Fanfic: Between the Lines - Inglourious Basterds

When Archie is sitting in his old flat, sleeping in his own bed and reading his own books, that’s when it finally hits him. The Allies have won, in no small part thanks to him and the success of Operation Kino, and now Europe was on its way to healing the gaping wound the Third Reich had left behind.

Archie returned to his usual routine, mainly writing articles for film publications, and even started a screenplay that was more than a little inspired by his stint in the King’s army.

Of course his victory wasn’t without its price - he has a bum leg, a quaint little souvenir from the shoot out at La Louisiane, but as cumbersome as it is at times Archie still feels damned lucky that he managed to get out of that basement at all when almost everyone else ended up in a casket.

____

A good month into his return to civilian life, Archie gets a knock on his door. Never one to have acquaintances to drop by announced he’s naturally a little confused by his unknown visitor, but he supposes it’s just a neighbor in dire need of some sugar for their afternoon tea.

When he opens the door the very last person he expects to see staring back at him is Hugo Stiglitz. The last he heard of the man, Hugo had received over a dozen gunshot wounds to the back and was rushed to a clinic the moment they exited La Louisiane. After that there was barely a whisper about the second German born member of the Basterds. And yet here he is, dressed in civilian clothes, covered in splotches of mud and dust with a duffle bag hanging off one shoulder.

“Stiglitz?” He asks, as if he needs further confirmation that this is indeed Hugo standing in front of him and not some deranged doppelganger.

“Sir.”

After a few moments Archie manages to get a handle on himself, stepping aside to let the German through. “How dreadfully rude of me. Please, come in.”

The next hour is spent asking questions that are answered mostly in grunts or with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and by the end of it Archie realizes that he still doesn’t quite know why the bloody hell Hugo has shown up on his doorstep like a stray dog looking for scraps.

All he knows is that for some goddamn reason he asks the man if he would like to stay the night, have something to eat, a spot of tea perhaps? Hugo agrees to the first two but declines the third, munching away on a sandwich as Archie sips his earl grey wondering what the fuck has come over him.

____

What was an offer to stay the night turns into a week, and before Archie knows it Hugo has settled into his flat, becoming as much a part of it as the furniture and being strangely polite and considerate about the entire thing. He even goes so far as to clean the house when needed, picks up groceries, and occasionally makes them dinner when the mood strikes him.

Apparently Hugo is good with more than just knives.

After two weeks Hugo manages to procure a job at a butcher’s shop, of all places, bringing home prime cuts of steak he cooks to perfection, and every time Archie is treated to one of the decadent meals he finds himself more and more curious about the man’s past, but he knows better than to ask.

____

Sometimes it strikes Archie just how out of place Hugo seems, milling about the flat and doing chores or folding his laundry. Like a rabid beast restricted by the bars of a cage, pacing in its cell and fed chunks of meat instead of hunting for prey, growing weary and resigned with the luxuries of captivity.

____

Archie is accustomed to living on his own, but having another person around instills in him an overwhelming urge to make conversation, of which he constantly tries to engage Hugo in. However, Hugo’s stoic disposition has changed very little since their first meeting, and trying to get him to talk is about as enjoyable as pulling someone’s teeth out (something Hugo would enjoy, no doubt). So Archie settles on discussing everyday things - the weather, the progress of the restoration, articles of interest or a particularly good flick that has opened at the cinema. He even manages to drag Hugo to a few but the German seems less than enthused with what he sees. Nothing makes him laugh, nothing makes him cry. The only thing that gets a rise out of him are battle sequences, the grin on his face proportionate to the amount of bloodshed being depicted.

____

As it turns out, Archie isn’t the only one who received injuries from the debacle at Nadine. Hugo does an admirable job of trying to hide it, but Archie didn’t become a spy because of his ravishing good looks - he notices things, and the slight tremble of Hugo’s left hand is enough to tell him the extent of the damage the German suffered. Archie can only imagine how his back must look, and an irrational wave of anger overcomes him at the thought. Whether it’s at his own stupidity that night or the war in general, he doesn’t know.

____

Hugo returns around six in the evening, still smelling of blood from the butcher’s and although Archie should find it repugnant, he can’t help but like the tang of it mixed with Hugo’s sweat.

While Hugo bathes Archie punches away at his typewriter, smoking fag after fag as he works on his ever expanding screenplay. It lays in a neat pile in the corner of his desk, untitled and half finished. Archie still doesn’t quite know where it’s going or if he’ll even sell it, but it’s something to do at any rate.

When Hugo’s done washing up he strides into the living area, towel hanging low around his waist and Archie has to put forth more effort than should be necessary not to stare. The last thing he needs to be doing is stealing glances at his flat mate like some smitten schoolboy. Hugo is well known for his sudden bursts of violence, and if Archie isn’t careful he could very well end up with his balls cut off and shoved down or into some orifice he’d rather not have them in.

With that image running like a broken reel inside his head Archie keeps his eyes glued to the page, trying his damndest to ignore the sound of Hugo padding over to his desk.

The German stands for a moment, eyes searching the tabletop before landing on the screenplay.

“Can I read it?”

Shit.

Archie finally raises his head, eyes automatically locking on to a drop of water that slides sensuously along Hugo’s collar bone. He immediately tears his gaze away. “Come again?”

“Your screenplay. Can I read it?”

“Oh, of course. Be my guest.”

Hugo unceremoniously picks up the bundle of papers and walks off with them. Archie watches after his receding form, one eyebrow cocked in bafflement. Hugo has hardly said more than a few sentences during his stay, let alone shown any interest in what Archie gets up to, including what he’s been furiously working on for hours each night.

It appears that Hugo’s still waters run deeper than Archie realized.

____

Archie falls asleep on the couch, only to be jolted awake hours later by the sound of paper being slapped against a hard surface.

When he focuses his eyes he sees that it must be late evening, and barely makes out the dark outline of Hugo’s form as the man sits unmoving at the edge of his desk.

Archie rubs his eyes and yawns. “Don’t keep me in suspense old boy, what do you think?”

“It’s good.”

Although it’s simple, and not the most glowing compliment Archie has ever received, it makes something in his chest give way and a smile stretches his face. “Glad to hear it.”

“Could use more fighting scenes.”

Archie’s grin widens. “Yes, well, I suppose I could . . sprinkle a few more of them about. To liven up the plot.”

Hugo plucks a fag out of his pocket and sticks it between his lips. “You wrote about me.”

It’s not a question, and Archie’s grin falters slightly at the abrupt change of subject. “I assume you’re referring to Furstenberg? He’s loosely based on you, yes.”

“And Keating is you.” Hugo lights the fag, the light from the match casting his face in stark shadows before he waves it out.

“That’s correct.”

Hugo remains silent, and as the quiet stretches Archie finds himself becoming more anxious. Perhaps he underestimated Hugo’s ability to pick up on subtexual cues. Maybe the German has noticed Archie’s decidedly unhealthy fascination with him, one that has grown exponentially over the last few weeks.

How could he have been so foolish? Giving Hugo that that screenplay was the equivalent of signing his own death warrant.

Just as Archie is contemplating apologizing for whatever Hugo may have gleaned from his work, or beg the man to spare his pitiful life, the German rises from the desk and walks past Archie without so much as a backward glance.

When he hears Hugo’s door click shut Archie sighs and leans back into the sofa, knowing that somehow, whether by pure luck or Hugo’s mercy that he’s dodged one nasty bullet. Somehow he doubts it’s latter.

If Hugo was on to him, God only knew what he’d do about it. Archie did not survive World War bloody Two so he could get strangled by a German in the comfort of his own home

From that moment on he vows to keep the rest of the screenplay to himself, or at least disguise his intents so that not even the most seasoned of critic will be able to pick up on what he’s really attempting to convey.

____

One evening, not long after the incident with the screenplay, Archie suggests going out. Much to his surprise Hugo asks if they can go to a pub. Archie of course agrees, and takes them to one of his favorite spots in the entire city. It’s an enchanted little place by the name of Boar’s Head, located only a few blocks away, and the pair walk in companionable silence until they arrive at their destination.

The pub is mostly empty save for the few usual stragglers, and they order their drinks - scotch and whiskey respectively.

Hugo stares at his glass when it’s set down in front of him and says, “The last time we were in a bar it didn’t turn out so well.”

Archie can’t help but chuckle. “I must say, I’m still rather embarrassed about that. Bloody fucking three.”

Hugo grins and downs the alcohol, and Archie is mesmerized by the sudden flash of humor. “You know, you’re not nearly as frightening when you smile like that.”

The German levels him with a stare, his expression inscrutable. Archie returns it unflinchingly, feeling as if something is boiling in the air between them, like a dam is breaking against the awkwardness and silence that’s been building up for the past month. He opens his mouth and leans in to say something, anything, when they’re abruptly interrupted.

“Archie my boy! Is that you?”

The mood shatters and Archie resists the urge to groan in frustration, instead plastering on a smile as he swivels around.

“Hello Robert.”

An older gentleman stumbles over, too pissed to keep himself upright let alone prevent his glass from splashing ale all over the floor.

“Archie, it’s been entirely too long.” He leans into the younger man, face too close and breath rancid and hot against Archie’s cheek. Christ this couldn’t get any worse - he never wanted Hugo to find out about his more clandestine activities like this, procrastination leading to this insufferable encounter that he’ll never forgive himself for.

Archie spares a glance at Hugo, who’s glare spells out all the atrocious and violent things he would like to do to Robert. It reminds Archie of the La Louisane when the Gestapo major was foolish enough to sit next to him.

It’s all becoming disturbingly familiar, and he thinks that maybe it would be wise if they did stay out of bars.

“Robert, you’re making a damn fool of yourself,” tries Archie, gently shoving the man away and praying to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand. But Robert wants none of it, chuckling obnoxiously as he wraps an arm around Archie’s neck. “Oh come now love, don’t brush me off. I know you like it when I come on strong.”

He leans in, attempting to catch the side of Archie’s mouth in a sloppy kiss.

Hugo’s up like a shot, grabbing Robert by the sleeve of his tweed jacket before shoving him away with a enough force to send him sprawling into a table nearby. “Get the fuck out of here before I break your legs and make you crawl home.”

The words seem to sober him up, Robert mumbling apologies as he practically runs out of the pub.

Hugo sits back down, jaw clenched as he barks at the bartender for another shot.

Archie combs a hand through his hair, eyes darting from the door to Hugo’s face. “I’m terribly sorry about that Hugo. He was an old . . . acquaintance of mine, you see, and the daft bastard has never understood the meaning of the word ‘no’ - ”

Hugo cuts him off by slamming the glass back down on the counter, head turning to direct his glare at Archie. Archie is taken aback by it, knocked speechless by the anger in Hugo’s eyes.

The German slides out of the stool and barges out, knocking the bell on the door loose and almost shattering the glass in the windows, leaving Archie with a sizable bill and an explanation for the irate bartender.

____

When Archie is standing outside the flat, looking up into the lit windows and knowing Hugo is in there, fuming, he thinks this is what all those poor bastards feel like before stepping up to the gallows.

His feet are heavy as lead when he climbs the stairs, and by the time he’s standing outside his own door his mouth’s gone dry and his heart is beating fast enough that it feels like it’s going to hop right up out of his throat.

He unlocks the door and slowly steps inside, half expecting an ambush even though he knows Hugo wouldn’t be ridiculous enough to do so. Or at least he hopes.

He spots the German sitting on the windowsill across the room, ashtray next to him almost full of filters and the last pages of the screenplay in his hand.

Archie doesn’t even care anymore if he’s reading it, although why the man would be doing some pleasure reading now of all times is baffling to him.

“Hugo,” he says, hoping and dreading to get the man’s attention. Hugo ignores him and keeps reading, but the slight flex of his jaw muscles is evidence enough that he heard.

“I’m sorry you had to find out that way. I intended to tell you, but you must understand my trepidation.”

Still no answer, and Archie sighs as he sits down on the couch. He’s really gone and fucked everything up, and he was just getting used to the idea of having Hugo around.

“I’ve always known.”

Archie looks at Hugo, not quite sure what he heard. “Pardon?”

Hugo drops the screenplay on the floor and crushes out what‘s left of his fag.

“I’ve always known.” He repeats, standing, looking as intimidating and crazed as the night Archie met him.

Archie is about to say ‘how?’ when the German is on him in an instant, and Archie knows this must be it. In a few days the neighbors will start to complain about smelling something funny emanating from his flat, and the bobbies will break in only to discover his mutilated corpse lying on the sofa, choked or stabbed or eviscerated beyond recognition.

He doesn’t suspect that Hugo will shove him down onto the couch, situating himself between Archie’s legs before slamming his mouth against his with enough force to hurt. Archie gasps in surprise only to have Hugo take advantage by snaking his tongue past his lips, vicious and possessive and God it’s the best kiss Archie’s ever had.

He reciprocates, tongue battling with Hugo’s despite already knowing he’ll lose, tasting blood and alcohol and a bitter hint of the German cigarettes they both love.

When Hugo finally pulls away he’s panting, lips glistening and eyes drinking Archie in as he runs a finger over the other man’s lips.

“Keating and Furstenberg never did anything like this.”

Archie catches the pad of Hugo’s thumb between his teeth. “Who says?”

Hugo groans and Archie thinks it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever heard.

“You never wrote about it.”

“It’s all between the lines dear Hugo,” he says, pulling the German back down, “all between the lines.”