[fanfiction] Plain Shadows 3/?
Title: Plain Shadows 3/?
Author: twilightrose2
Rating: T
Genre: Drama/Suspense/Romance
Warnings: Spies, character death and railways blowing up.
Summary: AU. The end of summer nears and the fair city of Paris has fallen. The city trembles before the looming Reich, but Arthur does not. Neither does the double-edged cross, standing strong in a battle where guns and bombs mean nothing and all one can trust are the webs of faith, betrayal and deceit that hold the once-fair city together.
Note: YES, Francis is in this chapter. Let there be joy throughout the lands.
June 22nd, 1940 - Hotel Meurice, Paris, Occupied France
Two days had passed which primarily consisted of Arthur attempting to glean information from German soldiers. His primary tactic was asking such blatant questions so as to disguise his actual identity. The best lying was with the truth. Most of these sessions tended to be cut short by Gilbert appearing out of the walls and leading him away.
His camera had gotten more use than expected during these outings. When the Prussian wasn't showing him around pre-arranged scenes with paid actors sitting outside cafes smiling at Arthur, or bicycling around the Champs Élysées and even picnicking on the edge of the Seine, the Brit managed to find the darker side of the city hidden in alleys and around corners. People scavenging for food in carts, Germans at every corner, guns in plain sight, and harsh yellow stars on the breasts of some Parisians' coats.
These pictures hung above his bathtub, the enlarger balanced on his toilet as he took them from the clips, squinting in semi-darkness cast by the light bulb covered in a red shirt. Smiling and holding the photos close to his chest, he opened the door to his bathroom, blinking in the grey of the stormy day. Flicking the photos onto the desk, he stared at them, spreading them out beneath his fingers, ignoring the rain at the window.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at his door and the Brit sighed slightly, putting down a photo of a blond man feeding ducks. "Coming!" he called, fixing his collar and making sure his sleeves were still rolled back before opening the door, "Oh… Gilbert."
The Prussian was out of his heavy uniform and now was only remarkable by his blinding hair and striking eyes. "Come on." He said, balancing on the heels of his boots, "We are going to the bar."
"The… bar?" Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Whatever for?"
Gilbert gave him an exasperated look. "Paris is the city of love, ja? We are not staying here a moment longer when there are French women out there looking for a good wurst." He made a vulgar motion with his hips and hands, making Arthur wince slightly.
"Lovely metaphor." Arthur said, smoothing the front of his shirt, "But I was going to stay in tonight, trying and get some writing done-" his words were cut short as Gilbert seized his arm, pulling him out of his room and towards the elevator.
"No buts!" he said excitedly, jabbing the 'down' button. "The bar! A cabaret! Women, beer and more women!"
Arthur opened his mouth to object but the soldier had already pulled him into the elevator, the doors sliding shut before Arthur could find his footing. "Sounds fun…" he muttered, "But shouldn't you be staying here and, you know, securing your Nazi empire?"
The Prussian grinned, stretching slightly. "That is exactly what I am doing," he said as the doors open and he practically skipped out of the elevator, "Spreading my superior genes around."
"The Aryan race..." Arthur muttered, following after Gilbert, "An excuse for one big shagfest."
The cabaret Gilbert's car stopped outside was ostentatious with its display of bright and flashy lights, posters of naked dancers dotted along the panels leading up the front doors and statues of Greek goddesses between the windows that marked the four floors. Arthur climbed out, glancing up at the large billboard-cutouts right above the doors of two naked women with large feathers on their heads and long silky red gloves that were holding up the neon sign announcing the name of the cabaret.
Diamant et Laisee
Arthur didn't have much time to observe the architecture and Glibert wrapped an arm around his shoulder, dragging him out of the rain and under the two women into the safety of the nightclub. Inside, low lights of chandeliers illuminated a large room with a stage and booths lining the edges of the room, a second floor was lined with doors, obviously private rooms for paying customers.
A large square bar protruded to Arthur's left, it's stools empty save for man in a driver's hat. The rest of the tables were filled with German soldiers and Nazis, most of them drunk out of their mind, half-naked women on their laps as they spoke loudly and mostly in German, adding the boisterous atmosphere of the room.
Taking up most of the floor was a thrust stage, a woman dancing on it with nothing up but a headdress and pair of thin shorts. Her blond hair was pulled up and off her face while she moved along the stage, high heels clicking as the soldiers around her whooped and cheered, eyes hungry.
Arthur eyes, for once, were drawn to the scene behind her. The backdrop was Paris and after staring for a few more seconds, the Brit realized that it was merely a pane of glass. The Eiffel Tower stood tall above the skyline and the moon rivalled it in brightness, though it was dulled by the storm clouds rolling about.
"Welcome." A woman sauntered up to them, corset tight and lifting, lips red and eyes sultry. Her skin was a dark caramel and the green eyes began to wander, "Can I get you gentlemen anything?" Her voice purred with French but Arthur sensed something else there, something spicy, exotic.
Gilbert was already off of Arthur, joining soldiers at a table, greeted with cheers and more rounds being ordered. The Prussian flopped down in a chair, grabbing a passing girl's arm, tugging her into his lap, grinning as she giggled.
Snorting slightly, the Brit shook his head. "No thank you." He said, walking over to the bar, sitting down. The man in the driver's hat made no acknowledgement, merely getting to his feet, leaving the cabaret without once looking up. Arthur sighed, glancing around. He didn't mind drinking alone but here he just felt like a very terrible voyeur.
Trying to keep his eyes off the women, he continued to absorb the cabaret itself. In the corner, a piano sat near the stage, it's player had his back turned to the bar, watching to woman on stage carefully, the delicate and tantalizing music in perfect harmony with her steps. All Arthur could glean from his brief stare was that the man was blond.
"Can I, um, get you something to, like, drink?" the Briton looked round. A very pretty blond was leaning on the bar, green eyes bright and enquiring, the slightest hint of blush and eyeliner on the soft face. Arthur frowned; gut telling him something was off, not just with the appearance but he was almost certain that accent wasn't French. "Excuse me, staring is rude." The bartender said, eyes batting and the blond hair was tossed over the thin shoulder. Fixing his eyes on the chest, Arthur's mouth opened slightly in shock.
"Blimey, you're a man!" he exclaimed.
Giggling slightly, the bartender nodded. "Sorry króliczku, you're out of luck. Unless," the blond pulled a face, frowning very hard in concentration so that his nose crinkled up, "you're, like, into that kind of stuff."
Arthur's cheeks turned pink despite himself. "Of course not. I'm here to see women. Tottys, not blokes." He cleared his throat, smirking, "You should learn the difference or you're going to find yourself up in one of those rooms."
"You should not be so crass." Arthur turned around. The pianist was standing behind him; long blond hair swept back, blue eyes dark and searching. His shirt was open just wide enough to show the hint of a necklace, "Especially consider where you are monsieur." The dancer was still on stage, though now she was playing to fuzzy music from hidden speakers.
The bartender sniggered. "Thanks Bonnefoy." he said, winking at him, "Wine?"
Raising a hand, the Frenchman shook his head. "No time. And no money either. Sadiq cannot pay me until tomorrow." He smiled sadly, "Sorry Feliks, you know I would love to stay and drink with you."
"I'll buy him the wine." Arthur said quickly, reaching for his wallet, "And a pint please, anything but German." He handed over a few Reichsmarks while the pianist hesitated before slipping onto the stool beside the Englishman.
As Feliks went about preparing the drinks, Arthur glanced over at the next to him. "So, Bonnefoy," he started, watching the blue eyes flick to him, "Is that your first name or?"
The man offered a small smile, but not his hand, which stayed firmly on the counter, tapping quietly. "Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."
"I'm Arthur Kirkland." The Brit didn't offer his hand either. They were silent until Feliks placed a large glass mug in front of the Brit filled to the brim with amber liquid and a tall wineglass in front of Francis. Immediately Francis picked up his drinking, swirling it around, observing the legs with casual ease. "So… have you always worked here Francis?"
Francis nodded. "Even before ze… occupation." He sipped the wine, testing it before swallowing half the glass in one go. His tongue ran over his lips in appreciation. "Zis is my home. We live in ze very top floors."
Wrapping his finger around his pint, Arthur frowned slightly, staring hard at Francis' chest, seeing the hint of a dark cross. But it wasn't a usual cross. "The top floors…" he repeated, glancing up, seeing a staircase on the second floor spiralling up, "Well, you have a beautiful view." He gestured towards the stage, "And I don't just mean the dancer."
To his surprise, Francis laughed quietly. "Paris is very lovely." He agreed, tending to his wine again. "And Katya is not ugly by any stretch."
This time Arthur saw the cross as it dipped out of the shirt for a moment. There were two horizontal lines, the top one smaller. "That cross on your neck-" Arthur started, but was cut off for a second time that night by Gilbert's arm sliding on his shoulder, pulling him flush into the Prussian.
"Auf Kreta im Sturm und im Regen!" he sang loudly, most of the soldiers singing with him, "Da steht ein Fallschirmjäger auf der Wacht!"
"Oh shit…" Arthur held Gilbert up, prying the tankard away from his flailing hand, placing it on the bar and hoisting the Prussian a little higher on his shoulders. "I better take him home."
Francis made no reply, the necklace was tucked under his shirt again, his eyes guarded and shady. Even Feliks and the dark-skinned girl were shooting his furtive looks. Even though there were mostly Germans there, and Gilbert was attracting most of the attention, Arthur could still feeling pairs of eyes searching him.
He grinned to himself, heaving Gilbert out of the cabaret and into his car, shaking his head as the Prussian's head lolled to the side and he was asleep within seconds. Arthur didn't care. He had hit the jackpot.
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Author's Note
You know you've done too much research for a fanfiction when you attempt to cover a light bulb in a shirt to see if it'd make a sufficient dark room light. And I'm so going to hell for that Aryan race = shag comment.
Translations (vague as they are): Auf Kreta im Sturm und im Regen! Da steht ein Fallschirmjäger auf der Wacht! - On Crete, in the storm and in the rain! There a paratrooper is on on the wake!
Diamant et Laisee - Diamond and Leash (shut up, I like Death Cab for Cutie;;)
króliczku - bunny
-Pre-arranged photographs: the Nazis actually did this. They would pay Parisians to pose for pictures that showed a very light and cheery Paris instead of what was actually going on, very clever. There are a few examples at this site. I have apparently been mistaken within my research and lai_choi_san was kind enough to correct me:
The controversy about the Zucca's photos was ridiculous. 1) Zucca was obliged to shoot Paris in the sunlight because of the film speed. 2) He took photographs for "Signal", a German magazine and as expected, he avoided scenes like long queues in front of empty shops 3) if we look attentively at these photos, we can see that Paris was not the paradise on earth : no cars, wood-soled shoes, people looking disgusted (the photos on the link show the rare smiles Zucca managed to shoot). Given that taking photos in the street was forbidden by the German occupier and even if it was some kind of propaganda, the exhibition was VERY interesting !
-SOE: Arthur is a Special Operations Executive, which was a secret British military service during WWII that was set-up to team up with resistances across Europe. Just so everyone's clean on what kind of British spy he is~
-German drinking songs: fuck, you'd think they'd keep the Nazi gold a secret but nooooooooo the Germans keeps their drinking songs well hidden. It was so hard to find one, no less translate it properly. The song dear Gilbo is singing is called "Auf Kreta". From my research, it's a paratrooper song from this age. Also, this song didn't exist probably till closer to the Battle of Crete (1941) but fuck it; Gilbert can sing songs before they're hip. Lyrics are here, but no translation.
Prologue | Chapter 1