Safe - Chapter 18
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (some strong language)
Word count: 1,850ish.
Spoilers: AU; nothing here. 1.19 ("The Hard Part) at most.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: Today's chapter is for people who like Bennet and Matt in a room together. ( Previous chapters)
The dim yellow-grey light flickers as Noah Bennetti wakes in a police cell.
His first thought is a painful one: Clara. Shards of memory slot uncomfortably into place: he remembers shooting one policeman, fighting the other - then, nothing. Clara?
And then Sandrine. Oh God.
He rolls over, groaning at the ache in his neck, and sits up. The rough stone floor is cold against his palms. There is a narrow cot in the cell, and he manoeuvres himself up and onto it. Noah has had his fair share - more, actually - of being knocked out, and the thought crosses his mind that the cold, wavering dizziness which follows doesn't actually get any easier with practice.
He needs a plan. Considers whether interrogation is likely: if they already have Clara and Sandrine, there wouldn't be much point. Unless they suspect his involvement in hiding others; but he has taken scrupulous care, left nothing to chance. Vital to always be above suspicion.
Another possibility: they know about Frankfurt. But there's nothing inherently damning about his previous association with the regime, beyond the mere fact of its termination.
He settles back onto the cot. Might as well use the time to rest. He has a pretty good idea that whatever is ahead will require him to be rested and alert. Better, he thinks, to sit quietly and wait for them to fuck up. Because sooner or later, people always do.
Some time later, the cell door bangs open, and Noah sits up as a burly police officer with dark hair enters. The door is locked behind him.
He expects questions, but initially, the officer just looks at him for a long while, and Noah wonders if this is going to be their approach: drive him into asking the questions and so lure him into revealing something.
Well, he's a patient man.
Noah Bennetti just sits there and waits.
The policeman doesn't say anything for some time, though the concentration on his face suggests that he is evaluating Noah in some way. There's not as much eye-contact as he might expect, no battle of wills for dominance; none of the usual mind-games to impress upon him the hopelessness of his situation. It occurs to him that they might be after something else entirely.
At length, the officer refocuses, speaks. "Do you know Peter Petrelli?"
Well, that answers that question.
He doesn't answer, of course; speaking now would be a mistake.
The officer frowns at him, distractedly, and again, he has the sense that the man is - listening? - for something. He's oddly reminded of a dog sniffing around.
"How long have you known Peter Petrelli?"
Again, he says nothing.
"Where is he now?"
So you didn't catch him? The thought is laced with dry amusement. Perhaps he has underestimated the earnest, puppyish young man; certainly, he knows better than to underestimate Claude.
Claude, and there's a difficult thought. Typical of the invisible man to barge in without preamble, dragging chaos with him. Chaos and a dozen conflicting emotions which Noah would prefer stayed quietly buried.
The policeman looks sideways at him. "How long have you known Claude Rains?"
And it suddenly becomes clear to Noah what he's dealing with, here. He should have realised immediately; mentally kicks himself.
A part of him is outraged that specials should turn against their own kind; but he's long since had his suspicions. Perhaps it's inevitable, a by-product of the argument that specials might pose a danger to themselves (to others, he automatically paraphrases): appeal to someone's better (worse) nature, and it's easy enough to evoke compliance.
He wonders what they threatened this guy with.
Then he concentrates very hard on the pattern of bricks in the opposite wall of the cell.
*
The little brown-haired girl is cold and scared.
He wonders whether he is doing the right thing; can understand why individuals like Petrelli need to be contained and neutralised, but this little girl ... Molly Walken ... he can't believe she would ever hurt anyone.
He tries to reassure her that she is going be all right, but she shrinks away from him and he can hear her fear. Are you going to kill me, too? Peculiarly grown-up phrasing, and it chills him.
Matthias read the report, knows a botched operation left the girl's parents dead. They tried to run - why did they try to run? It never works.
Almost never. Petrelli. We had him. Matthias did not enjoy explaining his failure to the Chief of Police. Or to the SS officer who arrived first thing this morning. Warm smile and firm handshake, but the cold look in his eye left Matthias in no doubt as to the lengths the SS was willing to go to get what it wanted. Thomassen made him feel ... well, dispensable.
Broddelwerk, is the word that keeps jumping to mind. It's a screw-up. He's a screw-up. And he's seen the way the other officers look at him; knows they don't trust him, fear what he can do. No sympathy there. Snatched thoughts overheard, despite himself, and he tries to push them away.
He can't afford to mess this up; not with a wife and baby. He's got to be professional, make a good impression. Which means finding Petrelli, and he'd better be quick about it.
The little girl shivers, huddled against the wall, as Matthias closes the cell door.
Bennetti's wife wasn't much help, and he winces at the memory.
"What do you know about Peter Petrelli?" The question is not unsympathetic - the woman before him is exhausted, shaky, and he feels a moment's distaste for the necessity of this interrogation; wishes they could just release the women and children. He has no stomach for this.
Fragments leak out - she barely knows Petrelli. He was in their house, a guest, for a couple of nights. The woman - Sandrine - is confused about Peter's abilities; but mostly, she's distracted by the absence of her husband and daughter; fears the worst, scared and alone.
He fights the impulse to tell her that her husband is safe - well, safely incarcerated. But of course, he can't. Can only ask more questions, awkwardly aware of the blonde SS officer in the cell with him. Her baleful eyes never stop scrutinising him.
Naturally, neither does he tell Sandrine that her daughter is not captive, but missing - another sore point from this morning's interview. Great, Matthias - arrest the normal parents and allow the special child to escape. Kicks himself.
He closes the door behind him; her gentle sobbing is muffled behind the thick wood, and distance affords him some relief from her distress.
Obererstormfuhrer Hansen regards him sceptically. "Can you really hear their thoughts?" He catches a trace of disgust behind the dark eyes; she finds him somehow unclean. He's used to that, he supposes.
It's a profound relief when she departs to report to Thomassen.
So that leaves Bennetti. He shakes his head to clear it, and enters the cell.
He expected less resistance - the man's a stationer, for heaven's sake - but Bennetti gives away nothing. The man knows how to deflect attention, resist mental interrogation. Just sits there, infuriatingly calm and thinking about the bricks in the damn wall. The son of a bitch isn't even afraid, and Matthias isn't sure whether to be impressed or just irritated.
Although Bennetti refuses to speak, Matthias manages to provoke him, with questioning, into revealing a little. He manages to catch that not only is the man familiar with Petrelli - though perhaps little more so than his wife - but that he also knows the other man, Rains. A hint of something like guilt, and he wonders what history the two share - but as quickly as he detects it, the emotion vanishes, locked away behind a steely gaze.
Definitely not just a stationer. Who the hell is this guy?
"Maybe your wife will be more helpful." God, he hates this. Can barely believe he's saying it.
Bennetti regards him thoughtfully. "You've already questioned my wife."
How do you-? Shit, he's good.
Bennetti's file says he's not one of them, but Matthias isn't even comfortably sure of that, right now.
He's bluffing. Got to be.
"There's a senior SS officer here. He's going to be a lot less patient with you than I am-" Matthias ignores the smirk on Bennetti's lips "- so I suggest you cooperate."
Nothing.
"Think of your family." And that, at least, provokes some sort of reaction, because Bennetti looks at him in a manner that reminds Matthias of being back in the schoolhouse.
"Do you have a family, officer?"
That's not the-
"I take it from your silence that you do." Bennetti shifts his weight a little, looks at Matthias over his spectacles. Explains patiently, as though to a child. "I assume you've imprisoned my wife and daughter. If you could prove to me that they are still alive and well, I might be more inclined to cooperate."
Matthias has the uncomfortable feeling that the conversation is getting away from him. "I don't need to prove anything to you."
"Suit yourself." And Bennetti crosses his arms and leans back against the wall as though he had all the time in the world.
Time, of course, is the one thing Matthias really doesn't have.
God damn it-
"All right. Look - we've got your wife. We don't have your daughter. She escaped." And am I ever going to catch it.
A complex weather-front of emotions gusts across Bennetti's face, and in his mind, Matthias catches a fleeting glimpse of fatherly pride, and then a wave of concern - where is she? But again, emotions are quickly marshalled, and Bennetti's thoughts return again to the pattern of bricks in the cell wall.
"Look, I gave you what you wanted. Where's Petrelli?" Desperate, now. Petrelli's probably already left the city.
"You don't have anything on me." Shrewd eyes shine behind the spectacles. "If you did, you wouldn't be wasting your time here."
Matthias leans very close to Bennetti. "I know you hid them. Tell me where they went, or I'll make sure you're on the next train to Buchenwald." Let the smug bastard chew on that for a while.
"I don't know." And the gatverdamme lul is telling the truth. "So I'm sure you won't mind releasing me, since I can't help you with your enquiries." Direct gaze, and Matthias has to marvel at the man's nerve.
But there's a brief mental image, grabbed before Bennetti can close it off: a ruined house, bare, rotting rafters and grass on the floor. It's not much, but-
The cell door opens, and officer Hansen stands there, arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Parkmann - finish it up. The Obergruppenfuhrer is tired of waiting. He'll conduct the interrogation himself."
"But I'm-"
"Now, Parkmann."
He sighs, looks at the man in front of him. You'll wish you'd cooperated, you stubborn son of a bitch.
Bennetti watches him go, impassively.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic
[A/N] Props today go to Cursing in Holland, for making my fic more interesting :)
EDIT: Hey! This story just broke the 20,00-word mark! :D
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (some strong language)
Word count: 1,850ish.
Spoilers: AU; nothing here. 1.19 ("The Hard Part) at most.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: Today's chapter is for people who like Bennet and Matt in a room together. ( Previous chapters)
The dim yellow-grey light flickers as Noah Bennetti wakes in a police cell.
His first thought is a painful one: Clara. Shards of memory slot uncomfortably into place: he remembers shooting one policeman, fighting the other - then, nothing. Clara?
And then Sandrine. Oh God.
He rolls over, groaning at the ache in his neck, and sits up. The rough stone floor is cold against his palms. There is a narrow cot in the cell, and he manoeuvres himself up and onto it. Noah has had his fair share - more, actually - of being knocked out, and the thought crosses his mind that the cold, wavering dizziness which follows doesn't actually get any easier with practice.
He needs a plan. Considers whether interrogation is likely: if they already have Clara and Sandrine, there wouldn't be much point. Unless they suspect his involvement in hiding others; but he has taken scrupulous care, left nothing to chance. Vital to always be above suspicion.
Another possibility: they know about Frankfurt. But there's nothing inherently damning about his previous association with the regime, beyond the mere fact of its termination.
He settles back onto the cot. Might as well use the time to rest. He has a pretty good idea that whatever is ahead will require him to be rested and alert. Better, he thinks, to sit quietly and wait for them to fuck up. Because sooner or later, people always do.
Some time later, the cell door bangs open, and Noah sits up as a burly police officer with dark hair enters. The door is locked behind him.
He expects questions, but initially, the officer just looks at him for a long while, and Noah wonders if this is going to be their approach: drive him into asking the questions and so lure him into revealing something.
Well, he's a patient man.
Noah Bennetti just sits there and waits.
The policeman doesn't say anything for some time, though the concentration on his face suggests that he is evaluating Noah in some way. There's not as much eye-contact as he might expect, no battle of wills for dominance; none of the usual mind-games to impress upon him the hopelessness of his situation. It occurs to him that they might be after something else entirely.
At length, the officer refocuses, speaks. "Do you know Peter Petrelli?"
Well, that answers that question.
He doesn't answer, of course; speaking now would be a mistake.
The officer frowns at him, distractedly, and again, he has the sense that the man is - listening? - for something. He's oddly reminded of a dog sniffing around.
"How long have you known Peter Petrelli?"
Again, he says nothing.
"Where is he now?"
So you didn't catch him? The thought is laced with dry amusement. Perhaps he has underestimated the earnest, puppyish young man; certainly, he knows better than to underestimate Claude.
Claude, and there's a difficult thought. Typical of the invisible man to barge in without preamble, dragging chaos with him. Chaos and a dozen conflicting emotions which Noah would prefer stayed quietly buried.
The policeman looks sideways at him. "How long have you known Claude Rains?"
And it suddenly becomes clear to Noah what he's dealing with, here. He should have realised immediately; mentally kicks himself.
A part of him is outraged that specials should turn against their own kind; but he's long since had his suspicions. Perhaps it's inevitable, a by-product of the argument that specials might pose a danger to themselves (to others, he automatically paraphrases): appeal to someone's better (worse) nature, and it's easy enough to evoke compliance.
He wonders what they threatened this guy with.
Then he concentrates very hard on the pattern of bricks in the opposite wall of the cell.
*
The little brown-haired girl is cold and scared.
He wonders whether he is doing the right thing; can understand why individuals like Petrelli need to be contained and neutralised, but this little girl ... Molly Walken ... he can't believe she would ever hurt anyone.
He tries to reassure her that she is going be all right, but she shrinks away from him and he can hear her fear. Are you going to kill me, too? Peculiarly grown-up phrasing, and it chills him.
Matthias read the report, knows a botched operation left the girl's parents dead. They tried to run - why did they try to run? It never works.
Almost never. Petrelli. We had him. Matthias did not enjoy explaining his failure to the Chief of Police. Or to the SS officer who arrived first thing this morning. Warm smile and firm handshake, but the cold look in his eye left Matthias in no doubt as to the lengths the SS was willing to go to get what it wanted. Thomassen made him feel ... well, dispensable.
Broddelwerk, is the word that keeps jumping to mind. It's a screw-up. He's a screw-up. And he's seen the way the other officers look at him; knows they don't trust him, fear what he can do. No sympathy there. Snatched thoughts overheard, despite himself, and he tries to push them away.
He can't afford to mess this up; not with a wife and baby. He's got to be professional, make a good impression. Which means finding Petrelli, and he'd better be quick about it.
The little girl shivers, huddled against the wall, as Matthias closes the cell door.
Bennetti's wife wasn't much help, and he winces at the memory.
"What do you know about Peter Petrelli?" The question is not unsympathetic - the woman before him is exhausted, shaky, and he feels a moment's distaste for the necessity of this interrogation; wishes they could just release the women and children. He has no stomach for this.
Fragments leak out - she barely knows Petrelli. He was in their house, a guest, for a couple of nights. The woman - Sandrine - is confused about Peter's abilities; but mostly, she's distracted by the absence of her husband and daughter; fears the worst, scared and alone.
He fights the impulse to tell her that her husband is safe - well, safely incarcerated. But of course, he can't. Can only ask more questions, awkwardly aware of the blonde SS officer in the cell with him. Her baleful eyes never stop scrutinising him.
Naturally, neither does he tell Sandrine that her daughter is not captive, but missing - another sore point from this morning's interview. Great, Matthias - arrest the normal parents and allow the special child to escape. Kicks himself.
He closes the door behind him; her gentle sobbing is muffled behind the thick wood, and distance affords him some relief from her distress.
Obererstormfuhrer Hansen regards him sceptically. "Can you really hear their thoughts?" He catches a trace of disgust behind the dark eyes; she finds him somehow unclean. He's used to that, he supposes.
It's a profound relief when she departs to report to Thomassen.
So that leaves Bennetti. He shakes his head to clear it, and enters the cell.
He expected less resistance - the man's a stationer, for heaven's sake - but Bennetti gives away nothing. The man knows how to deflect attention, resist mental interrogation. Just sits there, infuriatingly calm and thinking about the bricks in the damn wall. The son of a bitch isn't even afraid, and Matthias isn't sure whether to be impressed or just irritated.
Although Bennetti refuses to speak, Matthias manages to provoke him, with questioning, into revealing a little. He manages to catch that not only is the man familiar with Petrelli - though perhaps little more so than his wife - but that he also knows the other man, Rains. A hint of something like guilt, and he wonders what history the two share - but as quickly as he detects it, the emotion vanishes, locked away behind a steely gaze.
Definitely not just a stationer. Who the hell is this guy?
"Maybe your wife will be more helpful." God, he hates this. Can barely believe he's saying it.
Bennetti regards him thoughtfully. "You've already questioned my wife."
How do you-? Shit, he's good.
Bennetti's file says he's not one of them, but Matthias isn't even comfortably sure of that, right now.
He's bluffing. Got to be.
"There's a senior SS officer here. He's going to be a lot less patient with you than I am-" Matthias ignores the smirk on Bennetti's lips "- so I suggest you cooperate."
Nothing.
"Think of your family." And that, at least, provokes some sort of reaction, because Bennetti looks at him in a manner that reminds Matthias of being back in the schoolhouse.
"Do you have a family, officer?"
That's not the-
"I take it from your silence that you do." Bennetti shifts his weight a little, looks at Matthias over his spectacles. Explains patiently, as though to a child. "I assume you've imprisoned my wife and daughter. If you could prove to me that they are still alive and well, I might be more inclined to cooperate."
Matthias has the uncomfortable feeling that the conversation is getting away from him. "I don't need to prove anything to you."
"Suit yourself." And Bennetti crosses his arms and leans back against the wall as though he had all the time in the world.
Time, of course, is the one thing Matthias really doesn't have.
God damn it-
"All right. Look - we've got your wife. We don't have your daughter. She escaped." And am I ever going to catch it.
A complex weather-front of emotions gusts across Bennetti's face, and in his mind, Matthias catches a fleeting glimpse of fatherly pride, and then a wave of concern - where is she? But again, emotions are quickly marshalled, and Bennetti's thoughts return again to the pattern of bricks in the cell wall.
"Look, I gave you what you wanted. Where's Petrelli?" Desperate, now. Petrelli's probably already left the city.
"You don't have anything on me." Shrewd eyes shine behind the spectacles. "If you did, you wouldn't be wasting your time here."
Matthias leans very close to Bennetti. "I know you hid them. Tell me where they went, or I'll make sure you're on the next train to Buchenwald." Let the smug bastard chew on that for a while.
"I don't know." And the gatverdamme lul is telling the truth. "So I'm sure you won't mind releasing me, since I can't help you with your enquiries." Direct gaze, and Matthias has to marvel at the man's nerve.
But there's a brief mental image, grabbed before Bennetti can close it off: a ruined house, bare, rotting rafters and grass on the floor. It's not much, but-
The cell door opens, and officer Hansen stands there, arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Parkmann - finish it up. The Obergruppenfuhrer is tired of waiting. He'll conduct the interrogation himself."
"But I'm-"
"Now, Parkmann."
He sighs, looks at the man in front of him. You'll wish you'd cooperated, you stubborn son of a bitch.
Bennetti watches him go, impassively.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic
[A/N] Props today go to Cursing in Holland, for making my fic more interesting :)
EDIT: Hey! This story just broke the 20,00-word mark! :D