Safe - Chapter 32
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for one use of language
Word count: 1,450
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: Sorry, folks - real life took over for a while, there. Anyway, we're back, and hopefully my posting schedule should be back on track, too. Today, we're catching up with several characters ... ( Previous chapters)
Theo can sort of tell the moment when recollection comes back to the policeman, because there's a surprised look and he thinks he sees a word form on the policeman's lips, then get swallowed again.
"All right then ... " and the policeman coughs in something like embarrassment.
Theo jerks away and the man's head nearly hits the cobbles, but he's awake enough to catch himself.
Theo stands, brushing dirt off his trousers. "Er."
The policeman stares up at him for a second, then scrambles to his feet, and Theo once again finds himself with the urge to bolt.
"Um, ... thank you," says the policeman, which isn't what Theo was expecting.
"You're welcome," he grunts, reflexively.
They stand there, awkwardly.
"Listen," says the policeman, in a way that manages to be conspiratorial, hangdog and desperate all at the same time, "I sort of ... well, I need your help."
Theo stares.
"Please?" The policeman searches his face for evidence of ... actually, Theo doesn't know what he's looking for. He just knows that this man is making him uncomfortable.
He scowls. "How could I help you?" Stupid, ridiculous situation and he's sure that he's about to be arrested, and wouldn't that be fucking great?
"I'm not going to arrest you," says the man, and Theo stares, because he's pretty sure he didn't say that out loud. Nervously, he starts looking around for a way out.
The policeman raises his hands in a plea for calm. "I'm not ... I don't work for the police anymore," he says, slowly, like he's just realising that for the first time himself.
"Yeah, right," scowls Theo.
"No, really, I don't. I ... can't," the possibly-ex-policeman says. "My family ..."
Theo honestly couldn't care less about the guy's family.
"I need your help," the other man persists, more urgently. "I have to ... I have to get my family out. You'll help me, right?"
"What? No!" Theo is shocked. "I ... I don't even know you."
The othe rman shrugs, apologetic embarrassment directed inwards. He holds out his hand. "Matthias. I'm sorry, I didn't ..."
Theo finds himself shaking hands. "Theo."
The policeman - Theo can't help thinking of him that way still - claps Theo on the shoulder with a large hand in a gesture of grim fraternity. "Let's go get a drink and something to eat."
If you're buying, thinks Theo, glumly.
*
Blood stains the floor a deep maroon, trickling from dark hair slicked back with pomade. Inert fingers still clutch the gun, pale against cold metal.
Isaac steps back from the canvas in horror.
It's him.
There's no mistaking the small, neat man in his uniform, hair parted to the side; immaculate even in death.
He feels suddenly claustrophobic - he has not been allowed out of these rooms in at least a month - and with rising panic, Isaac realises that there is nowhere to dispose of the picture. But it must not be seen - cannot be seen. He can barely begin to imagine what might happen to him if anyone should see it.
He steps backward, and a floorboard squeaks beneath him.
Isaac looks down at the floor.
*
She comes, as usual, in the early afternoon, hips swaying under a rich woollen coat. She nods to him. "Herr Mendez." Looks around, arching a perfectly curved eyebrow. "Well, what will it be today?"
He shrugs, awkward, painfully aware of the squeaking board just to the left of her perfectly polished heeled boots. Gestures towards a grim triptych containing a huddle of grey figures. Dark eyes stare in hopeless ennui, ribs and faces gaunt and smudged with dirt.
Fräulein Deveaux makes a sound of disappointed horror, and picks up one of the canvases, distaste evident in prim fingers. "This is all?"
He nods.
She sighs, and replaces the canvas against the wall. Turns on her heel, and is almost at the door when she seems to think better of it, and turns.
Isaac's heart pounds in his chest and he strives not to look at that place on the floor.
"Herr Mendez."
"Yes, Fräulein."
"Der Führer needs you now. You can help us to win this war."
He swallows, tries not to flush at the name.
"You have to focus, Isaac." Her smile bittersweet, and then she finally departs, guards shutting the doors behind her, leaving Isaac to sprawl against the wall, head sagging into his hands.
*
Clouds are starting to form in the west as the sun goes down, and Bennetti glances nervously at the sky. Rich shades of gold and pink line a sky heavy with incipient rain. Or snow, if it should get much colder.
He puts a hand on Sandrine's arm and she gives him a sad, brave smile, but he knows she's thinking the same thing. Our baby girl.
Sandrine had cried, silently, the first night. He'd held her, trying to be comforting while feeling as though his heart would break. When her shaking had stopped, she'd wiped her eyes and tightened her lips. We're going to get our daughter back. Absolute belief in him, that they could do this.
I'm so proud of you, he thinks, and just for a moment, his smile feels a little less strained.
With every kilometer south-east, he feels more impatient to be doing something. He knows Claude is the same; can see it in the perpetual frown and the hunch of shoulders beneath Claude's thick coat. They haven't talked much about the plan, but he's desperate to get past Liége. Every day that slides by is wasting time, time Clara doesn't have.
Somewhere past midnight, the skies begin to unleash relentless sleet. For a time they press on, but after a while, the water begins to seep through the shoulders of their coats and between the laces of their boots, dripping heavy from the fir trees that line the road.
They find a small hut a little way from the road, through the trees. Sodden pine-needles stick to their boots as Bennetti makes a mental note that Peter's night vision is unusually good. There's a little firewood stacked by the hut, and it's with relief that he watches flames lick at twigs and slowly catch the larger sticks.
Claude comes back from a walk around the hut and opens his hand to reveal several empty cartridges, paper softened by the rain. "Probably not far from the front."
Bennetti sees Peter blanch in surprise - it's been easy to forget, walking under the stars and through peaceful countryside, that not so far away, a war is being fought.
We're getting close now, he thinks, and takes the first watch.
*
It's early morning on their third day in the train when Mohinder is woken by a hard, quick sound, the intrusive rap of stone against wood and metal.
He opens his eyes to the dim light of the boxcar. Most of the occupants are still asleep, huddled close to retain the thin, stale body heat that is the only comfort in this desperately squalid, cramped space.
The noise comes again, and this time is followed by a child's shout.
Mohinder stands, swaying with the slow movement of the car, and nearly steps on an elderly woman lying at his feet. He steadies himself, one hand on the low ceiling, and treads carefully in the gaps between sleeping bodies until he's pressed to the wall of the traincar, peering out through the thin gap between slats.
There are children outside - satchels on their backs - and he's hit with a sudden wave of homesickness for the basisschool and his students. He wonders what has become of Molly; fingers reach, in a gesture that has become habit, for the crumpled drawing in his coat pocket.
The children run and walk alongside the train, and Mohinder wants to call out to them, but he's mindful of the sleeping huddle of bodies in the car around him.
Just then another crack! assaults him, and he flinches away from the pebble that bounces off the car. Sees a short arm recoil from the throw even as he hears the shouts of "Dreckigen Missgebürte!"
The greeting on Mohinder's lips withers and dies.
( Next chapter)
[Sorry, this chapter feels a bit ... bitty. We're getting there. Really.]
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for one use of language
Word count: 1,450
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: Sorry, folks - real life took over for a while, there. Anyway, we're back, and hopefully my posting schedule should be back on track, too. Today, we're catching up with several characters ... ( Previous chapters)
Theo can sort of tell the moment when recollection comes back to the policeman, because there's a surprised look and he thinks he sees a word form on the policeman's lips, then get swallowed again.
"All right then ... " and the policeman coughs in something like embarrassment.
Theo jerks away and the man's head nearly hits the cobbles, but he's awake enough to catch himself.
Theo stands, brushing dirt off his trousers. "Er."
The policeman stares up at him for a second, then scrambles to his feet, and Theo once again finds himself with the urge to bolt.
"Um, ... thank you," says the policeman, which isn't what Theo was expecting.
"You're welcome," he grunts, reflexively.
They stand there, awkwardly.
"Listen," says the policeman, in a way that manages to be conspiratorial, hangdog and desperate all at the same time, "I sort of ... well, I need your help."
Theo stares.
"Please?" The policeman searches his face for evidence of ... actually, Theo doesn't know what he's looking for. He just knows that this man is making him uncomfortable.
He scowls. "How could I help you?" Stupid, ridiculous situation and he's sure that he's about to be arrested, and wouldn't that be fucking great?
"I'm not going to arrest you," says the man, and Theo stares, because he's pretty sure he didn't say that out loud. Nervously, he starts looking around for a way out.
The policeman raises his hands in a plea for calm. "I'm not ... I don't work for the police anymore," he says, slowly, like he's just realising that for the first time himself.
"Yeah, right," scowls Theo.
"No, really, I don't. I ... can't," the possibly-ex-policeman says. "My family ..."
Theo honestly couldn't care less about the guy's family.
"I need your help," the other man persists, more urgently. "I have to ... I have to get my family out. You'll help me, right?"
"What? No!" Theo is shocked. "I ... I don't even know you."
The othe rman shrugs, apologetic embarrassment directed inwards. He holds out his hand. "Matthias. I'm sorry, I didn't ..."
Theo finds himself shaking hands. "Theo."
The policeman - Theo can't help thinking of him that way still - claps Theo on the shoulder with a large hand in a gesture of grim fraternity. "Let's go get a drink and something to eat."
If you're buying, thinks Theo, glumly.
*
Blood stains the floor a deep maroon, trickling from dark hair slicked back with pomade. Inert fingers still clutch the gun, pale against cold metal.
Isaac steps back from the canvas in horror.
It's him.
There's no mistaking the small, neat man in his uniform, hair parted to the side; immaculate even in death.
He feels suddenly claustrophobic - he has not been allowed out of these rooms in at least a month - and with rising panic, Isaac realises that there is nowhere to dispose of the picture. But it must not be seen - cannot be seen. He can barely begin to imagine what might happen to him if anyone should see it.
He steps backward, and a floorboard squeaks beneath him.
Isaac looks down at the floor.
*
She comes, as usual, in the early afternoon, hips swaying under a rich woollen coat. She nods to him. "Herr Mendez." Looks around, arching a perfectly curved eyebrow. "Well, what will it be today?"
He shrugs, awkward, painfully aware of the squeaking board just to the left of her perfectly polished heeled boots. Gestures towards a grim triptych containing a huddle of grey figures. Dark eyes stare in hopeless ennui, ribs and faces gaunt and smudged with dirt.
Fräulein Deveaux makes a sound of disappointed horror, and picks up one of the canvases, distaste evident in prim fingers. "This is all?"
He nods.
She sighs, and replaces the canvas against the wall. Turns on her heel, and is almost at the door when she seems to think better of it, and turns.
Isaac's heart pounds in his chest and he strives not to look at that place on the floor.
"Herr Mendez."
"Yes, Fräulein."
"Der Führer needs you now. You can help us to win this war."
He swallows, tries not to flush at the name.
"You have to focus, Isaac." Her smile bittersweet, and then she finally departs, guards shutting the doors behind her, leaving Isaac to sprawl against the wall, head sagging into his hands.
*
Clouds are starting to form in the west as the sun goes down, and Bennetti glances nervously at the sky. Rich shades of gold and pink line a sky heavy with incipient rain. Or snow, if it should get much colder.
He puts a hand on Sandrine's arm and she gives him a sad, brave smile, but he knows she's thinking the same thing. Our baby girl.
Sandrine had cried, silently, the first night. He'd held her, trying to be comforting while feeling as though his heart would break. When her shaking had stopped, she'd wiped her eyes and tightened her lips. We're going to get our daughter back. Absolute belief in him, that they could do this.
I'm so proud of you, he thinks, and just for a moment, his smile feels a little less strained.
With every kilometer south-east, he feels more impatient to be doing something. He knows Claude is the same; can see it in the perpetual frown and the hunch of shoulders beneath Claude's thick coat. They haven't talked much about the plan, but he's desperate to get past Liége. Every day that slides by is wasting time, time Clara doesn't have.
Somewhere past midnight, the skies begin to unleash relentless sleet. For a time they press on, but after a while, the water begins to seep through the shoulders of their coats and between the laces of their boots, dripping heavy from the fir trees that line the road.
They find a small hut a little way from the road, through the trees. Sodden pine-needles stick to their boots as Bennetti makes a mental note that Peter's night vision is unusually good. There's a little firewood stacked by the hut, and it's with relief that he watches flames lick at twigs and slowly catch the larger sticks.
Claude comes back from a walk around the hut and opens his hand to reveal several empty cartridges, paper softened by the rain. "Probably not far from the front."
Bennetti sees Peter blanch in surprise - it's been easy to forget, walking under the stars and through peaceful countryside, that not so far away, a war is being fought.
We're getting close now, he thinks, and takes the first watch.
*
It's early morning on their third day in the train when Mohinder is woken by a hard, quick sound, the intrusive rap of stone against wood and metal.
He opens his eyes to the dim light of the boxcar. Most of the occupants are still asleep, huddled close to retain the thin, stale body heat that is the only comfort in this desperately squalid, cramped space.
The noise comes again, and this time is followed by a child's shout.
Mohinder stands, swaying with the slow movement of the car, and nearly steps on an elderly woman lying at his feet. He steadies himself, one hand on the low ceiling, and treads carefully in the gaps between sleeping bodies until he's pressed to the wall of the traincar, peering out through the thin gap between slats.
There are children outside - satchels on their backs - and he's hit with a sudden wave of homesickness for the basisschool and his students. He wonders what has become of Molly; fingers reach, in a gesture that has become habit, for the crumpled drawing in his coat pocket.
The children run and walk alongside the train, and Mohinder wants to call out to them, but he's mindful of the sleeping huddle of bodies in the car around him.
Just then another crack! assaults him, and he flinches away from the pebble that bounces off the car. Sees a short arm recoil from the throw even as he hears the shouts of "Dreckigen Missgebürte!"
The greeting on Mohinder's lips withers and dies.
( Next chapter)
[Sorry, this chapter feels a bit ... bitty. We're getting there. Really.]
x-posted to heroes_fic and peterandclaude