Safe - Chapter 26
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for implicit violence
Word count: 1,100
Spoilers: AU, but up to 1.15 ("Run!"), to be safe.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Today we're playing catch-up with a few different characters, and we meet a new one ( Previous chapters)
The man walks slowly, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his own thoughts, and Gabriel slows his steps, keeps a discreet distance. He follows the man, a slightly pasty gentleman he judges to be in his late thirties or perhaps early forties, until they arrive in a quiet residential street, and Gabriel has no choice but to hang back. He watches the man walk up the path to an apartment building; catches another flash of gold from the man's lapel.
The instant the front door closes, Gabriel bolts towards it; in a moment, he is through and standing in a cool, empty lobby with ancient, pitted floor tiles. He pauses; hears the jingle of keys from above, and takes the stairs at a run, hearing the blood pounding in his head and feeling the rhythm in his heart.
It's a good sound.
In the corridor upstairs, he sees the man stepping into an apartment. He covers the length of the hallway in two seconds, wedging a foot in the door as a surprised voice cries "What?"
A quick shove, and the man sprawls across the dimly-lit hallway of his apartment. Gabriel shuts the door.
"What ... what do you want?" A fearful, piteous voice, and how right it is that he should be eradicating such pathetically weak individuals. Taking what is his; survival of the fittest.
"I want whatever you've got."
"I ... I don't have anything! My ... my wallet is here! Take it! Please! There ... there's some money in the dresser in the living room. Please, just take it and go!" The man trembles helplessly against the shabby parquet.
Gabriel shakes his head and smiles. "No, no. I want what's in there-" pointing to the man's head.
Further shaking is the only reply; the smell of fear is intoxicating, and Gabriel steps forward until he's standing over this pitiful, undeserving wretch of a human being.
Suddenly, the hatstand in the corner behind him swings and crashes against him. Gabriel stumbles from the impact, feeling the muscles in his back shoulder burn, but manages to keep his footing.
"Well, isn't that interesting." The flash of a toothy grin. "You know, you really don't deserve this."
Uncomprehending eyes search Gabriel's face as desperate feet scrabble vainly for purchase against the wooden floor. "Who are you?"
Gabriel smiles. "You can call me Sylar. Though in a moment, it won't really matter."
*
Anders makes a rough sketch of the explosion, imitating the shapes outlined by flaking paint. He is not artistic, and the rendition he makes with a blunt pencil on grainy paper leaves a lot to be desired. But he steps back and decides that he's got the essence of it, near enough.
Nobody has seen Hiro since Anders fled the Bennettis'. But Anders must do something - cannot sit in his claustrophobic apartment any longer - and the painting is all he has.
The narrow lanes of the Jordaan are unfamiliar, and Anders is very quickly lost, shuttling aimlessly between canals along avenues of brick, peering into tiny shop windows. But he knows that this is where many artists live and work, and eventually he passes a studio with three young men smoking and chatting listlessly outside in the alley. He shows them the crude sketch, but they have never seen the drawing he means.
They do point him in the direction of another studio, though, and after getting briefly but thoroughly lost, he finds himself in a small enclosed square, looking at a nameplate that simply announces Gitelman, in unpretentious licks of white paint.
Hesitantly, he pushes open the door and ascends stairs to a lofty space with several skylights, in which canvases are stacked several deep.
"Hello?" For a moment, he thinks that there is nobody here, but then a woman - surprisingly tall and lean, and wearing paint-spattered men's overalls - peers out from behind a stack of canvases.
"Yes?"
"I'm, uh, looking for Meneer Gitelman?"
She purses her lips. "There is no Meneer Gitelman. I am Mevrouw Gitelman." She quirks a testy eyebrow, daring him to find fault with this state of affairs.
Anders swallows. "I'm sorry, Mevrouw."
"And you would be?"
"Anders. Anders Massehaschen."
She nods, a curt gesture, and he takes this as his sign to continue. "I'm looking for the artist who drew this." Shows her the pencil sketch. "This is just a copy. The real one is on a wall near Weesperstraat."
She frowns, holding it at arm's length to study it. She really is an extraordinarily good-looking woman, he notices again - long dark hair piled carelessly on top of her head, and such striking dark features. And then she notices his stare and stares back; Anders suddenly develops an interest in the paint-spattered floor.
"You want Isaac Mendez." He looks up again and she hands him back the paper. "He always painted violence."
"Where- Do you know where I can find him?"
Mevrouw Gitelman shrugs, a quick, indifferent gesture. "I haven't seen him for maybe two months. He has a fondness for absinthe," she adds with evident disdain. "Look for him in the gutter."
He isn't sure if she's joking or not.
She frowns at him again, and Anders is mortified to realise that he has been staring, fascinated, at her woman's body dressed so casually in men's clothes.
"Don't they have women where you come from?"
He stutters something incoherent that might be a thank you, and is turning to leave when she plants a long overalled leg between him and the stairs.
"I could teach you about women."
Anders flees.
*
Gabriel picks up an unopened letter from the plain wooden dresser, addressed in flowing sepia ink to Meneer Björn Davidsen.
He leaves the apartment and the door shuts behind him. Days later, the police will find no fingerprints.
*
He barely wakes; each time, he feels that his consciousness is being pushed down again, squeezed into the grey space between waking and darkness. Sometimes there is a face - dark skin and the blackest eyes he thinks he has ever seen. But remembering is difficult, now: everything is fuzzy and indistinct.
Once, he thinks he remembers a name. Charlotta? An image of cinnamon hair and eyes the colour of the soy sauce he remembers from his childhood. Laughter; he remembers laughter, now, and freckles. Sweet things, like her name. For a while, he drifts in hazy, happy thoughts, and this does not seem so very bad.
But then the face returns, moves a hand across his brow, and Hiro fades, again, to the barely-heard rumbling of freight on a long, iron road.
*
TO ANDERS MASSEHASCHEN STOP FOUND ISAAC MENDEZ STOP BEING HELD IN BERLIN STOP STILL PAINTING STOP WHAT IS SIGNIFICANCE OF EXPLODING MAN STOP GITELMAN
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for implicit violence
Word count: 1,100
Spoilers: AU, but up to 1.15 ("Run!"), to be safe.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Today we're playing catch-up with a few different characters, and we meet a new one ( Previous chapters)
The man walks slowly, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his own thoughts, and Gabriel slows his steps, keeps a discreet distance. He follows the man, a slightly pasty gentleman he judges to be in his late thirties or perhaps early forties, until they arrive in a quiet residential street, and Gabriel has no choice but to hang back. He watches the man walk up the path to an apartment building; catches another flash of gold from the man's lapel.
The instant the front door closes, Gabriel bolts towards it; in a moment, he is through and standing in a cool, empty lobby with ancient, pitted floor tiles. He pauses; hears the jingle of keys from above, and takes the stairs at a run, hearing the blood pounding in his head and feeling the rhythm in his heart.
It's a good sound.
In the corridor upstairs, he sees the man stepping into an apartment. He covers the length of the hallway in two seconds, wedging a foot in the door as a surprised voice cries "What?"
A quick shove, and the man sprawls across the dimly-lit hallway of his apartment. Gabriel shuts the door.
"What ... what do you want?" A fearful, piteous voice, and how right it is that he should be eradicating such pathetically weak individuals. Taking what is his; survival of the fittest.
"I want whatever you've got."
"I ... I don't have anything! My ... my wallet is here! Take it! Please! There ... there's some money in the dresser in the living room. Please, just take it and go!" The man trembles helplessly against the shabby parquet.
Gabriel shakes his head and smiles. "No, no. I want what's in there-" pointing to the man's head.
Further shaking is the only reply; the smell of fear is intoxicating, and Gabriel steps forward until he's standing over this pitiful, undeserving wretch of a human being.
Suddenly, the hatstand in the corner behind him swings and crashes against him. Gabriel stumbles from the impact, feeling the muscles in his back shoulder burn, but manages to keep his footing.
"Well, isn't that interesting." The flash of a toothy grin. "You know, you really don't deserve this."
Uncomprehending eyes search Gabriel's face as desperate feet scrabble vainly for purchase against the wooden floor. "Who are you?"
Gabriel smiles. "You can call me Sylar. Though in a moment, it won't really matter."
*
Anders makes a rough sketch of the explosion, imitating the shapes outlined by flaking paint. He is not artistic, and the rendition he makes with a blunt pencil on grainy paper leaves a lot to be desired. But he steps back and decides that he's got the essence of it, near enough.
Nobody has seen Hiro since Anders fled the Bennettis'. But Anders must do something - cannot sit in his claustrophobic apartment any longer - and the painting is all he has.
The narrow lanes of the Jordaan are unfamiliar, and Anders is very quickly lost, shuttling aimlessly between canals along avenues of brick, peering into tiny shop windows. But he knows that this is where many artists live and work, and eventually he passes a studio with three young men smoking and chatting listlessly outside in the alley. He shows them the crude sketch, but they have never seen the drawing he means.
They do point him in the direction of another studio, though, and after getting briefly but thoroughly lost, he finds himself in a small enclosed square, looking at a nameplate that simply announces Gitelman, in unpretentious licks of white paint.
Hesitantly, he pushes open the door and ascends stairs to a lofty space with several skylights, in which canvases are stacked several deep.
"Hello?" For a moment, he thinks that there is nobody here, but then a woman - surprisingly tall and lean, and wearing paint-spattered men's overalls - peers out from behind a stack of canvases.
"Yes?"
"I'm, uh, looking for Meneer Gitelman?"
She purses her lips. "There is no Meneer Gitelman. I am Mevrouw Gitelman." She quirks a testy eyebrow, daring him to find fault with this state of affairs.
Anders swallows. "I'm sorry, Mevrouw."
"And you would be?"
"Anders. Anders Massehaschen."
She nods, a curt gesture, and he takes this as his sign to continue. "I'm looking for the artist who drew this." Shows her the pencil sketch. "This is just a copy. The real one is on a wall near Weesperstraat."
She frowns, holding it at arm's length to study it. She really is an extraordinarily good-looking woman, he notices again - long dark hair piled carelessly on top of her head, and such striking dark features. And then she notices his stare and stares back; Anders suddenly develops an interest in the paint-spattered floor.
"You want Isaac Mendez." He looks up again and she hands him back the paper. "He always painted violence."
"Where- Do you know where I can find him?"
Mevrouw Gitelman shrugs, a quick, indifferent gesture. "I haven't seen him for maybe two months. He has a fondness for absinthe," she adds with evident disdain. "Look for him in the gutter."
He isn't sure if she's joking or not.
She frowns at him again, and Anders is mortified to realise that he has been staring, fascinated, at her woman's body dressed so casually in men's clothes.
"Don't they have women where you come from?"
He stutters something incoherent that might be a thank you, and is turning to leave when she plants a long overalled leg between him and the stairs.
"I could teach you about women."
Anders flees.
*
Gabriel picks up an unopened letter from the plain wooden dresser, addressed in flowing sepia ink to Meneer Björn Davidsen.
He leaves the apartment and the door shuts behind him. Days later, the police will find no fingerprints.
*
He barely wakes; each time, he feels that his consciousness is being pushed down again, squeezed into the grey space between waking and darkness. Sometimes there is a face - dark skin and the blackest eyes he thinks he has ever seen. But remembering is difficult, now: everything is fuzzy and indistinct.
Once, he thinks he remembers a name. Charlotta? An image of cinnamon hair and eyes the colour of the soy sauce he remembers from his childhood. Laughter; he remembers laughter, now, and freckles. Sweet things, like her name. For a while, he drifts in hazy, happy thoughts, and this does not seem so very bad.
But then the face returns, moves a hand across his brow, and Hiro fades, again, to the barely-heard rumbling of freight on a long, iron road.
*
TO ANDERS MASSEHASCHEN STOP FOUND ISAAC MENDEZ STOP BEING HELD IN BERLIN STOP STILL PAINTING STOP WHAT IS SIGNIFICANCE OF EXPLODING MAN STOP GITELMAN
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic