Safe - Chapter 9
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 950ish
Spoilers: AU, but I guess 1.17 ("Company Man") at a push.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: ( Previous chapters)
It's still dark when he wakes. Of course it is; there are no windows. But Claude is accustomed to rising early, and he knows it's time to get up.
He finds the candle and matches; lights it, and watches the flicker of pale gold illuminate their small hiding-place. Night-time shadows for morning, and this is strange.
But then, so is everything. Because Peter's leg, sticking out from beneath the covers, its bandage come loose during the night, is completely healed. No trace of injury or infection; no scar.
And Claude experiences a rush to the head of such clarity and intensity that it leaves him blinking. Should've realised.
"Pete. Wake up."
Curling, antique pages detailing things never seen in the laboratory; abilities whispered only in legends, second-hand stories told by strangers. All fallen suddenly into place.
Well, then.
*
"Look, mate. She's manifesting. Probably has been for months." Claude has sought out Bennetti while Peter and Clara engage in shy conversation over the breakfast table.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Dismissive, but Bennetti's eyes are wary.
"Really? Then d'you want to explain why Peter's leg is better? An' I don't mean the swelling's gone down. I mean it's gone. There's nothing."
Bennetti stares. "Are you saying Clara's a healer?"
"I'm sayin'-" Claude shakes his head, because Can't believe I didn't- "I'm sayin' Peter's an empath. Absorbed her power, like he absorbed mine."
"He-?"
"Yeah. I just thought it was coincidence." Some coincidence, meeting someone with the same ability - even if Peter's control of it left something to be desired. But the world is a big place, and he thought - he thought -
Yeah. I'm an idiot.
"Noah, Claude! Breakfast is ready." Sandrine's voice, and the ensuing silence hangs between them.
"I'm sorry, Noah. But you need to take Clara and Sandrine and leave. Now."
And with that, the need to act coalesces. Claude feels the years between them stripped away as he watches Bennetti concede the point, weigh the alternatives, systematically plan a route through events. The whole process completed in seconds. Cleverer, always the more detached thinker. He wonders how Bennetti can stand it, running a stationer's shop. No strategy, no exploration; just paper. Waste of a good mind.
Bennetti nods. "We'll leave tonight, after curfew. I need to make some arrangements." Already moving, seeing no sense in delaying implementation.
"You're going to tell her." It's barely a question.
Bennetti turns, in the doorway, conflict twisting handsome features. "I thought we had more time, Claude."
And there's not really much he can say to that.
Now, sitting around the table with bread rolls and preserve and a pot of coffee, and the man seems to have lost all sense of urgency.
"Did you finish your German homework last night? I know we had guests," and Bennetti's smile is warm, indulgent, "but it's important that you do well in school this year."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud." Claude rolls his eyes. "Clara," he turns towards the girl, "you're special. One of them. You might not know it yet, but you are." There, it's done. Not even that difficult.
"Claude!" Well, he expected a reprimand. Shock on Peter's face, on Sandrine's, and he wonders for a moment if Bennetti is going to hit him.
But Bennetti's attention is all on Clara. She sits, brown eyes surprised, delicate features normally in motion gone suddenly still.
"It's true, Clarabella." Their made-up name; a joke to remember Italian grandparents, gone now, but still much loved.
She hangs her head. "I know, Papa."
"You do?"
Again a nod, face hidden by blonde curls. Suddenly shy, and one of Noah's hands covers hers, squeezes, the other reaching across the table to Sandrine. He wishes that they could be alone together with this, and not among strangers. He's planned this conversation so many times, but nothing here is as he imagined it would be.
He'll ask her, later, how she knew. But not now. My little girl.
*
"I'm going to get a book, Pete. From the shop. It's got some things in it that might help us."
"I should-"
"No. Stay." It's not safe out there anyway, and if Claude is right, it's worse: the world is suddenly full of things that Peter won't know until he feels. He has an idea that these are explorations best not carried out in public.
Nothing's changed, of course - the risks have always been there; he just didn't know it - and it briefly occurs to him to wonder, Why now? But then, Claude has never found the timing of events very sympathetic.
Peter sighs. "So - what am I supposed to do?" The house is otherwise empty: Bennetti quickly departed for work to make arrangements there; Clara at school; Sandrine gone to the market. So important, now, to preserve the illusion of normality.
Well, you could tell me how you did it. But the bewildered expression Peter's been wearing all morning tells him that the boy probably doesn't know how.
That's going to be interesting- and it's a nasty jolt to realise that he's thinking about this empirically. Because empiricism means sacrifice and ruthlessness and for the greater good. There is no greater good than Peter - and if there is, he'll have none of it. Can't think like this.
"Claude? Are you alright?" Peter's face has shifted from frustration to concern.
No. He dredges up a smile. " 'Course."
"You look-"
"I'm fine." I've - done things, Pete. "I think I saw Herr Schweitzer's autobiography in the bookcase downstairs."
It's bound to be airy-fairy nonsense, of course. But Peter's smile is contagious, and Claude's spirits lift, a little.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic and
peterandclaude
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 950ish
Spoilers: AU, but I guess 1.17 ("Company Man") at a push.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: ( Previous chapters)
It's still dark when he wakes. Of course it is; there are no windows. But Claude is accustomed to rising early, and he knows it's time to get up.
He finds the candle and matches; lights it, and watches the flicker of pale gold illuminate their small hiding-place. Night-time shadows for morning, and this is strange.
But then, so is everything. Because Peter's leg, sticking out from beneath the covers, its bandage come loose during the night, is completely healed. No trace of injury or infection; no scar.
And Claude experiences a rush to the head of such clarity and intensity that it leaves him blinking. Should've realised.
"Pete. Wake up."
Curling, antique pages detailing things never seen in the laboratory; abilities whispered only in legends, second-hand stories told by strangers. All fallen suddenly into place.
Well, then.
*
"Look, mate. She's manifesting. Probably has been for months." Claude has sought out Bennetti while Peter and Clara engage in shy conversation over the breakfast table.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Dismissive, but Bennetti's eyes are wary.
"Really? Then d'you want to explain why Peter's leg is better? An' I don't mean the swelling's gone down. I mean it's gone. There's nothing."
Bennetti stares. "Are you saying Clara's a healer?"
"I'm sayin'-" Claude shakes his head, because Can't believe I didn't- "I'm sayin' Peter's an empath. Absorbed her power, like he absorbed mine."
"He-?"
"Yeah. I just thought it was coincidence." Some coincidence, meeting someone with the same ability - even if Peter's control of it left something to be desired. But the world is a big place, and he thought - he thought -
Yeah. I'm an idiot.
"Noah, Claude! Breakfast is ready." Sandrine's voice, and the ensuing silence hangs between them.
"I'm sorry, Noah. But you need to take Clara and Sandrine and leave. Now."
And with that, the need to act coalesces. Claude feels the years between them stripped away as he watches Bennetti concede the point, weigh the alternatives, systematically plan a route through events. The whole process completed in seconds. Cleverer, always the more detached thinker. He wonders how Bennetti can stand it, running a stationer's shop. No strategy, no exploration; just paper. Waste of a good mind.
Bennetti nods. "We'll leave tonight, after curfew. I need to make some arrangements." Already moving, seeing no sense in delaying implementation.
"You're going to tell her." It's barely a question.
Bennetti turns, in the doorway, conflict twisting handsome features. "I thought we had more time, Claude."
And there's not really much he can say to that.
Now, sitting around the table with bread rolls and preserve and a pot of coffee, and the man seems to have lost all sense of urgency.
"Did you finish your German homework last night? I know we had guests," and Bennetti's smile is warm, indulgent, "but it's important that you do well in school this year."
"Oh, for cryin' out loud." Claude rolls his eyes. "Clara," he turns towards the girl, "you're special. One of them. You might not know it yet, but you are." There, it's done. Not even that difficult.
"Claude!" Well, he expected a reprimand. Shock on Peter's face, on Sandrine's, and he wonders for a moment if Bennetti is going to hit him.
But Bennetti's attention is all on Clara. She sits, brown eyes surprised, delicate features normally in motion gone suddenly still.
"It's true, Clarabella." Their made-up name; a joke to remember Italian grandparents, gone now, but still much loved.
She hangs her head. "I know, Papa."
"You do?"
Again a nod, face hidden by blonde curls. Suddenly shy, and one of Noah's hands covers hers, squeezes, the other reaching across the table to Sandrine. He wishes that they could be alone together with this, and not among strangers. He's planned this conversation so many times, but nothing here is as he imagined it would be.
He'll ask her, later, how she knew. But not now. My little girl.
*
"I'm going to get a book, Pete. From the shop. It's got some things in it that might help us."
"I should-"
"No. Stay." It's not safe out there anyway, and if Claude is right, it's worse: the world is suddenly full of things that Peter won't know until he feels. He has an idea that these are explorations best not carried out in public.
Nothing's changed, of course - the risks have always been there; he just didn't know it - and it briefly occurs to him to wonder, Why now? But then, Claude has never found the timing of events very sympathetic.
Peter sighs. "So - what am I supposed to do?" The house is otherwise empty: Bennetti quickly departed for work to make arrangements there; Clara at school; Sandrine gone to the market. So important, now, to preserve the illusion of normality.
Well, you could tell me how you did it. But the bewildered expression Peter's been wearing all morning tells him that the boy probably doesn't know how.
That's going to be interesting- and it's a nasty jolt to realise that he's thinking about this empirically. Because empiricism means sacrifice and ruthlessness and for the greater good. There is no greater good than Peter - and if there is, he'll have none of it. Can't think like this.
"Claude? Are you alright?" Peter's face has shifted from frustration to concern.
No. He dredges up a smile. " 'Course."
"You look-"
"I'm fine." I've - done things, Pete. "I think I saw Herr Schweitzer's autobiography in the bookcase downstairs."
It's bound to be airy-fairy nonsense, of course. But Peter's smile is contagious, and Claude's spirits lift, a little.
( Next chapter)
x-posted to
heroes_fic and
peterandclaude