Safe - Chapter 27
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Word count: Just sub-1400.
Spoilers: AU, but up to 1.15 ("Run!"), to be safe.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Today: a plan is hatched, and a telegram sent. ( Previous chapters)
"I'll leave first thing in the morning."
Claude, Peter and Sandrine turn to stare at Bennetti, firelight flickering across the purpling bruises and cuts that shade his face.
Claude is the first to react. "Bollocks."
Bennetti looks at him, coolly. "I'm quite serious. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that kind of language in front of my wife."
Claude glances at Sandrine, who sighs. "I'm fine."
He wonders if she is. Freed from her cell, she had been briefly tearful on seeing her husband's painful, stooped body and the mottled pattern of insults on his face. And then she simply stopped. Did what needed to be done, and now there are only the minutest of telltale signs around her eyes. She does not let go of Bennetti's hand.
Peter laughts, bitter and disbelieving. "You can't. How would you even get in there, let alone get her out again?"
Bennetti regards him solemnly over the broken lenses of his spectacles. "I know a few things."
Peter shakes his head. "Claude- Tell him-"
But Claude is looking at Bennetti, and Peter sees them exchange a long glance.
Claude nods. Thoughtful; resolute. "All right. Tomorrow."
Peter stares. "Claude? Have- Have you both lost your minds?"
"Peter ..." Claude puts a hand on his shoulder.
"No, Claude! What you're suggesting is just ..." his voice trails off under the weight of Bennetti's quiet, sad stare.
It's all his fault.
All his fault, and he doesn't know if he can even stand to look at Bennetti any longer. Bruises and cuts that mock him, remind him of everything he could have done differently. If I hadn't-
"Fine, then," he says, trying not to let his voice wobble. "I'm coming with you."
Claude and Bennetti share another look.
*
Shouldn't we, you know, give them some privacy?"
The invisible man shrugs, but glances back at the couple by the fire; opens the rotted door for Peter.
Outside, no longer sheltered by the building's crumbling walls, the wind cuts at their skin. Peter leans against the brick, rubbing at his hands - woolen gloves offer little protection against the icy breeze.
Claude regards him speculatively. "You sure you're up for this?"
He stamps his feet against the cold and blows onto his hands. "Claude- what else would I do?"
Claude shrugs. "It's goin' to be dangerous, Pete."
"You think I don't know that?" Peter's voice fractures with impatient anxiety. "But after everything that's happened - these people-" he gestures towards the building "-if anything happens to Clara ... All of this- it's my fault."
"Don't see how, mate."
Peter makes a wide, sweeping gesture of helplessness that derails abruptly, his arms outstretched. "They want me - God knows why - and the further I've run, the more people I've hurt. Bennetti-" Claude rests a hand on his arm to make him lower his voice, and Peter continues, breath hissing bitter "- you saw what they did to him, Claude. Nazi moederneukeren."
Claude raises eyebrows at Peter's unaccustomed use of profanity, and sighs. "Noah knew that was a risk when he took us in. When he took any specials in," he adds, to forestall the boy's protestation. "An' he's tougher than he looks." The last said with an almost affectionate chuckle.
At the sound, Peter looks up. "How long've you known him?"
Claude considers. " 'Bout fifteen years, maybe? Anyway," he says, frowning at Peter, "Stop bloody blaming yourself for all this. Fact is, it wasn't you who came to take us from our home. You didn't hurt Noah or Sandrine, or put Clara on a train to hell knows where. They did that, Peter. Nobody else."
They stand, apart, under the cold dark sky. Clouds, heavy with incipient rain and reflecting the city's pale light to the North, travel fast and low across the indigo space.
There's a long pause before Peter says, in a low voice that tries far too hard to be matter-of-fact, "Were you really going to shoot him?"
Claude tilts his head to one side, watching the younger man. "What if I was?" he says, carefully.
Peter stares at him, disbelieving. "You can't just take the law into your own hands, Claude. You can't just- kill people. You can't-" and now tears gather at the corners of vision, and he can feel his treacherous voice beginning to break "-You can't- kill people, Claude."
"No?" And now Claude is angry. "What d'you think they were goin' to do to us, Pete? To you?" He steps forward; grips Peter's shoulders, none too gently. "D'you really think all those labour camps are just somewhere nice to put us until they've stomped all over Europe?" Wretched, bitter certainty in Claude's voice.
Peter looks up. "I thought-"
"You don't know, mate." Claude's jaw hardens. It's not about keepin' us safe. They want us all dead." The words said with such finality that Peter just stares.
Eventually, timidly, he opens his mouth. "But they wouldn't-"
Claude's eyes are dark in the low light. "Yeah, mate. They would. Every last one of us."
"But Clara-"
"Yeah, Pete. I know."
He sinks down, coat sliding coarsely against aged, broken brick, until he's hunkered low, pressed into a helpless corner. Tears threatening to blur Claude's silhouette against the purple sky.
"You should go. Just- get away."
"What're you talkin' about, Pete?"
"I'm just- You should go. I'm going to - Everyone's going to get hurt. Please, Claude," and Peter looks up with pained dark eyes. "I don't want you to get hurt." I can't be the one to-
Claude sighs, kneels down in front of Peter. "You daft sod. Not goin' anywhere without you."
You should, Peter thinks, sadly, Claude's arms around his shoulders. I'm not safe.
*
The tall young woman who answers the door looks somewhat cross at being woken up in the middle of the night, but her expression shifts fractionally when she sees Claude.
"Two visits in a week? I'll have to start giving you a discount."
Claude sighs, patiently. "Hello, Hana."
She leads them upstairs, bare feet striding up the scrubbed wooden treads.
They sit, propped akwardly against canvases and boards, while Hana traverses the small living-space in floor-length men's robes the colour of midnight. Peter watches as she pours water from a large pan into a kettle and slings it on the stove, poking the fire beneath into reluctant compliance and adding another log that looks suspiciously like a chair-leg.
"So," she says, leaning against the end of the stove, arms folded, "What is it this time?"
Claude looks at Peter, who leans forward, biting his lip. "I, uh, need to send a telegram to my brother."
She sighs and raises her eyes to the ceiling; but when he adds "Nathan Petrelli," her posture changes and she looks at him with sudden curiosity.
"You're the mayor's brother?"
He nods.
She purses her lips, nodding slowly. "That accident always rang a little hollow to me anyway. All right - what do you want to say?"
And isn't that the question.
He's still thinking about it when the kettle boils and she places a heavy mug of black, steaming tea on the table beside him. "You want some rum in that?"
He shakes his head. "No. Thank you."
"Suit yourself. Claude?"
"Waste of good rum, if you ask me."
She favours him with an ironic smile. "Oh, it's shitty rum. But it works fine just the same." Takes a long swig from the bottle. "So, little mayor, what's it to be?"
Peter sighs. "Leaving town. Tell Mama I love her."
She stares. "That's it?"
He nods, sadly. "It's enough."
Her glare is a formidable thing. "You could have gone to the godverdomme telegraph office for that, not woken me up in the middle of the night."
"Hana," says Claude, warning.
She turns to him, rum bottle in one hand. "I'm not running a post office here, you know."
He nods. "Yeah, I know." Sighs. "Listen- they took Noah. Beat him up pretty badly."
Peter, listening, sees Hana's expression soften: what he's beginning to think of as her customary belligerence shifts sideways, suddenly, into concern.
"Is he all right?"
He shrugs, wryly. "He'll live. But they took his daughter. She's one of us. Never told you that, did he?"
She shakes her head. "And you're going after her."
Claude blinks. "Well ... yes."
"Figures." She turns to look again at Peter, sipping cautiously at the hot tea. "So what's your part in all this?"
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Word count: Just sub-1400.
Spoilers: AU, but up to 1.15 ("Run!"), to be safe.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Today: a plan is hatched, and a telegram sent. ( Previous chapters)
"I'll leave first thing in the morning."
Claude, Peter and Sandrine turn to stare at Bennetti, firelight flickering across the purpling bruises and cuts that shade his face.
Claude is the first to react. "Bollocks."
Bennetti looks at him, coolly. "I'm quite serious. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that kind of language in front of my wife."
Claude glances at Sandrine, who sighs. "I'm fine."
He wonders if she is. Freed from her cell, she had been briefly tearful on seeing her husband's painful, stooped body and the mottled pattern of insults on his face. And then she simply stopped. Did what needed to be done, and now there are only the minutest of telltale signs around her eyes. She does not let go of Bennetti's hand.
Peter laughts, bitter and disbelieving. "You can't. How would you even get in there, let alone get her out again?"
Bennetti regards him solemnly over the broken lenses of his spectacles. "I know a few things."
Peter shakes his head. "Claude- Tell him-"
But Claude is looking at Bennetti, and Peter sees them exchange a long glance.
Claude nods. Thoughtful; resolute. "All right. Tomorrow."
Peter stares. "Claude? Have- Have you both lost your minds?"
"Peter ..." Claude puts a hand on his shoulder.
"No, Claude! What you're suggesting is just ..." his voice trails off under the weight of Bennetti's quiet, sad stare.
It's all his fault.
All his fault, and he doesn't know if he can even stand to look at Bennetti any longer. Bruises and cuts that mock him, remind him of everything he could have done differently. If I hadn't-
"Fine, then," he says, trying not to let his voice wobble. "I'm coming with you."
Claude and Bennetti share another look.
*
Shouldn't we, you know, give them some privacy?"
The invisible man shrugs, but glances back at the couple by the fire; opens the rotted door for Peter.
Outside, no longer sheltered by the building's crumbling walls, the wind cuts at their skin. Peter leans against the brick, rubbing at his hands - woolen gloves offer little protection against the icy breeze.
Claude regards him speculatively. "You sure you're up for this?"
He stamps his feet against the cold and blows onto his hands. "Claude- what else would I do?"
Claude shrugs. "It's goin' to be dangerous, Pete."
"You think I don't know that?" Peter's voice fractures with impatient anxiety. "But after everything that's happened - these people-" he gestures towards the building "-if anything happens to Clara ... All of this- it's my fault."
"Don't see how, mate."
Peter makes a wide, sweeping gesture of helplessness that derails abruptly, his arms outstretched. "They want me - God knows why - and the further I've run, the more people I've hurt. Bennetti-" Claude rests a hand on his arm to make him lower his voice, and Peter continues, breath hissing bitter "- you saw what they did to him, Claude. Nazi moederneukeren."
Claude raises eyebrows at Peter's unaccustomed use of profanity, and sighs. "Noah knew that was a risk when he took us in. When he took any specials in," he adds, to forestall the boy's protestation. "An' he's tougher than he looks." The last said with an almost affectionate chuckle.
At the sound, Peter looks up. "How long've you known him?"
Claude considers. " 'Bout fifteen years, maybe? Anyway," he says, frowning at Peter, "Stop bloody blaming yourself for all this. Fact is, it wasn't you who came to take us from our home. You didn't hurt Noah or Sandrine, or put Clara on a train to hell knows where. They did that, Peter. Nobody else."
They stand, apart, under the cold dark sky. Clouds, heavy with incipient rain and reflecting the city's pale light to the North, travel fast and low across the indigo space.
There's a long pause before Peter says, in a low voice that tries far too hard to be matter-of-fact, "Were you really going to shoot him?"
Claude tilts his head to one side, watching the younger man. "What if I was?" he says, carefully.
Peter stares at him, disbelieving. "You can't just take the law into your own hands, Claude. You can't just- kill people. You can't-" and now tears gather at the corners of vision, and he can feel his treacherous voice beginning to break "-You can't- kill people, Claude."
"No?" And now Claude is angry. "What d'you think they were goin' to do to us, Pete? To you?" He steps forward; grips Peter's shoulders, none too gently. "D'you really think all those labour camps are just somewhere nice to put us until they've stomped all over Europe?" Wretched, bitter certainty in Claude's voice.
Peter looks up. "I thought-"
"You don't know, mate." Claude's jaw hardens. It's not about keepin' us safe. They want us all dead." The words said with such finality that Peter just stares.
Eventually, timidly, he opens his mouth. "But they wouldn't-"
Claude's eyes are dark in the low light. "Yeah, mate. They would. Every last one of us."
"But Clara-"
"Yeah, Pete. I know."
He sinks down, coat sliding coarsely against aged, broken brick, until he's hunkered low, pressed into a helpless corner. Tears threatening to blur Claude's silhouette against the purple sky.
"You should go. Just- get away."
"What're you talkin' about, Pete?"
"I'm just- You should go. I'm going to - Everyone's going to get hurt. Please, Claude," and Peter looks up with pained dark eyes. "I don't want you to get hurt." I can't be the one to-
Claude sighs, kneels down in front of Peter. "You daft sod. Not goin' anywhere without you."
You should, Peter thinks, sadly, Claude's arms around his shoulders. I'm not safe.
*
The tall young woman who answers the door looks somewhat cross at being woken up in the middle of the night, but her expression shifts fractionally when she sees Claude.
"Two visits in a week? I'll have to start giving you a discount."
Claude sighs, patiently. "Hello, Hana."
She leads them upstairs, bare feet striding up the scrubbed wooden treads.
They sit, propped akwardly against canvases and boards, while Hana traverses the small living-space in floor-length men's robes the colour of midnight. Peter watches as she pours water from a large pan into a kettle and slings it on the stove, poking the fire beneath into reluctant compliance and adding another log that looks suspiciously like a chair-leg.
"So," she says, leaning against the end of the stove, arms folded, "What is it this time?"
Claude looks at Peter, who leans forward, biting his lip. "I, uh, need to send a telegram to my brother."
She sighs and raises her eyes to the ceiling; but when he adds "Nathan Petrelli," her posture changes and she looks at him with sudden curiosity.
"You're the mayor's brother?"
He nods.
She purses her lips, nodding slowly. "That accident always rang a little hollow to me anyway. All right - what do you want to say?"
And isn't that the question.
He's still thinking about it when the kettle boils and she places a heavy mug of black, steaming tea on the table beside him. "You want some rum in that?"
He shakes his head. "No. Thank you."
"Suit yourself. Claude?"
"Waste of good rum, if you ask me."
She favours him with an ironic smile. "Oh, it's shitty rum. But it works fine just the same." Takes a long swig from the bottle. "So, little mayor, what's it to be?"
Peter sighs. "Leaving town. Tell Mama I love her."
She stares. "That's it?"
He nods, sadly. "It's enough."
Her glare is a formidable thing. "You could have gone to the godverdomme telegraph office for that, not woken me up in the middle of the night."
"Hana," says Claude, warning.
She turns to him, rum bottle in one hand. "I'm not running a post office here, you know."
He nods. "Yeah, I know." Sighs. "Listen- they took Noah. Beat him up pretty badly."
Peter, listening, sees Hana's expression soften: what he's beginning to think of as her customary belligerence shifts sideways, suddenly, into concern.
"Is he all right?"
He shrugs, wryly. "He'll live. But they took his daughter. She's one of us. Never told you that, did he?"
She shakes her head. "And you're going after her."
Claude blinks. "Well ... yes."
"Figures." She turns to look again at Peter, sipping cautiously at the hot tea. "So what's your part in all this?"
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude