Safe - Chapter 23
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG
Word count: A little shy of 1,300.
Spoilers: AU; 1.14 ("Distractions"), to be safe
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: We have plot! Featuring Claire and the Sanders Family :) ( Previous chapters)
They are not halfway down the road when a polished black car pulls up alongside. The chauffeur runs around the front of the car and opens the passenger door.
A distinguished gentleman of advancing years looks out at them with sharp eyes. "You had best get in, my dears."
Danil and Nicole have a sharp, muttered conference while Clara and Misha look on in bafflement.
The man in the car clicks his tongue in exasperation. "Come on! Time is short, and I'm not as patient as I was in my youth." He raises an eyebrow, looks right at her. "Well - you must be Clara." He studies her, critically. "You have her eyes."
Clara stares at him, unable to fathom any of this. Whose eyes? Who is he?
Danil is making unhappy noises even as Nicole shoos Misha into the back of the car, face flat and ashen. Clara thinks she hears "-told me you wouldn't-" but the rest is lost in the bustle of bodies and the slam of the car door before they are driven off.
She and Misha blink at each other; the grown-ups do not say anything for the rest of the journey.
Eventually, they arrive at a large house in the suburbs. Clara is disquieted by the presence of the chauffeur, who holds the car door open for her and bows his head - like something in a fairytale, she thinks, distractedly.
They are shown into the parlour, and their mystery host shuffles in, leaning on a cane."I must apologise for the manner of your arrival. Please excuse my haste; I felt it was important to ensure your safety."
Nicole and Danil share a look; Clara has the strong impression that they are not overly fond of this elegant man and his large house.
"Please," she says politely, "Who are you?" Hopes that she is not being unforgivably rude.
She is not prepared for his great, booming laugh. -Like Sinterklaas.
"Well! How very rude of me. I do apologise, my dear. Oscar Linderman, at your service." And he limps forward and shakes her firmly by the hand; another strangely grown-up interaction, and she thinks she could get to like this.
She knows the name, of course. Wealthy businessman and philanthropist; a pillar of the city's community. She wonders why the other two adults in the room are cold and silent. Misha just sits between them, eyes wide but saying nothing.
"Now, Clara," says Linderman, "There is a little surprise for you. How would you like to meet your grandmother?" He asks this in the same way that one would ask "how would you like some tea?" and it is a few moments before Clara realises what he has said.
"My grandmother?" She is nonplussed: one grandmother is long since dead; the other lives in France.
He twinkles at her. "Your real grandmother."
Clara. You're special. One of them. Claude's gift to her, permitting her to be honest at last, and oh, how stupid she is: they aren't her real parents.
"But Papa-"
"-Is not your real father. Your grandmother will explain."
-Because then they would be special, too, and they would have told her ... wouldn't they?
Papa ...
She stares at him, confusion and fear written large across open features.
"She'll tell you all about it," he says, gently, and as if on cue, the chauffeur opens the parlour door. "Hans will take you there now." And Linderman ushers her gently but firmly from the room.
"Now," he says, turning to face the Sandersen family, arrayed distrustfully in perfectly-upholstered chairs, "Whatever shall we do with you?"
*
It's a relatively short ride to another large and rambling house, and Clara tries not to stare as she is driven down elegant, tree-lined avenues, parts of the city she has never seen. Her gaze keeps flickering go the driver's mirror, but he only ever appears to watch the road.
A maid appears at the door as they pull up, and curtseys to Clara as she is shown out of the car. The girl can't be any older than she is, and Clara wonders, dizzily, whether she is supposed to curtsey back. She decides against, but only after an awkward moment of bobbing heads and difficult glances, and is shown into another parlour, this one decorated in pale blues, and with an array of ornaments lining the shelves.
She sits, meekly, hands in her lap, until the door is held open by another servant, and a petite, brunette woman walks in, poised birdlike.
"Hello, Clara." Rich, flinty eyes scrutinise her. "I'm your grandmother, Angela Petrelli."
Clara tries not to stare. "Petrelli? Are you- the Mayor's ... wife?" But that feels wrong, somehow.
The woman - her grandmother, though this still feels completely ridiculous, like a dream - laughs, a dry, genteel tinkle. "No, child. I'm his mother." She looks at Clara thoughtfully. "Come, let me look at you." And Clara is on her feet and being very thoroughly examined. Suddenly aware of her clothes - a dress from last year that's too small now, short in the arms and tight across the chest, but made of a soft grey flannel check that she loves.
Angela Petrelli frowns at her, tutting. "We'll have to get you some new clothes, of course." Clara feels a twist of resentment at that - this is a dress her mother made. "Oh, don't frown, child." And, unthinkingly, she obeys. Evidently her grandmother is used to commanding obedience.
Deepest sherry eyes return to hers. "The Mayor - Nathaniel, my son - is your father, Clara. Your real father, I mean."
-Papa-
And Clara bursts into tears.
*
"I want to make you a deal," Linderman announces.
A distrustful glance flickers again between Nicole and Danil; he chooses to ignore it.
"You know what is going on in the city. It's no longer safe for people like us." He allows the implication of this to sink in, continues. "I cannot allow this continue, but I'm going to need your help."
"You need our help?" Nicole, scornful; he supposes she is entitled.
"Yes, my dear. Your son, Misha, is talented. Maybe more than you know."
Misha blinks at him, wide-eyed; Danil and Nicole exchange another look.
Linderman continues. "Herr Hitler is waging war against us, and he must be stopped. There's an effort being spearheaded in England, but they need people with Misha's ... talents."
"Out of the question," says Nicole, at nearly the same moment as Danil says "No."
Linderman sighs, rolls his eyes. Young people.
"I'm going to give you time to think about it," he says, and this time, his intonation doesn't make it a request.
*
Her grandmother deals with it stoically: produces an immaculate lace handkerchief and waits for Clara's sobs to subside.
"There, dear, it's all right."
No, it isn't. "Papa-"
"Nathaniel is your real father, child."
She turns on this elegant woman with her blackbird's eyes and her perfect, elegant poise. "My father might be dead. Are you going to help me find him?" A vicious shine to the room; tears threatening to break again.
Angela sighs, nods. "I can have someone make enquiries at the police station, if you would like."
Not good enough. But she waits until her grandmother has summoned a maid, who takes her upstairs under strict instructions to "find the child something more suitable."
The minute the maid's back is turned, she runs. Descends stairs with dizzying speed; tugs open the heavy front door, not even closing it behind her. Boots crunch fast against the gravel driveway, and she doesn't look back.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic
Rating/Warnings: PG
Word count: A little shy of 1,300.
Spoilers: AU; 1.14 ("Distractions"), to be safe
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: We have plot! Featuring Claire and the Sanders Family :) ( Previous chapters)
They are not halfway down the road when a polished black car pulls up alongside. The chauffeur runs around the front of the car and opens the passenger door.
A distinguished gentleman of advancing years looks out at them with sharp eyes. "You had best get in, my dears."
Danil and Nicole have a sharp, muttered conference while Clara and Misha look on in bafflement.
The man in the car clicks his tongue in exasperation. "Come on! Time is short, and I'm not as patient as I was in my youth." He raises an eyebrow, looks right at her. "Well - you must be Clara." He studies her, critically. "You have her eyes."
Clara stares at him, unable to fathom any of this. Whose eyes? Who is he?
Danil is making unhappy noises even as Nicole shoos Misha into the back of the car, face flat and ashen. Clara thinks she hears "-told me you wouldn't-" but the rest is lost in the bustle of bodies and the slam of the car door before they are driven off.
She and Misha blink at each other; the grown-ups do not say anything for the rest of the journey.
Eventually, they arrive at a large house in the suburbs. Clara is disquieted by the presence of the chauffeur, who holds the car door open for her and bows his head - like something in a fairytale, she thinks, distractedly.
They are shown into the parlour, and their mystery host shuffles in, leaning on a cane."I must apologise for the manner of your arrival. Please excuse my haste; I felt it was important to ensure your safety."
Nicole and Danil share a look; Clara has the strong impression that they are not overly fond of this elegant man and his large house.
"Please," she says politely, "Who are you?" Hopes that she is not being unforgivably rude.
She is not prepared for his great, booming laugh. -Like Sinterklaas.
"Well! How very rude of me. I do apologise, my dear. Oscar Linderman, at your service." And he limps forward and shakes her firmly by the hand; another strangely grown-up interaction, and she thinks she could get to like this.
She knows the name, of course. Wealthy businessman and philanthropist; a pillar of the city's community. She wonders why the other two adults in the room are cold and silent. Misha just sits between them, eyes wide but saying nothing.
"Now, Clara," says Linderman, "There is a little surprise for you. How would you like to meet your grandmother?" He asks this in the same way that one would ask "how would you like some tea?" and it is a few moments before Clara realises what he has said.
"My grandmother?" She is nonplussed: one grandmother is long since dead; the other lives in France.
He twinkles at her. "Your real grandmother."
Clara. You're special. One of them. Claude's gift to her, permitting her to be honest at last, and oh, how stupid she is: they aren't her real parents.
"But Papa-"
"-Is not your real father. Your grandmother will explain."
-Because then they would be special, too, and they would have told her ... wouldn't they?
Papa ...
She stares at him, confusion and fear written large across open features.
"She'll tell you all about it," he says, gently, and as if on cue, the chauffeur opens the parlour door. "Hans will take you there now." And Linderman ushers her gently but firmly from the room.
"Now," he says, turning to face the Sandersen family, arrayed distrustfully in perfectly-upholstered chairs, "Whatever shall we do with you?"
*
It's a relatively short ride to another large and rambling house, and Clara tries not to stare as she is driven down elegant, tree-lined avenues, parts of the city she has never seen. Her gaze keeps flickering go the driver's mirror, but he only ever appears to watch the road.
A maid appears at the door as they pull up, and curtseys to Clara as she is shown out of the car. The girl can't be any older than she is, and Clara wonders, dizzily, whether she is supposed to curtsey back. She decides against, but only after an awkward moment of bobbing heads and difficult glances, and is shown into another parlour, this one decorated in pale blues, and with an array of ornaments lining the shelves.
She sits, meekly, hands in her lap, until the door is held open by another servant, and a petite, brunette woman walks in, poised birdlike.
"Hello, Clara." Rich, flinty eyes scrutinise her. "I'm your grandmother, Angela Petrelli."
Clara tries not to stare. "Petrelli? Are you- the Mayor's ... wife?" But that feels wrong, somehow.
The woman - her grandmother, though this still feels completely ridiculous, like a dream - laughs, a dry, genteel tinkle. "No, child. I'm his mother." She looks at Clara thoughtfully. "Come, let me look at you." And Clara is on her feet and being very thoroughly examined. Suddenly aware of her clothes - a dress from last year that's too small now, short in the arms and tight across the chest, but made of a soft grey flannel check that she loves.
Angela Petrelli frowns at her, tutting. "We'll have to get you some new clothes, of course." Clara feels a twist of resentment at that - this is a dress her mother made. "Oh, don't frown, child." And, unthinkingly, she obeys. Evidently her grandmother is used to commanding obedience.
Deepest sherry eyes return to hers. "The Mayor - Nathaniel, my son - is your father, Clara. Your real father, I mean."
-Papa-
And Clara bursts into tears.
*
"I want to make you a deal," Linderman announces.
A distrustful glance flickers again between Nicole and Danil; he chooses to ignore it.
"You know what is going on in the city. It's no longer safe for people like us." He allows the implication of this to sink in, continues. "I cannot allow this continue, but I'm going to need your help."
"You need our help?" Nicole, scornful; he supposes she is entitled.
"Yes, my dear. Your son, Misha, is talented. Maybe more than you know."
Misha blinks at him, wide-eyed; Danil and Nicole exchange another look.
Linderman continues. "Herr Hitler is waging war against us, and he must be stopped. There's an effort being spearheaded in England, but they need people with Misha's ... talents."
"Out of the question," says Nicole, at nearly the same moment as Danil says "No."
Linderman sighs, rolls his eyes. Young people.
"I'm going to give you time to think about it," he says, and this time, his intonation doesn't make it a request.
*
Her grandmother deals with it stoically: produces an immaculate lace handkerchief and waits for Clara's sobs to subside.
"There, dear, it's all right."
No, it isn't. "Papa-"
"Nathaniel is your real father, child."
She turns on this elegant woman with her blackbird's eyes and her perfect, elegant poise. "My father might be dead. Are you going to help me find him?" A vicious shine to the room; tears threatening to break again.
Angela sighs, nods. "I can have someone make enquiries at the police station, if you would like."
Not good enough. But she waits until her grandmother has summoned a maid, who takes her upstairs under strict instructions to "find the child something more suitable."
The minute the maid's back is turned, she runs. Descends stairs with dizzying speed; tugs open the heavy front door, not even closing it behind her. Boots crunch fast against the gravel driveway, and she doesn't look back.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic