Summary: That man, he's a Casanova and you know it. He's using you, well, probably, and even if he's not, you know there are others. You're just a pretty face. \ One-shot, sort of Hogan/Hilda
Pretty Faces
"Morning Hilda!" he exclaims and you ignore the way your heart beat speeds up wildly, donning a sunny smile.
"Colonel Hogan!" you exclaim, "What can I do for you?"
He slips behind the desk, rests both hands on your shoulders and leans down to kiss your cheek. "Is Ol' Blood and Guts in?" he asks you as you step out of your chair and into his arms.
"Yes, the Kommandant is in his office." you tell him, reaching your hand up to cup his cheek, "But I hope that's not all you're here for."
He smiles that smile that makes your insides melt and then he kisses you with more passion than Romeo ever could have kissed Juliet. His lips are warm and sure and you know he's everything you ever wanted, even if he's wearing the wrong uniform. And then he pulls away all too soon and says "Unfortunately, there's a war on."
His wry smile as he leaves has you sinking back into your chair, resting your cheek on your hand and staring off into nowhere for a minute or so. Then you come to your senses and get back to your work.
That man, he's a Casanova and you know it. He's using you (well, probably) and even if he's not, you know there are others. You're just a pretty face.
You're risking your life – your own bloody life – for this. For heartbreak. You didn't mean to fall for him – an American prisoner? Your mother would be ashamed. But you did. Heavens, you did and it's killing you. You practically bend at his will – though for the record, you hate that – but you try to act like you're playing hard to get. The stockings, the coffee, they're nice but you don't need them. You'd do it all without them.
You want the Allies to win. You didn't want it in the beginning. You were a nice little German girl with big dreams and sweet little Nazi beliefs. You were the master race and with your blonde, blonde hair and blue, blue eyes, you were a Nazi golden girl. With a swastika on your arm and a "Heil Hitler!" on your lips, it was wonderfully simple.
You applied for the prison camp job as soon as you knew the position was open. You were twenty-three, and feeling a whole lot older than sweet sixteen. You were a little wiser, a little more used to the world and shh, don't tell, a little prettier.
You marched in there the first day, black pencil skirt straight, a white shirt neatly hugging your body and a swastika pin over your heart, looking just the part of a German girl – no, woman – serving her country. But good heavens, were you ever naïve. You held out your papers at the gate like you knew what you were doing, but they just waved you through the second you said why you were there.
You blinked a little but shrugged it off because you weren't an expert in security, just sweet little thing fresh out of school with her head full of big dreams that had generals just falling at your feet. Anything to make your papa proud. You walked into the office, purse clutched in your hand, and a heil Hitler about to burst through your lips.
And then you met Klink and the salute died in your throat and your hand dropped from its half-raised position. He was old, at least fifty, or at least that's what you'd said to your mother in your letter that evening and you'd have sworn that a sweat drop materialized on his forehead the moment he saw you.
"Fräulien Hilda?" he half asked, half exclaimed in a wavering voice. It all went downhill from there.
The Kommandant hit on you, the big fat sergeant hit on you, just about everyone who walked through there hit on you. It wasn't till you were just about to go home that first day did he finally show. "Well you're not Helga!" he had said, grinning like you would soon discover he usually did, his brown eyes dancing.
"No Herr…" you trailed off.
"Hogan. Colonel Robert Hogan." He had introduced himself, sticking his hand out, "I think we'll be getting to know each other very well."
You had rolled your eyes at that time and said "I should hope not, Herr Colonel."
He winked at you and smiled that knee weakening smile and said "Well then, is Ol' Blood and Guts in?"
"The Kommandant is here, if that's what you mean Herr Colonel." You told him, still eyeing his outstretched hand with distaste.
"Brilliant!" he exclaimed and strode through the door before you could stop him.
You had rolled your eyes at American disrespect and stupidity and arrogance and numerous other things, your mindset still with all things Nazi propaganda, not realising that you'd fall for him someday.
Slowly but surely, you'd fallen in love with him and your swastika pin found its way into the trash, right beside all of your Nazi beliefs.
You know he's probably got a sweetheart at home – no, a whole string of them, writing him letter after letter. You don't really know the details of all his espionage activities, but you know he gets outside the wire often enough and so you're probably not the only German girl in his life either. And of course there's that crazy Russian.
Some days, you're down and there's nothing better to do, you imagine up those girls. There's Mary, his sweetheart from high school and Jane, the girl his mother introduced him to. Alice is the girl at the drug store and Margaret is the girl who works at his favourite bar back home, but only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Anna is for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and Ruth is the weekend tart.
Then there are his British sweethearts. Minnie and Grace and Mabel all work in assorted stores near his training base and Ida was his girl from before he was captured. And then he's probably got a Gretchen and a Gretel and a Liesle and a Heidi, and maybe an Elsa too, but you do like forget about that. Knowing him, there's probably also an Apolline and a Lisette, but it's always possible (though not likely) that you're just being pessimistic.
You're probably crazy of course. You don't think there are any other German girls who wonder how many women an American Colonel has and make up names for them all, but there probably aren't a lot of German girls in love with an American Colonel.
Usually you wish you'd fallen for some handsome German soldier, a Colonel maybe, or even a sergeant if you're settling for something less. But sometimes you know that you never could have done that (too much Austrian blood in you to really be German) and so you wish you'd fallen for one of the other prisoners. Maybe little LeBeau with his French and his cooking and teensy tiny stature, or Carter, who's sort of bumbling and sometimes a little thick in an incredibly endearing way. If you'd fallen for Newkirk you could say it was his quick wit, and if it was Kinchloe you could say it was his brains, but you fell for Hogan and there really isn't a good excuse for that.
You did exactly what you're sure dozens of women have done and what dozens of women have yet to do. You let him draw you in with good old fashioned flirting and good looks and then he finalized the capture by commandeering your heart with a wink and a grin and some puppy dog eyes.
Some days when you're in a better mood, a whimsical, optimistic mood, you dream that when the war is over, you'll find out that he's really serious about you. You dream that he'll sweep you off your feet and take you to England or America or Paris or somewhere that's not a prison camp.
You dream of candle lit dinners, champagne and engagement rings. Some days you even get crazy enough to dream up the loveliest wedding ceremonies. You think LeBeau would volunteer to design your dress, but you're not really sure if the whole Yvette thing is true.
There'd be a violinist, you had decided one dreary January day, not Klink, oh no, you never want to see him after the war, but someone with real skill to serenade you up the aisle. Maybe you'd have Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk sing too, but it wouldn't matter terribly, as long as Hogan was waiting up the aisle.
And then you'd be pulled out of your crazy, impossible daydreams by one thing or another and you'd never get to hear his "I do."
But when you're feeling pessimistically realistic, you can practically see yourself sitting in the corner of a little London bar, sipping gin or cognac or something and watching him kiss the living day lights out of some busty little British brunette. Of course, some days it's Paris and wine and a French blonde who giggles incessantly or New York and brandy and a red-head with fewer morals than a rabbit during mating season, but it's all the same really. You're in the corner and she's in his arms.
And when it comes down to those daydreams that are really wide-awake nightmares, you know you're a little crazy. Not because of the other girl, no, she's entirely realistic, even probable, but because of you. You won't be in the picture, you ought to know that much.
The Colonel will throw in a good word for you and you'll live out the rest of your days in a low paying job, probably as a secretary at some company that you don't care about where the boss hits on you. If you're lucky, maybe you'll even be able to snag a husband with decent pay and have a few kids, but that'll be it. You won't make it to London or New York and even Paris is a long shot. You'll be a nothing girl with nowhere to go. With prospects like that, you really should be rooting for the Axis powers in this war, but you can't. Not when that would make him your enemy.
Hogan comes bursting out of Klink's office, frustration on his face. "Colonel?" you call after him, but he brushes past you and slams the door on his way out. You sigh and return to your work, imagined pretty faces dancing through your mind, taunting you because you'll never be anything but a pretty face to him.
Well, this is my first ever Hogan's Heroes fanfiction. I've written fanfiction of other things before, mainly Harry Potter, but this is a first. YAAY! Anyways, my dad got me onto Hogan's Heroes about a year ago probably, watching them on YouTube, but I never thought about fanfiction of them till about a week or so ago. Then I read some and it was pretty good and then I got an idea.
This story turned out a lot more about Hilda's musings than about the actual Hogan/Hilda relationship that I had planned it to be about, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. Or bakes maybe, because this is creating, not destroying. I don't know.
The time period of this is sometime after Gowns by Yvette but before Season 6 starts because Baker is not yet at Stalag 13.
Well, anyways, I don't own Hogan's Heroes or the French name I borrowed from Harry Potter that's hidden in there. Virtual cookies to anyone who can find it – I've got virtual circus circus, virtual chocolate chip and virtual raisin oatmeal.
And for anyone who reviews, virtual apple strudel!