Safe - Chapter 31
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for looming darkness
Word count: 1,780
Spoilers: AU; let's say 1.13 ("The Fix"), to be safe.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Today we're catching up with several characters, and there's a bit of Plaude fluff. Make the most of it; there's not much of that where we're going. ( Previous chapters)
"Is Peter all right?" A day spent in fear before Nathaniel had conveyed the details his brother's previous visit to the town hall, and Angela Petrelli has not slept well since. Again, she wonders whether by granting her wish that Nathaniel rise to assume power and influence, God has taken away with the other hand, showing her younger son the road of adversity.
She supposes that, on balance, it's probably a price worth paying. One has to consider the long game, after all.
Nathaniel hands her the telegram and her eyes quickly skim the few words.
She stares at him. "What does this mean?"
Her eldest shrugs, frustration warping handsome features. "How should I know?"
She frowns, pursing her lips. "Don't be cheeky."
He sighs. "I'm sorry, Mother."
She sits, motioning to him to do the same. Relief, at least, that Peter is outwith the reach of the city's policemen and their SS keepers. "Where do you suppose he will have gone?"
Nathaniel remains standing, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. Peter doesn't exactly have friends out of town. At least, not that I know of."
She strokes the thin paper with mournful fingertips. "It sounds so terribly ... final."
He puts a hand on her shoulder. "He'll be all right." A long pause, and then, "Claude will look after him."
Their eyes meet, sharing an uneasy lack of confidence in this statement.
*
A brush sketches quick across canvas, painting shapes in browns and blacks. A generously-proportioned house, built in the Dutch style, well-maintained red brick and sloping roof, stands a little away from the road, surrounded by well-kept gardens and bountiful fruit trees.
Isaac steps back and sighs, returning to himself. Is about to remove this peculiar picture-postcard from the easel and place it with the pictures of explosions and battle on the studio floor, when he notices the ghostly outlines of two figures in the garden, peering into a window of the house. Dark-haired, skinny, one a little taller than the other and probably both men - he can make out nothing more, so thin is the paint that describes their outlines.
He is startled from his exploration when the door opens and Fräulein Deveaux stalks in, heeled boots clacking against the wooden floor. Unusually, she is not alone; accompanying her is a neat man with a square moustache and hair slicked back with pomade. The way she dances around him in awkward, eager nervousness leaves little room for doubt that this is a personage of some importance.
Ignoring Isaac, Fräulein Deveaux turns to their mutual guest. "Mein Führer, this is the painter, Isaac Mendez."
He nods, sniffs. Looks around the room, where Isaac's canvases essay the horrors of war in vivid, fiery colours.
Then he spies the easel. Steps forward, motioning to Isaac to do likewise. He regards the gentle scene with fractionally raised eyebrows. "What do we have here?"
He feels like a failure in the presence of this man. "I ... don't know, Mein Herr." Twists fingers nervously behind his back.
"Hmm." The Führer regards the work keenly; stern expression giving nothing away. Then he turns to Isaac, and his expression becomes something less threatening; at least, not unkind. "I used to be a bit of a painter myself."
He claps Isaac on the shoulder. "You are doing great things for your country, Herr Mendez."
Isaac can only swallow and nod. It's not even my country, he thinks, hoping that this does not show on his face.
Der Führer nods, brusquely. "Carry on." He turns, gesturing to the painting. "Fräulein Deveaux, please get to work on this immediately."
He marches from the room, and armed guards at the door close it, leaving Isaac alone with his captor.
*
They manage to hitch a ride on the back of a cart; Claude scrambles up and pulls each of them atop the wagon, and the whole thing is done quickly enough that they all re-establish contact, hands held invisible, before the wagon-driver has ever noticed.
The wagon isn't much faster than walking, but their feet are tired and sore after the previous night on the road, and for a little while, they rest, letting the rolling of the cart lull them into something near sleep. When the wagon finally stops on the dirt-track by a lonely farm, horses huffing warm breath in the cold air and shaking their manes, Claude nudges Peter awake, nods to Bennetti, and the four of them slide down, dusting hay from their clothes.
Claude winks at the horses as they pass - one snorts, and the other continues to stare placidly at the pale stone wall.
They set off again down the track, bearing south, the rapidly sinking sun glowing a rich orange on the horizon. Already, the temperature is dropping, and Peter wraps the scarf more tightly around his neck.
They don't talk much, on the journey. Sometimes Peter shares a joke or a thought, or Sandrine offers a reminiscence, but for the most part, they walk in silence.
It gives Claude time to think. Too much time, if he's honest. Squashing down memories that refuse to go away; things he doesn't want to think about.
So instead, he tries to return to happier times. Peter to his right, in the dark, swinging his arms as he walks, still cheerful despite the blisters and fatigue. It gives Claude heart; takes him right back to before the war.
It sort of started with arguments. Only they weren't really arguments at all, but discussions. Peter liked to talk and Claude liked to think; the result was usually interesting, if not always intellectually rigorous.
It was during one such exchange - about the right of women to vote, and Claude was playing Devil's Advocate - that they first shared a moment. Peter, pausing for breath in the middle of a sentence as Claude tangled him in logic, caught his eye and smiled - a warm, honest smile that left Claude's chest a little tight, sent a note low and resonant through his belly. Reflexively, he looked away. Caught his breath. This is-
He looked back again, realising that Peter's sentence still hung there, unfinished. Found the boy looking straight back at him, with that same expression.
Peter blinked. "So, anyway ..." Claude nodded, perhaps a little too hastily. Somehow, the conversation got back on its feet.
Until the next night, when Peter insisted that Claude came to dinner.
He'd arrived at Peter's with a jug of beer - "Stopped at the Kortenhoef on the way over. Hope Gerste's all right?" - and found himself unreasonably cheered by the delight on Peter's face. An awkward moment as they both stepped to the same side in the doorway, which Peter laughed off, sweet and contagious.
It was ridiculous, really. The boy was barely into adulthood, and Claude knew better. Much better.
None of which explained the warm, curling sensation in his belly as he stepped across the threshold.
Dinner was a casserole, savoury and delicious, and Claude wondered aloud where Peter found such good meat.
Peter winked at him. "I have my sources." He tilted his head, studying Claude. "D'you cook much?"
He brushed off the enquiry with a shrug and half a laugh. Bread and beer; a man didn't need much else.
When Peter left the room, Claude lurked in the tiny space that functioned as Peter's living area, scrutinising the books crushed together on one of the precariously-inclined shelves. Goethe; Schiller; a handful of what he suspected were fictional romances.
He didn't hear Peter come back into the room until a floorboard creaked behind him.
Claude turned, feeling faintly guilty about his current train of thought, which involved a rather unfortunate liaison between romance novels and the fire smouldering in the grate.
Peter grinned.
Claude, suspicious, raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"I just ... " and Peter shrugged, cheerfully, "You reminded me of something."
"Oh?"
Peter looked up at him and smiled. " ' Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.' "
Claude snorted. "Goethe?"
"What's wrong with Goethe?" Peter folded his arms, a little defensively.
"Well, all right, he was clever. But that bit - it's nonsense, mate. Romanticism. Man wasn't exactly a realist."
Peter's lips framed a pout. "You don't believe in romance?"
Claude chuckled. "Not really." He knew the language of expediency and camaraderie ... everything else was just poetic myth, in the end.
"But you've read Goethe." Clever dark eyes sparkling at him, and Claude's attention slid, suddenly, from the conversation, as he became aware of Peter biting his lip.
"Well, I've read it, but I reckon it's nonsense." Too, too aware now of Peter's proximity, and he took a step backwards, wondering if perhaps it was time to leave before he said or did something stupid.
But Peter stepped forward. "Really?" The question utterly genuine, as though Claude had professed disbelief in gravity.
He tried to open his mouth, say something, but nothing came out.
And time almost stopped, then. Taunted Claude with boldness, genius and magic, as Peter tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, stood up on tiptoe, and kissed him. Lips brushed his, chastely, then hesitated as Peter's eyes met his.
Maybe there was power in those words after all.
"You don't-" he said, stumbling over the syllables in a voice gone hoarse.
Peter smiled and shook his head. "Be quiet. Please," he added, reflexively. "I want to kiss you again."
"What's up?" Peter edges closer to him as they stride along under the moon.
"Ah, nothin'."
Peter takes his hand. "You're smiling. I know you think I can't see you in the dark, but I can."
He squeezes the fingers tangled through his own. "Yeah, mate."
*
The first night on the train is hard.
Quiet resignation ebbs away through the day; gives way to bruised pockets of misery as children cry or older women weep. There is no food, no water. A bucket serves as a primitive toilet; someone has placed a bag over it as a lid, but the smell is still intolerable.
Mohinder and Eva have run out of conversation. Everybody has; they settle, now, for occasional, tight smiles that grow slowly rarer. When early darkness falls, even those are lost.
The train rumbles on, and Mohinder tries to reassure himself that this is merely unpleasant and unfortunate. That things will be better when they reach their destination.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for looming darkness
Word count: 1,780
Spoilers: AU; let's say 1.13 ("The Fix"), to be safe.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
A/N: Today we're catching up with several characters, and there's a bit of Plaude fluff. Make the most of it; there's not much of that where we're going. ( Previous chapters)
"Is Peter all right?" A day spent in fear before Nathaniel had conveyed the details his brother's previous visit to the town hall, and Angela Petrelli has not slept well since. Again, she wonders whether by granting her wish that Nathaniel rise to assume power and influence, God has taken away with the other hand, showing her younger son the road of adversity.
She supposes that, on balance, it's probably a price worth paying. One has to consider the long game, after all.
Nathaniel hands her the telegram and her eyes quickly skim the few words.
She stares at him. "What does this mean?"
Her eldest shrugs, frustration warping handsome features. "How should I know?"
She frowns, pursing her lips. "Don't be cheeky."
He sighs. "I'm sorry, Mother."
She sits, motioning to him to do the same. Relief, at least, that Peter is outwith the reach of the city's policemen and their SS keepers. "Where do you suppose he will have gone?"
Nathaniel remains standing, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. Peter doesn't exactly have friends out of town. At least, not that I know of."
She strokes the thin paper with mournful fingertips. "It sounds so terribly ... final."
He puts a hand on her shoulder. "He'll be all right." A long pause, and then, "Claude will look after him."
Their eyes meet, sharing an uneasy lack of confidence in this statement.
*
A brush sketches quick across canvas, painting shapes in browns and blacks. A generously-proportioned house, built in the Dutch style, well-maintained red brick and sloping roof, stands a little away from the road, surrounded by well-kept gardens and bountiful fruit trees.
Isaac steps back and sighs, returning to himself. Is about to remove this peculiar picture-postcard from the easel and place it with the pictures of explosions and battle on the studio floor, when he notices the ghostly outlines of two figures in the garden, peering into a window of the house. Dark-haired, skinny, one a little taller than the other and probably both men - he can make out nothing more, so thin is the paint that describes their outlines.
He is startled from his exploration when the door opens and Fräulein Deveaux stalks in, heeled boots clacking against the wooden floor. Unusually, she is not alone; accompanying her is a neat man with a square moustache and hair slicked back with pomade. The way she dances around him in awkward, eager nervousness leaves little room for doubt that this is a personage of some importance.
Ignoring Isaac, Fräulein Deveaux turns to their mutual guest. "Mein Führer, this is the painter, Isaac Mendez."
He nods, sniffs. Looks around the room, where Isaac's canvases essay the horrors of war in vivid, fiery colours.
Then he spies the easel. Steps forward, motioning to Isaac to do likewise. He regards the gentle scene with fractionally raised eyebrows. "What do we have here?"
He feels like a failure in the presence of this man. "I ... don't know, Mein Herr." Twists fingers nervously behind his back.
"Hmm." The Führer regards the work keenly; stern expression giving nothing away. Then he turns to Isaac, and his expression becomes something less threatening; at least, not unkind. "I used to be a bit of a painter myself."
He claps Isaac on the shoulder. "You are doing great things for your country, Herr Mendez."
Isaac can only swallow and nod. It's not even my country, he thinks, hoping that this does not show on his face.
Der Führer nods, brusquely. "Carry on." He turns, gesturing to the painting. "Fräulein Deveaux, please get to work on this immediately."
He marches from the room, and armed guards at the door close it, leaving Isaac alone with his captor.
*
They manage to hitch a ride on the back of a cart; Claude scrambles up and pulls each of them atop the wagon, and the whole thing is done quickly enough that they all re-establish contact, hands held invisible, before the wagon-driver has ever noticed.
The wagon isn't much faster than walking, but their feet are tired and sore after the previous night on the road, and for a little while, they rest, letting the rolling of the cart lull them into something near sleep. When the wagon finally stops on the dirt-track by a lonely farm, horses huffing warm breath in the cold air and shaking their manes, Claude nudges Peter awake, nods to Bennetti, and the four of them slide down, dusting hay from their clothes.
Claude winks at the horses as they pass - one snorts, and the other continues to stare placidly at the pale stone wall.
They set off again down the track, bearing south, the rapidly sinking sun glowing a rich orange on the horizon. Already, the temperature is dropping, and Peter wraps the scarf more tightly around his neck.
They don't talk much, on the journey. Sometimes Peter shares a joke or a thought, or Sandrine offers a reminiscence, but for the most part, they walk in silence.
It gives Claude time to think. Too much time, if he's honest. Squashing down memories that refuse to go away; things he doesn't want to think about.
So instead, he tries to return to happier times. Peter to his right, in the dark, swinging his arms as he walks, still cheerful despite the blisters and fatigue. It gives Claude heart; takes him right back to before the war.
It sort of started with arguments. Only they weren't really arguments at all, but discussions. Peter liked to talk and Claude liked to think; the result was usually interesting, if not always intellectually rigorous.
It was during one such exchange - about the right of women to vote, and Claude was playing Devil's Advocate - that they first shared a moment. Peter, pausing for breath in the middle of a sentence as Claude tangled him in logic, caught his eye and smiled - a warm, honest smile that left Claude's chest a little tight, sent a note low and resonant through his belly. Reflexively, he looked away. Caught his breath. This is-
He looked back again, realising that Peter's sentence still hung there, unfinished. Found the boy looking straight back at him, with that same expression.
Peter blinked. "So, anyway ..." Claude nodded, perhaps a little too hastily. Somehow, the conversation got back on its feet.
Until the next night, when Peter insisted that Claude came to dinner.
He'd arrived at Peter's with a jug of beer - "Stopped at the Kortenhoef on the way over. Hope Gerste's all right?" - and found himself unreasonably cheered by the delight on Peter's face. An awkward moment as they both stepped to the same side in the doorway, which Peter laughed off, sweet and contagious.
It was ridiculous, really. The boy was barely into adulthood, and Claude knew better. Much better.
None of which explained the warm, curling sensation in his belly as he stepped across the threshold.
Dinner was a casserole, savoury and delicious, and Claude wondered aloud where Peter found such good meat.
Peter winked at him. "I have my sources." He tilted his head, studying Claude. "D'you cook much?"
He brushed off the enquiry with a shrug and half a laugh. Bread and beer; a man didn't need much else.
When Peter left the room, Claude lurked in the tiny space that functioned as Peter's living area, scrutinising the books crushed together on one of the precariously-inclined shelves. Goethe; Schiller; a handful of what he suspected were fictional romances.
He didn't hear Peter come back into the room until a floorboard creaked behind him.
Claude turned, feeling faintly guilty about his current train of thought, which involved a rather unfortunate liaison between romance novels and the fire smouldering in the grate.
Peter grinned.
Claude, suspicious, raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"I just ... " and Peter shrugged, cheerfully, "You reminded me of something."
"Oh?"
Peter looked up at him and smiled. " ' Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.' "
Claude snorted. "Goethe?"
"What's wrong with Goethe?" Peter folded his arms, a little defensively.
"Well, all right, he was clever. But that bit - it's nonsense, mate. Romanticism. Man wasn't exactly a realist."
Peter's lips framed a pout. "You don't believe in romance?"
Claude chuckled. "Not really." He knew the language of expediency and camaraderie ... everything else was just poetic myth, in the end.
"But you've read Goethe." Clever dark eyes sparkling at him, and Claude's attention slid, suddenly, from the conversation, as he became aware of Peter biting his lip.
"Well, I've read it, but I reckon it's nonsense." Too, too aware now of Peter's proximity, and he took a step backwards, wondering if perhaps it was time to leave before he said or did something stupid.
But Peter stepped forward. "Really?" The question utterly genuine, as though Claude had professed disbelief in gravity.
He tried to open his mouth, say something, but nothing came out.
And time almost stopped, then. Taunted Claude with boldness, genius and magic, as Peter tucked a lock of hair behind one ear, stood up on tiptoe, and kissed him. Lips brushed his, chastely, then hesitated as Peter's eyes met his.
Maybe there was power in those words after all.
"You don't-" he said, stumbling over the syllables in a voice gone hoarse.
Peter smiled and shook his head. "Be quiet. Please," he added, reflexively. "I want to kiss you again."
"What's up?" Peter edges closer to him as they stride along under the moon.
"Ah, nothin'."
Peter takes his hand. "You're smiling. I know you think I can't see you in the dark, but I can."
He squeezes the fingers tangled through his own. "Yeah, mate."
*
The first night on the train is hard.
Quiet resignation ebbs away through the day; gives way to bruised pockets of misery as children cry or older women weep. There is no food, no water. A bucket serves as a primitive toilet; someone has placed a bag over it as a lid, but the smell is still intolerable.
Mohinder and Eva have run out of conversation. Everybody has; they settle, now, for occasional, tight smiles that grow slowly rarer. When early darkness falls, even those are lost.
The train rumbles on, and Mohinder tries to reassure himself that this is merely unpleasant and unfortunate. That things will be better when they reach their destination.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude