Taking the paper, Claude flipped through it, apparently absorbed. In fact, he was watching Noah over the top, one corner of his mouth barely turned upward in what could almost have been construed as a fond smile. That was Noah. Spend all bloody day staring at the board only to make the first move he'd thought of anyway. Never trusted his instincts. Had to think things through first, over-analyze and compare options.
When Noah's fingers finally left his piece, Claude, seemingly carelessly, reached over and darted a bishop forward, relaxing back with the paper again. He, on the other hand, put a lot of stock in his gut instinct. True, he had the ability to see the larger picture, to put together the pieces - one of the reasons the Company had recruited him; one of the reasons he'd eventually defected. But Claude saw no point in wasting time dithering over things. Move forward, hope for the best, and keep an eye on the exit.
"Hell, you'd think that Wizards would be more interesting," he remarked with a snort, idly turning the page. "They're just on about the same stuff as everyone else. Look at this - their government is falling down around their ears and they've dedicated two full pages to sodding sports." Shaking his head, Claude folded the paper and tossed it aside, gesturing for a house-elf to bring more coffee. For him. Noah could get his own coffee. "Magic, regular, abilities, or just plain vanilla - everyone's exactly the same, friend. Ignore what's right in front of them until it bites off their face."
Noah's second move was much quicker than the first, as one of the things he had spent so much time thinking about was options after Claude had moved his second piece. He pushed another pawn up and waved the house elf back over to refill his mug, since its contents were now partially on the newspaper and his shirt. "People see what they want to see. What they've trained themselves to see." An admission of wrongdoing? Not really. He sipped his coffee and pointed to one of the Prophet's moving pictures, a couple of professional Quidditch players duking it out hundreds of feet above the ground. "You have to admit, though, that looks a hell of a lot more interesting than baseball."
One of Claude's pieces darted out, taking Noah's pawn. And Claude barely gloated at all. "People are stupid, you mean," he said, arching a brow, propping his head up on one hand and alternating glances at the board with even quicker looks up at Noah. "Whole world could be crumbling around them, and they'd just turn on some sitcom with a laugh track and call themselves normal."
Letting his eyes follow Noah's finger, Claude rolled his eyes. "Sports are sports," he dismissed. "Bunch of men mucking about with aggression they're too pansy to get out in every day life, pretending as if who gets a ball where actually makes a sod all bit of difference tomorrow. It's a false sense of accomplishment. Boring and trite." A shadow of a grin may have flickered across his face. "But it's bloody entertaining."
"You could chose to interpret it that way, though I'd have to agree with your assessment of their end-times reaction." He already knew what move he planned to make, but studied the board nonetheless, assuring himself that it would be still be optimal in the event of the moves Claude was most likely to make.
Of course, there was always the distinct possibility that Claude would just make the moves that made the least sense, just to screw with him.
"I think the entertainment factor goes up exponentially when they're flying on brooms. It seems like it would be uncomfortable, but I suppose that never stopped anyone from playing hockey, either."
When playing chess with Noah Bennet, the entire goal became to knock the other man's carefully constructed sense of superiority and confidence down onto its well padded ass. Claude considered it a win if he forced Noah to acknowledge the fact that he could not predict everything, if there was a long pause while Noah's brain had to stop, reorganize, and reprocess.
And a total knock out was if Noah had to blindly guess.
So Claude considered the board for a moment. Divining possible plans of attack. And then moving his bishop forward in what was not even close to any accepted or traditional chess move. Grinning smugly, he leaned back. "Hockey's not uncomfortable so much as suicidal," he returned, taking a drink of coffee. "But broomstick riding - who was the first idiot who thought to stick a bit of wood between his legs and jump off a building? Wizards are just as insane as the rest of the world, friend, they just have a greater capacity to blow things up. But..." He hesitated, studying the picture of the Quidditch match before snorting out a laugh. "Can't say it wouldn't be amusing to watch one of these things. At the very least, laugh when the bastards fall off, yeah?"
Noah considered himself a decent judge of how people were going to act. Most people were even more predictable than he himself was. He even considered himself good at thinking outside the box, particularly these days.
Claude, however, was a kind of random in his own league. And Noah was years out of practice in second-guessing him.
Still, raising two teenaged kids lent him patience that he hadn't had before. He continued to take his time and study the board. "If you ask me, it sounds like a terrible idea. It's Darwinism in action. Which isn't to say it's not amusing, of course. Have you even seen half those things that so-called normal people put up on that Youtube thing? Idiots, all of them." He finally made his move, putting a rook up as bait.
Starting to laugh, Claude rested his folded arms on the table and studied the board and Noah by turns. "You're old!" he chuckled, sounding almost surprised. "Listen to you, ranting on. Sound like my dad." With a smooth move, he bypassed the offered rook and took one of Noah's pawns. "Lost a bit of your spark of life in your advanced years, Rookie. Stupidity in its purest form should always be a form of entertainment -the whole point of things like Youtube, mate. Normal people getting to be idiots for the enjoyment of other idiots. It's like the mall for the internet."
Scratching absently at his chin - maybe he should shave; his beard was getting out of hand - Claude glanced up at Noah with amusement. "And what do geriatric, cranky old men do for fun, then? If you're not watching idiots beat themselves senseless over some pointless prize."
He smiled back, a bit tiredly. "I'd better sound like somebody's dad, that's for sure. It's a lot harder to take pleasure in watching idiots do stupid things if you're wondering if your kids are going to be imitating them any time soon." He wasn't honestly sure which kid he was more worried about in that regard. For completely different reasons, of course. Lyle could end up hurt or killed, Claire could end up vivisected if the wrong person found out.
He leaned back in his chair, keeping a completely serious look on his face. "I've taken up knitting."
For a second, Claude's expression faltered and he studied the chess board with far too much intensity. "Claire..." He trailed off, then rubbed his face with one hand, scowling to cover any deeper emotion. To hide the fact that the next words hurt almost as much as three bullets to the chest. "She doesn't remember me, does she?" He hadn't tried to find out. The idea that this girl, this child he'd loved as his own, would look at him and see a stranger wasn't something Claude wanted to face.
Toying with the pawn he'd taken from Noah, a brief, bitter smile crossed his face. "She's something, Noah." Voice quiet. Proud. Almost vulnerable, if Claude Rains could ever be said to be such.
But then Claude frowned and leaned back, snorting. "Then I expect a scarf for Christmas. Or a sweater. Something in green." Changing the subject. Because to talk about Claire was to talk about a whole host of other things and right now, it was nice to just play chess with an old friend.
"I was joking," he said, one eyebrow arching. "I tried to learn to play guitar a couple of years ago but wasn't very good at it. I tried that sudoku thing but I think I prefer crossword puzzles." Though now he just might make an attempt at knitting. For a laugh, if nothing else. He was sure Sandra, Claire, and Claude would appreciate getting nondescript balls of yarn that were intended to be socks.
The joke-serious expression faded into an actual serious one. Gee, how do you tell the guy that was basically a surrogate parent when you were too busy being an ass that you'd had his memory erased from the child in question? He shook his head once, not looking up, not saying anything.
He'd known. Of course he had - he knew the Company. Knew how they worked. They wouldn't take the chance, even with a kid, of having loose ends. Claude had been executed by the Company, therefore all knowledge of him would either have to be classified or erased.
But knowing it, being prepared for it, didn't stop the cold lump from dropping into his stomach, didn't make it any easier to hear. Quietly, Claude continued to toy with the pawn, tilting it side to side, pad of his index finger pressing into the rounded top. He didn't look up at Noah. Couldn't.
"Just like that, then?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Just like it's nothing?" He hadn't been just some stranger. He'd been family, or so he'd thought.
Apparently he'd been wrong. Claude tended to do that around Noah. Guess wrong.
Moving his queen forward in a reckless and totally pointless move, Claude stared at the chessboard as if he might divine some deep reason from the black and white squares. Jaw working as he held back all the things he wanted to say. As he curled his fingers into a fist and kept himself from striking out at Noah. From trying to wipe that smug look off the man's face, that unshakable calm, of trying to peel past the layer of bloody nothing to make the man react.
"Probably plunked out a lot of Neil Diamond," he said, glaring at the board. "And the guitar gave up in despair."
"I didn't have much of a choice back then, did I?" he said harshly. "You were more of a father to her back then than I was. Do you think I wanted to take that away from her?" Truth be told: maybe. It made things a lot less complicated. But it was unfair to Claude and Claire. "You know how things were done." His mouth twisted bitterly. "And you know what a stickler for the way things are done I used to be. All the regret in the world can't change that. But I'm trying. I've been trying to change since that day, and since the day I first found out what she could do." He clenched his fist, using all of his self control to not just swipe the board aside in anger.
Claude's comment about his musical tastes made him relax slightly. "It was my attempts at Gordon Lightfoot, actually."
"OF COURSE YOU HAD A CHOICE!" The words roared out of him, and Claude was suddenly standing, blindly pushing the board aside and looming over the table. There was pain in his eyes, and hurt, and betrayal. "Say you made a mistake. Say you chose wrong. Say you're fucking sorry if you like, but don't ever look at me, Noah, and tell me you didn't have a CHOICE."
Furious, he paced away, only to round back and point a shaking finger at where Noah was. "Don't lecture me on how things were done. You stood on that bridge, you pulled the trigger. I told you - I told you - that you had a choice. That's not who you are, Noah. That's not the man you had to be. But YOU pulled the trigger. YOU. Not the fucking Company. You could have made another choice. You could have made a better choice. You are better than that."
Looking disgusted, Claude dropped his hand and shook his head. Turning away. "You had a choice," he said again, quietly. Looking defeated. "And you made your decision. Now you get to live with it, you cowardly bastard."
Flickering out of sight, Claude turned and walked away, head down, trembling hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. He needed air.
Noah stayed sitting, staring at the scattered chess pieces. It was true. He'd had a choice all along. He could have chosen to done things any number of ways differently. It hadn't seemed that way at the time. Back then, up until the second he'd applied just a bit more pressure to the trigger than he'd intended, he didn't think there was any other right way.
Too little too late. It seemed to be the story of his life lately.
Sighing, he picked up the pieces near him, set them all in a more-or-less neat pile on the table, and stood to leave. He wasn't hungry anymore.
Ok, so, 'get some air' apparently meant 'pace back and forth in front of the room and watch Noah'. Looking for some sign of remorse, for even a hint that Noah cared. That he'd been affected by more than just the inconvenience of training a new partner.
Instead Noah - anal to the last fucking drop Noah - gathered up the chess pieces and stood up. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing touched him.
Oh, fuck that. Claude was going to see that mask slip if it killed him.
As Noah walked out, Claude suddenly was visible again, cold-cocking Noah across the jaw. Then he gave the other man a flat smile. "See?" he ground out, eyes still flashing with anger. "Had a choice there, didn't I?"
It was the second time that Claude had punched him out of nowhere since the invisible bastard had arrived. Lovely. Noah got to his feet, rubbing his jaw and glaring daggers at Claude. "Fine. You want to hit me until you feel better? Go ahead." He spread his arms wide, daring Claude to throw another punch.
When Noah's fingers finally left his piece, Claude, seemingly carelessly, reached over and darted a bishop forward, relaxing back with the paper again. He, on the other hand, put a lot of stock in his gut instinct. True, he had the ability to see the larger picture, to put together the pieces - one of the reasons the Company had recruited him; one of the reasons he'd eventually defected. But Claude saw no point in wasting time dithering over things. Move forward, hope for the best, and keep an eye on the exit.
"Hell, you'd think that Wizards would be more interesting," he remarked with a snort, idly turning the page. "They're just on about the same stuff as everyone else. Look at this - their government is falling down around their ears and they've dedicated two full pages to sodding sports." Shaking his head, Claude folded the paper and tossed it aside, gesturing for a house-elf to bring more coffee. For him. Noah could get his own coffee. "Magic, regular, abilities, or just plain vanilla - everyone's exactly the same, friend. Ignore what's right in front of them until it bites off their face."
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Letting his eyes follow Noah's finger, Claude rolled his eyes. "Sports are sports," he dismissed. "Bunch of men mucking about with aggression they're too pansy to get out in every day life, pretending as if who gets a ball where actually makes a sod all bit of difference tomorrow. It's a false sense of accomplishment. Boring and trite." A shadow of a grin may have flickered across his face. "But it's bloody entertaining."
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Of course, there was always the distinct possibility that Claude would just make the moves that made the least sense, just to screw with him.
"I think the entertainment factor goes up exponentially when they're flying on brooms. It seems like it would be uncomfortable, but I suppose that never stopped anyone from playing hockey, either."
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And a total knock out was if Noah had to blindly guess.
So Claude considered the board for a moment. Divining possible plans of attack. And then moving his bishop forward in what was not even close to any accepted or traditional chess move. Grinning smugly, he leaned back. "Hockey's not uncomfortable so much as suicidal," he returned, taking a drink of coffee. "But broomstick riding - who was the first idiot who thought to stick a bit of wood between his legs and jump off a building? Wizards are just as insane as the rest of the world, friend, they just have a greater capacity to blow things up. But..." He hesitated, studying the picture of the Quidditch match before snorting out a laugh. "Can't say it wouldn't be amusing to watch one of these things. At the very least, laugh when the bastards fall off, yeah?"
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Claude, however, was a kind of random in his own league. And Noah was years out of practice in second-guessing him.
Still, raising two teenaged kids lent him patience that he hadn't had before. He continued to take his time and study the board. "If you ask me, it sounds like a terrible idea. It's Darwinism in action. Which isn't to say it's not amusing, of course. Have you even seen half those things that so-called normal people put up on that Youtube thing? Idiots, all of them." He finally made his move, putting a rook up as bait.
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Scratching absently at his chin - maybe he should shave; his beard was getting out of hand - Claude glanced up at Noah with amusement. "And what do geriatric, cranky old men do for fun, then? If you're not watching idiots beat themselves senseless over some pointless prize."
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He leaned back in his chair, keeping a completely serious look on his face. "I've taken up knitting."
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Toying with the pawn he'd taken from Noah, a brief, bitter smile crossed his face. "She's something, Noah." Voice quiet. Proud. Almost vulnerable, if Claude Rains could ever be said to be such.
But then Claude frowned and leaned back, snorting. "Then I expect a scarf for Christmas. Or a sweater. Something in green." Changing the subject. Because to talk about Claire was to talk about a whole host of other things and right now, it was nice to just play chess with an old friend.
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The joke-serious expression faded into an actual serious one. Gee, how do you tell the guy that was basically a surrogate parent when you were too busy being an ass that you'd had his memory erased from the child in question? He shook his head once, not looking up, not saying anything.
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He'd known. Of course he had - he knew the Company. Knew how they worked. They wouldn't take the chance, even with a kid, of having loose ends. Claude had been executed by the Company, therefore all knowledge of him would either have to be classified or erased.
But knowing it, being prepared for it, didn't stop the cold lump from dropping into his stomach, didn't make it any easier to hear. Quietly, Claude continued to toy with the pawn, tilting it side to side, pad of his index finger pressing into the rounded top. He didn't look up at Noah. Couldn't.
"Just like that, then?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Just like it's nothing?" He hadn't been just some stranger. He'd been family, or so he'd thought.
Apparently he'd been wrong. Claude tended to do that around Noah. Guess wrong.
Moving his queen forward in a reckless and totally pointless move, Claude stared at the chessboard as if he might divine some deep reason from the black and white squares. Jaw working as he held back all the things he wanted to say. As he curled his fingers into a fist and kept himself from striking out at Noah. From trying to wipe that smug look off the man's face, that unshakable calm, of trying to peel past the layer of bloody nothing to make the man react.
"Probably plunked out a lot of Neil Diamond," he said, glaring at the board. "And the guitar gave up in despair."
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Claude's comment about his musical tastes made him relax slightly. "It was my attempts at Gordon Lightfoot, actually."
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Furious, he paced away, only to round back and point a shaking finger at where Noah was. "Don't lecture me on how things were done. You stood on that bridge, you pulled the trigger. I told you - I told you - that you had a choice. That's not who you are, Noah. That's not the man you had to be. But YOU pulled the trigger. YOU. Not the fucking Company. You could have made another choice. You could have made a better choice. You are better than that."
Looking disgusted, Claude dropped his hand and shook his head. Turning away. "You had a choice," he said again, quietly. Looking defeated. "And you made your decision. Now you get to live with it, you cowardly bastard."
Flickering out of sight, Claude turned and walked away, head down, trembling hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. He needed air.
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Too little too late. It seemed to be the story of his life lately.
Sighing, he picked up the pieces near him, set them all in a more-or-less neat pile on the table, and stood to leave. He wasn't hungry anymore.
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Instead Noah - anal to the last fucking drop Noah - gathered up the chess pieces and stood up. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing touched him.
Oh, fuck that. Claude was going to see that mask slip if it killed him.
As Noah walked out, Claude suddenly was visible again, cold-cocking Noah across the jaw. Then he gave the other man a flat smile. "See?" he ground out, eyes still flashing with anger. "Had a choice there, didn't I?"
Well, that made him feel lots better.
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It was the second time that Claude had punched him out of nowhere since the invisible bastard had arrived. Lovely. Noah got to his feet, rubbing his jaw and glaring daggers at Claude. "Fine. You want to hit me until you feel better? Go ahead." He spread his arms wide, daring Claude to throw another punch.
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