Once upon a time, it wouldn't have surprised Noah to have someone pop out of seemingly nowhere and talk to him. As it was, he was years out of practice. So he jumped, and in doing so managed to spill coffee on his shirt and the Daily Prophet article he had been reading.
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with banana nut muffins," he said, looking otherwise unruffled and grabbing for a napkin. "I don't see why my breakfast habits are a cause of concern for you." It looked like Noah was going to have to retrain himself, because he couldn't afford to ruin shirts every time Claude came popping in. It wasn't like he had a job anymore.
Hey, at least neither one had tried to kill the other yet. Though they were only three seconds into the conversation, so the trend might not hold.
He smiled back, a bit tiredly. "I'd better sound like somebody's dad, that's for sure. It's a lot harder to take pleasure in watching idiots do stupid things if you're wondering if your kids are going to be imitating them any time soon." He wasn't honestly sure which kid he was more worried about in that regard. For completely different reasons, of course. Lyle could end up hurt or killed, Claire could end up vivisected if the wrong person found out.
He leaned back in his chair, keeping a completely serious look on his face. "I've taken up knitting."
For a second, Claude's expression faltered and he studied the chess board with far too much intensity. "Claire..." He trailed off, then rubbed his face with one hand, scowling to cover any deeper emotion. To hide the fact that the next words hurt almost as much as three bullets to the chest. "She doesn't remember me, does she?" He hadn't tried to find out. The idea that this girl, this child he'd loved as his own, would look at him and see a stranger wasn't something Claude wanted to face.
Toying with the pawn he'd taken from Noah, a brief, bitter smile crossed his face. "She's something, Noah." Voice quiet. Proud. Almost vulnerable, if Claude Rains could ever be said to be such.
But then Claude frowned and leaned back, snorting. "Then I expect a scarf for Christmas. Or a sweater. Something in green." Changing the subject. Because to talk about Claire was to talk about a whole host of other things and right now, it was nice to just play chess with an old friend.
"I was joking," he said, one eyebrow arching. "I tried to learn to play guitar a couple of years ago but wasn't very good at it. I tried that sudoku thing but I think I prefer crossword puzzles." Though now he just might make an attempt at knitting. For a laugh, if nothing else. He was sure Sandra, Claire, and Claude would appreciate getting nondescript balls of yarn that were intended to be socks.
The joke-serious expression faded into an actual serious one. Gee, how do you tell the guy that was basically a surrogate parent when you were too busy being an ass that you'd had his memory erased from the child in question? He shook his head once, not looking up, not saying anything.
He'd known. Of course he had - he knew the Company. Knew how they worked. They wouldn't take the chance, even with a kid, of having loose ends. Claude had been executed by the Company, therefore all knowledge of him would either have to be classified or erased.
But knowing it, being prepared for it, didn't stop the cold lump from dropping into his stomach, didn't make it any easier to hear. Quietly, Claude continued to toy with the pawn, tilting it side to side, pad of his index finger pressing into the rounded top. He didn't look up at Noah. Couldn't.
"Just like that, then?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Just like it's nothing?" He hadn't been just some stranger. He'd been family, or so he'd thought
( ... )
"I didn't have much of a choice back then, did I?" he said harshly. "You were more of a father to her back then than I was. Do you think I wanted to take that away from her?" Truth be told: maybe. It made things a lot less complicated. But it was unfair to Claude and Claire. "You know how things were done." His mouth twisted bitterly. "And you know what a stickler for the way things are done I used to be. All the regret in the world can't change that. But I'm trying. I've been trying to change since that day, and since the day I first found out what she could do." He clenched his fist, using all of his self control to not just swipe the board aside in anger.
Claude's comment about his musical tastes made him relax slightly. "It was my attempts at Gordon Lightfoot, actually."
"OF COURSE YOU HAD A CHOICE!" The words roared out of him, and Claude was suddenly standing, blindly pushing the board aside and looming over the table. There was pain in his eyes, and hurt, and betrayal. "Say you made a mistake. Say you chose wrong. Say you're fucking sorry if you like, but don't ever look at me, Noah, and tell me you didn't have a CHOICE."
Furious, he paced away, only to round back and point a shaking finger at where Noah was. "Don't lecture me on how things were done. You stood on that bridge, you pulled the trigger. I told you - I told you - that you had a choice. That's not who you are, Noah. That's not the man you had to be. But YOU pulled the trigger. YOU. Not the fucking Company. You could have made another choice. You could have made a better choice. You are better than thatLooking disgusted, Claude dropped his hand and shook his head. Turning away. "You had a choice," he said again, quietly. Looking defeated. "And you made your decision. Now you get to live with it, you cowardly bastard
( ... )
Noah stayed sitting, staring at the scattered chess pieces. It was true. He'd had a choice all along. He could have chosen to done things any number of ways differently. It hadn't seemed that way at the time. Back then, up until the second he'd applied just a bit more pressure to the trigger than he'd intended, he didn't think there was any other right way.
Too little too late. It seemed to be the story of his life lately.
Sighing, he picked up the pieces near him, set them all in a more-or-less neat pile on the table, and stood to leave. He wasn't hungry anymore.
Ok, so, 'get some air' apparently meant 'pace back and forth in front of the room and watch Noah'. Looking for some sign of remorse, for even a hint that Noah cared. That he'd been affected by more than just the inconvenience of training a new partner.
Instead Noah - anal to the last fucking drop Noah - gathered up the chess pieces and stood up. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing touched him.
Oh, fuck that. Claude was going to see that mask slip if it killed him.
As Noah walked out, Claude suddenly was visible again, cold-cocking Noah across the jaw. Then he gave the other man a flat smile. "See?" he ground out, eyes still flashing with anger. "Had a choice there, didn't I?"
It was the second time that Claude had punched him out of nowhere since the invisible bastard had arrived. Lovely. Noah got to his feet, rubbing his jaw and glaring daggers at Claude. "Fine. You want to hit me until you feel better? Go ahead." He spread his arms wide, daring Claude to throw another punch.
Jaw setting, there was a flash of something dark in Claude's eyes. That was it? Impassive fucking bastard.
Without a word, he'd thrown another punch to Noah's jaw, following up with a sock to his stomach. He wanted to be screaming. He felt like he should have been screaming. Begging Noah to react, to see him. To treat this whole thing as something other than a child throwing a fit.
With one final punch, Claude glared down at Noah, jaw set, expression livid. He didn't feel better. Nothing made this feel better.
With a hoarse shout, Claude whirled and slammed his fist into a mirror hanging on the opposite wall, the glass shattering down in a cascade. "LOOK AT ME," he demanded of Noah, not caring that his hand was cut. "For fuck's sake, Noah, do something. Feel something, you smug, arrogant, idiotic bastard. Or, what? You look at me and you see... Nothing? DO YOU EVEN CARE, BENNET? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU TOOK FROM ME
( ... )
"You think I'm not feeling anything?" he hissed. He paused, coughed, and wiped blood onto his sleeve. It was already stained with spilled coffee, why not add blood to the mess? "What the hell am I supposed to do, throw a tantrum? Make a scene? I thought I'd killed you. I've lived with that for seven years. Do you have any idea what that did to me?" He was yelling now, red-faced and enraged.
He quickly got ahold of himself and withdrew again, jaw tightened so much the teeth were grinding on each other, fists clenched so tight the knuckles were white. He grabbed a napkin, walked over to Claude, debated kicking him for a half second, and thrust the napkin out. "You're bleeding all over the floor," he said, teeth still clenched together.
Well. That was something, at least. Taking the napkin, Claude squinted down at his hand, absently pulling a few slivers of glass out with quite hisses of pain. "No," he answered quietly, face stony. "I don't. Because you keep doing that." Claude waved the hand holding the napkin at Noah. "Keep fucking shutting down like I'm some stranger...or your wife." Yeah, that little dig was probably below the belt, but Claude had stopped caring.
"You show up and all I get is the great Noah Bennet freeze out. You fucking shot me. So, yeah, actually, a tantrum would be nice. Or a scene. Or hell, Bennet, an emotion. Because I'm sodding tired of seeing you act like you're totally in control, like nothing touches you." Pressing the cloth to the worst of the cuts, Claude looked up at Noah. "You turned out to be the kind of man who can murder your friend. Forgive me if I was hoping to see a little indication that that affected you."
Noah drew back a fist at that, then dropped it. "You don't mention Sandra," he said, voice low and dangerous. "I have to seem untouchable. I've been just about all standing between my family and disaster for years, do you understand that? One slip and it would be over for all of us." One hand rubbed absently at the bullet scar on his side. He still couldn't remember the events that brought it, but it seemed his unconscious still did. "It very nearly was over for all of us," he said, quiet again.
"I'll mention anyone I like," Claude said, but with no real fire. God, he was tired. Of this, of hating Noah, of missing something he was never going to get back.
Blue eyes went up to study Noah's face, Claude's expression going impassive. "You think I wouldn't understand that?" he asked quietly. "God, Noah, has it been that long?" Maybe it had been. Maybe replaying every step of his life, every moment that had lead him to that bridge, over and over, had shortened the time.
"She stays out of it. This has nothing to do with her." Tired as he was, there was no way he would put up with Sandra being brought up here. He knew what he'd done to her, they'd discussed it, and he felt that guilt every day. He could stand it coming from her, but no one else.
"Maybe. Seven years is a long time." Time he'd spent more or less alone in regards to the big picture. Time seemed to drag in parts of it, especially when he became convinced that there was some new threat to his family's safety, or the days he just knew that Thompson was just looking for an excuse to gather up Claire. Curiosity seized him. "Is that what it felt like for you, before...?"
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with banana nut muffins," he said, looking otherwise unruffled and grabbing for a napkin. "I don't see why my breakfast habits are a cause of concern for you." It looked like Noah was going to have to retrain himself, because he couldn't afford to ruin shirts every time Claude came popping in. It wasn't like he had a job anymore.
Hey, at least neither one had tried to kill the other yet. Though they were only three seconds into the conversation, so the trend might not hold.
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He leaned back in his chair, keeping a completely serious look on his face. "I've taken up knitting."
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Toying with the pawn he'd taken from Noah, a brief, bitter smile crossed his face. "She's something, Noah." Voice quiet. Proud. Almost vulnerable, if Claude Rains could ever be said to be such.
But then Claude frowned and leaned back, snorting. "Then I expect a scarf for Christmas. Or a sweater. Something in green." Changing the subject. Because to talk about Claire was to talk about a whole host of other things and right now, it was nice to just play chess with an old friend.
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The joke-serious expression faded into an actual serious one. Gee, how do you tell the guy that was basically a surrogate parent when you were too busy being an ass that you'd had his memory erased from the child in question? He shook his head once, not looking up, not saying anything.
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He'd known. Of course he had - he knew the Company. Knew how they worked. They wouldn't take the chance, even with a kid, of having loose ends. Claude had been executed by the Company, therefore all knowledge of him would either have to be classified or erased.
But knowing it, being prepared for it, didn't stop the cold lump from dropping into his stomach, didn't make it any easier to hear. Quietly, Claude continued to toy with the pawn, tilting it side to side, pad of his index finger pressing into the rounded top. He didn't look up at Noah. Couldn't.
"Just like that, then?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Just like it's nothing?" He hadn't been just some stranger. He'd been family, or so he'd thought ( ... )
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Claude's comment about his musical tastes made him relax slightly. "It was my attempts at Gordon Lightfoot, actually."
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Furious, he paced away, only to round back and point a shaking finger at where Noah was. "Don't lecture me on how things were done. You stood on that bridge, you pulled the trigger. I told you - I told you - that you had a choice. That's not who you are, Noah. That's not the man you had to be. But YOU pulled the trigger. YOU. Not the fucking Company. You could have made another choice. You could have made a better choice. You are better than thatLooking disgusted, Claude dropped his hand and shook his head. Turning away. "You had a choice," he said again, quietly. Looking defeated. "And you made your decision. Now you get to live with it, you cowardly bastard ( ... )
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Too little too late. It seemed to be the story of his life lately.
Sighing, he picked up the pieces near him, set them all in a more-or-less neat pile on the table, and stood to leave. He wasn't hungry anymore.
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Instead Noah - anal to the last fucking drop Noah - gathered up the chess pieces and stood up. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing touched him.
Oh, fuck that. Claude was going to see that mask slip if it killed him.
As Noah walked out, Claude suddenly was visible again, cold-cocking Noah across the jaw. Then he gave the other man a flat smile. "See?" he ground out, eyes still flashing with anger. "Had a choice there, didn't I?"
Well, that made him feel lots better.
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It was the second time that Claude had punched him out of nowhere since the invisible bastard had arrived. Lovely. Noah got to his feet, rubbing his jaw and glaring daggers at Claude. "Fine. You want to hit me until you feel better? Go ahead." He spread his arms wide, daring Claude to throw another punch.
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Without a word, he'd thrown another punch to Noah's jaw, following up with a sock to his stomach. He wanted to be screaming. He felt like he should have been screaming. Begging Noah to react, to see him. To treat this whole thing as something other than a child throwing a fit.
With one final punch, Claude glared down at Noah, jaw set, expression livid. He didn't feel better. Nothing made this feel better.
With a hoarse shout, Claude whirled and slammed his fist into a mirror hanging on the opposite wall, the glass shattering down in a cascade. "LOOK AT ME," he demanded of Noah, not caring that his hand was cut. "For fuck's sake, Noah, do something. Feel something, you smug, arrogant, idiotic bastard. Or, what? You look at me and you see... Nothing? DO YOU EVEN CARE, BENNET? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU TOOK FROM ME ( ... )
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He quickly got ahold of himself and withdrew again, jaw tightened so much the teeth were grinding on each other, fists clenched so tight the knuckles were white. He grabbed a napkin, walked over to Claude, debated kicking him for a half second, and thrust the napkin out. "You're bleeding all over the floor," he said, teeth still clenched together.
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"You show up and all I get is the great Noah Bennet freeze out. You fucking shot me. So, yeah, actually, a tantrum would be nice. Or a scene. Or hell, Bennet, an emotion. Because I'm sodding tired of seeing you act like you're totally in control, like nothing touches you." Pressing the cloth to the worst of the cuts, Claude looked up at Noah. "You turned out to be the kind of man who can murder your friend. Forgive me if I was hoping to see a little indication that that affected you."
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Blue eyes went up to study Noah's face, Claude's expression going impassive. "You think I wouldn't understand that?" he asked quietly. "God, Noah, has it been that long?" Maybe it had been. Maybe replaying every step of his life, every moment that had lead him to that bridge, over and over, had shortened the time.
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"Maybe. Seven years is a long time." Time he'd spent more or less alone in regards to the big picture. Time seemed to drag in parts of it, especially when he became convinced that there was some new threat to his family's safety, or the days he just knew that Thompson was just looking for an excuse to gather up Claire. Curiosity seized him. "Is that what it felt like for you, before...?"
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