Dragons Among Steel (Part Two)
Title: Dragons Among Steel
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Peter/Claude, past Peter/Adam
Fandoms: Heroes, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
It's been... way too long since I posted the first part to this but my schedule has been swamped. I did manage, though, to edit this chapter properly and decided to put it up. We have some invisibility, some vampire lore and lost love. Yeah, drama, drama.
Steel and shadows, the gruesome gaslight smiles.
It's a long, lonely hall filled to long, lonely sighs.
And Peter walks through them, an echo in the madness, a silent sanity.
I am not one of you.
I never will be.
The promise soothes him, leads him through the sobs and shrieks. Men howl behind doors, spitting blasphemy. They slap the walls and pluck out their teeth, letting them bounce against the ceiling and fall back as rain. They're assassins, all, and thieves. They were imprisoned here, kept from judge and jury; convicted without the public's permission. Secrets. Stolen.
He wonders if he'll join them.
Because these are vicious men with vicious minds; each opened and examined, their thoughts wrenched out and shattered.
He's not sure what they would find if they shattered him.
Is Adam still there? Is he sleeping? Would you take him from me? Please?
But he keeps walking; steady, steady, down the corridor. Guards wait at the end, standing stoic, tall. They do not glance his way. They do not even flinch.
He thinks he hates them.
He thinks he should.
"There are rules."
"What?" A boy steps carefully after Linderman, navigating the narrow curl of dungeon stairs. They twist down, down, down beneath London. It's a series of terrible tunnels and hidden rooms. This is a new prison, fashioned with Victoria's approval. It's filled already to monsters. They were once all men.
"Rules," he repeats, hobbling on. His cane taps loud against the stone. "For how to approach him."
"I think I already know how to--"
"Forgive my interruption, Mr. Petrelli, but things have changed since you last saw him. He's no longer what you expect."
Peter frowns. "And what should I expect then?"
"A very dangerous man." And Linderman finally limps from the stairs, waits at the foyer sprawled dirty below. "Your friend is no longer himself. He's... worrisome."
"Worrisome? That's a crime these days?" The tone is heavy to distaste.
It doesn't shame. "We do what we must, Mr. Petrelli. These are unconventional times. Certain precautions must be taken." He motions toward the doors beyond. "I will not be joining you after this. My presence seems to... upset our guests."
"Oh, how could it?" he mutters. "With such cheerful surroundings as these?" There are bare walls and grim ceilings, spider-lace caught in the corners.
Linderman scowls, unamused. "Whatever you may think of our quarters, Mr. Petrelli, you must understand that they were necessary. Everything that has been done is to ensure the protection of the crown."
“And why does the crown need protection from him?”
“You’ll see,” he replies, shuffling forward and reaching into his pocket. A stout key is drawn, shoved into a lock. It opens and a door is pushed. “When you reach the end, you’ll find guards. Don't send them away. They must remain there for your safety, should anything happen. Not that we expect it to, of course," he adds, quick. The expression blanches, embarrassed. It's replaced to a warning: "Don't get too close to him. Don't touch him. You must only try to convince him of what needs to be done. Understand?”
Peter nods.
“Excellent. Now... I’ll leave you to it.”
He’s at the labyrinth's end now, staring down the impassive guards. “I... was told to come here,” he finally offers.
One nods jerkily toward the cell. He does not speak.
Neither does the other.
They simply stare.
That’s right. Don’t say anything. It’s not as though we would’ve had a conversation. Nothing like:
Oh, thank you. And may I ask how are you?
Why, I’m just wonderful, Guv’nor. Me and the misses had a grand time last night. Went to the theater, we did. Saw one of them op-ar-atic folks. Nice set o’pipes, the ol’ bird had. What, what.
....
I really need a friend.
And Peter steps forward, pressing a palm to steel, letting it creak. And the revelation beyond makes him gasp.
Tiny stone and persistent dark, candles dull in the corners (no halos are spared for criminals). They shimmer, soft tragedies, and drape across the floor; curl against a ghost trapped to the wall. Chains clutch at his wrists, forcing him to sprawl awkward. But the iron hangs seemingly empty, no arms within its grasp, no twist of veins. It’s... magicked. It must be. Because linen hangs loose where a jaw should be, wraps across the curve. It marks the shape but not the skin. That’s gone, replaced to air and shadows.
They’re smiling.
A boy is sure of that, can see the way bandages pull, reveal the rise of a mouth. They’re the only proof of the body still there. Still breathing.
“Well, well. Look who it is. The little blood-sucker.” A voice is without reverence but not mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. Figured you'd be out tourin' with your book. These swells do love a good freak-show, after all."
“Hello... Claude.”
“Hiya, Pete.” The ghost peers up, his face lost, opaque. It’s guessed only from the linen. “They finally decide to bring you in then? Put you with the rest of us delinquents?”
“Not quite,” he murmurs, crouching down. He doesn’t dare sit. The dust shudders out like a sin. “I--” He swallows, unsure. He was warned of this. Of what a man had become but--
“Ain’t exactly pretty, is it?”
“It isn’t exactly anything,” he answers, breathless. “Claude-- What did you do?”
"Haven't done anythin' that didn't need to be done, mate."
And that--
"He's changed."
"What?"
"Your friend. Mr. Rains. He's changed." Linderman settles back against his chair, glancing toward the carriage window, to the world flickering beyond. It's a slow storm, spat out from the season's end. It's winter's revenge for a mild spring. "The formula he stole wasn't meant for just one man. It was too great a temptation. The power to disappear? To escape all responsibility? No one person should be given that. It was destined always to corrupt, and far better individuals than your Mr. Rains would have fallen victim to it."
"What happened?" asks Peter, concerned. It's been... years since he knew Claude, since he could claim a familiarity with thoughts too wild, a tongue so eager to slay. He was a savage nobility. He both intrigued and repulsed. And loved... in his own way. There were moments tender, however rare, between them. A boy savors them still. They were little comforts for what trembled after.
"He took too much," says Linderman. "He wasn't satisfied with small doses, occasional tastes. Instead he began to consume it daily. He kept himself invisible at all times... and it cost him the chance to turn back." He sighs. "Mr. Rains is now permanently unseen."
"... What?"
"He's not harmed, I assure you. Not beyond the obvious. His health isn't effected and his mind is still sharp. He merely... isn't there. In the conventional way."
"But that-- That's impossible!"
"No more so, my dear boy, than you."
Peter goes silent with that. Sullen.
Linderman pretends not to notice. "It took us quite a while to catch him. As you could imagine, it wasn't the easiest of tasks, tracking him down. But he left us no choice. Since he no longer had to worry about turning back, he felt he could do as he pleased. There was no one to stop him because no one knew he existed. Such an ability can't be allowed. The implications are... disheartening."
"So you locked him away?"
"For his own protection. And ours." He shrugs. "It was made much simpler when we enlisted the help of Mr. Tesla. His machines were quite useful in tracking Mr. Rains down." A smile. It's not earnest. "Your friend was not pleased."
"I wonder why...."
"We've offered him a position," continues Linderman, undeterred. "But he keeps refusing it. He seems to think we're the enemy. And, before you say it, Mr. Petrelli, I can promise you that we're not. Everything is being done with the best of intentions. You may not approve of our methods but you can't dispute their necessity. An invisible man is dangerous. You know this."
"And Claude wouldn't hurt anyone. I know that too."
"Oh, I'm sure he won't. If you're there to counter the urge."
"What?"
He leans forward, face drawn tight and tense. "You're to be our insurance, Mr. Petrelli. If you become his handler, he won't be able to try anything. Because you'll be there to stop him. It's the only way this will work."
"And the only way Claude will ever be freed?"
"Precisely." He smirks, tapping his cane jovially against the floor. "And that's why you're to be the leader. You catch on so quickly."
"Y'know, I seem to remember a time when you would've kissed me hello..."
"And I seem to remember a time when there was something for me to kiss," he replies, observing the rattle of air. There is a man inside the sound. He's simply hollow now.
A chuckle, dark. "I wonder if you're even the kissin' kind anymore. What with the fangs and all."
Peter stares, angry, offended. Warns, "I'm telling you this once and only once: don't mention that again. Ever. Or I'm walking out of here and you can just rot." Because he doesn't have... fangs. A transformation wasn't completed, was halted by the mercy of fate. But he still bears markings beneath his collar and they forever ache.
A pause, considering, and then-- "You're gettin' rude in your old age, Petrelli. Never would've guessed that."
"There's a lot you'd never guess," he growls.
"More'n'likely." Claude shrugs and the chains shudder. "Suppose things could be worse for me, though. I get enough to eat here, when they remember to feed me, and all the rats I care to chat with. Friendly little buggers." There's a grin, however hidden. "But I'm thinkin' you're here to tell me it's not enough? 'Cause they wouldn't just send me somethin' pretty to look at. Even if I do appreciate the view."
"Claude--" He frowns, refuses to be drawn into a game. He knows its cost too well. "I'm here to offer you a job."
"Well ain't that somethin'..."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I," comes the answer, sudden and scathing. His moods were always mercurial. "They send you in here to-- What, Pete? Flash that pretty mouth at me so I'll come crawlin' to their side? All so I can hope to rekindle whatever'tis they think we had. Do their biddin' and maybe get the boy?" The laugh is furious. "I'm not interested."
That hurts. It shouldn't. "Are you interested in getting out of here then?" he asks. "Because this is the only way it's going to happen."
"Don't flatter yourself," Claude dismisses. "You're not so special. I've got other exits 'sides you."
"Oh, really? And were you just saving them for the right moment? Or did you decide you like sitting in your own filth?"
Quiet. Quiet.
He wilts with it, hating the shatter of vanity. Such a fragile, little bird with fragile, little wings, his Claude: there's a broken heart beneath the bravery. There always was. "They're not going to let you go. Not when you're like this. They're afraid of you."
"Well they got no reason to be!" a man bellows, the chains shaking again. "I'm no killer! I don't deserve to be locked up with 'em. Listenin' to all their screamin'. It's not right."
"I know that," says Peter, simple. "Why else do you think I'm here?"
"You really want an answer for that, mate?" There's suggestion in the tone, a remembrance of what they once were.
He must ignore it.
"Claude." He sighs, running fingers through his hair. "They don't know you. So they don't trust you. And they're not going to let you go, not without someone to look after you."
"And they think you're good enough for that?" Disdain is an ugly sound. "You gonna be my keeper, Pete? Gonna make me walk the straight and narrow? Should be a challenge, considerin’ your current... predicament.”
And that--
And that--
Isn't fair or right.
But it is intentional.
Because he knows a man still, knows the clockwork twists of a mind, the piston-push of mockery. It marches ever on.
He remembers it well.
They met before his... accident. Before the world was soaked to blood and circumstance. And Claude was fascinating, if not cruel. They were strange acquaintances then, bound by their uncertainty; meeting often to share secondhand wisdoms. He had only just arrived in England, had fled the conventions of New York. It was meant to be a trip of meager months, a last attempt of thrills before marriage (Elle is happy now, he's heard. She moved on without regret).
But a man offered him all the sights and sounds of London, the little joys he'd never felt. They kissed first in the rain and never wished to stop.
But they did.
Claude did.
Vanished one morning without reason or apology, while a boy was still in bed. Left only a single rose and... money.
Peter thinks it was meant to be kind.
It wasn't.
And he stumbled through Europe then, fleeing all the ghosts and glances, losing himself among the aristocracy. He became their favored child, the little American whimsy.
It was then that he met Adam.
It was then that he was charmed to the Carpathians, promised solace and intrigue.
And it was then that he was bound and branded, made into this unholy... thing. Never human, not yet fiend: the immortal greet between. He cannot die. He cannot bleed. He's just a sad little soul.
Adam... Why didn't you just kill me?
He looks away then. Murmurs, "Linderman is trying to find a cure for you. He wants to help. But it's going to cost you."
"Yeah, I bet." A chuckle, wet. The lungs are weakened in the damp. "Tell him to forget about it, mate. Freedom's not worth much if it comes with conditions. And I'm not spendin' the rest of my days doin' everything they say just because they got my skin back."
"What if it wasn't what they said?" Peter mutters. "What if it's what I said?"
"Come again?"
"You'll be working under me. You won't have to deal with them. It'll just be us... and people like us. Doing good work." He's not certain he believes it, is sure only that he can't refuse. For Claude's sake. For his own. "You'd get your cure then and the chance to be more than just a thief. And isn't that what you always wanted?"
Because he remembers whispers, the moments offered soft; hidden within midnight and the sacrifice of pride. Invisibility craved prestige, the honor earned from a life without theft. It was a confession forgotten every morning--but the stars still shimmered with it.
And that's enough to make him try this. To make him plead. The recollection of those sweet hours was all that sustained him in the horrors that followed. He... needed Claude once. He's needed none ever since.
"Let me help you," he finally says. "Let me get you the cure."
"And all it'll take is me bein' at your beck-and-call?"
"Yes," he answers, earnest.
And Claude... sighs, bereaved; offers only a shift of chains. He's thinking, Peter knows, considering every strategy. He will not stumble into judgment; he will not rush toward decision. He is careful. He is precise. He is dangerous.
"I'll do it."
Well, who would've guessed...
---
He frowns at the rain, waiting beneath the stone sweeps of a pavilion, the open-mouthed lions sitting strong. Wheels turn beyond, carrying spat-shoed men to destinations perfumed. He does not envy them. The scents would be too fickle; their tastes too thin.
"Y'know, the street's not goin' anywhere. You don't have to watch it."
He turns, surprised, and stares as a figure approaches.
Claude stands before him, dressed in shabby efficiency: long coat, creased trousers, a bowler tugged low. He is unremarkable. Except for the bandages. They wrap across his face, his hands; define a body real.
"Been told I'm supposed to play sickly. 'Case anyone asks." He leers, linen tugging up. "And it should keep you able to see me all proper like. Keep me from just disappearin' on you. Wouldn't want that, after all. Would we?"
No," the boy murmurs. "We wouldn't." A pause. "Not again."
And an expression goes sad beneath the cloth. "Pete--"
"I loved you, you know." It's a tactless interruption, clumsy in its truth. “I did.”
"I know..."
"I would've stayed with you."
"I know."
"Then why-- Why did you--"
Was it me? Was it my fault? Was I not enough? I'm never enough, am I?
"Because you loved me," Claude mutters suddenly. "Because you would've stayed with me. And I couldn't... It wasn't right, Pete. You and me. You deserved better than what I could give. You deserved everything."
"But I wanted you."
Didn't you want me?
"And that, my friend, was the problem." He shrugs then, as if dismissing the words, their meanings. He offers his honesty as a secret: spare and cautious. He then steps forward, motioning toward the city beyond. "S'pose we should be goin', yeah? Got ourselves quite the trip, I’m told.”
And Peter... sighs, knowing he's been refused yet again. It’s too common now to be a tragedy. It’s just the faint-hearted truth. "We do. We really do."
.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Peter/Claude, past Peter/Adam
Fandoms: Heroes, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
It's been... way too long since I posted the first part to this but my schedule has been swamped. I did manage, though, to edit this chapter properly and decided to put it up. We have some invisibility, some vampire lore and lost love. Yeah, drama, drama.
Steel and shadows, the gruesome gaslight smiles.
It's a long, lonely hall filled to long, lonely sighs.
And Peter walks through them, an echo in the madness, a silent sanity.
I am not one of you.
I never will be.
The promise soothes him, leads him through the sobs and shrieks. Men howl behind doors, spitting blasphemy. They slap the walls and pluck out their teeth, letting them bounce against the ceiling and fall back as rain. They're assassins, all, and thieves. They were imprisoned here, kept from judge and jury; convicted without the public's permission. Secrets. Stolen.
He wonders if he'll join them.
Because these are vicious men with vicious minds; each opened and examined, their thoughts wrenched out and shattered.
He's not sure what they would find if they shattered him.
Is Adam still there? Is he sleeping? Would you take him from me? Please?
But he keeps walking; steady, steady, down the corridor. Guards wait at the end, standing stoic, tall. They do not glance his way. They do not even flinch.
He thinks he hates them.
He thinks he should.
"There are rules."
"What?" A boy steps carefully after Linderman, navigating the narrow curl of dungeon stairs. They twist down, down, down beneath London. It's a series of terrible tunnels and hidden rooms. This is a new prison, fashioned with Victoria's approval. It's filled already to monsters. They were once all men.
"Rules," he repeats, hobbling on. His cane taps loud against the stone. "For how to approach him."
"I think I already know how to--"
"Forgive my interruption, Mr. Petrelli, but things have changed since you last saw him. He's no longer what you expect."
Peter frowns. "And what should I expect then?"
"A very dangerous man." And Linderman finally limps from the stairs, waits at the foyer sprawled dirty below. "Your friend is no longer himself. He's... worrisome."
"Worrisome? That's a crime these days?" The tone is heavy to distaste.
It doesn't shame. "We do what we must, Mr. Petrelli. These are unconventional times. Certain precautions must be taken." He motions toward the doors beyond. "I will not be joining you after this. My presence seems to... upset our guests."
"Oh, how could it?" he mutters. "With such cheerful surroundings as these?" There are bare walls and grim ceilings, spider-lace caught in the corners.
Linderman scowls, unamused. "Whatever you may think of our quarters, Mr. Petrelli, you must understand that they were necessary. Everything that has been done is to ensure the protection of the crown."
“And why does the crown need protection from him?”
“You’ll see,” he replies, shuffling forward and reaching into his pocket. A stout key is drawn, shoved into a lock. It opens and a door is pushed. “When you reach the end, you’ll find guards. Don't send them away. They must remain there for your safety, should anything happen. Not that we expect it to, of course," he adds, quick. The expression blanches, embarrassed. It's replaced to a warning: "Don't get too close to him. Don't touch him. You must only try to convince him of what needs to be done. Understand?”
Peter nods.
“Excellent. Now... I’ll leave you to it.”
He’s at the labyrinth's end now, staring down the impassive guards. “I... was told to come here,” he finally offers.
One nods jerkily toward the cell. He does not speak.
Neither does the other.
They simply stare.
That’s right. Don’t say anything. It’s not as though we would’ve had a conversation. Nothing like:
Oh, thank you. And may I ask how are you?
Why, I’m just wonderful, Guv’nor. Me and the misses had a grand time last night. Went to the theater, we did. Saw one of them op-ar-atic folks. Nice set o’pipes, the ol’ bird had. What, what.
....
I really need a friend.
And Peter steps forward, pressing a palm to steel, letting it creak. And the revelation beyond makes him gasp.
Tiny stone and persistent dark, candles dull in the corners (no halos are spared for criminals). They shimmer, soft tragedies, and drape across the floor; curl against a ghost trapped to the wall. Chains clutch at his wrists, forcing him to sprawl awkward. But the iron hangs seemingly empty, no arms within its grasp, no twist of veins. It’s... magicked. It must be. Because linen hangs loose where a jaw should be, wraps across the curve. It marks the shape but not the skin. That’s gone, replaced to air and shadows.
They’re smiling.
A boy is sure of that, can see the way bandages pull, reveal the rise of a mouth. They’re the only proof of the body still there. Still breathing.
“Well, well. Look who it is. The little blood-sucker.” A voice is without reverence but not mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. Figured you'd be out tourin' with your book. These swells do love a good freak-show, after all."
“Hello... Claude.”
“Hiya, Pete.” The ghost peers up, his face lost, opaque. It’s guessed only from the linen. “They finally decide to bring you in then? Put you with the rest of us delinquents?”
“Not quite,” he murmurs, crouching down. He doesn’t dare sit. The dust shudders out like a sin. “I--” He swallows, unsure. He was warned of this. Of what a man had become but--
“Ain’t exactly pretty, is it?”
“It isn’t exactly anything,” he answers, breathless. “Claude-- What did you do?”
"Haven't done anythin' that didn't need to be done, mate."
And that--
"He's changed."
"What?"
"Your friend. Mr. Rains. He's changed." Linderman settles back against his chair, glancing toward the carriage window, to the world flickering beyond. It's a slow storm, spat out from the season's end. It's winter's revenge for a mild spring. "The formula he stole wasn't meant for just one man. It was too great a temptation. The power to disappear? To escape all responsibility? No one person should be given that. It was destined always to corrupt, and far better individuals than your Mr. Rains would have fallen victim to it."
"What happened?" asks Peter, concerned. It's been... years since he knew Claude, since he could claim a familiarity with thoughts too wild, a tongue so eager to slay. He was a savage nobility. He both intrigued and repulsed. And loved... in his own way. There were moments tender, however rare, between them. A boy savors them still. They were little comforts for what trembled after.
"He took too much," says Linderman. "He wasn't satisfied with small doses, occasional tastes. Instead he began to consume it daily. He kept himself invisible at all times... and it cost him the chance to turn back." He sighs. "Mr. Rains is now permanently unseen."
"... What?"
"He's not harmed, I assure you. Not beyond the obvious. His health isn't effected and his mind is still sharp. He merely... isn't there. In the conventional way."
"But that-- That's impossible!"
"No more so, my dear boy, than you."
Peter goes silent with that. Sullen.
Linderman pretends not to notice. "It took us quite a while to catch him. As you could imagine, it wasn't the easiest of tasks, tracking him down. But he left us no choice. Since he no longer had to worry about turning back, he felt he could do as he pleased. There was no one to stop him because no one knew he existed. Such an ability can't be allowed. The implications are... disheartening."
"So you locked him away?"
"For his own protection. And ours." He shrugs. "It was made much simpler when we enlisted the help of Mr. Tesla. His machines were quite useful in tracking Mr. Rains down." A smile. It's not earnest. "Your friend was not pleased."
"I wonder why...."
"We've offered him a position," continues Linderman, undeterred. "But he keeps refusing it. He seems to think we're the enemy. And, before you say it, Mr. Petrelli, I can promise you that we're not. Everything is being done with the best of intentions. You may not approve of our methods but you can't dispute their necessity. An invisible man is dangerous. You know this."
"And Claude wouldn't hurt anyone. I know that too."
"Oh, I'm sure he won't. If you're there to counter the urge."
"What?"
He leans forward, face drawn tight and tense. "You're to be our insurance, Mr. Petrelli. If you become his handler, he won't be able to try anything. Because you'll be there to stop him. It's the only way this will work."
"And the only way Claude will ever be freed?"
"Precisely." He smirks, tapping his cane jovially against the floor. "And that's why you're to be the leader. You catch on so quickly."
"Y'know, I seem to remember a time when you would've kissed me hello..."
"And I seem to remember a time when there was something for me to kiss," he replies, observing the rattle of air. There is a man inside the sound. He's simply hollow now.
A chuckle, dark. "I wonder if you're even the kissin' kind anymore. What with the fangs and all."
Peter stares, angry, offended. Warns, "I'm telling you this once and only once: don't mention that again. Ever. Or I'm walking out of here and you can just rot." Because he doesn't have... fangs. A transformation wasn't completed, was halted by the mercy of fate. But he still bears markings beneath his collar and they forever ache.
A pause, considering, and then-- "You're gettin' rude in your old age, Petrelli. Never would've guessed that."
"There's a lot you'd never guess," he growls.
"More'n'likely." Claude shrugs and the chains shudder. "Suppose things could be worse for me, though. I get enough to eat here, when they remember to feed me, and all the rats I care to chat with. Friendly little buggers." There's a grin, however hidden. "But I'm thinkin' you're here to tell me it's not enough? 'Cause they wouldn't just send me somethin' pretty to look at. Even if I do appreciate the view."
"Claude--" He frowns, refuses to be drawn into a game. He knows its cost too well. "I'm here to offer you a job."
"Well ain't that somethin'..."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I," comes the answer, sudden and scathing. His moods were always mercurial. "They send you in here to-- What, Pete? Flash that pretty mouth at me so I'll come crawlin' to their side? All so I can hope to rekindle whatever'tis they think we had. Do their biddin' and maybe get the boy?" The laugh is furious. "I'm not interested."
That hurts. It shouldn't. "Are you interested in getting out of here then?" he asks. "Because this is the only way it's going to happen."
"Don't flatter yourself," Claude dismisses. "You're not so special. I've got other exits 'sides you."
"Oh, really? And were you just saving them for the right moment? Or did you decide you like sitting in your own filth?"
Quiet. Quiet.
He wilts with it, hating the shatter of vanity. Such a fragile, little bird with fragile, little wings, his Claude: there's a broken heart beneath the bravery. There always was. "They're not going to let you go. Not when you're like this. They're afraid of you."
"Well they got no reason to be!" a man bellows, the chains shaking again. "I'm no killer! I don't deserve to be locked up with 'em. Listenin' to all their screamin'. It's not right."
"I know that," says Peter, simple. "Why else do you think I'm here?"
"You really want an answer for that, mate?" There's suggestion in the tone, a remembrance of what they once were.
He must ignore it.
"Claude." He sighs, running fingers through his hair. "They don't know you. So they don't trust you. And they're not going to let you go, not without someone to look after you."
"And they think you're good enough for that?" Disdain is an ugly sound. "You gonna be my keeper, Pete? Gonna make me walk the straight and narrow? Should be a challenge, considerin’ your current... predicament.”
And that--
And that--
Isn't fair or right.
But it is intentional.
Because he knows a man still, knows the clockwork twists of a mind, the piston-push of mockery. It marches ever on.
He remembers it well.
They met before his... accident. Before the world was soaked to blood and circumstance. And Claude was fascinating, if not cruel. They were strange acquaintances then, bound by their uncertainty; meeting often to share secondhand wisdoms. He had only just arrived in England, had fled the conventions of New York. It was meant to be a trip of meager months, a last attempt of thrills before marriage (Elle is happy now, he's heard. She moved on without regret).
But a man offered him all the sights and sounds of London, the little joys he'd never felt. They kissed first in the rain and never wished to stop.
But they did.
Claude did.
Vanished one morning without reason or apology, while a boy was still in bed. Left only a single rose and... money.
Peter thinks it was meant to be kind.
It wasn't.
And he stumbled through Europe then, fleeing all the ghosts and glances, losing himself among the aristocracy. He became their favored child, the little American whimsy.
It was then that he met Adam.
It was then that he was charmed to the Carpathians, promised solace and intrigue.
And it was then that he was bound and branded, made into this unholy... thing. Never human, not yet fiend: the immortal greet between. He cannot die. He cannot bleed. He's just a sad little soul.
Adam... Why didn't you just kill me?
He looks away then. Murmurs, "Linderman is trying to find a cure for you. He wants to help. But it's going to cost you."
"Yeah, I bet." A chuckle, wet. The lungs are weakened in the damp. "Tell him to forget about it, mate. Freedom's not worth much if it comes with conditions. And I'm not spendin' the rest of my days doin' everything they say just because they got my skin back."
"What if it wasn't what they said?" Peter mutters. "What if it's what I said?"
"Come again?"
"You'll be working under me. You won't have to deal with them. It'll just be us... and people like us. Doing good work." He's not certain he believes it, is sure only that he can't refuse. For Claude's sake. For his own. "You'd get your cure then and the chance to be more than just a thief. And isn't that what you always wanted?"
Because he remembers whispers, the moments offered soft; hidden within midnight and the sacrifice of pride. Invisibility craved prestige, the honor earned from a life without theft. It was a confession forgotten every morning--but the stars still shimmered with it.
And that's enough to make him try this. To make him plead. The recollection of those sweet hours was all that sustained him in the horrors that followed. He... needed Claude once. He's needed none ever since.
"Let me help you," he finally says. "Let me get you the cure."
"And all it'll take is me bein' at your beck-and-call?"
"Yes," he answers, earnest.
And Claude... sighs, bereaved; offers only a shift of chains. He's thinking, Peter knows, considering every strategy. He will not stumble into judgment; he will not rush toward decision. He is careful. He is precise. He is dangerous.
"I'll do it."
Well, who would've guessed...
---
He frowns at the rain, waiting beneath the stone sweeps of a pavilion, the open-mouthed lions sitting strong. Wheels turn beyond, carrying spat-shoed men to destinations perfumed. He does not envy them. The scents would be too fickle; their tastes too thin.
"Y'know, the street's not goin' anywhere. You don't have to watch it."
He turns, surprised, and stares as a figure approaches.
Claude stands before him, dressed in shabby efficiency: long coat, creased trousers, a bowler tugged low. He is unremarkable. Except for the bandages. They wrap across his face, his hands; define a body real.
"Been told I'm supposed to play sickly. 'Case anyone asks." He leers, linen tugging up. "And it should keep you able to see me all proper like. Keep me from just disappearin' on you. Wouldn't want that, after all. Would we?"
No," the boy murmurs. "We wouldn't." A pause. "Not again."
And an expression goes sad beneath the cloth. "Pete--"
"I loved you, you know." It's a tactless interruption, clumsy in its truth. “I did.”
"I know..."
"I would've stayed with you."
"I know."
"Then why-- Why did you--"
Was it me? Was it my fault? Was I not enough? I'm never enough, am I?
"Because you loved me," Claude mutters suddenly. "Because you would've stayed with me. And I couldn't... It wasn't right, Pete. You and me. You deserved better than what I could give. You deserved everything."
"But I wanted you."
Didn't you want me?
"And that, my friend, was the problem." He shrugs then, as if dismissing the words, their meanings. He offers his honesty as a secret: spare and cautious. He then steps forward, motioning toward the city beyond. "S'pose we should be goin', yeah? Got ourselves quite the trip, I’m told.”
And Peter... sighs, knowing he's been refused yet again. It’s too common now to be a tragedy. It’s just the faint-hearted truth. "We do. We really do."
.