Finally, my Bridget/Archie one-shot is finished! I got the idea for this when I noticed how much chemistry the two had in the tavern scene. I'm surprised there're not more fanfics about this pairing.
The beer keg behind the counter in the tavern hadn't been shot into in the film.
The curtain had fallen too early. Bridget found that hard to swallow as she lay on the floor, her once clean blonde hair matted with gunpowder and spilled alcohol, her fine-pressed clothing askew, and knives of pain embedded in her right leg with the bullet that had struck it. She resisted the urge to scream out in agony by clamping down on her bottom lip with her top set of teeth. The bite was so hard that she tasted the sharp tang of copper. Her blue eyes, stretched wide in fear, were fixated on the fool that had so catastrophically ruined everything: Wilhelm. Her fear was reflected in his own eyes, despite the fact that he was crouched behind a submachine gun that had been pulled out of practically nowhere. She silently begged the Lord above that he would not see her as his eyes nervously flicked around.
Luckily, after several moments that seemed to drag on for hours, he relaxed, but only slightly. Although she did capture one of the strewn handguns on the floor in her hand, Bridget knew better than to fire against a crazed man with a heavy weapon, especially after seeing him gun down that painfully innocent waitress in a survivalist rampage. It was dreadfully ironic that she was now afraid of losing her life by the gun of a man who had been comparing her to a goddess not too long ago.
As her ruby nails tightened around the discarded firearm, her gaze found the rather boyish-looking face of its previous wielder, Lieutenant Archibald Hicox. Strangely, a violent stop to his life had left him with a gentle expression. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly frowning, as if the corners of it were too exhausted to pull themselves up. If Bridget had not known any better, she would have thought just by looking at his face that he was merely sleeping. A lock of Hicox's thick, dark hair had fallen onto his face, and she resisted the temptation to push it back into its place. The motion of her hand would give her hiding place under the table away almost instantly.
She grimaced, flicking her gaze up at Wilhelm for a moment. He was tromping about the room, and jerking his head over his shoulder every few seconds as he made his way from his table of dead friends to the bar itself. Its scenic keg, located in a nook on the wall behind the counter, gushed the foamy liquid of beer through a stray bullet hole in the center. The hole effectively decapitated the image of the barmaid inscribed on the keg. Wilhelm's movements, and the card on his head only added to the idiocy von Hammersmark was attributing to him, new father or not.
She returned her gaze to the body of the lieutenant, keeping it well away from the bullet holes that wracked his body, as if in doing so would somehow reanimate him. Much like a rehearsed role, the actress had taken care to research this mission beforehand. Although she had utterly failed in studying the setting, she had done a satisfactory job in understanding her leading men. What a shame, however, that she had not had the foresight to read up on potential extras, or antagonists, such as Wilhelm and the conniving Gestapo officer, whose castrated body lay a short distance from his killer, the psychopathic Hugo Stiglitz. Bridget smiled sadly. Hicox had truly fit the description of a hero. As a film critic, he had watched the triumphs and follies alike of those before him with a different pair of eyes, eyes that had seen through the overly-glowing veil of the film industry. He had amassed that knowledge, and used it effectively to survive this cruel war. That was, until this dreadful night had come to pass.
If von Hammersmark was being honest with herself, she had to admit that she had been quite impressed, and attracted as well, by the lieutenant's behavior. Rather than following the example of his comrades by also becoming agitated at Bridget's suggestion to remain in the basement bar for a drink, Hicox had defended the actress, saying that she was right. She was unable to not feel warmth at his statement. It was too bad, though, that the four would have been better off risking blowing cover by leaving the tavern early. When the Gestapo officer had inquired as to why Hicox (or rather, the German officer Hicox was disguised as) and his fellow men were in the bar, the Englishman had smoothly responded that they were accompanying von Hammersmark to the premiere. His performance had been flawless, save for his tragic mistake in indicating the number three correctly.
There were so many flirtations, some staged, and some natural. Regardless, Bridget had felt the electricity crackle between them. The smooth way in which the lieutenant had flicked his lighter on for her cigarette…the way the two had conspired like little, giggling children in that foolish card game…and how he had acted genuinely hurt when she had teased him at the table, all under the watchful eyes of the major. "The lieutenant is my date." That was what she had called Archie. She now found herself wishing that were true. Maybe if—she mentally slapped herself. It was no use dwelling in the past when it was time to focus on the here and now. She was hiding for her life under a flimsy table, just a mere few inches out of the sight of an armed madman. All the while, a true gentleman lay next to her, with no one to bid him a good-bye.
Bridget mentally grappled with herself. No, she shouldn't do it. It was improper. It was disgusting. Yet, she found herself wanting to. She had been in the film industry long enough to know that Hicox had truly been a rare find. The actors that had been worshipped by legions of adoring girls were nothing like their godlike on-screen performances. As soon as the cameras had stopped rolling, their imperfections showed easily through: love of drink, egotism, shallowness…The list went on and on. Von Hammersmark had her own lengthy personal chronicle of these same men that had failed to meet her expectations of them. It was spelled out in fruitless one-night stands, kisses that tasted of wine, and promises that were easily shattered like glass.
Here was this lieutenant, a man unknown to her until a few months ago, who displayed none of this. Rather, he showed quite the opposite: bravery, leadership, and above all: chivalry. Yes, he was the first man that had not failed her. Now he was gone, as if he was a wonderful dream that she had been awakened from too soon. She had been tossed into this cruel reality, in which she was probably not going to live much longer. No, she couldn't let it go.
The actress silently let out a breath, having made her choice. She quickly flicked her eyes up at Wilhelm to see if he had moved. Although his shaking fingers were causing the gun to rattle, and his eyes were moving about sporadically, the majority of his body stayed still as a statue. It was now or never. If she could have had her way, Bridget would have shut her eyes, but that was out of the question. She carefully moved her face closer to Archie's, all the while trying not to make any noise on the floor, and placed her lips on his. He still was warm, his death had only minutes before. His lips tasted faintly of the scotch he downed before ordering Stiglitz to fire.
As she drew out, von Hammersmark tried to stop herself from imagining those two closed portals in his face opening, and one of his arms protectively drawing her close to him, but found she could not. What had she been hoping, for a simple spell over him to be broken like in "Schneewittchen?" Had she truly gone mad? A lone, black tear sliding down her face answered that question for her. It was true, she was mad to be kissing death, but would it have been better to have not, to have instead let his spirit wander away in loneliness? No, not when Bridget cared about him so. Archie deserved so much more, as did she.
Reality hurt, that was true. It was a wonder that she wasn't raising the handgun to her own head, and pulling the trigger right then. She could feel her fingers sliding up on it, beginning to pull it painstakingly toward her body, her heart pounding harder than it already was with each inch gained. Wilhelm couldn't hear her over the rattling of his own weapon. Just as soon as she had started, she stopped, her heart not settling down completely, but relaxing a little. It wasn't the incomplete mission itself that suddenly stayed her hand. It was the fact that this same wonderful man had willingly given his life for its success that helped find her a purpose. That was why she sat bolt upright and screamed, "I'm alive!"