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.
Jaw setting, there was a flash of something dark in Claude's eyes. That was it? Impassive fucking bastard.
Without a word, he'd thrown another punch to Noah's jaw, following up with a sock to his stomach. He wanted to be screaming. He felt like he should have been screaming. Begging Noah to react, to see him. To treat this whole thing as something other than a child throwing a fit.
With one final punch, Claude glared down at Noah, jaw set, expression livid. He didn't feel better. Nothing made this feel better.
With a hoarse shout, Claude whirled and slammed his fist into a mirror hanging on the opposite wall, the glass shattering down in a cascade. "LOOK AT ME," he demanded of Noah, not caring that his hand was cut. "For fuck's sake, Noah, do something. Feel something, you smug, arrogant, idiotic bastard. Or, what? You look at me and you see... Nothing? DO YOU EVEN CARE, BENNET? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU TOOK FROM ME?"
Fingers biting into his palms as he stood there, broke and angry and shaken, his voice cracked, "She was... I loved her like she was my daughter, Noah. You knew that. Do you have a sodding clue what it feels like--"
Swallowing hard, Claude looked away. "You were my brother," he muttered, sounding furious with himself, the words forcing themselves out of his throat. "And you just sit there and..." Voice dying in his throat, Claude let the sentence trail off as he slumped back against the wall, scrubbing his forehead with the hand that wasn't bleeding.
"You think I'm not feeling anything?" he hissed. He paused, coughed, and wiped blood onto his sleeve. It was already stained with spilled coffee, why not add blood to the mess? "What the hell am I supposed to do, throw a tantrum? Make a scene? I thought I'd killed you. I've lived with that for seven years. Do you have any idea what that did to me?" He was yelling now, red-faced and enraged.
He quickly got ahold of himself and withdrew again, jaw tightened so much the teeth were grinding on each other, fists clenched so tight the knuckles were white. He grabbed a napkin, walked over to Claude, debated kicking him for a half second, and thrust the napkin out. "You're bleeding all over the floor," he said, teeth still clenched together.
Well. That was something, at least. Taking the napkin, Claude squinted down at his hand, absently pulling a few slivers of glass out with quite hisses of pain. "No," he answered quietly, face stony. "I don't. Because you keep doing that." Claude waved the hand holding the napkin at Noah. "Keep fucking shutting down like I'm some stranger...or your wife." Yeah, that little dig was probably below the belt, but Claude had stopped caring.
"You show up and all I get is the great Noah Bennet freeze out. You fucking shot me. So, yeah, actually, a tantrum would be nice. Or a scene. Or hell, Bennet, an emotion. Because I'm sodding tired of seeing you act like you're totally in control, like nothing touches you." Pressing the cloth to the worst of the cuts, Claude looked up at Noah. "You turned out to be the kind of man who can murder your friend. Forgive me if I was hoping to see a little indication that that affected you."
Noah drew back a fist at that, then dropped it. "You don't mention Sandra," he said, voice low and dangerous. "I have to seem untouchable. I've been just about all standing between my family and disaster for years, do you understand that? One slip and it would be over for all of us." One hand rubbed absently at the bullet scar on his side. He still couldn't remember the events that brought it, but it seemed his unconscious still did. "It very nearly was over for all of us," he said, quiet again.
"I'll mention anyone I like," Claude said, but with no real fire. God, he was tired. Of this, of hating Noah, of missing something he was never going to get back.
Blue eyes went up to study Noah's face, Claude's expression going impassive. "You think I wouldn't understand that?" he asked quietly. "God, Noah, has it been that long?" Maybe it had been. Maybe replaying every step of his life, every moment that had lead him to that bridge, over and over, had shortened the time.
"She stays out of it. This has nothing to do with her." Tired as he was, there was no way he would put up with Sandra being brought up here. He knew what he'd done to her, they'd discussed it, and he felt that guilt every day. He could stand it coming from her, but no one else.
"Maybe. Seven years is a long time." Time he'd spent more or less alone in regards to the big picture. Time seemed to drag in parts of it, especially when he became convinced that there was some new threat to his family's safety, or the days he just knew that Thompson was just looking for an excuse to gather up Claire. Curiosity seized him. "Is that what it felt like for you, before...?"
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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Without a word, he'd thrown another punch to Noah's jaw, following up with a sock to his stomach. He wanted to be screaming. He felt like he should have been screaming. Begging Noah to react, to see him. To treat this whole thing as something other than a child throwing a fit.
With one final punch, Claude glared down at Noah, jaw set, expression livid. He didn't feel better. Nothing made this feel better.
With a hoarse shout, Claude whirled and slammed his fist into a mirror hanging on the opposite wall, the glass shattering down in a cascade. "LOOK AT ME," he demanded of Noah, not caring that his hand was cut. "For fuck's sake, Noah, do something. Feel something, you smug, arrogant, idiotic bastard. Or, what? You look at me and you see... Nothing? DO YOU EVEN CARE, BENNET? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU TOOK FROM ME?"
Fingers biting into his palms as he stood there, broke and angry and shaken, his voice cracked, "She was... I loved her like she was my daughter, Noah. You knew that. Do you have a sodding clue what it feels like--"
Swallowing hard, Claude looked away. "You were my brother," he muttered, sounding furious with himself, the words forcing themselves out of his throat. "And you just sit there and..." Voice dying in his throat, Claude let the sentence trail off as he slumped back against the wall, scrubbing his forehead with the hand that wasn't bleeding.
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He quickly got ahold of himself and withdrew again, jaw tightened so much the teeth were grinding on each other, fists clenched so tight the knuckles were white. He grabbed a napkin, walked over to Claude, debated kicking him for a half second, and thrust the napkin out. "You're bleeding all over the floor," he said, teeth still clenched together.
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"You show up and all I get is the great Noah Bennet freeze out. You fucking shot me. So, yeah, actually, a tantrum would be nice. Or a scene. Or hell, Bennet, an emotion. Because I'm sodding tired of seeing you act like you're totally in control, like nothing touches you." Pressing the cloth to the worst of the cuts, Claude looked up at Noah. "You turned out to be the kind of man who can murder your friend. Forgive me if I was hoping to see a little indication that that affected you."
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Blue eyes went up to study Noah's face, Claude's expression going impassive. "You think I wouldn't understand that?" he asked quietly. "God, Noah, has it been that long?" Maybe it had been. Maybe replaying every step of his life, every moment that had lead him to that bridge, over and over, had shortened the time.
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"Maybe. Seven years is a long time." Time he'd spent more or less alone in regards to the big picture. Time seemed to drag in parts of it, especially when he became convinced that there was some new threat to his family's safety, or the days he just knew that Thompson was just looking for an excuse to gather up Claire. Curiosity seized him. "Is that what it felt like for you, before...?"
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