bubbles of water and drops of gold
inglourious basterds - archie hicox/hugo stiglitz
nc-17
3,272 words
dedicated to and beta'd by onjuistheid
He’s not sure what to expect when it comes to Hugo Stiglitz. Taking orders, maybe. But to the extent in the tavern (sorry, in the great wise words of Lt. Aldo Raine: a “fuckin’ basement”)? It was rather odd. Even more odd, the fact that the whole meeting went mostly to plan. Sure, they shot up the bar full of Nazis, and yes, they did put himself, Wicki and the good fraulein out of commission for a while, but all in all, it went splendidly.
“It really did go splendidly,” Archie tries to tell Aldo, who’s swearing under his breath as he’s stitching up Archie’s leg. He barely even notices, too hopped up on animal tranquilisers to really give a damn what’s being done. Wicki is over on the other table, mumbling in German to Stiglitz, who just looks like he’s won the bloody keys to Buckingham Palace. So proud of himself for offing that awful little Major without getting harmed himself. And the rest of the bar’s little party of Nazis.
Of course, Bridget is trying to explain her plan to an otherwise unresponsive Donny, who looks more like he’s going to shoot her himself than actually listen. The plan doesn’t exactly sound fantastic, given that the only German who can get into the premier is Stiglitz. And everyone in the German army has heard of or seen Hugo Stiglitz. Even poor Wicki is worse for wear, taking the most bullets (a grand total of three).
Falling back against the table, Archie looks up at the ceiling, world all kinds of fuzzy around the edges and lets everyone argue around him, unable to offer any sort of clue as to how to deal with it. Beyond an insanely stupid idea about putting Bridget in a cast and dismissing her injury as a result of mountain climbing, they’re out of options.
Until Omar pipes up something about sneaking in early. And putting the bombs in position. It’s just dumb enough to work. Or, even better, actually forcing the cinema owners to do it for them with sheer force, as Aldo suddenly suggests, looking like he’s ready to do some violence. Archie half-heartedly agrees, waving a hand before falling asleep on the doggie doctor’s operating table.
*
“And y’can tell yer kids that’s how they fuckin’ do it in America!” Aldo drunkenly declares in a loud tone, raising his champagne bottle in the air. Unlike most of the other brass at the party, mostly English and French, Raine is absolutely raucous. The rest of the Basterds are just as drunk, and Archie is mildly amused. Check that, he’s bloody entertained. What would normally be a boring party of speeches and medals is now an actual party. Even Stiglitz and Wicki are being revered, several women practically hanging off their every low baritone word. But whenever Archie looks, Stiglitz’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Well, it’s certainly a better sight than Donny offering whoever’s in earshot the chance to stroke his bat.
The real fun, however, comes when the Basterds and himself are on the stage, talking about how the plan went. It’s a well-rehearsed story, complete with danger, intrigue and success.
“So, we infiltrated the cinema early, against Frau von Hammersmark’s advice, what with her fuckin’ plan an’ all,” Aldo starts, capturing everyone’s attention in the large room. Archie sits in one of the chairs on the stage, next to Omar and Stiglitz, adjusting his bowtie on occasion, listening intently.
“It was real easy to get in. They’d jus’ left the back door open…”
(“The backdoor isn’t open. You said it’d be open!” Donny hissed at Omar, who shrugged, eyes wide and looking at Stiglitz fearfully. “What the fuck is this shit?”
“We need to break in,” Stiglitz muttered, lighting a cigarette and indicating to the window just high enough out of reach for even Donny. “Omar, through the window.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” It fell on deaf ears as Donny picked Omar up with a loud grunt, hefting him onto his shoulders.
“You weigh a fuckin’ ton. What do you eat, bullets? Fucking fat asshole.”
Of course, insults were all well and good until Omar broke the window with his fist and was promptly shoved through a gap too small for him anyway. Several streaks of swearing and a torn-up jacket later, the backdoor was finally open.
“Wow, Omar, you look like shit. What’d you do, land on your head?” Donny remarked, almost getting a punch in the balls.
Stiglitz just laughed, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall and walking on through the cinema, Utivich and Raine not far behind after scouting the area quickly.)
The description Raine gives sounds far better than how the events occurred, and Archie looks at Stiglitz curiously; he just sits in silence, expression unmoved. He makes a note to enquire about that later, before Raine starts talking again.
“The people in the cinema were real easy goin‘, responded to threats and violent force well. Didn’t take ‘em long to agree that our plan was pretty fuckin’ grand…”
(“…Do any of you lot speak French? Stiglitz?”
Everyone shook their head as they stared at the petite blonde woman presumably swearing with a gun pointed at them, and a tall black man looking like he could break their necks. Donny was about three threats away from challenging him to a fight.
Omar held up a hand, looking at the Basterds first, then the French. “Do you speak English?”
A look was shared between the blonde and man, and they nodded. “Some. What do you want?”
About half an hour of explaining later, and more insults shared, the French looked somewhat smug, and the Basterds were… really, at a loss. “So… do you want bombs?”
“Non.”
“Do you need any help?”
“Non.”
“…Oh. So… we’ll sit around and wait for the war to end?”
“Oui. Maybe tell people who did it. A Jewish woman.”
Raine nodded, and cleared his throat. “Uh. Right. We’ll jus’… be on our way, then. Sorry ‘bout your window.”)
“And, the rest, they say, is history. Operation Kino was a success. All bombs were planted, and went off at the appropriate times. Hitler’s dead - “ that statement is met with cheering. “-And that’s the end of the war!”
Of course, everyone is elated to hear such words, even more so when Raine starts telling the more bloody stories of what he and his Basterds did, but Archie is more concerned with Stiglitz, especially when Raine fails to mention who the other German is.
His curious thoughts are answered when they’re back in the ‘party’ area, everyone getting steadily more and more drunk, and Stiglitz takes him by the elbow, drawing him aside and out of the room to head down the hallway. Archie still has a walking cane, so he has to limp most of the way, finally glad when Stiglitz pulls them into one of the empty rooms and shuts the door behind them.
“I was not supposed to survive.”
“What?” Archie’s not drunk, but he’s a little oblivious right now, focusing on the cut of Stiglitz’s black suit, the shiny new medals adorning it under the red rose through the lapel. He looks uncomfortable, and Archie is still getting over not seeing him covered in blood or just in uniform - stolen or not.
“I should not be here. I should not even be alive. If someone finds out my name, they will send me to Germany. I killed just like any other soldier, Lieutenant. Being with the Basterds does not just change that overnight,” Stiglitz hisses, looking a little frightened. “Being executed does not frighten me. It is the idea of being jailed again. Tied up. I could not deal with it.”
Bloody hell. No wonder everyone’s omitted Stiglitz’s name except in past-tense, like he’s dead already. Raine’s a smart man, Archie has to give him credit for that. “Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to recognize you?”
Stiglitz just looks at him like he’s thick. “The only people who know are you, the Basterds and one of Raine’s commanding officers. He says I can have a new identity, I just must move somewhere. Away from France and Germany.”
Archie doesn’t know what to say, beyond blurting out, “Why not live with me?” It’s a silly idea, but Stiglitz just arches an eyebrow and shrugs.
Well, this will end well.
*
To say that Operation Kino was a success is mildly exaggerating - it ended the war, yes. But there was still some very pissed-off Gestapo and Nazi officers. And not everything was peaceful. However, they were overpowered, and Archie could watch it all at a distance, reading it in the newspaper or hearing it from someone in the shop.
The first thing he does when he reaches home, his small flat in London, is shove all the medals in a drawer, out of sight until he moves. He’s got enough money to retire now, and go back to being a film critic, but he’s not sure what to do anymore. He’s vaguely crippled, unable to walk properly without a cane, so cricket is out of the question. And he hates cooking, so being a chef is no good.
Glancing up, he notices Stiglitz - Hugo - well, Edmund, as his new passport says, and can’t help but smile vaguely, his new roommate mouthing to himself various English phrases from a book he was given.
“Was?!” Hugo growls, catching Archie staring, and he just shakes his head, going back to hiding all his military things. There’s a lot he could say, but he won’t, preferring to just keep to himself for the time being. Just because they’re no longer at war doesn’t mean Hugo Stiglitz still doesn’t have his unnerving attitude problem, or his short bursts of rage.
Mildly terrifying. Even more so, the fact that Hugo has a suitcase of new clothes (courtesy of someone, Archie doesn’t know who), and he’s unpacking them in Archie’s room.
“Um. I have a spare room…?” But it’s ignored for the moment, until Hugo has to move some things in the closet.
“It smells like my grandfather‘s room.”
And that’s all he says for the rest of the night, which is spent drinking too much tea and whiskey, while Hugo sits in the only other armchair, still reading and mumbling to himself. Archie falls asleep at an awkward angle, glasses sliding down his nose, and only awakens when he feels a blanket being draped over him.
He doesn’t move or say anything (once again), just shifts into a more comfortable position while he hears Stiglitz stomp off to his room. Their room.
*
They fall into an easy routine. Hugo is always the first one up, so he puts on coffee while Archie stumbles into the kitchen about three hours later. Neither of them cook so they usually dine out somewhere in mostly silence. Archie occasionally tries to make conversation but it never lasts for long.
(He is also awakened, almost regularly, by Hugo thrashing next to him, and bolting upright, looking wild-eyed and quite frankly, scary. Archie never brings that up, and Hugo never mentions it.)
But the company is nice. Kind of like having a dog who sometimes speaks if he’s got alcohol in him. A dog who occasionally like being scratched behind the ear or scalp if they’re both awake and in bed at the same time.
Like right now. Archie is reading quietly, as he normally does, avoiding work because he really just hated the movie he’s reviewing and he can’t think of anything polite to say about it, and Hugo is sitting beside him, flipping through the newspaper. Until he’s suddenly not sitting up, and instead laying down, tossing the paper aside. Usually Archie takes it as a sign to turn off the lamp but it’s too early to sleep, so he continues reading.
And there’s a head resting against his stomach.
Blinking in confusion over his glasses, he looks at Hugo curiously, arching an eyebrow. “Are you… alright?” he asks quietly, ever the polite Englishman. It’s met with a grunt, and Hugo grabs his hand, forces Archie to start stroking his hair. It’s grown out somewhat since the war, thicker on top but thinning slightly at the front. It’s endearing, if Archie’s being honest.
“Yes. Somewhat. The doctor says I should consider sedatives for the night,” Hugo rumbles as Archie strokes his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with his nails. He’s a little surprised that the German would willingly share such information, but chalks it up to him being… well, content for lack of a better word.
“Will you take them? I mean, it’s not uncommon for soldiers, it seems.” Trauma from the war was a big deal nowadays and Archie was forever thankful he was mostly a paper pusher until the end. It meant minimal nightmares, although he can still see that tavern full of dead bodies in his dreams sometimes, that poor man whose son would grow up without a father because Archie is selfish and wanted to live.
Realizing that he’s not gotten an answer, he blinks slowly, looking down at Stiglitz curiously, pausing in his strokes of his hair. It earns him a look from Hugo, who just shakes his head. “I do not know. It is mostly… other things. More than my time with the Basterds.”
Archie isn’t sure how to approach someone about that, much less an ex-soldier from the Wehrmacht who killed thirteen Gestapo, and went on to become an unofficial Basterd. Really, he considers Stiglitz’s present messy, nevermind his past or whatever he did when he was with other people. It’s a strange concept, thinking of a pre-war Hugo Stiglitz, and from what he can gather, during and after, no one knows what Stiglitz did. Wicki might, but he’s loyal and back home in Austria, so Archie can’t interrogate him.
As it is, he’s at a loss of what to say or do when he’s suddenly being shoved back against the bed. Normally, Archie would object, feigning a love of the female persuasion, or just a deep desire not to upset the already fragile ecosystem happening in the household. But it’s the lack of any kind of persuasion that shuts him up, makes him reveal in the solid frame on top of him, breathing hot and heavy against his neck. He’s almost afraid to say anything beyond ‘take me now’, and he’s more than curious as to why Hugo won’t make eye contact with him right now.
(That’s another thing he notices right off the bat when he first meets Sergeant Hugo Stiglitz - he rarely makes eye contact. Sure, it lingers, but it’s like he’s not really looking at you - he’s looking beyond you. Looking at what you’ve done, trying to look at who you are. Forming his own judgement. It unsettles Archie, being stripped bare, but he tries not to let it show. Tries to make a joke of it.)
Of course, like it or not, he’s getting hard in his worn sleeping pants, and Hugo is grinding down against him, hard enough that even a somewhat conscientious man like Archie can tell that he’s going to get fucked by a man who probably hasn’t been laid since… well, whenever he last fucked someone. Normally, he’d be indignant over apparently getting the role of the woman, however it’s difficult to function on the level of an intelligent human being when Hugo is steadily ridding him of all his clothing and fumbling for something in the drawers.
It takes about half the time to get Stiglitz out of his pants, and Archie lets himself actually take in the way Hugo looks completely nude. The scars are white, a few faint red ones littered seemingly at random on his otherwise smooth, tan skin. He’s tan all over, Archie can see that when Hugo has to move off the bed to rummage around in his own bag, and he has this flash image of the German sunbathing nude, on some tropical beach. It’s ridiculous.
There’s nothing cautious or careful when he finally comes back with a small tin of salve, and shoves two slick fingers into Archie. He keens, back arching off the bed and Hugo just shoves him back down with a shoulder. It’s not enough, and it’s too much, and he wants to cry for no real reason other than the fact that he’s been functioning for too long under this guise of cool, calm, collected composure that shatters the minute Hugo replaces his fingers with his thick cock and thrusts into him without restraint.
From there it’s a mere flash of heated words and sweat slick skin. Archie wraps his legs around Hugo’s waist, but every time he tries to grab his back, his wrists are grabbed, crushed in Hugo’s grip and shoved back against the bed. He fucks like he’s trying to prove something, all sharp, hard thrusts that jolt Archie further up the bed, until his head hits the headboard. Hugo pauses then, looks down at him and fucking laughs. And there’s a twinkle in his eyes, and Archie can grin, more of a grimace of pain than anything else. There’s something to be said about being fucked raw that makes you see what people are really like.
“You hate this,” Hugo manages to wheezes out, catching his breath from his laughing fit, still fucking him. His head is starting to hurt.
“I love it,” he whispers back, a little ashamed by his eagerness for this, the way he’s still struggling to get out of the grip, and Hugo keeps shoving him down, keeps fucking him until he’s positive he’s bleeding. And suddenly, it’s okay. Everything is fine and fucking dandy in the world, despite the fact that he’s helped create a lie that will haunt him for the rest of his life, the fact that he’s more of a mess than he ever thought possible, and now his arse is full of Kraut (Nazi scum, Wehrmacht) cock.
And it’s okay. Archie cants his hips back against Hugo’s near-frantic fucking, both of them reaching their peak. He comes with a shout, enough to wake or alert the neighbors of what they’re doing, and practically whines when Hugo just keeps fucking him. He’s sticky and sore, and his wrists are crushed harder when Hugo comes, biting and sucking on Archie’s neck and collarbone, his moans muffled. It hurts when Hugo comes inside him, and Archie can finally breathe a sigh of relief when he’s let go. What hurts again is when he’s suddenly empty.
It occurs to him that they never even kissed. But then it all changes; Archie’s pulled into a more comfortable position, resting against Stiglitz’s chest, a lit cigarette suddenly shoved into his mouth. Smoking he can do, despite still breathing hard. Hugo doesn’t ask how he feels, just takes one of his hands, kissing the bruising over his wrists. They’re already starting to swell and color, contrasting with his pale skin, and Archie somehow forgets to care, watching the curl of smoke from their cigarettes, and Hugo’s unreadable expression.
*
Later, Archie catches Hugo with his back turned, shirtless, and he touches those scars that turn him on more than anything else, and Hugo finally talks.
nc-17
3,272 words
dedicated to and beta'd by onjuistheid
He’s not sure what to expect when it comes to Hugo Stiglitz. Taking orders, maybe. But to the extent in the tavern (sorry, in the great wise words of Lt. Aldo Raine: a “fuckin’ basement”)? It was rather odd. Even more odd, the fact that the whole meeting went mostly to plan. Sure, they shot up the bar full of Nazis, and yes, they did put himself, Wicki and the good fraulein out of commission for a while, but all in all, it went splendidly.
“It really did go splendidly,” Archie tries to tell Aldo, who’s swearing under his breath as he’s stitching up Archie’s leg. He barely even notices, too hopped up on animal tranquilisers to really give a damn what’s being done. Wicki is over on the other table, mumbling in German to Stiglitz, who just looks like he’s won the bloody keys to Buckingham Palace. So proud of himself for offing that awful little Major without getting harmed himself. And the rest of the bar’s little party of Nazis.
Of course, Bridget is trying to explain her plan to an otherwise unresponsive Donny, who looks more like he’s going to shoot her himself than actually listen. The plan doesn’t exactly sound fantastic, given that the only German who can get into the premier is Stiglitz. And everyone in the German army has heard of or seen Hugo Stiglitz. Even poor Wicki is worse for wear, taking the most bullets (a grand total of three).
Falling back against the table, Archie looks up at the ceiling, world all kinds of fuzzy around the edges and lets everyone argue around him, unable to offer any sort of clue as to how to deal with it. Beyond an insanely stupid idea about putting Bridget in a cast and dismissing her injury as a result of mountain climbing, they’re out of options.
Until Omar pipes up something about sneaking in early. And putting the bombs in position. It’s just dumb enough to work. Or, even better, actually forcing the cinema owners to do it for them with sheer force, as Aldo suddenly suggests, looking like he’s ready to do some violence. Archie half-heartedly agrees, waving a hand before falling asleep on the doggie doctor’s operating table.
*
“And y’can tell yer kids that’s how they fuckin’ do it in America!” Aldo drunkenly declares in a loud tone, raising his champagne bottle in the air. Unlike most of the other brass at the party, mostly English and French, Raine is absolutely raucous. The rest of the Basterds are just as drunk, and Archie is mildly amused. Check that, he’s bloody entertained. What would normally be a boring party of speeches and medals is now an actual party. Even Stiglitz and Wicki are being revered, several women practically hanging off their every low baritone word. But whenever Archie looks, Stiglitz’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Well, it’s certainly a better sight than Donny offering whoever’s in earshot the chance to stroke his bat.
The real fun, however, comes when the Basterds and himself are on the stage, talking about how the plan went. It’s a well-rehearsed story, complete with danger, intrigue and success.
“So, we infiltrated the cinema early, against Frau von Hammersmark’s advice, what with her fuckin’ plan an’ all,” Aldo starts, capturing everyone’s attention in the large room. Archie sits in one of the chairs on the stage, next to Omar and Stiglitz, adjusting his bowtie on occasion, listening intently.
“It was real easy to get in. They’d jus’ left the back door open…”
(“The backdoor isn’t open. You said it’d be open!” Donny hissed at Omar, who shrugged, eyes wide and looking at Stiglitz fearfully. “What the fuck is this shit?”
“We need to break in,” Stiglitz muttered, lighting a cigarette and indicating to the window just high enough out of reach for even Donny. “Omar, through the window.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” It fell on deaf ears as Donny picked Omar up with a loud grunt, hefting him onto his shoulders.
“You weigh a fuckin’ ton. What do you eat, bullets? Fucking fat asshole.”
Of course, insults were all well and good until Omar broke the window with his fist and was promptly shoved through a gap too small for him anyway. Several streaks of swearing and a torn-up jacket later, the backdoor was finally open.
“Wow, Omar, you look like shit. What’d you do, land on your head?” Donny remarked, almost getting a punch in the balls.
Stiglitz just laughed, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall and walking on through the cinema, Utivich and Raine not far behind after scouting the area quickly.)
The description Raine gives sounds far better than how the events occurred, and Archie looks at Stiglitz curiously; he just sits in silence, expression unmoved. He makes a note to enquire about that later, before Raine starts talking again.
“The people in the cinema were real easy goin‘, responded to threats and violent force well. Didn’t take ‘em long to agree that our plan was pretty fuckin’ grand…”
(“…Do any of you lot speak French? Stiglitz?”
Everyone shook their head as they stared at the petite blonde woman presumably swearing with a gun pointed at them, and a tall black man looking like he could break their necks. Donny was about three threats away from challenging him to a fight.
Omar held up a hand, looking at the Basterds first, then the French. “Do you speak English?”
A look was shared between the blonde and man, and they nodded. “Some. What do you want?”
About half an hour of explaining later, and more insults shared, the French looked somewhat smug, and the Basterds were… really, at a loss. “So… do you want bombs?”
“Non.”
“Do you need any help?”
“Non.”
“…Oh. So… we’ll sit around and wait for the war to end?”
“Oui. Maybe tell people who did it. A Jewish woman.”
Raine nodded, and cleared his throat. “Uh. Right. We’ll jus’… be on our way, then. Sorry ‘bout your window.”)
“And, the rest, they say, is history. Operation Kino was a success. All bombs were planted, and went off at the appropriate times. Hitler’s dead - “ that statement is met with cheering. “-And that’s the end of the war!”
Of course, everyone is elated to hear such words, even more so when Raine starts telling the more bloody stories of what he and his Basterds did, but Archie is more concerned with Stiglitz, especially when Raine fails to mention who the other German is.
His curious thoughts are answered when they’re back in the ‘party’ area, everyone getting steadily more and more drunk, and Stiglitz takes him by the elbow, drawing him aside and out of the room to head down the hallway. Archie still has a walking cane, so he has to limp most of the way, finally glad when Stiglitz pulls them into one of the empty rooms and shuts the door behind them.
“I was not supposed to survive.”
“What?” Archie’s not drunk, but he’s a little oblivious right now, focusing on the cut of Stiglitz’s black suit, the shiny new medals adorning it under the red rose through the lapel. He looks uncomfortable, and Archie is still getting over not seeing him covered in blood or just in uniform - stolen or not.
“I should not be here. I should not even be alive. If someone finds out my name, they will send me to Germany. I killed just like any other soldier, Lieutenant. Being with the Basterds does not just change that overnight,” Stiglitz hisses, looking a little frightened. “Being executed does not frighten me. It is the idea of being jailed again. Tied up. I could not deal with it.”
Bloody hell. No wonder everyone’s omitted Stiglitz’s name except in past-tense, like he’s dead already. Raine’s a smart man, Archie has to give him credit for that. “Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to recognize you?”
Stiglitz just looks at him like he’s thick. “The only people who know are you, the Basterds and one of Raine’s commanding officers. He says I can have a new identity, I just must move somewhere. Away from France and Germany.”
Archie doesn’t know what to say, beyond blurting out, “Why not live with me?” It’s a silly idea, but Stiglitz just arches an eyebrow and shrugs.
Well, this will end well.
*
To say that Operation Kino was a success is mildly exaggerating - it ended the war, yes. But there was still some very pissed-off Gestapo and Nazi officers. And not everything was peaceful. However, they were overpowered, and Archie could watch it all at a distance, reading it in the newspaper or hearing it from someone in the shop.
The first thing he does when he reaches home, his small flat in London, is shove all the medals in a drawer, out of sight until he moves. He’s got enough money to retire now, and go back to being a film critic, but he’s not sure what to do anymore. He’s vaguely crippled, unable to walk properly without a cane, so cricket is out of the question. And he hates cooking, so being a chef is no good.
Glancing up, he notices Stiglitz - Hugo - well, Edmund, as his new passport says, and can’t help but smile vaguely, his new roommate mouthing to himself various English phrases from a book he was given.
“Was?!” Hugo growls, catching Archie staring, and he just shakes his head, going back to hiding all his military things. There’s a lot he could say, but he won’t, preferring to just keep to himself for the time being. Just because they’re no longer at war doesn’t mean Hugo Stiglitz still doesn’t have his unnerving attitude problem, or his short bursts of rage.
Mildly terrifying. Even more so, the fact that Hugo has a suitcase of new clothes (courtesy of someone, Archie doesn’t know who), and he’s unpacking them in Archie’s room.
“Um. I have a spare room…?” But it’s ignored for the moment, until Hugo has to move some things in the closet.
“It smells like my grandfather‘s room.”
And that’s all he says for the rest of the night, which is spent drinking too much tea and whiskey, while Hugo sits in the only other armchair, still reading and mumbling to himself. Archie falls asleep at an awkward angle, glasses sliding down his nose, and only awakens when he feels a blanket being draped over him.
He doesn’t move or say anything (once again), just shifts into a more comfortable position while he hears Stiglitz stomp off to his room. Their room.
*
They fall into an easy routine. Hugo is always the first one up, so he puts on coffee while Archie stumbles into the kitchen about three hours later. Neither of them cook so they usually dine out somewhere in mostly silence. Archie occasionally tries to make conversation but it never lasts for long.
(He is also awakened, almost regularly, by Hugo thrashing next to him, and bolting upright, looking wild-eyed and quite frankly, scary. Archie never brings that up, and Hugo never mentions it.)
But the company is nice. Kind of like having a dog who sometimes speaks if he’s got alcohol in him. A dog who occasionally like being scratched behind the ear or scalp if they’re both awake and in bed at the same time.
Like right now. Archie is reading quietly, as he normally does, avoiding work because he really just hated the movie he’s reviewing and he can’t think of anything polite to say about it, and Hugo is sitting beside him, flipping through the newspaper. Until he’s suddenly not sitting up, and instead laying down, tossing the paper aside. Usually Archie takes it as a sign to turn off the lamp but it’s too early to sleep, so he continues reading.
And there’s a head resting against his stomach.
Blinking in confusion over his glasses, he looks at Hugo curiously, arching an eyebrow. “Are you… alright?” he asks quietly, ever the polite Englishman. It’s met with a grunt, and Hugo grabs his hand, forces Archie to start stroking his hair. It’s grown out somewhat since the war, thicker on top but thinning slightly at the front. It’s endearing, if Archie’s being honest.
“Yes. Somewhat. The doctor says I should consider sedatives for the night,” Hugo rumbles as Archie strokes his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with his nails. He’s a little surprised that the German would willingly share such information, but chalks it up to him being… well, content for lack of a better word.
“Will you take them? I mean, it’s not uncommon for soldiers, it seems.” Trauma from the war was a big deal nowadays and Archie was forever thankful he was mostly a paper pusher until the end. It meant minimal nightmares, although he can still see that tavern full of dead bodies in his dreams sometimes, that poor man whose son would grow up without a father because Archie is selfish and wanted to live.
Realizing that he’s not gotten an answer, he blinks slowly, looking down at Stiglitz curiously, pausing in his strokes of his hair. It earns him a look from Hugo, who just shakes his head. “I do not know. It is mostly… other things. More than my time with the Basterds.”
Archie isn’t sure how to approach someone about that, much less an ex-soldier from the Wehrmacht who killed thirteen Gestapo, and went on to become an unofficial Basterd. Really, he considers Stiglitz’s present messy, nevermind his past or whatever he did when he was with other people. It’s a strange concept, thinking of a pre-war Hugo Stiglitz, and from what he can gather, during and after, no one knows what Stiglitz did. Wicki might, but he’s loyal and back home in Austria, so Archie can’t interrogate him.
As it is, he’s at a loss of what to say or do when he’s suddenly being shoved back against the bed. Normally, Archie would object, feigning a love of the female persuasion, or just a deep desire not to upset the already fragile ecosystem happening in the household. But it’s the lack of any kind of persuasion that shuts him up, makes him reveal in the solid frame on top of him, breathing hot and heavy against his neck. He’s almost afraid to say anything beyond ‘take me now’, and he’s more than curious as to why Hugo won’t make eye contact with him right now.
(That’s another thing he notices right off the bat when he first meets Sergeant Hugo Stiglitz - he rarely makes eye contact. Sure, it lingers, but it’s like he’s not really looking at you - he’s looking beyond you. Looking at what you’ve done, trying to look at who you are. Forming his own judgement. It unsettles Archie, being stripped bare, but he tries not to let it show. Tries to make a joke of it.)
Of course, like it or not, he’s getting hard in his worn sleeping pants, and Hugo is grinding down against him, hard enough that even a somewhat conscientious man like Archie can tell that he’s going to get fucked by a man who probably hasn’t been laid since… well, whenever he last fucked someone. Normally, he’d be indignant over apparently getting the role of the woman, however it’s difficult to function on the level of an intelligent human being when Hugo is steadily ridding him of all his clothing and fumbling for something in the drawers.
It takes about half the time to get Stiglitz out of his pants, and Archie lets himself actually take in the way Hugo looks completely nude. The scars are white, a few faint red ones littered seemingly at random on his otherwise smooth, tan skin. He’s tan all over, Archie can see that when Hugo has to move off the bed to rummage around in his own bag, and he has this flash image of the German sunbathing nude, on some tropical beach. It’s ridiculous.
There’s nothing cautious or careful when he finally comes back with a small tin of salve, and shoves two slick fingers into Archie. He keens, back arching off the bed and Hugo just shoves him back down with a shoulder. It’s not enough, and it’s too much, and he wants to cry for no real reason other than the fact that he’s been functioning for too long under this guise of cool, calm, collected composure that shatters the minute Hugo replaces his fingers with his thick cock and thrusts into him without restraint.
From there it’s a mere flash of heated words and sweat slick skin. Archie wraps his legs around Hugo’s waist, but every time he tries to grab his back, his wrists are grabbed, crushed in Hugo’s grip and shoved back against the bed. He fucks like he’s trying to prove something, all sharp, hard thrusts that jolt Archie further up the bed, until his head hits the headboard. Hugo pauses then, looks down at him and fucking laughs. And there’s a twinkle in his eyes, and Archie can grin, more of a grimace of pain than anything else. There’s something to be said about being fucked raw that makes you see what people are really like.
“You hate this,” Hugo manages to wheezes out, catching his breath from his laughing fit, still fucking him. His head is starting to hurt.
“I love it,” he whispers back, a little ashamed by his eagerness for this, the way he’s still struggling to get out of the grip, and Hugo keeps shoving him down, keeps fucking him until he’s positive he’s bleeding. And suddenly, it’s okay. Everything is fine and fucking dandy in the world, despite the fact that he’s helped create a lie that will haunt him for the rest of his life, the fact that he’s more of a mess than he ever thought possible, and now his arse is full of Kraut (Nazi scum, Wehrmacht) cock.
And it’s okay. Archie cants his hips back against Hugo’s near-frantic fucking, both of them reaching their peak. He comes with a shout, enough to wake or alert the neighbors of what they’re doing, and practically whines when Hugo just keeps fucking him. He’s sticky and sore, and his wrists are crushed harder when Hugo comes, biting and sucking on Archie’s neck and collarbone, his moans muffled. It hurts when Hugo comes inside him, and Archie can finally breathe a sigh of relief when he’s let go. What hurts again is when he’s suddenly empty.
It occurs to him that they never even kissed. But then it all changes; Archie’s pulled into a more comfortable position, resting against Stiglitz’s chest, a lit cigarette suddenly shoved into his mouth. Smoking he can do, despite still breathing hard. Hugo doesn’t ask how he feels, just takes one of his hands, kissing the bruising over his wrists. They’re already starting to swell and color, contrasting with his pale skin, and Archie somehow forgets to care, watching the curl of smoke from their cigarettes, and Hugo’s unreadable expression.
*
Later, Archie catches Hugo with his back turned, shirtless, and he touches those scars that turn him on more than anything else, and Hugo finally talks.