Work Text:
Miles was playing piano in a small basement bar on the evening that the Germans bombed Paris.
Only two couples were on the dance floor for his latest slow number, and as he finished playing even they went to sit down.
Reynard the bar owner came over to lean on the piano. "Why are you still here, English?" he asked. "Why don't you go home?"
"I'll be arrested if I go home," Miles said unhappily. "You know that."
"You should leave Paris, though," Reynard continued. "Go to Marseille, maybe - lots of your sort down there."
"Why are you saying this now?" Miles asked.
"You hadn't heard? The Boche bombed the Citroen factory on the edge of Paris. Our glorious leaders are like rabbits caught in the headlights of a car. I give it a week, two weeks, before I'm taking orders for drinks down here in German."
Miles hadn't realised the Germans were quite that close. "Maybe you're right," he said. "Look, do you mind if I leave early? I think maybe it's time to take your advice."
Reynard shrugged. "Go. No-one is in much of a mood for dancing tonight, anyway." He laid a hand on Miles' shoulder to stop him from getting up, and thrust a bundle of franc notes into his hand. "You'll need your wages," he said. "Remember, there'll always be a bar somewhere that needs a good piano player."
~
When Miles first arrived in Paris, he had expected to find his feet pretty quickly and resume the same sort of life he had lived in England. The reality was rather different. Here he was an outsider on the edge of the party scene, and once his money started to run out it became harder and harder to keep even that fragile foothold in society. His mother had been sending him money, but since the War started, that source of funds had dried up completely.
He'd never paid much attention to politics, but he had a sinking feeling that politics was about to pay attention to him, and not in a way that he would enjoy. He may have been trying to ignore the news, but he wasn't stupid. He was an Englishman in Paris, which the Germans would take a dim view of, and a gay Englishman at that - and what he'd heard about the fate of homosexuals in Germany made his blood run cold.
He was starting to make a habit of fleeing the authorities in only the clothes he stood up in - if twice could be considered a habit.
This time, he had time to pack a few things, but when he got to the Gare d'Austerlitz, the mob of people trying to get onto the platforms convinced him that he'd never get out of the city that way.
"Come on, think, Miles," he muttered to himself. "There must be some way out of all this. There always is."
Marc had a place in the country - Miles had met him at a party and got along quite well with him. He was amiable company who might be persuaded to take an extra person along with him - it would get him out of Paris, at any rate, and he could think of what to do after that when the German tanks weren't quite so hot on his heels.
When he got to Marc Chagall's house, though, it was dark and empty - the artist had already left.
So that was another escape route he couldn't take.
It was starting to get too late in the evening for even the best of friends to turn up uninvited on the doorstep, so Miles reluctantly headed back towards the squalid little bedsit which was all he could afford for the moment. He'd been hoping that his situation would change and he'd be able to afford something better - he hadn't expected things to get worse, or at least, he'd been putting off thinking about it until he really had to. It seemed that this was the evening that he really had to think about it, and he was running out of options rapidly.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Josephine!" She would help; he was sure of it. He was also pretty sure she was still in Paris, but unless he hurried he still might miss her.
There was a night club she went to after her own show sometimes, and his luck was in. He got there just as her car was being brought round to the entrance. He hovered nervously just on the edge of the light cast on the pavement from the open door of the club, just far enough away for the doorman to ignore him as he waited for her to come out.
She was elegant as always, swathed in a coat with a fur collar even in June.
Miles smiled nervously and cut round the doorman into Josephine's line of sight. "Josephine - Miss Baker! Remember me?"
She paused. "Oh, the English boy! Honey, you need to get out of Paris!"
"Ah, yes, actually, that's what I'm here about. I - look, I'm a pretty good piano player, and I wouldn't be any trouble to you...."
"Honey, I don't need a piano player. I got one already."
Miles' face fell. "Of course. I wasn't thinking...." He started to turn to go.
"Hey, we might be able to fit you in with the backstage crew," she said.
Miles turned back to her with a brilliant smile. "That would be wonderful, Miss Baker," he said.
"It won't be easy - we'll have to keep you out of the way of prying eyes until we get some papers sorted out for you, but -" Here her voice lowered to a purring whisper. He had to lean close to hear her. "My whole set up wouldn't stand too much examination by the Nazis. What's one more enemy alien in the mix? You ready to work for the Free French?"
His smile wavered. He'd had no idea she was involved in something that dangerous. On the other hand, it was no more dangerous than having an English passport on the streets of Paris right now.
"I'm game," he said. "I'll do anything you want."
She chuckled. "Oh, honey, those are rash words. Get in the car."