Winter, 1942

It was torture to be standing in the street like this, and not just because of the cold wind whistling through his thin jacket. No, it was torture because of the glowing window on the far side of the street, and because of what he could see through it. The golden hair, the bright eyes, the laughing mouth… he could see them all by the window's light, and they tore at his insides. Yet he dreaded even more the moment when that light would finally go out.

He blew on his hand and stamped his feet a little to get the blood flowing again. Even here in the alley, sheltered as it was from the wind, the chill was something deadly. He wound the scarf a little tighter around his face and turned his watering eyes away from the window for a moment.

Paris, the city of lights, was dark. The window which tormented him was the only open one on the streets. All the others were shuttered, boarded up, or simply overhung with drapes. Little cracks of light could be glimpsed, but nothing sufficient to light up the street. Even the street lights overhead were dark, and the once-bright image of the Effiel Tower, which had shown in on Hugo so many nights in his childhood, was simply a looming silhouette against the sky, lit up occasionally by the roving searchlights.

It was not silent—not quite yet. Not even curfew and blackout could silence the city. The thousand sounds of the city still echoed through the streets—cats, slamming shutters, a drunk's roving song, the sound of an automobile's engine. And, of course, regular as ever, the far-off rumble of the trains.

Even amid war, the trains still ran. And even amid war—Hugo fished his watch from his pocket—clocks still ran. It was a comfort to know that, at least.

The light in the window went out. Hugo closed his eyes and rocked against the wall, trying to quiet the dull ache in his soul. Again he checked his watch. It would take probably an hour for them to finish.

Years ago, he remembered with a smile, he had stood in a cold street just like this, staring up at a lit window with the same golden-haired girl. Then he had thought his life hard, if not cruel.

He had never guessed exactly how cruel life could be.

At times he wondered if things would have better, if he would have been happier, if he had never stood in that street and called that girl down to him. Perhaps he would still be living in the train station. Perhaps he would have been sent to the Orphanatory, to be adopted—or not.

He sighed and blew on his fingers. What did it really matter? The war would still have come.

The sound of a door closing jerked his attention back to the house. The golden-haired girl was stepping out into the snow, a light coat wrapped around her slim frame, a scarf wound around her face. She walked out into the street hesitantly, as if wondering which way to go.

Hugo quickly moved out of the alley and beckoned to her.

She practically ran into his arms, sending both of them crashing back into the alley. "Hugo!" She whispered.

"Isabelle." He murmured, stroking her hair. She felt warm, soft.

"I am sorry. He was so... so talkative tonight. I could not get away."

"It is alright, ma petite chere." He whispered. "What did he say?"

She shook her head. "Little things...stupid things. Stories the guards at work tell about their women. This Jew that he and his friends threw out into the street the other day. A promotion he expects to be getting."

"A promotion is good." Hugo nodded. "A captain hears more than a lieutenant, and says more."

"Y-yes." She nodded. Drawing back a little, she seemed to concentrate. "He... he did say... He said there was a shipment of weapons being moved to Cologne next week. By train, though he did not say which one. And some prisoners that are being moved from the Detarde's house."

"Which ones? Where?" Hugo asked eagerly.

"He didn't say which ones, only that they were being moved, to a... a camp in Germany, I believe." She bit her lip, then looked up at him. "But... Hugo... Gustave is not one of them. He says they brought out Gustave and some others to the forest and shot them."

Gustave. Hugo leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing the man's neat little mustache, his clipped way of speaking, the stubborn way he dragged his bad leg along. He could even see Gustave in his neat blue uniform, gold buttons shining and cap primly adjusted, even though goodness knew the man hadn't been station inspector for years. He should never have come with them on the raid. But he'd insisted, just as he'd insisted to be left behind when his leg broke apart and the shouts were coming nearer.

Hugo'd known Gustave since he was a small boy, dodging around the train station. And now he was dead.

Isabelle pulled him close. "I am so sorry, Hugo." She murmured. "Would you like me to tell Lisette?"

"No," Hugo managed to say. Lisette... yes, bon Dieu, Lisette would have to be told. But not by Isabelle. "You cannot be seen talking with her." That, and it was his responsibility. True, Gustave had led the squad, but Hugo had made Gustave's leg, and it was that leg that had gotten Gustave captured.

Isabelle gave out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Of course. She probably wouldn't want to talk with me anyway."

Hugo tried to think of something comforting to say, but he could think of nothing. So he just hugged her back, and the two of them stood in the cold wind, holding onto each other.

At length Isabelle pulled away a little. "I... I should go." She said. "Hans will miss me."

There was a long silence. Don't, Hugo wanted to say. Stop all this, and come away. "Yes, you should." He agreed, letting his arms drop to hold her hands.

Still she lingered, breathing hard in the cold wind. She closed her eyes and shivered, and her mouth trembled.

Hugo gripped her by the shoulders. "It is a good thing you are doing for us, Isabelle." He told her. "A great thing."

But she shook her head. "If you could have heard him tonight!" She burst out. "Talking about Gustave like he was some animal... laughing about how he limped up the hill... and he is so STUPID, Hugo, and I feel dirty just speaking with him..."

"Shhh..." Hugo cupped her face in his hands. "It will be alright Isabelle. It will all be all right."

She looked at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "I thought..." Her mouth quirked in a dreadful attempt at a smile. "I always thought... that being a spy would be so romantic."

A little chuckle burst from Hugo despite himself. For a moment he had a vision of the old Isabelle, perched high on a book ladder, lost in the slim volume she was reading, brow furrowed and her lips just slightly parted.

But that was another world.

"You must go now, mon chere." He told her, giving her a light peck on the cheek. It was all they had time for, now. As she nodded and started to move away, he called out to her: "Isabelle... do not ride the trains tomorrow."

Already out in the street, she turned to look at him, shrouded in the darkness of the alley. "Hugo..." Her eyes were troubled.

"Tomorrow will be a bad day to ride the trains." He nodded. "I would stay at home. And ask... Hans again about the weapons. I think his plans for them may change."

She closed her eyes, but she nodded. With a last, lingering look, she trotted across the street and back to the door. It closed behind her with a muted click, and for a long moment there was silence in the street. Then he heard sounds from upstairs: faint questions, and laughing answers.

Hunching his shoulders, Hugo pulled his cap over his head and walked down the alley. He could stand to listen to no more, and there was much to do before the daylight. Each had their own role in the machine of war, he as much as Isabelle.

The cold wind howled fiercely about him as he disappeared into the night.

A/N: Hugo was a beautiful movie, and a nearly perfectly self-contained one. And part of the problem with perfectly self-contained movies is that there's not much fiction you can write about it. But the Fridge Horror board on TVtropes reminded me that there is indeed a logical next part to the story-Hugo and Isabelle in WW II. George Milies, in case you're curious, died in 1938, before the war even started, but Hugo and Isabelle would be in their early twenties.

On a side note, I AM very proud of how the cover to this story turned out. I drew it myself, and I quite like how it looks.