[fic] Frühling blutet in Paris (Stiglitz/Wicki), Inglourious Basterds
Title: Frühling blutet in Paris
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/character(s): Hugo Stiglitz/Wilhelm Wicki
Word count: ~ 7,000
Disclaimer: Quentin Tarantino is the king of the Scalpland.
Summary: If Wicki had the opportunity he would blame the war. It was an awful, terrifying and atrocious thing, the war. Still, that was the kind of awful, terrifying and atrocious thing which brought people together.
Warnings: Besides this being an Inglourious Basterds fic (i. e. there’s some mention of violence) and NC-17 rated? None, really.
Notes: The title came from this mind blowing song by Rammstein and it means “Spring bleeds in Paris”.
Thanks to: the lovely deborahkla for her awesome beta-reading and also to machiavelli_imp for the invaluable help with the German sentences. Any remain mistakes are mine.
“The Lieutenant asked me to help you improve your English,” Wicki said in greeting, closing the door behind him.
Stiglitz, who had joined the Basterds two days ago, was sitting on the bed across the room. He looked truly busy, sharpening his knife and smoking a cigarette. He didn’t even bother to raise his eyes to Wicki before tossing him a nonchalant “Ganz gut,” as an answer.
Both of them were silent for a few moments until Stiglitz realized Wicki hadn’t bothered to move from his spot by the door. He stopped handling his knife and his eyes rose to Wicki’s.
“Was ist los?” Stiglitz asked frowning, then gripping his knife like a wild beast that had suddenly smelled danger.
“I don’t think I should do it,” explained Wicki, his voice listless and dull. “I don’t think I want to,” he added shortly.
“Warum nicht?” Once again Stiglitz sounded merely bothered by Wicki’s presence, tossing away the finished butt and lighting a new cigarette.
“I don’t think I trust you,” Wicki answered.
Stiglitz’s mouth twisted into a marvelous grin as he went back to work on his knife. “You do not have to,” he said in heavy and rough English this time. “To help me or trust me. I could use a hand once in a while, ja, but you do not have to trust me.”
Finally Wicki moved from the door and sat on the other bed. He began to take off his jacket, watching carefully as Stiglitz finished with his knife and sheathed it in his holster. Then he broke the silence once more.
“I understand why you do not know how to trust me,” he started slowly. “After what my people did to your people. I understand that. I may have killed those Gestapo but even so, to you, I still could be one of them.” Stiglitz cracked Wicki an indulgent, sharp smile. “But I guess you don’t really have a choice, mein Freund.”
“Why did you kill them?” Wicki asked a couple of minutes later. He wasn’t looking at Stiglitz. In fact, it almost sounded as though Wicki was talking to himself. “What’s your story?”
“I do not have a story,” Stiglitz stated flatly, and this time Wicki indeed stared at him, his usually weary face changing into something else.
“Of course you have one,” Wicki attested, solemnly. “A pretty disturbing one, if I could tell.”
But that time Stiglitz didn’t smile back.
“There’s nothing disturbing about death.”
Wicki couldn’t help but think of Stiglitz’s words as he slit a Nazi’s throat the very next day.
There’s nothing disturbing about death.
Right. Nothing at all. Truth be told, death, in this particular case, was a pretty simple thing. Before you faced death, there you were, breathing and fighting. Then there was the after, when you suddenly found yourself fighting to breathe. Wicki understood that.
Wicki knew when the German soldier fell over into his own pool of blood that he was already dead. And that didn’t really matter. It wasn’t even remotely disturbing. Not for Wicki. Not anymore.
Just another Spring morning. A warm, bloody morning close to Paris.
Wicki wasn’t surprised when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see that Stiglitz had stopped by his side, his hands full of blood and dirt. Just like Wicki’s. But he was surprised when Stiglitz smiled at the soldier’s body by his feet and said “You’re good at that.” Just like that, all casual and friendly. Just like the previous night’s conversation hadn’t happened.
Shaking his head as an excuse for a thanks, Wicki dropped to his knees and began to scalp the dead soldier under Stiglitz’s gaze. Stiglitz was still there when Wicki finished a couple of minutes later, the scalp now saved and strapped to his belt.
Then Stiglitz frowned, curious, and asked “Wofür ist das?” like he was talking about the freaking weather. His voice was like Wicki’s once was, cool and emotionless.
Wicki sighed before he repeated Stiglitz’s question in English. “‘What’s that for?’ Come on, say it.”
Stiglitz grinned openly. “I thought you said you would not teach me.”
Wicki pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and started to clean his knife.
“I never said I wouldn’t. I said I didn’t want to.” Wicki stared up at Stiglitz. “And about this,” he pointed down at the fresh scalp, “this is part of my debt to Lieutenant Raine.”
“Wie viele?” Stiglitz asked, and Wicki raised his eyebrows, obviously annoyed. Stiglitz snorted, switching his question back into English: “Hmm, how many?”
“We owe him one hundred. Each.” Wicki grinned openly. “I’ve managed to pay forty-four so far. Well, forty-five with this one, actually.”
Stiglitz nodded. “Like I said,” and then he smiled a strangely confident smile, “You’re good with that.”
It had been almost two weeks since Stiglitz joined the Basterds when he finally had the opportunity to watch Donny beat two Nazis to death.
Wicki was really curious about how Stiglitz would react to that particular event. Not that he thought Stiglitz would be upset by it. Not at all. He was the one who read the German Newspapers about Stiglitz’s crimes in the first place and saw for himself that Stiglitz didn’t have a problem killing fellow Germans every chance he got and in as many different ways he could put his bloody hands to. Still, that kind of experience should wake up something inside Stiglitz. Anything.
So Wicki didn’t know exactly what to think as Stiglitz cracked up, clapping his hands as the sticky blood spilled over Donny’s bat. Stiglitz sounded just as happy as a little boy who’d received a puppy for Christmas. He actually looked satisfied at the site, like he was the one holding the bat.
And Wicki just didn’t get it. He was the Jew between the two, but even so he remembered feeling some discomfort when he’d first seen Donny’s show.
Stiglitz, after all, like Wicki, could understand what each one of these soldiers was really saying between his screams. Even if it didn’t bother Wicki nowadays, he could still understand what those men were begging for.
Being the only one to understand the enemy’s language had been a lonely burden, sometimes almost unbearable. Most of the time it was easiest if ignored. But as Wicki watched Stiglitz slap Donny on the back, congratulating him with huge a grin on his face, he knew that burden couldn’t be shared.
Perhaps that was Stiglitz’s story.
Maybe he just didn’t care.
“How was your first time?”
Wicki looked around when he heard Stiglitz’s words. The other Basterds were far enough away to be out of earshot.
“Your English is getting better,” Wicki answered, slowing his pace so Stiglitz could catch up to him.
“That’s not what I asked.” Stiglitz’s voice sounded amused, cheerful, even. Maybe that had something to do with the three Nazis he had killed early that day. Wicki couldn’t help but shake his head, smiling. Sick bastards, all of them.
“What? So are we making small talk now? This doesn’t sound like you.”
Stiglitz’s face was baffled.
“Wir quatschen zusammen,” explained Wicki with an audible sigh. “Is that what you’re trying to do? You don’t have to.”
“I was asking about the first time you killed a man.” Somehow Stiglitz didn’t sound irritated. “That didn’t sound like small talk to me, Wilhelm.” Wicki barely registered that Stiglitz had just said his first name, but he stuck with that so he could avoid the main subject.
“You just called me Wilhelm.”
“That’s your name, right? You can call me Hugo if you want to.”
Wicki shook his head, trying to come up with something, anything, to say. Nothing came. He looked ahead, at Utivich’s back. He was the closest to them, just about seven meters ahead. He sighed one more time.
“Come on, Stiglitz. We’re getting behind.”
Wicki woke up in a small hospital, his right arm immobilized, his vision blurry. The last thing he remembered was being shot. He looked around, tried to sit up in bed and thought about how he could escape without being noticed. That’s when he felt a heavy hand on his good shoulder.
“Easy there, mein Freund” Wicki didn’t knew if Stiglitz’s presence should be something to be glad for or worried about, but he nodded and stayed silent, focusing on the room full of Nazis. Wicki watched as Stiglitz, dressed as an SS officer, talked to a nurse who waved to him with a reassuring smile.
“They will discharge you in a couple of minutes. We were only waiting for you to wake up,” Stiglitz explained as he sat on the chair next to his bed. He’s speaking in English, his voice deep and low so no else in the room could hear him but Wicki.
What Wicki really wanted to know was what the hell had happened to him, but he waited patiently until they were both out of the hospital, his arm in a sling and Stiglitz’s arm wrapped around his waist to help him walk. His legs were weak from all the morphine he’d received, and Stiglitz’s arm gave him solid and warm support. Wicki closed his eyes as they passed by a patrol, leaning over him. Wicki heard Stiglitz shout something in German but he couldn’t really understand the words. Somehow he wasn’t worried about it.
“Are you all right?” Stiglitz asked him a few minutes later, once the street was deserted. Wicki nodded and Stiglitz then told him that after he was shot and lost consciousness, they managed to kill the soldiers who had attacked them. But eventually they found that Wicki’s wound was too deep for any of them to take care of. So Stiglitz had suggested to Lieutenant Raine that if they changed Wicki into one of the Nazi uniforms he could take him to a proper hospital nearby. They were used to being disguised as German soldiers, so it didn’t make much of a difference.
“I guess that worked out,” Wicki snorted at the simplicity of the plan. His arm ached as his body shifted into the laugh. Stiglitz said nothing and they were walking about half a hour when something hit Wicki and he rose his head at Stiglitz. “Weren’t you afraid to be recognized down there? I mean, your picture used to be everywhere.”
“Nein,” Stiglitz shrugged. “I have a pretty common face. Besides, what would we do if you ended up losing your arm? That fine knife of yours won’t cut by itself.”
Wicki’s gaze fell to his feet. He couldn’t help but smile.
“Danke, Hugo.”
“Munich.”
Stiglitz turned his eyes away from the fire to stare at Wicki. Kagan was on watch and aside from Lieutenant Raine and Zimmerman talking at one end of the encampment, all the other Basterds were asleep.
“The first time I killed. It was in Munich. That’s why I ran away to America.”
Now that he had Stiglitz’s full attention, Wicki continued. “Of course things weren’t exactly sweet to my people back then, but the main reason I had to flee was because one night I took a knife from my mother’s kitchen and cut a man’s throat.”
Stiglitz lit a cigarette. “What he did to you?”
“There’s this guy, Günter. He had this little shop down our street and he offered my older sister a job. It was a good thing, at least we thought so, because the money was really short after the Great War ended. My father died in Cantigny, and my mother had three mouths to feed.”
“How old were you?” Stiglitz asked.
“Just turned sixteen,” Wicki answered with a dark smile. “I was real trouble, always picking fights with the other kids. My Mutti used to blame my father’s death on me being like that and, hell, maybe she had a point.”
Stiglitz grinned “You don’t seem like the troublesome type.”
“That was before,” Wicki licked his dry lips. “Anyway, one day, when they’re closing the shop, that Günter guy tried to grab my sister and when she resisted he beat the crap out of her. She came home crying. I wanted to go to the police, but my mother and my sister wouldn’t let me. They said my sister needed the job. I became furious, but I stayed at home” Wicki grinned. “I waited until they fell asleep.”
Stiglitz snorted. “That is more likely.”
“Then I took the knife and went to my neighbor’s house. The problem was that Günter had a cousin and his cousin used to crash on his couch now and then. So that night since the guy wasn’t alone, there was a struggle. And instead of killing the guy who beat up my sister, I ended up killing his verdammten cousin.” Wicki shook his head. “I had to disappear overnight. My mother sent me to live with a couple of friends of hers in America.”
“What happened to your family?” Stiglitz asked after Wicki had been silent for a few minutes. Wicki had been staring at the fire, his cigarette forgotten. He sighed audibly.
“My mother died in a train crash a year later.” That was the first time Wicki sounded affected by his own words. Stiglitz hesitated when he added, “and what about your sister?”
“My sister?” Wicki actually laughed this time. He finished his cigarette, throwing the butt into the fire. “She married the bastard. Changed her name. Disappeared.”
For the next ten minutes both of them just stared at the fire, listening to the crackling sound of the wood being devoured by the flames. The Lieutenant took over the watch so Kagan could get some sleep, and Zimmerman joined him a minute later. Soon there was nothing but the pop and crack of the wood on the fire.
“You should sleep, too” Stiglitz pointed out. “Your shift is after mine. I will wake you up.”
“Don’t really feel like sleeping” said Wicki. Stiglitz nodded, but didn’t say anything.
It was a very dark, clouded night, without stars. The moon appeared blurred behind the shadows, hidden like a sorrowful mourner.
“You don’t have to, you know,” Wicki said a couple of minutes later, when he felt Stiglitz’s arm touch his elbow. Stiglitz got a little bit closer so he could warm his hands over the fire. “Stay awake. Keep me company. I’m okay.”
Stiglitz took a new cigarette out of the package, put it in his mouth, lit it and once again offered it to Wicki.
“I’m okay, too.”
For the next five days neither of them said a thing about that clouded night. Wicki was glad because when he woke up the next morning, a terrible headache had overtaken him. He felt as though he was suffering from a hangover, but since he obviously hadn’t had anything to drink, he knew it was because he was embarrassed. He had never told any of the other Basterds the real reason he had run away from Munich. Maybe if he was drunk Wicki would have better handled what had happened, but he wasn’t.
The status quo lasted until late afternoon of the sixth day. They were eating their chow when Stiglitz broke the silence.
“How did that feel?”
Wicki thought about pretending he hadn’t the slightest clue of what Stiglitz was talking about, but the truth was that this didn’t seem really fair. Wicki trusted him once, after all, and Stiglitz didn’t do anything to Wicki to make him think otherwise. Well, maybe Wicki was wrong about him.
“It didn’t feel right,” Wicki admitted. “Because I killed the wrong man, I suppose.”
Stiglitz frowned.
“Do you think if you had killed the right man that would feel any better?”
“It couldn’t feel worse,” Wicki shrugged, staring down at his bowl. Carrots and some excuse for a meat were bobbing in the hot broth. “I mean, look at what we’re doing here. This isn’t about winning the war. It’s about getting revenge. I haven’t known any of the Nazis I’ve killed so far, and that hasn’t ever felt wrong.”
“Did you picture that man’s face on your enemies?” Stiglitz asked with a smirk. Wicki felt like he had just missed a step, his chest failing by a single heartbeat. But Stiglitz hadn’t finished. “Like, when you came behind their backs in silence and slit their throats open? Do you not go back to that night and wish that you had killed the right man?”
Suddenly Wicki wasn’t hungry.
“That’s an interesting thought” he murmured, putting down his bowl.
Stiglitz stared at him for a few seconds.
“It’s only interesting if it’s true.”
Running water was Wicki’s favorite sound. It wasn’t like the sound of rain, all messy and overwhelmed. It was a cool, quiet sound. Like a clean cut. The water hitting the rocks like his knife slitting a trachea, the blood flowing down his bare hands.
The Winter still had a few weeks ahead until it ended. Even if the water was cold and sharper like a blade, Wicki offered to wash the bowls and spoons when they reached a wood with a small river nearby. And even after he had finished his task, Wicki kept his hands in the water, his eyes closed, his mind blank to everything but the icy, icy cold.
“You want them to fall off, or what?” the sound of the water had masked Stiglitz’s footsteps. Taken by surprise, Wicki almost fell into the river. He got up quickly, felt his legs tingle with numbness for being on his knees for so long. His cheeks burned. “Your hands were like... purple” Stiglitz’s voice sounded concerned and he stepped closer.
Before Wicki could say anything, Stiglitz took both of his hands into his own and squeezed them tightly.
“What are you-?” The words failed Wicki as Stiglitz brought his hands closer to his mouth so he could breathe warmth into them until the purple had started to fade into pink. A shiver went down Wicki’s spine. “It feels good.” Wicki realized he had said that aloud when he caught Stiglitz’s confused smile. “I, I-” Wicki stammered before coming back to his senses and pulling his hands out of Stiglitz’s, taking the bowls and spoons and running to the encampment without looking back.
Wicki noticed he had come back alone when the Lieutenant stopped him with a grimace. “What was takin’ you so goddamn long? I had to send Stiglitz after you. Where the fuck is he now? We gotta go.”
Wicki ran into Stiglitz by the edge of the woods. “The-Lieutenant-was-asking-about-you,” Wicki said in a rush, the words coming from him like a stream. Stiglitz frowned for a second before taking something out of his jacket.
“You dropped it.” He handed Wicki his knife.
Wicki looked down at his obviously empty holster and felt his cheeks grow warm, just like his hands had between Stiglitz’s larger ones. “Danke.” Wicki took his knife and tried very hard not to look at Stiglitz, who was smiling openly.
“Yeah, and thanks to me you have both your hands so you can use it,” Stiglitz laughed, pointing at the knife.
It wasn’t that funny, but Wicki couldn’t help but laugh with him.
It was Wicki’s second hour on watch. He was supposed to wake Stiglitz up in half an hour. The watcher usually took a small distance from the camp, but that night the Lieutenant asked them to stay as close as possible. Wicki, under the moonlight, could see that Stiglitz was deeply asleep. He didn’t have the heart to disturb him.
They had been having a very difficult week now that they were headed closer to Paris. The Nazi patrols were becoming larger and angrier. Their last fight ended up with him stitching the skin over Stiglitz’s ribs after he was stabbed by a particularly pissed off German soldier. The others had only small injuries, but Wicki knew if things continued like that they would come very close to losing one of their ranks. He kept those haunting thoughts to himself, however. They didn’t need encouragement just like Stiglitz didn’t need to wake up to watch after Wicki had spent forty minutes stitching up his back like a pair of socks.
Wicki got up twenty minutes later, damning the one who had left the cold coffee near the sleeping Basterds. He tiptoed around and managed to get the coffee without making a single sound, but as Wicki was heading back to his spot he froze. He felt a blade at his throat and closed his eyes, his heart pounding faster.
“Are you stealing from the sleepers now?” Despite the fact that the sound of Stiglitz’s harsh voice and the sensation of his warm breath at Wicki’s neck definitely wouldn’t help his heart calm down, at least Wicki was damn sure he wouldn’t feel sleepy anytime soon.
“It’s just coffee.” Wicki recovered his voice and rolled his eyes. Stiglitz let him go, began walking next to him.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Wicki said as he reached his spot, sitting over a rock. Stiglitz looked up, examining the stellar sky for a whole minute, then looked back at Wicki.
“Why are you getting coffee? It’s my turn.”
“It won’t be your turn for a least another ten minutes,” Wicki said, but he knew he hadn’t fooled him when Stiglitz grinned.
“Do you need coffee to stay wake for ten minutes?”
Wicki bit his bottom lip and sighed. “All right. I decided to let you sleep. So what? You needed it. I mean, you’re injured.”
“Yeah?” Stiglitz crouched next to him. “So I can’t do the watch because my stitches will rip apart if I keep my eyes open?” Stiglitz bugged out his eyes to make a point.
Wicki let out a small laugh. “Here. Drink some.” He handed what was left of the coffee to Stiglitz. When their fingers slightly brushed each other, Wicki noticed that Stiglitz’s hands were oddly hotter than they should be. Frowning, he waited until Stiglitz had finished the coffee. Then he pressed the back of his right hand to Stiglitz’s forehead.
“You have a fever,” Wicki tried to hide the real concern he felt. A fever was never a good thing under their circumstances. He took Stiglitz’s hand between his, forcing him to stand up. “Here, turn around. Let me see if your wound is infected.”
Stiglitz pulled off his shirt and Wicki lit a match to take a better look. As he took off the bandage he noticed the wound seemed a little shallow, but pretty normal otherwise. “That hurt?” he asked, touching carefully around the wound with his fingertips.
“Nein” Stiglitz shook his head.
“All right then.” Wicki helped roll down Stiglitz’s shirt, the fabric soft under his fingers. “We’ll wait until morning. But if the fever doesn’t break overnight, you’ll have to take something, okay?”
Stiglitz nodded and as he turned over, Wicki realized he still had his hands on Stiglitz’s waist. He also noticed Stiglitz’s skin, even under the shirt, felt warmer than ever.
“I suppose I should go to sleep now” Stiglitz said, his eyes darker, his voice rough.
“I suppose you should,” Wicki confirmed, but when he tried take his hands off Stiglitz, he found himself pressed against Stiglitz’s body, heavy and warm.
“Was machst du da?” Wicki stared into Stiglitz’s eyes, now so close to his own. “What are you-?” His second question was silenced when Stiglitz’s lips pressed against his mouth.
Wicki closed his eyes immediately, tasting coffee and delirious warm fever right before he felt Stiglitz pushing his tongue between his lips. Wicki opened his mouth and tipped his head to the side, just a little, searching for a better angle to explore Stiglitz’s mouth. Stiglitz brought a hand up to Wicki’s neck, grasped it gently and dragged him closer, kissing him deeply.
They broke the kiss a minute later to catch some air, sharing a quick and awkward look. Wicki leaned over, closing his eyes, and pressed his forehead against Stiglitz’s hotter one.
“You really should get some sleep,” he said, and his voice come out steadier than he thought it possibly could. Stiglitz only nodded and let go off Wicki, turning his back to the camp.
Stiglitz’s fever was gone by morning. They didn’t exchange a single word when Wicki checked out Stiglitz’s wound or as they shared a rushed breakfast before getting ready to leave again. Wicki hadn’t had any sleep the previous night, but he didn’t feel tired or anything like that. His whole body was awake and alert.
They marched all morning and afternoon without any sign of Nazis. Wicki was half grateful, half miserable for it. They were in no shape to get into another major fight after their last aftermath, but a bunch of angry Nazis sure would have distracted him from the constant thoughts he was having about Stiglitz’s tongue searching its way into his mouth. He had avoided looking at Stiglitz all day long, unsure what he should expect to see in his face. Amusement? Curiosity? Need?
Regret?
He finally felt the burden of being awake for almost thirty-seven hours when, as night fell, they finally reached an abandoned farm. They caught a rabbit for dinner and the Lieutenant assigned Stiglitz and Utivich for first watch before sending Wicki straight to bed. “You didn’t close your fuckin’ eyes at all last night, did you? Go get some sleep, Corporal. Stiglitz here can live without you ‘til mornin’.”
Wicki pretend not to notice the other Basterds laughing faces and rushed to his bedding down in the basement, where Donny and Hirschberg were already asleep.
His sleep, however, didn’t come that easy. Wicki was used to this. When his mind was full and heavy, he simply couldn’t freaking relax. Wicki knew he couldn’t sleep right now, but he also knew that if the Lieutenant caught him sneaking upstairs things could get ugly. So he stayed put, awake for what felt like hours, his eyes forced closed and his mind wandering.
Wicki knew he had fallen asleep at some point during the night when he woke up all of a sudden, sitting up, breathing hard and fast, his hands shaking badly. He peered around and only felt himself relax at the sight of Stiglitz asleep near to him. Stiglitz’s face seemed calm and easy and Wicki lay back down, feeling his heartbeat slowly decrease.
Not that this was the first time Wicki had dreamed about being killed in action. He’d had these uncountable nightmares many times before. Those dreams where they all got caught by the Nazis and blindfolded, their bodies pressed against an execution wall, hands tied behind their backs as they are repeatedly shot by a group of one hundred scalpless German soldiers.
In those dreams, Wicki always was the first one to be blindfolded and he usually woke up at the firsts shots.
But this was the first time he saw Stiglitz drop dead before him.
Wicki was watching Stiglitz shaving himself in front of an improvised mirror. They were all almost ready to leave the farm and since Wicki couldn’t get back to sleep after his nightmare, he had spent the past few hours thinking about how he could start “that” conversation.
He hadn’t figured out exactly what to think about it yet, but he knew he had to say something. Anything. Even if it was a whispered, “we can just pretend nothing happened.”
So he said it.
Stiglitz didn’t answer right away, remaining silent for a couple of minutes as he finished up his shaving. Only after he had packed all his things together did he turn back to face Wicki, who held his breath.
“That’s what you want? To pretend it never happened?”
Wicki was speechless. He opened his mouth, but nothing but a stuttered “I-” came out. So he shut his mouth and looked away, embarrassed.
Then Stiglitz took hold of Wicki’s chin, forcing Wicki to stare at him.
“I wasn’t drunk or delirious because of the fever, Wilhelm. I did what I did and if you want to pretend that it didn’t happen, I’ll understand.”
And Wicki felt suddenly suffocated under his gaze.
“But I hope you remember that you didn’t try to stop me,” Stiglitz said before letting him go.
If Wicki had the opportunity he would blame the war. It was an awful, terrifying and atrocious thing, the war. Still, that was the kind of awful, terrifying and atrocious thing which brought people together. It was through events like wars that people found out what they were made of. What they would fight and die for.
The war exposed people’s true, bloody colors, like disemboweled bodies spread out in plain sight.
Wicki blamed the war for finding himself trusting in Hugo Stiglitz against his better judgement. It had been almost two years since Stiglitz joined the Basterds and Wicki hadn’t realized until the night they kissed that, at some point, he had learned to trust Stiglitz.
But he didn’t even know Stiglitz. He didn’t know what could possibly make an Oberfeldwebel kill thirteen Gestapo officers, then let himself to be caught and imprisoned. Wicki remembered Stiglitz’s face on the day they rescued him. He remembered that Stiglitz didn’t seemed remotely disturbed with his circumstances.
If Stiglitz didn’t care about those thirteen lives, then maybe he didn’t care about his own life, either. For awhile Wicki thought that maybe Stiglitz had already lost everything he had, whatever everything meant for someone like him. And, the Nazi killing apart, Wicki didn’t have a death wish. He knew he could die, and Wicki knew that he probably would end up dying anyway. But that didn’t mean he wanted to. Wicki knew he was a good soldier, a good shooter and very good with his knife. He knew if he had the chance, a real chance, he would make it through.
Wicki really didn’t think about what he would do after the war ended, but he knew he would like to be there to hear the cease fire and know he did his part. He would have had his revenge.
That would be something.
But just as Wicki didn’t know exactly when or how he began to trust Stiglitz, he also knew that Stiglitz trusted him back. And trust was such a powerful, rare thing in war. Somehow, that knowledge made Wicki feel a sense of relief.
Because if Stiglitz had someone to trust, that meant he had someone to lose, too.
And yes.
That would be something.
Then he admitted it. Two days later, mostly to himself. He said he didn’t want to pretend.
“So what you want to do?”
There was a heavy, long silence. Followed by a weakly I don’t know.
That was a nice, warm Spring morning.
The first really warm morning since Winter had died. The sky was still a bit gray, but they could finally see some blue trying to make its way between the clouds. They could even hear some birds singing, hidden by the trees.
And there was no sign of Nazis until the shots started to come from everywhere.
They couldn’t collect their scalps in the aftermath. They had to leave the dead German soldiers with their boots on their feet and their valuables in their pockets. They had to leave quickly, fearing for their own lives.
That was a nice, warm Spring morning.
And for the first time, they had to leave two of their men behind.
Wicki sat tight as he watched the other Basterds slip around the room.
Donny’s face was red and his eyes wet as he carved the names of Andy Kagan and Michael Zimmerman into his baseball bat. Utivich sat by his side, his face buried in his hands. Ulmer, Hirschberg and Sakowitz were playing cards in total silence. Two of their cards fell on the ground in the middle of the game. None of them seemed to notice.
The Lieutenant rushed into his own room right after they entered the boarding house. Aldo Raine said he didn’t want to take chances that night, but Wicki had a feeling that the Lieutenant wanted to hide for a few hours. That he just didn’t know how to face his men after he had failed with two of them.
Wicki couldn’t blame him, really. He was pretty much feeling like a fucking failure himself. He kept running through the entire battle in his mind, trying to understand how they hadn’t heard the Nazis approach. Why couldn’t he have done something, anything?
“It was not your fault.”
Wicki closed his eyes, feeling the light touch of Stiglitz’s hand on his elbow. “Das weiß ich.”
“No, you don’t know that,” Stiglitz said. “But you should. You did everything you could. We all did.”
And when he opened his eyes Wicki saw Stiglitz’s face close to his. Not too close, just enough so he could see the warmth in those pale eyes.
“Hugo-” Wicki started but he didn’t really knew what to say next. His chest felt so heavy he couldn’t breathe. What he should do?
“Alles in Ordnung” Stiglitz reassured him with a tentative smile.
Wicki nodded before following Stiglitz to the room they would share for the night.
“Yeah, I knew that would happen... at some point. It’s just-”
Wicki sighed, feeling defeated. He stopped talking as he watched Stiglitz take off his jacket and then his shirt. He took a long, deep breath, narrowing his eyes at the endless scars covering Stiglitz’s back, like he had been repeatedly and ruthlessly whipped. Wicki was surprised that he had never really noticed them before, but then the few times he had seen Stiglitz without his shirt he wasn’t really paying attention to that.
Now that he was, Wicki could tell that the scars were old ones. Like the tangled roots of a dead tree, spread over the dirt and burning under the sun.
And when his eyes met Stiglitz’s, Wicki knew that the warm look from before was still there. Only perhaps with something more. And Wicki knew it wasn’t shame. Or rage.
Maybe it was trust.
Stiglitz walked to Wicki’s bed and sat down, his back to Wicki, keeping a safe distance between them. Wicki was also wearing only his trousers, his chest exposed. He wasn’t really thinking as he bit his lower lip and hesitantly rose a hand, running his fingertips all over the damaged skin. His next words came from him like a prayer.
“Is that your story?”
An audible snort came from Stiglitz.
“No. It’s just one story.”
Wicki palmed his hand over Stiglitz’s skin. His fingers wrapped around the back of his neck until he managed to turn Stiglitz’s body towards his, so they could stare at each other.
“You don’t have to-” began Wicki.
“I won’t.”
“It’s okay,” Wicki leaned over so he could touch Stiglitz’s lips with his. “Come here.”
It grew slowly. Stiglitz didn’t part his lips immediately, choosing to touch the curve of Wicki’s mouth, like he wanted to memorize its shape. Stiglitz captured Wicki’s lower lip between his teeth and sucked it hard until Wicki let out a small moan, opening his mouth to Stiglitz’s tongue.
Wicki gasped for air without breaking the kiss and ran both of his hands over Stiglitz’s back, feeling the shape of the scars under his fingers. Stiglitz pinned him against the wall behind them, his hands finding Wicki’s belt and clumsily trying to open it. They broke the kiss, both breathing heavily and irregularly. Stiglitz seemed to struggle with himself.
“Entschuldigung-”
Wicki didn’t let go of Stiglitz, holding him closer. “It’s okay,” he repeated, breathless. “I’m okay.”
Stiglitz shook his head.
“You’re still upset about what happened to your friends.”
Wicki tucked his fingers into Stiglitz’s waistband. “You once said to me that there’s nothing disturbing about death.”
Stiglitz looked deep into Wicki’s eyes. “There isn’t, once you learn to let it go.”
Wicki thought about Andy and Michael. He closed his eyes, trying to erase their faces away from his mind, trying to wash their blood from the ground and cover up their bloody wounds. He leaned back, his head touching the cold and rough wall behind him. Wicki could feel Stiglitz’s breath over his. Stiglitz’s hand on his hair.
“I can do something about it. Now. I can, if you let me,” Stiglitz said and he leaned closer, whispering in Wicki’s ear.
Then the air crushed into Wicki’s lungs. His words came out painfully. “Say that again. Say that in English.”
And although Wicki kept his eyes closed, he could still see Stiglitz’s small, crooked smile.
“I can fuck you,” Stiglitz breathed into Wicki’s ear, his voice thick with passion. “I can fuck you hard until you forget about everything. Until you can’t remember how to spell your own verdammten Name.”
Wicki’s breathless silence was enough of an answer. Stiglitz smashed their lips together, finished undoing Wicki’s belt and opening his fly. Wicki lifted his hips so Stiglitz could pull off his trousers and underwear. His heart beat hard and fast against his chest. He tried to calm down, taking a few deep breaths as he lay naked on the bed and watched Stiglitz stand up to finish stripping himself.
Without taking his eyes off Stiglitz, Wicki leaned against the headboard, a rough pillow under his back. He watched Stiglitz’s eyes travel down his body for a moment, as he climbed into the bed again, fitting himself between Wicki’s legs.
They shared just a quick, anxious look right before Stiglitz lowered his head. He kissed around Wicki’s navel and then began sucking the sensitive skin around his groin. Wicki gave up and closed his eyes, digging his fingers into Stiglitz’s shoulders in a silent request.
Wicki was forced to open his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling, his mouth shaped in an unsaid groan when Stiglitz went down on him. Stiglitz stroked Wicki’s inner thighs with his fingertips while sucking him deep into his throat. Wicki grabbed Stiglitz’s hair with one hand, the other one clutching the sheets as he bucked his hips and let out a “Hugo-”.
Stiglitz held the base of Wicki’s cock with one hand, jerking him off as he sucked three of his fingers so he could slick one, then two inside him. Wicki started to bite down his lower lip to control himself, almost tearing the soft skin apart. When the third finger was in, Stiglitz was also panting, his eyes running from Wicki’s groin to his writhed, red face. Stiglitz scissored his fingers slowly inside, and Wicki bit his lower lip, hard.
He released Stiglitz’s hair and spread his legs a little bit more, making room for Stiglitz, who had removed his fingers from Wicki’s ass to slick himself. He stopped stimulating Wicki for a few seconds, hooking Wicki’s legs over his shoulders. He paused and stared down at him, his breathing harsh and heavy.
Wicki knew Stiglitz wasn’t asking for permission, but even so he nodded, and tried hard not to close his eyes as Stiglitz pushed into him.
Fighting the immediate pain away, Wicki hissed out and threw his head back when Stiglitz grabbed his cock again, setting the touch of his hand with the pace of his initial small thrusts. Wicki’s mind went blank, his breathing got harder and harder. Wicki squirmed his toes over Stiglitz’s shoulders when he felt Stiglitz’s body shift and hit something inside him that made Wicki draw real blood from his lower lip.
Wicki ended up closing his eyes again, tasting copper. He began to breathe through his nose, struggling to keep a moan from escaping his pressed lips. Lost between the sensations of the increasing, deeper thrusts and Stiglitz’s hand on his cock, Wicki didn’t realize Stiglitz had brought his head down until their lips were slightly touching.
He felt Stiglitz’s warm, wet tongue lick the remaining blood off his lip and Wicki opened his mouth, raising his head just a little so they could kiss properly. He grabbed Stiglitz’s hair again, forcing him to thrust faster, all of his words lost somewhere between his chest and his throat.
Stiglitz finished first, his body suddenly heavy against the back of Wicki’s knees, letting a small moan be smothered by the touch of their mouths pressed together. He rose his head just enough so he could jerk Wicki off for a few seconds until he came all over his hand.
They didn’t untangle from each other for a moment. Wicki’s legs wrapped around Stiglitz’s waist, their chests crushed, their breathing slowed down.
Wicki could feel Stiglitz’s mouth against his Adam’s apple. He felt the sweat from their bodies slowly starting to chill.
He wasn’t planning to move anytime soon.
“Did you forget?”
Wicki felt Stiglitz’s lips moving over his neck and he smiled to himself for a second, his eyes still closed.
“No,” his voice sounded rough as he spoke. “I didn’t.”
Feeling a hand on his face, Wicki opened his eyes to find Stiglitz looking directly at him.
“It’s okay. I will,” he said. “Just not today.”
Stiglitz half-smiled. “Vielleicht morgen.”
“Yes.” Wicki let himself smile back. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“TRANSLATIONS”
~ or what I supposed to meant by:
Ganz gut = Alright/Okay
Was ist los? = What’s wrong?
Warum nicht? = Why Not?
Das weiß ich = I know that
Alles in Ordnung = That’s alright/Okay
Entschuldigung = I’m sorry
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/character(s): Hugo Stiglitz/Wilhelm Wicki
Word count: ~ 7,000
Disclaimer: Quentin Tarantino is the king of the Scalpland.
Summary: If Wicki had the opportunity he would blame the war. It was an awful, terrifying and atrocious thing, the war. Still, that was the kind of awful, terrifying and atrocious thing which brought people together.
Warnings: Besides this being an Inglourious Basterds fic (i. e. there’s some mention of violence) and NC-17 rated? None, really.
Notes: The title came from this mind blowing song by Rammstein and it means “Spring bleeds in Paris”.
Thanks to: the lovely deborahkla for her awesome beta-reading and also to machiavelli_imp for the invaluable help with the German sentences. Any remain mistakes are mine.
“The Lieutenant asked me to help you improve your English,” Wicki said in greeting, closing the door behind him.
Stiglitz, who had joined the Basterds two days ago, was sitting on the bed across the room. He looked truly busy, sharpening his knife and smoking a cigarette. He didn’t even bother to raise his eyes to Wicki before tossing him a nonchalant “Ganz gut,” as an answer.
Both of them were silent for a few moments until Stiglitz realized Wicki hadn’t bothered to move from his spot by the door. He stopped handling his knife and his eyes rose to Wicki’s.
“Was ist los?” Stiglitz asked frowning, then gripping his knife like a wild beast that had suddenly smelled danger.
“I don’t think I should do it,” explained Wicki, his voice listless and dull. “I don’t think I want to,” he added shortly.
“Warum nicht?” Once again Stiglitz sounded merely bothered by Wicki’s presence, tossing away the finished butt and lighting a new cigarette.
“I don’t think I trust you,” Wicki answered.
Stiglitz’s mouth twisted into a marvelous grin as he went back to work on his knife. “You do not have to,” he said in heavy and rough English this time. “To help me or trust me. I could use a hand once in a while, ja, but you do not have to trust me.”
Finally Wicki moved from the door and sat on the other bed. He began to take off his jacket, watching carefully as Stiglitz finished with his knife and sheathed it in his holster. Then he broke the silence once more.
“I understand why you do not know how to trust me,” he started slowly. “After what my people did to your people. I understand that. I may have killed those Gestapo but even so, to you, I still could be one of them.” Stiglitz cracked Wicki an indulgent, sharp smile. “But I guess you don’t really have a choice, mein Freund.”
“Why did you kill them?” Wicki asked a couple of minutes later. He wasn’t looking at Stiglitz. In fact, it almost sounded as though Wicki was talking to himself. “What’s your story?”
“I do not have a story,” Stiglitz stated flatly, and this time Wicki indeed stared at him, his usually weary face changing into something else.
“Of course you have one,” Wicki attested, solemnly. “A pretty disturbing one, if I could tell.”
But that time Stiglitz didn’t smile back.
“There’s nothing disturbing about death.”
Wicki couldn’t help but think of Stiglitz’s words as he slit a Nazi’s throat the very next day.
There’s nothing disturbing about death.
Right. Nothing at all. Truth be told, death, in this particular case, was a pretty simple thing. Before you faced death, there you were, breathing and fighting. Then there was the after, when you suddenly found yourself fighting to breathe. Wicki understood that.
Wicki knew when the German soldier fell over into his own pool of blood that he was already dead. And that didn’t really matter. It wasn’t even remotely disturbing. Not for Wicki. Not anymore.
Just another Spring morning. A warm, bloody morning close to Paris.
Wicki wasn’t surprised when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see that Stiglitz had stopped by his side, his hands full of blood and dirt. Just like Wicki’s. But he was surprised when Stiglitz smiled at the soldier’s body by his feet and said “You’re good at that.” Just like that, all casual and friendly. Just like the previous night’s conversation hadn’t happened.
Shaking his head as an excuse for a thanks, Wicki dropped to his knees and began to scalp the dead soldier under Stiglitz’s gaze. Stiglitz was still there when Wicki finished a couple of minutes later, the scalp now saved and strapped to his belt.
Then Stiglitz frowned, curious, and asked “Wofür ist das?” like he was talking about the freaking weather. His voice was like Wicki’s once was, cool and emotionless.
Wicki sighed before he repeated Stiglitz’s question in English. “‘What’s that for?’ Come on, say it.”
Stiglitz grinned openly. “I thought you said you would not teach me.”
Wicki pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and started to clean his knife.
“I never said I wouldn’t. I said I didn’t want to.” Wicki stared up at Stiglitz. “And about this,” he pointed down at the fresh scalp, “this is part of my debt to Lieutenant Raine.”
“Wie viele?” Stiglitz asked, and Wicki raised his eyebrows, obviously annoyed. Stiglitz snorted, switching his question back into English: “Hmm, how many?”
“We owe him one hundred. Each.” Wicki grinned openly. “I’ve managed to pay forty-four so far. Well, forty-five with this one, actually.”
Stiglitz nodded. “Like I said,” and then he smiled a strangely confident smile, “You’re good with that.”
It had been almost two weeks since Stiglitz joined the Basterds when he finally had the opportunity to watch Donny beat two Nazis to death.
Wicki was really curious about how Stiglitz would react to that particular event. Not that he thought Stiglitz would be upset by it. Not at all. He was the one who read the German Newspapers about Stiglitz’s crimes in the first place and saw for himself that Stiglitz didn’t have a problem killing fellow Germans every chance he got and in as many different ways he could put his bloody hands to. Still, that kind of experience should wake up something inside Stiglitz. Anything.
So Wicki didn’t know exactly what to think as Stiglitz cracked up, clapping his hands as the sticky blood spilled over Donny’s bat. Stiglitz sounded just as happy as a little boy who’d received a puppy for Christmas. He actually looked satisfied at the site, like he was the one holding the bat.
And Wicki just didn’t get it. He was the Jew between the two, but even so he remembered feeling some discomfort when he’d first seen Donny’s show.
Stiglitz, after all, like Wicki, could understand what each one of these soldiers was really saying between his screams. Even if it didn’t bother Wicki nowadays, he could still understand what those men were begging for.
Being the only one to understand the enemy’s language had been a lonely burden, sometimes almost unbearable. Most of the time it was easiest if ignored. But as Wicki watched Stiglitz slap Donny on the back, congratulating him with huge a grin on his face, he knew that burden couldn’t be shared.
Perhaps that was Stiglitz’s story.
Maybe he just didn’t care.
“How was your first time?”
Wicki looked around when he heard Stiglitz’s words. The other Basterds were far enough away to be out of earshot.
“Your English is getting better,” Wicki answered, slowing his pace so Stiglitz could catch up to him.
“That’s not what I asked.” Stiglitz’s voice sounded amused, cheerful, even. Maybe that had something to do with the three Nazis he had killed early that day. Wicki couldn’t help but shake his head, smiling. Sick bastards, all of them.
“What? So are we making small talk now? This doesn’t sound like you.”
Stiglitz’s face was baffled.
“Wir quatschen zusammen,” explained Wicki with an audible sigh. “Is that what you’re trying to do? You don’t have to.”
“I was asking about the first time you killed a man.” Somehow Stiglitz didn’t sound irritated. “That didn’t sound like small talk to me, Wilhelm.” Wicki barely registered that Stiglitz had just said his first name, but he stuck with that so he could avoid the main subject.
“You just called me Wilhelm.”
“That’s your name, right? You can call me Hugo if you want to.”
Wicki shook his head, trying to come up with something, anything, to say. Nothing came. He looked ahead, at Utivich’s back. He was the closest to them, just about seven meters ahead. He sighed one more time.
“Come on, Stiglitz. We’re getting behind.”
Wicki woke up in a small hospital, his right arm immobilized, his vision blurry. The last thing he remembered was being shot. He looked around, tried to sit up in bed and thought about how he could escape without being noticed. That’s when he felt a heavy hand on his good shoulder.
“Easy there, mein Freund” Wicki didn’t knew if Stiglitz’s presence should be something to be glad for or worried about, but he nodded and stayed silent, focusing on the room full of Nazis. Wicki watched as Stiglitz, dressed as an SS officer, talked to a nurse who waved to him with a reassuring smile.
“They will discharge you in a couple of minutes. We were only waiting for you to wake up,” Stiglitz explained as he sat on the chair next to his bed. He’s speaking in English, his voice deep and low so no else in the room could hear him but Wicki.
What Wicki really wanted to know was what the hell had happened to him, but he waited patiently until they were both out of the hospital, his arm in a sling and Stiglitz’s arm wrapped around his waist to help him walk. His legs were weak from all the morphine he’d received, and Stiglitz’s arm gave him solid and warm support. Wicki closed his eyes as they passed by a patrol, leaning over him. Wicki heard Stiglitz shout something in German but he couldn’t really understand the words. Somehow he wasn’t worried about it.
“Are you all right?” Stiglitz asked him a few minutes later, once the street was deserted. Wicki nodded and Stiglitz then told him that after he was shot and lost consciousness, they managed to kill the soldiers who had attacked them. But eventually they found that Wicki’s wound was too deep for any of them to take care of. So Stiglitz had suggested to Lieutenant Raine that if they changed Wicki into one of the Nazi uniforms he could take him to a proper hospital nearby. They were used to being disguised as German soldiers, so it didn’t make much of a difference.
“I guess that worked out,” Wicki snorted at the simplicity of the plan. His arm ached as his body shifted into the laugh. Stiglitz said nothing and they were walking about half a hour when something hit Wicki and he rose his head at Stiglitz. “Weren’t you afraid to be recognized down there? I mean, your picture used to be everywhere.”
“Nein,” Stiglitz shrugged. “I have a pretty common face. Besides, what would we do if you ended up losing your arm? That fine knife of yours won’t cut by itself.”
Wicki’s gaze fell to his feet. He couldn’t help but smile.
“Danke, Hugo.”
“Munich.”
Stiglitz turned his eyes away from the fire to stare at Wicki. Kagan was on watch and aside from Lieutenant Raine and Zimmerman talking at one end of the encampment, all the other Basterds were asleep.
“The first time I killed. It was in Munich. That’s why I ran away to America.”
Now that he had Stiglitz’s full attention, Wicki continued. “Of course things weren’t exactly sweet to my people back then, but the main reason I had to flee was because one night I took a knife from my mother’s kitchen and cut a man’s throat.”
Stiglitz lit a cigarette. “What he did to you?”
“There’s this guy, Günter. He had this little shop down our street and he offered my older sister a job. It was a good thing, at least we thought so, because the money was really short after the Great War ended. My father died in Cantigny, and my mother had three mouths to feed.”
“How old were you?” Stiglitz asked.
“Just turned sixteen,” Wicki answered with a dark smile. “I was real trouble, always picking fights with the other kids. My Mutti used to blame my father’s death on me being like that and, hell, maybe she had a point.”
Stiglitz grinned “You don’t seem like the troublesome type.”
“That was before,” Wicki licked his dry lips. “Anyway, one day, when they’re closing the shop, that Günter guy tried to grab my sister and when she resisted he beat the crap out of her. She came home crying. I wanted to go to the police, but my mother and my sister wouldn’t let me. They said my sister needed the job. I became furious, but I stayed at home” Wicki grinned. “I waited until they fell asleep.”
Stiglitz snorted. “That is more likely.”
“Then I took the knife and went to my neighbor’s house. The problem was that Günter had a cousin and his cousin used to crash on his couch now and then. So that night since the guy wasn’t alone, there was a struggle. And instead of killing the guy who beat up my sister, I ended up killing his verdammten cousin.” Wicki shook his head. “I had to disappear overnight. My mother sent me to live with a couple of friends of hers in America.”
“What happened to your family?” Stiglitz asked after Wicki had been silent for a few minutes. Wicki had been staring at the fire, his cigarette forgotten. He sighed audibly.
“My mother died in a train crash a year later.” That was the first time Wicki sounded affected by his own words. Stiglitz hesitated when he added, “and what about your sister?”
“My sister?” Wicki actually laughed this time. He finished his cigarette, throwing the butt into the fire. “She married the bastard. Changed her name. Disappeared.”
For the next ten minutes both of them just stared at the fire, listening to the crackling sound of the wood being devoured by the flames. The Lieutenant took over the watch so Kagan could get some sleep, and Zimmerman joined him a minute later. Soon there was nothing but the pop and crack of the wood on the fire.
“You should sleep, too” Stiglitz pointed out. “Your shift is after mine. I will wake you up.”
“Don’t really feel like sleeping” said Wicki. Stiglitz nodded, but didn’t say anything.
It was a very dark, clouded night, without stars. The moon appeared blurred behind the shadows, hidden like a sorrowful mourner.
“You don’t have to, you know,” Wicki said a couple of minutes later, when he felt Stiglitz’s arm touch his elbow. Stiglitz got a little bit closer so he could warm his hands over the fire. “Stay awake. Keep me company. I’m okay.”
Stiglitz took a new cigarette out of the package, put it in his mouth, lit it and once again offered it to Wicki.
“I’m okay, too.”
For the next five days neither of them said a thing about that clouded night. Wicki was glad because when he woke up the next morning, a terrible headache had overtaken him. He felt as though he was suffering from a hangover, but since he obviously hadn’t had anything to drink, he knew it was because he was embarrassed. He had never told any of the other Basterds the real reason he had run away from Munich. Maybe if he was drunk Wicki would have better handled what had happened, but he wasn’t.
The status quo lasted until late afternoon of the sixth day. They were eating their chow when Stiglitz broke the silence.
“How did that feel?”
Wicki thought about pretending he hadn’t the slightest clue of what Stiglitz was talking about, but the truth was that this didn’t seem really fair. Wicki trusted him once, after all, and Stiglitz didn’t do anything to Wicki to make him think otherwise. Well, maybe Wicki was wrong about him.
“It didn’t feel right,” Wicki admitted. “Because I killed the wrong man, I suppose.”
Stiglitz frowned.
“Do you think if you had killed the right man that would feel any better?”
“It couldn’t feel worse,” Wicki shrugged, staring down at his bowl. Carrots and some excuse for a meat were bobbing in the hot broth. “I mean, look at what we’re doing here. This isn’t about winning the war. It’s about getting revenge. I haven’t known any of the Nazis I’ve killed so far, and that hasn’t ever felt wrong.”
“Did you picture that man’s face on your enemies?” Stiglitz asked with a smirk. Wicki felt like he had just missed a step, his chest failing by a single heartbeat. But Stiglitz hadn’t finished. “Like, when you came behind their backs in silence and slit their throats open? Do you not go back to that night and wish that you had killed the right man?”
Suddenly Wicki wasn’t hungry.
“That’s an interesting thought” he murmured, putting down his bowl.
Stiglitz stared at him for a few seconds.
“It’s only interesting if it’s true.”
Running water was Wicki’s favorite sound. It wasn’t like the sound of rain, all messy and overwhelmed. It was a cool, quiet sound. Like a clean cut. The water hitting the rocks like his knife slitting a trachea, the blood flowing down his bare hands.
The Winter still had a few weeks ahead until it ended. Even if the water was cold and sharper like a blade, Wicki offered to wash the bowls and spoons when they reached a wood with a small river nearby. And even after he had finished his task, Wicki kept his hands in the water, his eyes closed, his mind blank to everything but the icy, icy cold.
“You want them to fall off, or what?” the sound of the water had masked Stiglitz’s footsteps. Taken by surprise, Wicki almost fell into the river. He got up quickly, felt his legs tingle with numbness for being on his knees for so long. His cheeks burned. “Your hands were like... purple” Stiglitz’s voice sounded concerned and he stepped closer.
Before Wicki could say anything, Stiglitz took both of his hands into his own and squeezed them tightly.
“What are you-?” The words failed Wicki as Stiglitz brought his hands closer to his mouth so he could breathe warmth into them until the purple had started to fade into pink. A shiver went down Wicki’s spine. “It feels good.” Wicki realized he had said that aloud when he caught Stiglitz’s confused smile. “I, I-” Wicki stammered before coming back to his senses and pulling his hands out of Stiglitz’s, taking the bowls and spoons and running to the encampment without looking back.
Wicki noticed he had come back alone when the Lieutenant stopped him with a grimace. “What was takin’ you so goddamn long? I had to send Stiglitz after you. Where the fuck is he now? We gotta go.”
Wicki ran into Stiglitz by the edge of the woods. “The-Lieutenant-was-asking-about-you,” Wicki said in a rush, the words coming from him like a stream. Stiglitz frowned for a second before taking something out of his jacket.
“You dropped it.” He handed Wicki his knife.
Wicki looked down at his obviously empty holster and felt his cheeks grow warm, just like his hands had between Stiglitz’s larger ones. “Danke.” Wicki took his knife and tried very hard not to look at Stiglitz, who was smiling openly.
“Yeah, and thanks to me you have both your hands so you can use it,” Stiglitz laughed, pointing at the knife.
It wasn’t that funny, but Wicki couldn’t help but laugh with him.
It was Wicki’s second hour on watch. He was supposed to wake Stiglitz up in half an hour. The watcher usually took a small distance from the camp, but that night the Lieutenant asked them to stay as close as possible. Wicki, under the moonlight, could see that Stiglitz was deeply asleep. He didn’t have the heart to disturb him.
They had been having a very difficult week now that they were headed closer to Paris. The Nazi patrols were becoming larger and angrier. Their last fight ended up with him stitching the skin over Stiglitz’s ribs after he was stabbed by a particularly pissed off German soldier. The others had only small injuries, but Wicki knew if things continued like that they would come very close to losing one of their ranks. He kept those haunting thoughts to himself, however. They didn’t need encouragement just like Stiglitz didn’t need to wake up to watch after Wicki had spent forty minutes stitching up his back like a pair of socks.
Wicki got up twenty minutes later, damning the one who had left the cold coffee near the sleeping Basterds. He tiptoed around and managed to get the coffee without making a single sound, but as Wicki was heading back to his spot he froze. He felt a blade at his throat and closed his eyes, his heart pounding faster.
“Are you stealing from the sleepers now?” Despite the fact that the sound of Stiglitz’s harsh voice and the sensation of his warm breath at Wicki’s neck definitely wouldn’t help his heart calm down, at least Wicki was damn sure he wouldn’t feel sleepy anytime soon.
“It’s just coffee.” Wicki recovered his voice and rolled his eyes. Stiglitz let him go, began walking next to him.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Wicki said as he reached his spot, sitting over a rock. Stiglitz looked up, examining the stellar sky for a whole minute, then looked back at Wicki.
“Why are you getting coffee? It’s my turn.”
“It won’t be your turn for a least another ten minutes,” Wicki said, but he knew he hadn’t fooled him when Stiglitz grinned.
“Do you need coffee to stay wake for ten minutes?”
Wicki bit his bottom lip and sighed. “All right. I decided to let you sleep. So what? You needed it. I mean, you’re injured.”
“Yeah?” Stiglitz crouched next to him. “So I can’t do the watch because my stitches will rip apart if I keep my eyes open?” Stiglitz bugged out his eyes to make a point.
Wicki let out a small laugh. “Here. Drink some.” He handed what was left of the coffee to Stiglitz. When their fingers slightly brushed each other, Wicki noticed that Stiglitz’s hands were oddly hotter than they should be. Frowning, he waited until Stiglitz had finished the coffee. Then he pressed the back of his right hand to Stiglitz’s forehead.
“You have a fever,” Wicki tried to hide the real concern he felt. A fever was never a good thing under their circumstances. He took Stiglitz’s hand between his, forcing him to stand up. “Here, turn around. Let me see if your wound is infected.”
Stiglitz pulled off his shirt and Wicki lit a match to take a better look. As he took off the bandage he noticed the wound seemed a little shallow, but pretty normal otherwise. “That hurt?” he asked, touching carefully around the wound with his fingertips.
“Nein” Stiglitz shook his head.
“All right then.” Wicki helped roll down Stiglitz’s shirt, the fabric soft under his fingers. “We’ll wait until morning. But if the fever doesn’t break overnight, you’ll have to take something, okay?”
Stiglitz nodded and as he turned over, Wicki realized he still had his hands on Stiglitz’s waist. He also noticed Stiglitz’s skin, even under the shirt, felt warmer than ever.
“I suppose I should go to sleep now” Stiglitz said, his eyes darker, his voice rough.
“I suppose you should,” Wicki confirmed, but when he tried take his hands off Stiglitz, he found himself pressed against Stiglitz’s body, heavy and warm.
“Was machst du da?” Wicki stared into Stiglitz’s eyes, now so close to his own. “What are you-?” His second question was silenced when Stiglitz’s lips pressed against his mouth.
Wicki closed his eyes immediately, tasting coffee and delirious warm fever right before he felt Stiglitz pushing his tongue between his lips. Wicki opened his mouth and tipped his head to the side, just a little, searching for a better angle to explore Stiglitz’s mouth. Stiglitz brought a hand up to Wicki’s neck, grasped it gently and dragged him closer, kissing him deeply.
They broke the kiss a minute later to catch some air, sharing a quick and awkward look. Wicki leaned over, closing his eyes, and pressed his forehead against Stiglitz’s hotter one.
“You really should get some sleep,” he said, and his voice come out steadier than he thought it possibly could. Stiglitz only nodded and let go off Wicki, turning his back to the camp.
Stiglitz’s fever was gone by morning. They didn’t exchange a single word when Wicki checked out Stiglitz’s wound or as they shared a rushed breakfast before getting ready to leave again. Wicki hadn’t had any sleep the previous night, but he didn’t feel tired or anything like that. His whole body was awake and alert.
They marched all morning and afternoon without any sign of Nazis. Wicki was half grateful, half miserable for it. They were in no shape to get into another major fight after their last aftermath, but a bunch of angry Nazis sure would have distracted him from the constant thoughts he was having about Stiglitz’s tongue searching its way into his mouth. He had avoided looking at Stiglitz all day long, unsure what he should expect to see in his face. Amusement? Curiosity? Need?
Regret?
He finally felt the burden of being awake for almost thirty-seven hours when, as night fell, they finally reached an abandoned farm. They caught a rabbit for dinner and the Lieutenant assigned Stiglitz and Utivich for first watch before sending Wicki straight to bed. “You didn’t close your fuckin’ eyes at all last night, did you? Go get some sleep, Corporal. Stiglitz here can live without you ‘til mornin’.”
Wicki pretend not to notice the other Basterds laughing faces and rushed to his bedding down in the basement, where Donny and Hirschberg were already asleep.
His sleep, however, didn’t come that easy. Wicki was used to this. When his mind was full and heavy, he simply couldn’t freaking relax. Wicki knew he couldn’t sleep right now, but he also knew that if the Lieutenant caught him sneaking upstairs things could get ugly. So he stayed put, awake for what felt like hours, his eyes forced closed and his mind wandering.
Wicki knew he had fallen asleep at some point during the night when he woke up all of a sudden, sitting up, breathing hard and fast, his hands shaking badly. He peered around and only felt himself relax at the sight of Stiglitz asleep near to him. Stiglitz’s face seemed calm and easy and Wicki lay back down, feeling his heartbeat slowly decrease.
Not that this was the first time Wicki had dreamed about being killed in action. He’d had these uncountable nightmares many times before. Those dreams where they all got caught by the Nazis and blindfolded, their bodies pressed against an execution wall, hands tied behind their backs as they are repeatedly shot by a group of one hundred scalpless German soldiers.
In those dreams, Wicki always was the first one to be blindfolded and he usually woke up at the firsts shots.
But this was the first time he saw Stiglitz drop dead before him.
Wicki was watching Stiglitz shaving himself in front of an improvised mirror. They were all almost ready to leave the farm and since Wicki couldn’t get back to sleep after his nightmare, he had spent the past few hours thinking about how he could start “that” conversation.
He hadn’t figured out exactly what to think about it yet, but he knew he had to say something. Anything. Even if it was a whispered, “we can just pretend nothing happened.”
So he said it.
Stiglitz didn’t answer right away, remaining silent for a couple of minutes as he finished up his shaving. Only after he had packed all his things together did he turn back to face Wicki, who held his breath.
“That’s what you want? To pretend it never happened?”
Wicki was speechless. He opened his mouth, but nothing but a stuttered “I-” came out. So he shut his mouth and looked away, embarrassed.
Then Stiglitz took hold of Wicki’s chin, forcing Wicki to stare at him.
“I wasn’t drunk or delirious because of the fever, Wilhelm. I did what I did and if you want to pretend that it didn’t happen, I’ll understand.”
And Wicki felt suddenly suffocated under his gaze.
“But I hope you remember that you didn’t try to stop me,” Stiglitz said before letting him go.
If Wicki had the opportunity he would blame the war. It was an awful, terrifying and atrocious thing, the war. Still, that was the kind of awful, terrifying and atrocious thing which brought people together. It was through events like wars that people found out what they were made of. What they would fight and die for.
The war exposed people’s true, bloody colors, like disemboweled bodies spread out in plain sight.
Wicki blamed the war for finding himself trusting in Hugo Stiglitz against his better judgement. It had been almost two years since Stiglitz joined the Basterds and Wicki hadn’t realized until the night they kissed that, at some point, he had learned to trust Stiglitz.
But he didn’t even know Stiglitz. He didn’t know what could possibly make an Oberfeldwebel kill thirteen Gestapo officers, then let himself to be caught and imprisoned. Wicki remembered Stiglitz’s face on the day they rescued him. He remembered that Stiglitz didn’t seemed remotely disturbed with his circumstances.
If Stiglitz didn’t care about those thirteen lives, then maybe he didn’t care about his own life, either. For awhile Wicki thought that maybe Stiglitz had already lost everything he had, whatever everything meant for someone like him. And, the Nazi killing apart, Wicki didn’t have a death wish. He knew he could die, and Wicki knew that he probably would end up dying anyway. But that didn’t mean he wanted to. Wicki knew he was a good soldier, a good shooter and very good with his knife. He knew if he had the chance, a real chance, he would make it through.
Wicki really didn’t think about what he would do after the war ended, but he knew he would like to be there to hear the cease fire and know he did his part. He would have had his revenge.
That would be something.
But just as Wicki didn’t know exactly when or how he began to trust Stiglitz, he also knew that Stiglitz trusted him back. And trust was such a powerful, rare thing in war. Somehow, that knowledge made Wicki feel a sense of relief.
Because if Stiglitz had someone to trust, that meant he had someone to lose, too.
And yes.
That would be something.
Then he admitted it. Two days later, mostly to himself. He said he didn’t want to pretend.
“So what you want to do?”
There was a heavy, long silence. Followed by a weakly I don’t know.
That was a nice, warm Spring morning.
The first really warm morning since Winter had died. The sky was still a bit gray, but they could finally see some blue trying to make its way between the clouds. They could even hear some birds singing, hidden by the trees.
And there was no sign of Nazis until the shots started to come from everywhere.
They couldn’t collect their scalps in the aftermath. They had to leave the dead German soldiers with their boots on their feet and their valuables in their pockets. They had to leave quickly, fearing for their own lives.
That was a nice, warm Spring morning.
And for the first time, they had to leave two of their men behind.
Wicki sat tight as he watched the other Basterds slip around the room.
Donny’s face was red and his eyes wet as he carved the names of Andy Kagan and Michael Zimmerman into his baseball bat. Utivich sat by his side, his face buried in his hands. Ulmer, Hirschberg and Sakowitz were playing cards in total silence. Two of their cards fell on the ground in the middle of the game. None of them seemed to notice.
The Lieutenant rushed into his own room right after they entered the boarding house. Aldo Raine said he didn’t want to take chances that night, but Wicki had a feeling that the Lieutenant wanted to hide for a few hours. That he just didn’t know how to face his men after he had failed with two of them.
Wicki couldn’t blame him, really. He was pretty much feeling like a fucking failure himself. He kept running through the entire battle in his mind, trying to understand how they hadn’t heard the Nazis approach. Why couldn’t he have done something, anything?
“It was not your fault.”
Wicki closed his eyes, feeling the light touch of Stiglitz’s hand on his elbow. “Das weiß ich.”
“No, you don’t know that,” Stiglitz said. “But you should. You did everything you could. We all did.”
And when he opened his eyes Wicki saw Stiglitz’s face close to his. Not too close, just enough so he could see the warmth in those pale eyes.
“Hugo-” Wicki started but he didn’t really knew what to say next. His chest felt so heavy he couldn’t breathe. What he should do?
“Alles in Ordnung” Stiglitz reassured him with a tentative smile.
Wicki nodded before following Stiglitz to the room they would share for the night.
“Yeah, I knew that would happen... at some point. It’s just-”
Wicki sighed, feeling defeated. He stopped talking as he watched Stiglitz take off his jacket and then his shirt. He took a long, deep breath, narrowing his eyes at the endless scars covering Stiglitz’s back, like he had been repeatedly and ruthlessly whipped. Wicki was surprised that he had never really noticed them before, but then the few times he had seen Stiglitz without his shirt he wasn’t really paying attention to that.
Now that he was, Wicki could tell that the scars were old ones. Like the tangled roots of a dead tree, spread over the dirt and burning under the sun.
And when his eyes met Stiglitz’s, Wicki knew that the warm look from before was still there. Only perhaps with something more. And Wicki knew it wasn’t shame. Or rage.
Maybe it was trust.
Stiglitz walked to Wicki’s bed and sat down, his back to Wicki, keeping a safe distance between them. Wicki was also wearing only his trousers, his chest exposed. He wasn’t really thinking as he bit his lower lip and hesitantly rose a hand, running his fingertips all over the damaged skin. His next words came from him like a prayer.
“Is that your story?”
An audible snort came from Stiglitz.
“No. It’s just one story.”
Wicki palmed his hand over Stiglitz’s skin. His fingers wrapped around the back of his neck until he managed to turn Stiglitz’s body towards his, so they could stare at each other.
“You don’t have to-” began Wicki.
“I won’t.”
“It’s okay,” Wicki leaned over so he could touch Stiglitz’s lips with his. “Come here.”
It grew slowly. Stiglitz didn’t part his lips immediately, choosing to touch the curve of Wicki’s mouth, like he wanted to memorize its shape. Stiglitz captured Wicki’s lower lip between his teeth and sucked it hard until Wicki let out a small moan, opening his mouth to Stiglitz’s tongue.
Wicki gasped for air without breaking the kiss and ran both of his hands over Stiglitz’s back, feeling the shape of the scars under his fingers. Stiglitz pinned him against the wall behind them, his hands finding Wicki’s belt and clumsily trying to open it. They broke the kiss, both breathing heavily and irregularly. Stiglitz seemed to struggle with himself.
“Entschuldigung-”
Wicki didn’t let go of Stiglitz, holding him closer. “It’s okay,” he repeated, breathless. “I’m okay.”
Stiglitz shook his head.
“You’re still upset about what happened to your friends.”
Wicki tucked his fingers into Stiglitz’s waistband. “You once said to me that there’s nothing disturbing about death.”
Stiglitz looked deep into Wicki’s eyes. “There isn’t, once you learn to let it go.”
Wicki thought about Andy and Michael. He closed his eyes, trying to erase their faces away from his mind, trying to wash their blood from the ground and cover up their bloody wounds. He leaned back, his head touching the cold and rough wall behind him. Wicki could feel Stiglitz’s breath over his. Stiglitz’s hand on his hair.
“I can do something about it. Now. I can, if you let me,” Stiglitz said and he leaned closer, whispering in Wicki’s ear.
Then the air crushed into Wicki’s lungs. His words came out painfully. “Say that again. Say that in English.”
And although Wicki kept his eyes closed, he could still see Stiglitz’s small, crooked smile.
“I can fuck you,” Stiglitz breathed into Wicki’s ear, his voice thick with passion. “I can fuck you hard until you forget about everything. Until you can’t remember how to spell your own verdammten Name.”
Wicki’s breathless silence was enough of an answer. Stiglitz smashed their lips together, finished undoing Wicki’s belt and opening his fly. Wicki lifted his hips so Stiglitz could pull off his trousers and underwear. His heart beat hard and fast against his chest. He tried to calm down, taking a few deep breaths as he lay naked on the bed and watched Stiglitz stand up to finish stripping himself.
Without taking his eyes off Stiglitz, Wicki leaned against the headboard, a rough pillow under his back. He watched Stiglitz’s eyes travel down his body for a moment, as he climbed into the bed again, fitting himself between Wicki’s legs.
They shared just a quick, anxious look right before Stiglitz lowered his head. He kissed around Wicki’s navel and then began sucking the sensitive skin around his groin. Wicki gave up and closed his eyes, digging his fingers into Stiglitz’s shoulders in a silent request.
Wicki was forced to open his eyes again and stared up at the ceiling, his mouth shaped in an unsaid groan when Stiglitz went down on him. Stiglitz stroked Wicki’s inner thighs with his fingertips while sucking him deep into his throat. Wicki grabbed Stiglitz’s hair with one hand, the other one clutching the sheets as he bucked his hips and let out a “Hugo-”.
Stiglitz held the base of Wicki’s cock with one hand, jerking him off as he sucked three of his fingers so he could slick one, then two inside him. Wicki started to bite down his lower lip to control himself, almost tearing the soft skin apart. When the third finger was in, Stiglitz was also panting, his eyes running from Wicki’s groin to his writhed, red face. Stiglitz scissored his fingers slowly inside, and Wicki bit his lower lip, hard.
He released Stiglitz’s hair and spread his legs a little bit more, making room for Stiglitz, who had removed his fingers from Wicki’s ass to slick himself. He stopped stimulating Wicki for a few seconds, hooking Wicki’s legs over his shoulders. He paused and stared down at him, his breathing harsh and heavy.
Wicki knew Stiglitz wasn’t asking for permission, but even so he nodded, and tried hard not to close his eyes as Stiglitz pushed into him.
Fighting the immediate pain away, Wicki hissed out and threw his head back when Stiglitz grabbed his cock again, setting the touch of his hand with the pace of his initial small thrusts. Wicki’s mind went blank, his breathing got harder and harder. Wicki squirmed his toes over Stiglitz’s shoulders when he felt Stiglitz’s body shift and hit something inside him that made Wicki draw real blood from his lower lip.
Wicki ended up closing his eyes again, tasting copper. He began to breathe through his nose, struggling to keep a moan from escaping his pressed lips. Lost between the sensations of the increasing, deeper thrusts and Stiglitz’s hand on his cock, Wicki didn’t realize Stiglitz had brought his head down until their lips were slightly touching.
He felt Stiglitz’s warm, wet tongue lick the remaining blood off his lip and Wicki opened his mouth, raising his head just a little so they could kiss properly. He grabbed Stiglitz’s hair again, forcing him to thrust faster, all of his words lost somewhere between his chest and his throat.
Stiglitz finished first, his body suddenly heavy against the back of Wicki’s knees, letting a small moan be smothered by the touch of their mouths pressed together. He rose his head just enough so he could jerk Wicki off for a few seconds until he came all over his hand.
They didn’t untangle from each other for a moment. Wicki’s legs wrapped around Stiglitz’s waist, their chests crushed, their breathing slowed down.
Wicki could feel Stiglitz’s mouth against his Adam’s apple. He felt the sweat from their bodies slowly starting to chill.
He wasn’t planning to move anytime soon.
“Did you forget?”
Wicki felt Stiglitz’s lips moving over his neck and he smiled to himself for a second, his eyes still closed.
“No,” his voice sounded rough as he spoke. “I didn’t.”
Feeling a hand on his face, Wicki opened his eyes to find Stiglitz looking directly at him.
“It’s okay. I will,” he said. “Just not today.”
Stiglitz half-smiled. “Vielleicht morgen.”
“Yes.” Wicki let himself smile back. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“TRANSLATIONS”
~ or what I supposed to meant by:
Ganz gut = Alright/Okay
Was ist los? = What’s wrong?
Warum nicht? = Why Not?
Das weiß ich = I know that
Alles in Ordnung = That’s alright/Okay
Entschuldigung = I’m sorry