Dragons Among Steel
Title: Dragons Among Steel (Part One)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude, past Peter/Adam
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Fandoms: Heroes, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
This is something I started a while back but never really finished (as I tend to do). I decided to at least post what I had. It's a bit random as crossovers go but... Well, there it is.
It’s winter in London.
The century turns, named new with the morning, with the slick curls of smoke and hearth laughter. Change has come, burdened now to imperialism, to the times deemed modern. It’s a revolution of glass and stone, the old world and the new; the impossible ceilings and hobbled streets, cathedrals with their Protestant smiles and easy heresies. It’s hypocrisy made pretty; tangled in the shove of ash and coal and steam.
The city is on fire. To industry. To supposed enlightenment.
It doesn't impress.
It doesn't even please.
And Peter Petrelli sits in the quiet of a cafe, some Parisian-styled place; with fluted corners and lace, the delicate scents of chocolate and stale bread. He's alone. The hour is early. Few will brave it for just a taste (no pastry drips and liqueur enough to tempt; no rough splashes of cinnamon to invite. These West End avenues are filled to poets and pretenders--both too lazy for the dawn), and he sips from a China-cup, conversing with the silence.
They're already acquaintances, after all. He should at least be polite.
Because he's stalked it often in the night, pacing within shadows, the velvet corridors. He does not sleep. He does not dream. He simply chases stars and brocade, his life a solemn thing. It's a sad necessity. Because he cannot escape it, even as he wants to, and he cannot leave. He must instead stay, trapped to gaslight and earth, the rhyming slang and gutter-grins.
Three years imprisoned here and--
Hello, Silence. How do you fare?
There is, naturally, no reply.
He's patient.
Don't be shy now. I won't hurt you.
And that, of course, is a lie.
You know me well.
He sighs, but the sound is hidden; lost in the sudden creak of a door, the soft chime of a bell. He glances up, surprised that any would dare to disturb these gray seconds. 1900 is meant to be celebrated between linen and the open sprawl of a mistress; not in a tiny cafe, indulging in scones and tea. Not with him.
But--
Oh, Silence, it seems you've brought me a friend. You shouldn’t have.
You really, really shouldn't have.
And Peter frowns, unamused, as Daniel Linderman ambles to him--leaning on a pearl-handled cane, coat buttoned heavy against the morning. A high hat sits neatly on his head. His tie is emerald green. He's smiling.
"May I join you, Mr. Petrelli?"
"I somehow think you will no matter what I say," he responds, regretting an American drawl. He never could master elegance.
"Quite right, quite right," chortles Linderman, sitting. He peels off his gloves and lays them on the table. "I must admit I'm surprised to find you living... here."
"I think you'd be surprised to find anyone living outside of Buckingham."
"Ah, touche."
"Are you here to talk French or just annoy me?"
"Why, neither, my boy." And he reaches into his coat, drawing a book from the deep pockets. Its pages are small, meant to be devoured on slow carriage rides. He offers them to Peter, their title glittering, seen.
And the result is a scowl.
Dracula.
"Put that thing away," he snarls, recoiling. He wants none of this. "Now."
Linderman ignores him, merely admiring the spine. "I've been reading this," he confesses. "During my rare free time. It's a fine work of fiction."
"It's not a fiction," Peter snaps. "It's my life." And it is--every secret, every shame. Bram Stoker captured them all and then made them paper-tame. The blood was sanctified; the terror parabled. And even he was changed, shifted feminine. He was cast to weakness, the delicate sex meant to be an explanation. Of why it happened. Of why he allowed it to happen. No man should've been so frail, so willing. An author assured him of that. All details had to be manipulated; the reality made sensational. It was the only way the masses could understand it.
“Mina?” he asks, staring at a manuscript, at the splatters of ink and revision. It’s to be sent to a publisher tomorrow, offered then to the world. He’s not certain he approves.
“A good English name for a good English audience,” provides Stoker, reclining back in his chair, lips curling briefly against a pipe. He inhales and then slithers out a smoke ring. “We mustn’t let them know the truth, after all. About you.”
“Why not?” he asks, bitter. He's had to hide too long, even in these days proven few by a calendar. He's tired of it. Tired of locking himself from sun and skies. The sensation will eventually fade, he knows, but for now... He'll burn in the morning. “If I can bear it, why can’t they?”
“Because, Peter, they’re not strong enough. I’m not sure anyone is.” Stoker puffs contemplatively. “You’re a rather... unusual creature.”
“I’m not a creature!” he yells, the sound bursting to an echo, unholy.
It’s met with curious expression, but no fear. An author is too familiar with it. He's heard it often these last few months, was greeted with its anger. Their time together has been strained to necessity and hollow dictation. “You are, m’friend. And you know it. Which is why the changes had to be made.” He quirks a heavy brow. “They’ll believe a woman being led astray. They'll think it's natural. But a man... You know what would happen if I wrote about that.”
“You’d be locked away...”
“If they were feelin’ generous,” he supplies, an Irish brogue coloring the words to somber amusement. “But I somehow think they won’t. Which would lead to an awkward situation for all. ‘Tis best to avoid it, don’t you agree?”
“And, by avoiding it, you made me into a woman?” Peter huffs, exasperated. “That’s not what happened. None of it--”
“Most of it,” Stoker murmurs. “Most of it did happen this way. Turnin' you into Mina doesn't belittle it. But the rest... I can’t see any good in telling that. Stories aren’t meant to terrify, friend. Not really. They’re meant instead to thrill. And there’s none of that to be found in what happened to you. Adam--”
“Don’t say his name," the boy warns. "Never say his name.”
“Very well.” He blows another ring, a dizzy circle, fleeting. “Dracula, as we're callin' him now... What he did to you can’t be forgiven nor can it be explained. Not truly. But it can be made into a profit. You’ll be earning a pretty purse for this at least. Can get yourself some security. Someone with your condition will be needing that."
He stares, mouth angled despairing. “You think that’s enough? Security?”
“I think it's the only thing that matters," Stoker admits. "Beyond a memory. You might as well share both.”
"You haven't answered my letters," murmurs Linderman, startling him from his thoughts, finally setting down the book. It's an omen against the lace. "I've written many."
"I know,” he counters. “I destroyed them all."
A chuckle. It’s almost fond. Almost. "I assumed as much. Which is why I decided to no longer waste my pen on a lost cause and came to find you myself. I don't think you can destroy me."
"Don't be so sure."
The grin is dismissive. It shouldn't be. "Mr. Petrelli, did you ever consider that there was something important in those letters?”
“All I considered,” he says, “is that you wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“That’s never been a possibility, I’m afraid. Not with your current... predicament.” He shrugs. “Leaving you to your brooding would be a disservice to both the country and yourself. I can’t allow that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Because the difference is imperative.
It isn’t given. Instead: “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Petrelli. One I believe you'll enjoy."
"I somehow doubt that."
"I wish to offer you a job."
"And?"
His reply was not anticipated (he can see that in the way a man frowns, surprised). He didn't expect it to be. But he's guessed such an reason, knew it would one day come. He was hoping that day would take longer.
"And? And what? I'm offering you the chance to be part of something incredible, Mr. Petrelli."
"I've already been part of something incredible," he says. "And it almost killed me. So I'm not interested in doing that again." And he stands, tossing coins onto the table. "Good day, sir." He's walking then, hurrying from the cafe and to the street beyond. The bricks are wet now, sleek to the beginnings of a storm. He grimaces, peering up and wondering why the sky is against him. As it has been since he could finally return to it. Could finally risk it without the blood turning thin.
Well why should you be any different...
"I have a carriage, you know."
Peter turns, watching as Linderman tugs on his gloves again. "What?"
"I have a carriage," he repeats. "Quite convenient for times like these. Especially when one is without an umbrella." He nods to a boy's empty hands. "You could at least let me drop you at your home."
And he almost refuses, almost offers a far more obscene suggestion for umbrellas. But the morning is dark and it promises only to grow darker and-- "Very well."
"You're quite an interesting fellow, Mr. Petrelli. I've never met anyone else who could make acquiescing seem like such a chore." He shrugs. "But I suppose it's better than nothing. Come now. Let's be gone." And he shuffles away, not even sparing Peter a glance.
Somehow that offends more than the gray.
But he still follows, letting Linderman lead him down the street and to the southern corner. There a carriage waits, black horses all nervous, whining with the approach of thunder. The driver hurries to jump down, craggy face nearly hidden by his upturned collar. He reaches for the door and nods, giving a gruff, "Guv'nors."
Peter just crawls inside, sitting on plush satin and wishing he was anywhere else.
Rain, rain, go away...
And they drive slowly then, through the western district, with its disdain for convention--the whorling columns, the drapes of awnings and pinion crests. It's slowly stirring, awake.
"I must confess: I didn't think you would become so... bohemian," Linderman muses, casual. "Rebelling against your family? Trying to write the next masterpiece? It's what all young men come here for, isn't it?"
The look is pointed. "No. I just wanted to be left alone. No one bothers me here. Or at least no one did..." He offers Linderman a scowl.
It's met with a grin, unrepentant. "You left me no choice, Mr. Petrelli. You wouldn't respond to my letters. You wouldn't agree to meet me. What else was I to do?"
"Realize that I wanted nothing to do with you?"
"Ah, but I want everything to do with you," he counters.
"Then you obviously don't know anything about me."
"Except I do," says Linderman, leaning forward, hands curled against his cane. "I know everything, Mr. Petrelli. I know what you are. Despite Mr. Stoker's very... colorful attempts to hide it." If he sees a boy's flinch, he does not comment on it. He merely continues, murmuring: "I know there was no child. No marriage. No happy ending. You didn't find your Jonathan and you didn't find a cure." He stares. "I know all you suffered and all you still suffer because of Adam Monroe. I know what you can do and what you have the potential to be."
"Then that should be enough to frighten you away," he growls.
Run away. Run away. Before I make you see the real me. The thing Adam created.
A laugh, soft. "Hardly... " And the expression is easy. "I'm not frightened of you, Mr. Petrelli. I may know what you are but I also know who you, and that is far more important."
A boy is silent.
Linderman doesn't ask that he speak. Instead he reaches to a satchel resting under the seat. He draws it up and fumbles with the straps, finally taking out its contents--dossiers, stuffed to truths and mystery. He sets them carefully in Peter's lap. "I think you'll find these most interesting."
The gaze is bland and cautious.
It's ignored. "My employers are gathering a group of certain.... individuals. Each of them special, like yourself."
"I doubt that," he mutters, even as he opens the first file, is met by words and sepia; a pretty woman captured in a photograph, bold-lipped and furious. Her name, he reads, is Nicole. Beside it is a warning: Use extreme caution when approaching. Target displays unpredictable moods and strength. Reference Stevenson for full details.
"Ah, I see you've found our Ms. Hyde."
"Hyde?"
"Indeed. Not her real name, of course, but Mr. Stevenson thought it had a certain... charm. I must agree. Jekyll and Hyde is quite appealing in its own way."
"She-- She's Hyde?" He's read the story, dismissed it as fiction. That was apparently a mistake.
"Or possibly Jekyll. It depends greatly on her emotions, I'm told." He gives a leer. "Were I a younger man, I'd learn for myself. I envy you the opportunity."
"What opportunity?" he asks. "What does all of this have to do with me?" He opens another file, confused by a dark-skinned man in high turban, standing behind the rails of a spectacular... something.
What is that? A ship?
"Oh, Captain Suresh and his Nautilus. Quite impressive, is it not?"
It is but he won't admit it. He instead closes the dossier. "What is this?"
"As you can see, these individuals all quite... unique." The description is delicately chosen, tactful.
"This has nothing to do with me," he replies, glancing through the next file: a hunter stands in the dry fields of Africa, a rifle slung across his shoulders, a reflection caught across his eyes. His name reads Noah Bennet. There's a notation beside it: King's Solomon's Mines. Seek location when found.
And that--
That is simply an impossibility.
"It has everything to do with you, Mr. Petrelli. We wish for you to lead them."
And Peter... stops, the final dossier left unopened. "... I beg your pardon?"
"We wish for you to lead them," he repeats. "We think you would be well suited to the role. Your abilities are more... subtle than the others. And I spoke at length with Mr. Stoker. I'm aware of just what was left out of the book. Your character is without reproach. Your bravery can't be questioned."
"But your judgment can," he murmurs, baffled. "I'm not a leader."
"Of course you are," Linderman says, waving a hand. "You're the perfect one to bring them all together, what with their... volatile personalities."
"They're what?"
"It doesn't matter," he chortles, resting back to his seat. "The only thing that does is that you're the right one for this position. Especially since you have an advantage above all others."
"... What?"
"You're already familiar with one of our choices."
He blinks. "I am?"
"Open the last file, Mr. Petrelli. I think you'll be surprised."
And Peter fumbles open the dossier, a photograph slipping free. He bends down to retrieve it, nearly dropping it again when it offers...
Oh....
Oh my.
.