Safe - Chapter 24
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: Hard PG-13 for deliberate harm and threat
Word count: A bit short of 1,800.
Spoilers: AU; 1.17 ("Company Man"), to be safe
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: This wasn't supposed to be a chapter. This was a couple of paragraphs at the start of the next chapter. Naughty fic! Why won't you listen to me? Today: Claire, Bennet, and our favourite bad guy. ( Previous chapters)
Clara is halfway back to town before the realisation dawns that she has nothing. No food, no money, not even a coat - and it's cold.
Running keeps her warm for a little while, but eventually the beat of her boots against the cobbles slows to a breathless walk, and shortly she's shivering, folded arms huddled against her chest in the grey early morning.
She'll have to go home - at the very least, she needs something to eat and some warmer clothing. Mind made up, she turns left onto Beethovenstraat.
The house, when she gets there, seems unoccupied. She approaches it cautiously from the back lane, sees the fragments of glass that lie, undisturbed and sparkling, against cobbles and tufts of grass.
Peering in, everything looks normal. She scrambles up, pushes at the window that ventilates the pantry. Mercifully, it gives - though the whine as it rises leaves her perched uncomfortably and with her pulse hammering in her ears for what feels like several minutes. But no-one comes, and she manages to scrape inside. Walks through the kitchen and is just about to go upstairs when she catches the whiff of bread from one of the cupboards.
Suddenly ravenous, she finds it, and fetches a pot of jam. Slurps water from a teacup and starts to feel a little better. Leans her head back against the pale wall, letting her eyes wander over the wooden cupboards with their meagre contents, and for a few moments, life could almost be normal again.
Almost. Untended, the fire in the range cooker has gone out, though the cold morning still sucks a little heat from it. And there is a certain disorder to the kitchen that speaks of chores left unfinished and normal life disrupted. Clara eyes the blue and white plates for a few moments, and then carefully cleans them and puts them away.
Upstairs, she gets changed out of the grey dress and puts on a clean one, warmer and newer, the sleeves of which go all the way down to her wrists. Grabs the brown leather satchel that normally accompanies her to school - takes out books but leaves pencils and fountain-pen; adds a sweater and clean undergarments and her favourite stuffed bear. She looks around the room, trying to think what else she might pack, under these strange circumstances. Takes a book of adventure stories for girls that's been sitting unread on the shelf for months.
On the way down the stairs, she suddenly has an idea. In the kitchen, in a drawer, she finds some candles and a box of safety matches, and stuffs them into the satchel, with no real idea of what she might need them for. But she feels she ought to take something useful.
She's just fastening the buckle on the satchel when a floorboard creaks and she freezes.
Everything happens very quickly. There's a shout which might be Die Tochter ist hier! and there are heavy boots against the floorboards and she's scrambling towards the larder and her window, but large hands clasp across her mouth and grab her shoulders, and all the kicking and wriggling in the world won't free her.
But she struggles ferociously until a harsh, low voice by her ear whispers "Nein, Fräulein. Sei still."
She sags against him, all the fire suddenly gone out of her. His hand smells like old coins.
"Erklären Sie Obergruppenführer Thomassen daß wir das Mächen gefunden haben."
*
"Seine Tochter, Mein Herr."
She's shoved in front of a sly-looking man in an immaculate, square cut grey coat bearing Nazi insignia. The way he looks at her, she might be a fish on a stall in the Noordermarkt.
She glares at him.
He addresses her in Dutch, the corners of his speech sharpened by the German accent. "Where are the others?"
She blinks, not understanding.
"The others. Dreckigen specials, like you."
"She doesn't know, Mein Herr." Local accent, and she casts scornful eyes at this collaborator who earlier had stared at her through long silent moments that left her fidgeting and uncomfortable, and who had then begged her to cooperate. Please. He'll go easier on you. Had become angry when all she did was fold her arms and stare back at him. Why won't you- Please. This isn't a game.
The senior officer (besides the uniform, there's something about the relaxed, assured way he carries himself, she thinks. Like a whip ready to crack) looks at her, calculatingly, and again, she feels that her value is being coldly assessed. She sees him reach a quick, pleased decision; at a small gesture, she is grabbed, none too gently, by another policeman, and marched down the corridor behind the man in the grey coat.
A room is unlocked, and she wonders how long they are going to keep her here. She is bundled inside, into a low-ceilinged room that smells faintly unpleasant and which is entirely devoid of decoration or furniture, save a narrow cot against one wall, on which-
"Papa!"
He, stares and scrambles upright, reaching for his glasses. "Clara!"
And- Oh, he's not dead Papa I was so worried and where is Mama are you all right-?
She wants to rush forward, but the grip on her shoulder tightens, and all she can do is look. Her father's face is soft with something like tiredness, and there is an ugly red bruise staining a cheekbone, and grazes on his jaw and above one eye, threatening to swell. His spectacles are cracked, the lens on one side broken and useless. Oh, Papa.
Without preamble, there is a sharp slap, and pain flames hot and bright against her cheek. She would spit at the officer if her father were not present; as it is, she merely glares.
But the officer called Thomassen is not interested in her. He watches her father, whose fingers curl tightly against the edges of the cot.
"Leave my daughter alone. She has nothing to do with this." There is a drilling intensity to the words that she knows to be anger, though his face barely hints at emotion.
"On the contrary, I'm very pleased that Clara has been able to join us," says the officer, as a muscle clenches in her father's jaw. "Now tell me - where is Petrelli?"
"I told you, I don't know."
The second slap is harsher, and catches her a little across the ear; a thin, ringing sound cuts through the blunt, muffled sensation as Clara recoils, struggling vainly against the hands that grasp her shoulders. She sees her father stand, quickly, but he is pushed firmly back onto the cot by the other policeman. The burning fades quickly into her cheekbone.
She meets her father's eyes, then. Tries to look stronger than she feels. His expression is difficult to read, and she feels so stupid for having been caught.
"Where is Rains?"
Her father sighs with exaggerated patience. "I don't know. Save yourself the trouble. I don't know anything, and my daughter most assuredly does not."
A pause, and then there is a quiet, sliding click, and steel glints inside the cell. "Tell me, Bennetti - do you think your daughter pretty?"
Clara stares at the small blade, suddenly just centimeters from her face. Then she looks at her father, seeing tiny lines of fear and worry gathering around his eyes. Papa- don't worry. I can- please, don't worry. I'll be all right.
"Wait!" Bennetti's voice rings out in the small stone space. "There are some things I can tell you."
"Oh?" The smile does not reach the Nazi officer's eyes.
"Claude used to work at the University of Frankfurt. For Dr von Verschuer." Said as though the name carries some significance, but she has no idea what it might mean; has never heard of such a person.
Thomassen chuckles. "You're an intelligent man, Herr Bennetti, and I think you know that this is information that we already have." He raises an amused eyebrow. "And we know quite a lot about you, too. Things that I'm sure your daughter would find very interesting. Ironic, isn't it, the way things turn out?" And he turns his back on Clara's father and smiles at her.
The blade is drawn quickly and lightly across her cheek, and she cannot see him behind Thomassen, but she can hear her father's frustrated, helpless breath. It's all right, Papa. And for a moment, it is: the blade is sharp enough that for a moment, she feels nothing at all, and wonders if this is some cruel joke - but then sensation catches up in a thin, zesty line of hurt, and she gasps, warmth dripping down towards her jaw.
Thomassen stands back to survey his handiwork, smiling that same benevolent smile, and Clara wants to hit him. She feels, without seeing it, the edges of the wound closing and knitting as blood dries on her cheek.
"Well, look at that." The officer turns, addresses her father in a voice that mocks admiration. "The little bitch can heal."
Without warning, his fist comes flying, and she doubles over, all breath pushed from her lungs. Spends a few frightened seconds gasping and trying to suck in air before her body adjusts, permits breathing again.
She stands again, chin jutting defiant. She'll kill him. They'll-
"So you see, Herr Bennetti, we could do this all day." Pleasant tones, as though they were discussing the weather. "However ... unfortunately, I don't have all day."
Her father says nothing.
"Of course," the Nazi officer continues, "not all injuries are physical ... is it true what they say about Dutch women, Herr Bennetti?"
Clara feels a sharp slice of unknown menace lodge in her stomach, spreading quick, fearful threads across her body. At the same time, there's a flash of movement, but then her father is pinned, struggling, to the wall, a knife to his throat.
Thomassen nods. "Yes ... perhaps we can compare notes, afterwards."
And she sees her father's head sag against his shoulders. No! Papa-
"All right. I'll tell you everything you want to know. Please let my daughter go." Concession delivered in such a calm voice that Clara stares, not quite believing.
The corners of Thomassen's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "There, you see? We can have our little conversation after all." The tone almost affectionate.
He gestures to the policeman restraining Clara. "Put the girl on the next train."
Bennetti straightens, a swift, aggrieved movement. "No!"
But she's being dragged from the room, and the last thing she sees is her father's wild eyes behind broken spectacles, and an arm reaching out towards her.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic
Rating/Warnings: Hard PG-13 for deliberate harm and threat
Word count: A bit short of 1,800.
Spoilers: AU; 1.17 ("Company Man"), to be safe
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: This wasn't supposed to be a chapter. This was a couple of paragraphs at the start of the next chapter. Naughty fic! Why won't you listen to me? Today: Claire, Bennet, and our favourite bad guy. ( Previous chapters)
Clara is halfway back to town before the realisation dawns that she has nothing. No food, no money, not even a coat - and it's cold.
Running keeps her warm for a little while, but eventually the beat of her boots against the cobbles slows to a breathless walk, and shortly she's shivering, folded arms huddled against her chest in the grey early morning.
She'll have to go home - at the very least, she needs something to eat and some warmer clothing. Mind made up, she turns left onto Beethovenstraat.
The house, when she gets there, seems unoccupied. She approaches it cautiously from the back lane, sees the fragments of glass that lie, undisturbed and sparkling, against cobbles and tufts of grass.
Peering in, everything looks normal. She scrambles up, pushes at the window that ventilates the pantry. Mercifully, it gives - though the whine as it rises leaves her perched uncomfortably and with her pulse hammering in her ears for what feels like several minutes. But no-one comes, and she manages to scrape inside. Walks through the kitchen and is just about to go upstairs when she catches the whiff of bread from one of the cupboards.
Suddenly ravenous, she finds it, and fetches a pot of jam. Slurps water from a teacup and starts to feel a little better. Leans her head back against the pale wall, letting her eyes wander over the wooden cupboards with their meagre contents, and for a few moments, life could almost be normal again.
Almost. Untended, the fire in the range cooker has gone out, though the cold morning still sucks a little heat from it. And there is a certain disorder to the kitchen that speaks of chores left unfinished and normal life disrupted. Clara eyes the blue and white plates for a few moments, and then carefully cleans them and puts them away.
Upstairs, she gets changed out of the grey dress and puts on a clean one, warmer and newer, the sleeves of which go all the way down to her wrists. Grabs the brown leather satchel that normally accompanies her to school - takes out books but leaves pencils and fountain-pen; adds a sweater and clean undergarments and her favourite stuffed bear. She looks around the room, trying to think what else she might pack, under these strange circumstances. Takes a book of adventure stories for girls that's been sitting unread on the shelf for months.
On the way down the stairs, she suddenly has an idea. In the kitchen, in a drawer, she finds some candles and a box of safety matches, and stuffs them into the satchel, with no real idea of what she might need them for. But she feels she ought to take something useful.
She's just fastening the buckle on the satchel when a floorboard creaks and she freezes.
Everything happens very quickly. There's a shout which might be Die Tochter ist hier! and there are heavy boots against the floorboards and she's scrambling towards the larder and her window, but large hands clasp across her mouth and grab her shoulders, and all the kicking and wriggling in the world won't free her.
But she struggles ferociously until a harsh, low voice by her ear whispers "Nein, Fräulein. Sei still."
She sags against him, all the fire suddenly gone out of her. His hand smells like old coins.
"Erklären Sie Obergruppenführer Thomassen daß wir das Mächen gefunden haben."
*
"Seine Tochter, Mein Herr."
She's shoved in front of a sly-looking man in an immaculate, square cut grey coat bearing Nazi insignia. The way he looks at her, she might be a fish on a stall in the Noordermarkt.
She glares at him.
He addresses her in Dutch, the corners of his speech sharpened by the German accent. "Where are the others?"
She blinks, not understanding.
"The others. Dreckigen specials, like you."
"She doesn't know, Mein Herr." Local accent, and she casts scornful eyes at this collaborator who earlier had stared at her through long silent moments that left her fidgeting and uncomfortable, and who had then begged her to cooperate. Please. He'll go easier on you. Had become angry when all she did was fold her arms and stare back at him. Why won't you- Please. This isn't a game.
The senior officer (besides the uniform, there's something about the relaxed, assured way he carries himself, she thinks. Like a whip ready to crack) looks at her, calculatingly, and again, she feels that her value is being coldly assessed. She sees him reach a quick, pleased decision; at a small gesture, she is grabbed, none too gently, by another policeman, and marched down the corridor behind the man in the grey coat.
A room is unlocked, and she wonders how long they are going to keep her here. She is bundled inside, into a low-ceilinged room that smells faintly unpleasant and which is entirely devoid of decoration or furniture, save a narrow cot against one wall, on which-
"Papa!"
He, stares and scrambles upright, reaching for his glasses. "Clara!"
And- Oh, he's not dead Papa I was so worried and where is Mama are you all right-?
She wants to rush forward, but the grip on her shoulder tightens, and all she can do is look. Her father's face is soft with something like tiredness, and there is an ugly red bruise staining a cheekbone, and grazes on his jaw and above one eye, threatening to swell. His spectacles are cracked, the lens on one side broken and useless. Oh, Papa.
Without preamble, there is a sharp slap, and pain flames hot and bright against her cheek. She would spit at the officer if her father were not present; as it is, she merely glares.
But the officer called Thomassen is not interested in her. He watches her father, whose fingers curl tightly against the edges of the cot.
"Leave my daughter alone. She has nothing to do with this." There is a drilling intensity to the words that she knows to be anger, though his face barely hints at emotion.
"On the contrary, I'm very pleased that Clara has been able to join us," says the officer, as a muscle clenches in her father's jaw. "Now tell me - where is Petrelli?"
"I told you, I don't know."
The second slap is harsher, and catches her a little across the ear; a thin, ringing sound cuts through the blunt, muffled sensation as Clara recoils, struggling vainly against the hands that grasp her shoulders. She sees her father stand, quickly, but he is pushed firmly back onto the cot by the other policeman. The burning fades quickly into her cheekbone.
She meets her father's eyes, then. Tries to look stronger than she feels. His expression is difficult to read, and she feels so stupid for having been caught.
"Where is Rains?"
Her father sighs with exaggerated patience. "I don't know. Save yourself the trouble. I don't know anything, and my daughter most assuredly does not."
A pause, and then there is a quiet, sliding click, and steel glints inside the cell. "Tell me, Bennetti - do you think your daughter pretty?"
Clara stares at the small blade, suddenly just centimeters from her face. Then she looks at her father, seeing tiny lines of fear and worry gathering around his eyes. Papa- don't worry. I can- please, don't worry. I'll be all right.
"Wait!" Bennetti's voice rings out in the small stone space. "There are some things I can tell you."
"Oh?" The smile does not reach the Nazi officer's eyes.
"Claude used to work at the University of Frankfurt. For Dr von Verschuer." Said as though the name carries some significance, but she has no idea what it might mean; has never heard of such a person.
Thomassen chuckles. "You're an intelligent man, Herr Bennetti, and I think you know that this is information that we already have." He raises an amused eyebrow. "And we know quite a lot about you, too. Things that I'm sure your daughter would find very interesting. Ironic, isn't it, the way things turn out?" And he turns his back on Clara's father and smiles at her.
The blade is drawn quickly and lightly across her cheek, and she cannot see him behind Thomassen, but she can hear her father's frustrated, helpless breath. It's all right, Papa. And for a moment, it is: the blade is sharp enough that for a moment, she feels nothing at all, and wonders if this is some cruel joke - but then sensation catches up in a thin, zesty line of hurt, and she gasps, warmth dripping down towards her jaw.
Thomassen stands back to survey his handiwork, smiling that same benevolent smile, and Clara wants to hit him. She feels, without seeing it, the edges of the wound closing and knitting as blood dries on her cheek.
"Well, look at that." The officer turns, addresses her father in a voice that mocks admiration. "The little bitch can heal."
Without warning, his fist comes flying, and she doubles over, all breath pushed from her lungs. Spends a few frightened seconds gasping and trying to suck in air before her body adjusts, permits breathing again.
She stands again, chin jutting defiant. She'll kill him. They'll-
"So you see, Herr Bennetti, we could do this all day." Pleasant tones, as though they were discussing the weather. "However ... unfortunately, I don't have all day."
Her father says nothing.
"Of course," the Nazi officer continues, "not all injuries are physical ... is it true what they say about Dutch women, Herr Bennetti?"
Clara feels a sharp slice of unknown menace lodge in her stomach, spreading quick, fearful threads across her body. At the same time, there's a flash of movement, but then her father is pinned, struggling, to the wall, a knife to his throat.
Thomassen nods. "Yes ... perhaps we can compare notes, afterwards."
And she sees her father's head sag against his shoulders. No! Papa-
"All right. I'll tell you everything you want to know. Please let my daughter go." Concession delivered in such a calm voice that Clara stares, not quite believing.
The corners of Thomassen's eyes crinkle as he smiles. "There, you see? We can have our little conversation after all." The tone almost affectionate.
He gestures to the policeman restraining Clara. "Put the girl on the next train."
Bennetti straightens, a swift, aggrieved movement. "No!"
But she's being dragged from the room, and the last thing she sees is her father's wild eyes behind broken spectacles, and an arm reaching out towards her.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic