Safe - Chapter 11
Characters: Peter/Claude-centric ensemble
Rating/Warnings: Hard PG-13, for holocaust themes and imagery
Word count: 730ish
Spoilers: AU, but let's say 1.06 ("Better Halves")
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: ( Previous chapters)
From behind the curtains, Nicole can see Sandrine Bennetti returning from the market, basket laden. A lot of food for a family of three.
She dresses, spends a little time in front of the mirror, trying to set her hair, which won't take a curl. Thinking about Danil, as she does every morning. Praying to God to keep him safe. Wondering whether she will ever see him again; the Amsterdam fog swirls thickly with such sentiments, these days.
A whisper, and he is there in the mirror: flesh made real, peculiar dark-skinned solidity against the pale, delicate wallpaper.
She shakes her head to clear it; too many illusions in the mirror these days, smoke-filled dreams and fears that curdle against the glass. Mockeries of things lost.
But no hallucination, this. He steps forward.
"Danil-"
He's real.
"How did you-"
"Shhh."
And all the things she has wanted to say to him dissolve, in that instant, into a simple need to hold. Words are for later.
Tears, and she wipes them away. No point in crying for what's been lost, what's been done. He holds her for a long time, until they stop. But nothing will wash away the indigo numbers on his arm.
*
"You're so thin." Shadows and hollowed shapes, gaunt against plump pillows.
A hand on her cheek. "There wasn't a lot of food."
"How did you-?" But she already knows.
He shakes his head. "How's Misha?
"He's- he's trying so hard at school. His teacher says he has a real gift for mathematics." She looks at him, tears threatening again. "It's been so hard without you."
Deepest regret in the liquid brown depths. "I know. I'm so sorry, Nicole."
She swallows, blinks away vision gone glassy. "They mustn't find you here."
He nods. "I know. But I had to come back. We have to take Misha and get away from here."
He swallows, lips pressed tightly together. "Nicole- I've seen-". Has to stop, strong countenance suddenly fragile. She kisses his forehead, his cheek. His lips. He twists away, eyes on some distant horror. "I can't- you can't imagine."
She's done nothing but imagine, these last two months. But she nods. You can tell me.
Broken details come pouring out: tragedy and cruelty hemmed in by barbed wire and hatred. Squalor; desperation. Lines for meagre rations. Bodies gone thin and brittle from starvation and disease. Shoulders weighed down by the loss of innocence and a grinding absence of hope.
And all of this against an obscene backdrop of filthy, smoking mortality.
"They're killing us." A sob, and a wave of rage breaks over her at what they've done to him. My husband.
She has to be strong for him. So many things she needs to tell him, but now is not the time.
*
Later, when fear and relief have merged and faded into a gentle, sleepy haze, there is a knock at the front door.
Startled into fearful wakefulness, her heart is a sledgehammer. "Danil-"
He is already up. "It's alright. I'll come back, tonight. Stay safe. I love you, Nicole."
She squeezes his hand just a moment before he becomes insubstantial, then he fades away into the walls, softer than a sigh.
She answers the door, praying that Linderman's men will be content with information.
*
Isaac sighs and puts down the palette. Surrounded, here in his makeshift studio, by fiery reds and oranges that pick out perfect, deadly explosions. Bitter greys beneath; a city destroyed again and again. Glorious shades of death that follow him from all the walls.
Not like this.
She arrives in the early afternoon, because she always does. One of the guards lets her in, closes the door again behind her. "And what do you have for me today, Herr Mendez?"
He shrugs, sighs, gestures towards the canvas. "I don't even know." Rubs his chin, stubble grazing against his palm. "It's not - anything."
She regards it with a practiced eye. "Oh, I think it's something."
Unremarkable house, four narrow storeys hemmed in by others, sloping roofs huddled together in the clear November night. Cobbles, and a dark slick of canal.
There is a region of the house, an upper floor, where paint and brick are missing. Not a window, but a gap, as though unfinished. Two silhouetted figures caught in a lovers' embrace, brief details gilded by candlelight.
"I think it's quite something."
( Next chapter)
[I hope this chapters works for people; I'm not crazy about any of the characters here, so found it hard to write them. But I needed them to tell the story for me.]
x-posted to
heroes_fic
Rating/Warnings: Hard PG-13, for holocaust themes and imagery
Word count: 730ish
Spoilers: AU, but let's say 1.06 ("Better Halves")
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the words.
Summary: Holocaust-era Heroes
A/N: ( Previous chapters)
From behind the curtains, Nicole can see Sandrine Bennetti returning from the market, basket laden. A lot of food for a family of three.
She dresses, spends a little time in front of the mirror, trying to set her hair, which won't take a curl. Thinking about Danil, as she does every morning. Praying to God to keep him safe. Wondering whether she will ever see him again; the Amsterdam fog swirls thickly with such sentiments, these days.
A whisper, and he is there in the mirror: flesh made real, peculiar dark-skinned solidity against the pale, delicate wallpaper.
She shakes her head to clear it; too many illusions in the mirror these days, smoke-filled dreams and fears that curdle against the glass. Mockeries of things lost.
But no hallucination, this. He steps forward.
"Danil-"
He's real.
"How did you-"
"Shhh."
And all the things she has wanted to say to him dissolve, in that instant, into a simple need to hold. Words are for later.
Tears, and she wipes them away. No point in crying for what's been lost, what's been done. He holds her for a long time, until they stop. But nothing will wash away the indigo numbers on his arm.
*
"You're so thin." Shadows and hollowed shapes, gaunt against plump pillows.
A hand on her cheek. "There wasn't a lot of food."
"How did you-?" But she already knows.
He shakes his head. "How's Misha?
"He's- he's trying so hard at school. His teacher says he has a real gift for mathematics." She looks at him, tears threatening again. "It's been so hard without you."
Deepest regret in the liquid brown depths. "I know. I'm so sorry, Nicole."
She swallows, blinks away vision gone glassy. "They mustn't find you here."
He nods. "I know. But I had to come back. We have to take Misha and get away from here."
He swallows, lips pressed tightly together. "Nicole- I've seen-". Has to stop, strong countenance suddenly fragile. She kisses his forehead, his cheek. His lips. He twists away, eyes on some distant horror. "I can't- you can't imagine."
She's done nothing but imagine, these last two months. But she nods. You can tell me.
Broken details come pouring out: tragedy and cruelty hemmed in by barbed wire and hatred. Squalor; desperation. Lines for meagre rations. Bodies gone thin and brittle from starvation and disease. Shoulders weighed down by the loss of innocence and a grinding absence of hope.
And all of this against an obscene backdrop of filthy, smoking mortality.
"They're killing us." A sob, and a wave of rage breaks over her at what they've done to him. My husband.
She has to be strong for him. So many things she needs to tell him, but now is not the time.
*
Later, when fear and relief have merged and faded into a gentle, sleepy haze, there is a knock at the front door.
Startled into fearful wakefulness, her heart is a sledgehammer. "Danil-"
He is already up. "It's alright. I'll come back, tonight. Stay safe. I love you, Nicole."
She squeezes his hand just a moment before he becomes insubstantial, then he fades away into the walls, softer than a sigh.
She answers the door, praying that Linderman's men will be content with information.
*
Isaac sighs and puts down the palette. Surrounded, here in his makeshift studio, by fiery reds and oranges that pick out perfect, deadly explosions. Bitter greys beneath; a city destroyed again and again. Glorious shades of death that follow him from all the walls.
Not like this.
She arrives in the early afternoon, because she always does. One of the guards lets her in, closes the door again behind her. "And what do you have for me today, Herr Mendez?"
He shrugs, sighs, gestures towards the canvas. "I don't even know." Rubs his chin, stubble grazing against his palm. "It's not - anything."
She regards it with a practiced eye. "Oh, I think it's something."
Unremarkable house, four narrow storeys hemmed in by others, sloping roofs huddled together in the clear November night. Cobbles, and a dark slick of canal.
There is a region of the house, an upper floor, where paint and brick are missing. Not a window, but a gap, as though unfinished. Two silhouetted figures caught in a lovers' embrace, brief details gilded by candlelight.
"I think it's quite something."
( Next chapter)
[I hope this chapters works for people; I'm not crazy about any of the characters here, so found it hard to write them. But I needed them to tell the story for me.]
x-posted to
heroes_fic