Safe - Chapter 29
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Word count: Somewhere south of 1,800
Spoilers: AU, but let's say 1.17 ("Company Man"), to be safe.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Finally, our boys leave Amsterdam. It's only taken 29 episodes. *headdesk* And we catch up with a few other characters, too. Oh, and there's a little something in here for gladdecease, who keeps asking really good questions :) ( Previous chapters).
They sleep late, huddled under blankets as the weather clears and the temperature dips low. Catching up after a long day spent walking; stomachs tight and empty.
It's mid-afternoon before Peter, having woken alone, stumbles into the leaf-strewn main room, a rare slant of winter sun illuminating the broken rafters overhead.
Bennetti is there; Claude is not. "He went to get supplies," says the older man, by way of explanation.
Sandrine, shoulders wrapped in a tired grey blanket, is stoking the ailing fire, and she smiles at Peter. Hands him two small apples, wrinkled but still the only thing he's eaten in nearly a day. He bites eagerly into one, savouring the sweet juice.
"We think there used to be an orchard here," she says, indicating a small pile of windfalls, carefully stacked on an old piece of cloth.
He nods, gratefully, wiping juice from his mouth. "Thank you."
Peter's eyes flicker nervously back to Bennetti. "So ... when are we leaving?"
Bennetti's face is still badly bruised. He looks younger without the spectacles, but Peter notices lines around Bennetti's eyes that suggest immense fatigue.
Despite this, Bennetti's answer is crisp and robust. "When it gets dark - perhaps two, three hours."
Claude returns, bearing knapsacks, coats for Bennetti and Sandrine, bread, and water flasks. These distributed, discussion turns to the matter of where to go. Bennetti insists that they travel south to Sandrine's sister's house, near Liége. Then the three of them will head east towards Birkenau.
It's only much, much later that it even occurs to Peter to wonder how Claude and Bennetti seem to know, straight away, where that is.
Bennetti rasps a hand across his chin, in thought. "There's a railway line that runs from Liége to Köln - we might be able to pick up a train going across the border." He doesn't need to say that time is precious; they all feel it, the squeezing urgency of what if.
Peter's stomach is jittery with nerves and hunger as they smother the fire, hiding the ashes under drifts of fallen leaves.
Claude catches his arm and pulls him to one side."You're sure." Wary eyes study Peter's face.
He shrugs. "Where else would I go? I'm not exactly going to let you go off alone." He doesn't add with Bennetti. Isn't sure how he feels about this neat, measured man and his hazy, shared history with Claude. And that ... not distrust, exactly, but that unease brings guilt, since it's only because of Peter that Bennetti has come into their lives at all. Severely beaten because of him, his daughter taken - and the resulting conflict of emotions roils uneasily in Peter's gut.
Claude regards him, mixed emotions written unusually clear across his face. "Nathaniel-" he starts, uncomfortably.
Peter shakes his head emphatically. "No. I'd only be putting him at risk. I can't- I can't do that, Claude. Not after ... everything." He squeezes Claude's hand. "I'll be fine. Really." Trying to sound more confident than he feels.
The sun sinks below the horizon, leaving behind topaz that quickly turns to deepest cobalt as the first stars prickle out and the temperature falls. They leave behind the ruined house and begin their slow trek out of the city.
Their path describes a wide arc, swinging south and east of the city. Once past the last houses, they drop hands and become visible again. There is no-one here; the land, and the people who work it, sleep.
Peter has never been outside the city this late at night. He takes Claude's hand, matching the taller man's stride. Looks around as they walk, startled by the brilliance of the constellations in the near-black sky, and by the occasional distant screech of an owl or the rustle of undergrowth.
They continue, silently, through soft darkness, the muffled rhythm of their boots falling against the road.
*
When evening falls, Eva returns to the long, poorly-lit bunkhouse. Thin stew, from the camp's canteen, paid for with unfamiliar pink-and-purple vouchers, sits uneasily in her stomach.
Her bunk, which she shares with a blonde woman from Rotterdam named Dita, is at the far end of the dormitory, and Eva passes other women, sitting or lying on their lumpy mattresses, combing their hair, rocking themselves in silent emptiness. One or two sob quietly against tired pillows.
Dita is there, sitting on the lower bunk, holding a box of cigarettes, which she toys with listlessly. At Eva's approach, she looks up and smiles, wariness fluttering behind green eyes.
Two days, and they have barely exchanged more than embarrassed pleasantries - but the atmosphere in the bunkhouse is slowly breaking down into something less formal, as women shyly commiserate about families separated and homes left behind.
By lights out, voices have faded to sleep, and only a few soft mutterings of weary conversation carry through the dark in the crowded block.
Eva climbs down from her bunk to find Dita lying on top of her blankets, eyes open and staring at nothing, the cigarettes tucked safely away.
Hesitantly, Eva sits down on the bed, level with Dita's knees. The other woman's face is barely visible in the half light; only a dim yellow glow from the yard outside illuminates the dormitory.
"Are you afraid?" She searches for Dita's hand; finds it, and gives it a little squeeze. There is a long pause, and then Dita squeezes back.
Eva shuffles along the bed a little until she can see the other woman's face a little better.
"I miss my home." The words are so faint that Eva has to lean forward to catch them. "I live- lived on a barge. A houseboat."
She nods, huddles closer.
In the almost-dark, they share reminiscences of home, while outside, soldiers' voices echo from somewhere across the camp.
After a while, Dita moves across to make room for Eva to lie down beside her. The air in the bunkhouse is still; fetid. Dita sighs next to her, and Eva shifts, feeling the warmth of the other woman's skin through thin woollen cloth.
Dita's lips, when she finds them, are soft and hesitant. Eva knows there is no ring on the other woman's left hand, but she whispers "Is there ... someone?" and receives only a shake of the head that scrapes softly against the pillow like boots in snow.
"You don't have to ..." she begins, but Dita shakes her head again, shifts closer, and presses tentative lips against Eva's.
Eva pulls the rough blanket over them; Dita gives a little sigh and tucks her head into the crook of Eva's neck. Her breathing slows, becomes regular, and soon she is asleep, warm breath gusting soft against Eva's throat.
After the older woman has been asleep for a while, Eva rolls gently aside and sits up in the bed. Feels around carefully under the pillow until fingers touch the smooth cardboard packet.
Outside, one of the soldiers stops her, but she smiles at him and offers a cigarette. He shrugs, takes it, and they share the smokes in companionable silence.
Eva goes back inside; does not get back in beside Dita, but climbs the crude ladder to the upper bunk, and falls asleep quickly.
*
When Eva descends in the morning, Dita is not there - probably in the cramped washroom at the end of the block.
The camp feels more energised this morning, and in the queue for the canteen, Eva overhears a conversation between two middle-aged men.
"I heard they're moving us today."
"Who told you that?"
"One of the soldiers."
"And you believed him?" Scorn evident in the rumbling voice.
An expansive shrug. "Well ..."
"I heard the same thing," pipes up an elderly woman.
The line moves forward; breakfast is only water and a stale bread roll.
She does not see Dita again until, after a roll-call in the yard, they are herded onto another train by other civilians, members of the Kampleiding. This one is meant for freight - there are no seats, and no windows. People blink, anxiously; help each other up into the train-car, passing up bundles of belongings. They find spaces in which to settle on the dirty floor. Pieces of straw blow across the rough wood, settling in corners and against skirts and boots.
Climbing up under the watchful eyes of soldiers, guns hoisted casually across their shoulders on leather straps, Eva is greeted by familiar brown eyes. Mohinder takes her hand and helps her up into the traincar. She smiles at him, dimpling gratitude. Holds his hand a moment longer than perhaps necessary, then sits beside him.
She catches sight of Dita, further down the car. The other woman meets her eyes in silent recognition, then looks away.
*
Dawn is breaking when Bennetti calls a halt, a little beyond the outskirts of a small village. Peter is exhausted and footsore, and everyone's steps drag slower as they stumble into an old animal enclosure, its crumbling stone walls dotted with mosses and lichens.
Peter heaves the knapsack from his shoulders and sinks to the ground. Despite the cold, damp grass, it's a welcome relief from endless walking, and he pulls a blanket from his pack, preparing to curl up next to Claude and sink into much-needed sleep.
But Claude does not sit down. He removes the blanket from his knapsack, then swings it onto his shoulder again. At Peter's enquiring glance, he nods in the direction of the village. " 'M goin' to get supplies. We have to eat." What little they have will not last long, and already the apples are almost gone.
Peter starts to say something, but Claude shakes his head and gives him a tired smile. "No, Pete. Stay here and rest."
"But you're-" Claude must be so tired; must have had barely four hours' sleep in the last two days.
"But nothin'. Get some rest." The invisible man bends down and brushes a gentle kiss against Peter's forehead. "I'm not goin' far."
Peter sighs, and vows to stay awake until Claude returns. But when the invisible man comes back half an hour later, bearing a loaf of bread and two deep red salami sausages, he finds the boy lost to sleep, pale face huddled between folds of coat and blanket.
Claude tucks away the food and drapes himself in a blanket. Curls close to Peter until the rise and fall of breath assumes its familiar rhythm.
Early sun breaks through patchy cloud, and for a while Claude listens to the sound of birds waking, but eventually, he drifts off. Dreams of Frankfurt as shadows shorten and the world slowly wakes around them.
( Next chapter)
[A/N: It transpires that before 1946, Liége was spelled just like that, with the acute. Now, it's spelled Liège. Who knew? Go Wikipedia! Also, I have taken a few liberties with the history. Westerbork actually stopped outgoing transports in September 1944, and the barracks were more overcrowded than I have drawn them here. Bless the intarwebs for making research easier, but bless them also for providing so much information on the Holocaust that if I were to start crying, I'd probably never stop.]
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Word count: Somewhere south of 1,800
Spoilers: AU, but let's say 1.17 ("Company Man"), to be safe.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Finally, our boys leave Amsterdam. It's only taken 29 episodes. *headdesk* And we catch up with a few other characters, too. Oh, and there's a little something in here for gladdecease, who keeps asking really good questions :) ( Previous chapters).
They sleep late, huddled under blankets as the weather clears and the temperature dips low. Catching up after a long day spent walking; stomachs tight and empty.
It's mid-afternoon before Peter, having woken alone, stumbles into the leaf-strewn main room, a rare slant of winter sun illuminating the broken rafters overhead.
Bennetti is there; Claude is not. "He went to get supplies," says the older man, by way of explanation.
Sandrine, shoulders wrapped in a tired grey blanket, is stoking the ailing fire, and she smiles at Peter. Hands him two small apples, wrinkled but still the only thing he's eaten in nearly a day. He bites eagerly into one, savouring the sweet juice.
"We think there used to be an orchard here," she says, indicating a small pile of windfalls, carefully stacked on an old piece of cloth.
He nods, gratefully, wiping juice from his mouth. "Thank you."
Peter's eyes flicker nervously back to Bennetti. "So ... when are we leaving?"
Bennetti's face is still badly bruised. He looks younger without the spectacles, but Peter notices lines around Bennetti's eyes that suggest immense fatigue.
Despite this, Bennetti's answer is crisp and robust. "When it gets dark - perhaps two, three hours."
Claude returns, bearing knapsacks, coats for Bennetti and Sandrine, bread, and water flasks. These distributed, discussion turns to the matter of where to go. Bennetti insists that they travel south to Sandrine's sister's house, near Liége. Then the three of them will head east towards Birkenau.
It's only much, much later that it even occurs to Peter to wonder how Claude and Bennetti seem to know, straight away, where that is.
Bennetti rasps a hand across his chin, in thought. "There's a railway line that runs from Liége to Köln - we might be able to pick up a train going across the border." He doesn't need to say that time is precious; they all feel it, the squeezing urgency of what if.
Peter's stomach is jittery with nerves and hunger as they smother the fire, hiding the ashes under drifts of fallen leaves.
Claude catches his arm and pulls him to one side."You're sure." Wary eyes study Peter's face.
He shrugs. "Where else would I go? I'm not exactly going to let you go off alone." He doesn't add with Bennetti. Isn't sure how he feels about this neat, measured man and his hazy, shared history with Claude. And that ... not distrust, exactly, but that unease brings guilt, since it's only because of Peter that Bennetti has come into their lives at all. Severely beaten because of him, his daughter taken - and the resulting conflict of emotions roils uneasily in Peter's gut.
Claude regards him, mixed emotions written unusually clear across his face. "Nathaniel-" he starts, uncomfortably.
Peter shakes his head emphatically. "No. I'd only be putting him at risk. I can't- I can't do that, Claude. Not after ... everything." He squeezes Claude's hand. "I'll be fine. Really." Trying to sound more confident than he feels.
The sun sinks below the horizon, leaving behind topaz that quickly turns to deepest cobalt as the first stars prickle out and the temperature falls. They leave behind the ruined house and begin their slow trek out of the city.
Their path describes a wide arc, swinging south and east of the city. Once past the last houses, they drop hands and become visible again. There is no-one here; the land, and the people who work it, sleep.
Peter has never been outside the city this late at night. He takes Claude's hand, matching the taller man's stride. Looks around as they walk, startled by the brilliance of the constellations in the near-black sky, and by the occasional distant screech of an owl or the rustle of undergrowth.
They continue, silently, through soft darkness, the muffled rhythm of their boots falling against the road.
*
When evening falls, Eva returns to the long, poorly-lit bunkhouse. Thin stew, from the camp's canteen, paid for with unfamiliar pink-and-purple vouchers, sits uneasily in her stomach.
Her bunk, which she shares with a blonde woman from Rotterdam named Dita, is at the far end of the dormitory, and Eva passes other women, sitting or lying on their lumpy mattresses, combing their hair, rocking themselves in silent emptiness. One or two sob quietly against tired pillows.
Dita is there, sitting on the lower bunk, holding a box of cigarettes, which she toys with listlessly. At Eva's approach, she looks up and smiles, wariness fluttering behind green eyes.
Two days, and they have barely exchanged more than embarrassed pleasantries - but the atmosphere in the bunkhouse is slowly breaking down into something less formal, as women shyly commiserate about families separated and homes left behind.
By lights out, voices have faded to sleep, and only a few soft mutterings of weary conversation carry through the dark in the crowded block.
Eva climbs down from her bunk to find Dita lying on top of her blankets, eyes open and staring at nothing, the cigarettes tucked safely away.
Hesitantly, Eva sits down on the bed, level with Dita's knees. The other woman's face is barely visible in the half light; only a dim yellow glow from the yard outside illuminates the dormitory.
"Are you afraid?" She searches for Dita's hand; finds it, and gives it a little squeeze. There is a long pause, and then Dita squeezes back.
Eva shuffles along the bed a little until she can see the other woman's face a little better.
"I miss my home." The words are so faint that Eva has to lean forward to catch them. "I live- lived on a barge. A houseboat."
She nods, huddles closer.
In the almost-dark, they share reminiscences of home, while outside, soldiers' voices echo from somewhere across the camp.
After a while, Dita moves across to make room for Eva to lie down beside her. The air in the bunkhouse is still; fetid. Dita sighs next to her, and Eva shifts, feeling the warmth of the other woman's skin through thin woollen cloth.
Dita's lips, when she finds them, are soft and hesitant. Eva knows there is no ring on the other woman's left hand, but she whispers "Is there ... someone?" and receives only a shake of the head that scrapes softly against the pillow like boots in snow.
"You don't have to ..." she begins, but Dita shakes her head again, shifts closer, and presses tentative lips against Eva's.
Eva pulls the rough blanket over them; Dita gives a little sigh and tucks her head into the crook of Eva's neck. Her breathing slows, becomes regular, and soon she is asleep, warm breath gusting soft against Eva's throat.
After the older woman has been asleep for a while, Eva rolls gently aside and sits up in the bed. Feels around carefully under the pillow until fingers touch the smooth cardboard packet.
Outside, one of the soldiers stops her, but she smiles at him and offers a cigarette. He shrugs, takes it, and they share the smokes in companionable silence.
Eva goes back inside; does not get back in beside Dita, but climbs the crude ladder to the upper bunk, and falls asleep quickly.
*
When Eva descends in the morning, Dita is not there - probably in the cramped washroom at the end of the block.
The camp feels more energised this morning, and in the queue for the canteen, Eva overhears a conversation between two middle-aged men.
"I heard they're moving us today."
"Who told you that?"
"One of the soldiers."
"And you believed him?" Scorn evident in the rumbling voice.
An expansive shrug. "Well ..."
"I heard the same thing," pipes up an elderly woman.
The line moves forward; breakfast is only water and a stale bread roll.
She does not see Dita again until, after a roll-call in the yard, they are herded onto another train by other civilians, members of the Kampleiding. This one is meant for freight - there are no seats, and no windows. People blink, anxiously; help each other up into the train-car, passing up bundles of belongings. They find spaces in which to settle on the dirty floor. Pieces of straw blow across the rough wood, settling in corners and against skirts and boots.
Climbing up under the watchful eyes of soldiers, guns hoisted casually across their shoulders on leather straps, Eva is greeted by familiar brown eyes. Mohinder takes her hand and helps her up into the traincar. She smiles at him, dimpling gratitude. Holds his hand a moment longer than perhaps necessary, then sits beside him.
She catches sight of Dita, further down the car. The other woman meets her eyes in silent recognition, then looks away.
*
Dawn is breaking when Bennetti calls a halt, a little beyond the outskirts of a small village. Peter is exhausted and footsore, and everyone's steps drag slower as they stumble into an old animal enclosure, its crumbling stone walls dotted with mosses and lichens.
Peter heaves the knapsack from his shoulders and sinks to the ground. Despite the cold, damp grass, it's a welcome relief from endless walking, and he pulls a blanket from his pack, preparing to curl up next to Claude and sink into much-needed sleep.
But Claude does not sit down. He removes the blanket from his knapsack, then swings it onto his shoulder again. At Peter's enquiring glance, he nods in the direction of the village. " 'M goin' to get supplies. We have to eat." What little they have will not last long, and already the apples are almost gone.
Peter starts to say something, but Claude shakes his head and gives him a tired smile. "No, Pete. Stay here and rest."
"But you're-" Claude must be so tired; must have had barely four hours' sleep in the last two days.
"But nothin'. Get some rest." The invisible man bends down and brushes a gentle kiss against Peter's forehead. "I'm not goin' far."
Peter sighs, and vows to stay awake until Claude returns. But when the invisible man comes back half an hour later, bearing a loaf of bread and two deep red salami sausages, he finds the boy lost to sleep, pale face huddled between folds of coat and blanket.
Claude tucks away the food and drapes himself in a blanket. Curls close to Peter until the rise and fall of breath assumes its familiar rhythm.
Early sun breaks through patchy cloud, and for a while Claude listens to the sound of birds waking, but eventually, he drifts off. Dreams of Frankfurt as shadows shorten and the world slowly wakes around them.
( Next chapter)
[A/N: It transpires that before 1946, Liége was spelled just like that, with the acute. Now, it's spelled Liège. Who knew? Go Wikipedia! Also, I have taken a few liberties with the history. Westerbork actually stopped outgoing transports in September 1944, and the barracks were more overcrowded than I have drawn them here. Bless the intarwebs for making research easier, but bless them also for providing so much information on the Holocaust that if I were to start crying, I'd probably never stop.]
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude