

"Shhhhh," he urged and managed to still his face, not to frown. "Rest now. We'll talk in the
morning." Erik closed his eyes and Charles covered him with the blanket with pensive hands,
watching him curl into his pillows. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Charles wheeled
himself to the light switch and clicked it off, plunging the room into darkness.

These philosophical differences between the two of them were becoming more and more
pronounced. What should he do? What *could* he do? Was Erik right? With all his heart
Charles did not believe so. That way lay ruin and disaster. It was past time that he take the bull by
the horns and do something, though ...

But ... not today.

In the morning.

They would talk in the morning ...

The End