Disclaimer: I own nothing. All is riff and parody.
Warnings: Deals with the subject of torture, violence and assault. Also, Johann Schmidt is a Nazi and expresses Nazi views. Because he's evil.
"Stop."
Erik Lensherr freezes where he stands, holding the tray. His hands are shaking; on the silver tray the coffee cups flutter on the saucers, clinking softly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tray. His heart is rattling under the loose, thin cloth of his skin.
Across from him, on the sofa, Johann Schmidt sits back expansively. He looks at Erik; it is a heavy, suffocatingly sensual gaze that he tries to pass off as a playful flirtation. He smiles at Erik. His lips pull too far back. His teeth are white as bleached bones.
"Come here, Erik," he says.
Erik swallows the hard lump in his throat. He is already in a state of panic, joints flooded with adrenaline, muscles coiled and twitching. He approaches him, neither slowly nor quickly, his eyes fixed on the floor. Schmidt leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, hands clasped earnestly in thought.
"I wonder, why do I like you so much Erik? Why do I like you so much better than all my others?" he asks. He waits a moment, and perhaps he's curious if Erik will respond but Erik stays silent. Schmidt's gaze pours its burning oil over his body. "I thought to myself this morning that it had to be hormonal, but that was a momentary conclusion based off the way your hair looked in the morning light." His attempt to be poetic is flat and unimaginative. It strikes Erik as dull and cliché. Under his panic, he shelters a proud contempt for Schmidt's simplicity.
Schmidt touches the soft braid of hair. Hair is a rare treasure in the camp.
"So glad Dr. Klaus let you keep it."
Johann Schmidt is not his real name, anymore than Klaus Schmidt is the real name of the doctor who conducts his experiments on Erik. "Schmidt" is the last name that all of Hydra's high level scientists use; and to distinguish themselves, they call each other "Dr. Klaus" or "Dr. Johann". They have not used their true names in a long time.
Dr. Johann "Schmidt" looks up at him.
"It isn't that, though. Physical beauty is compelling, but this is something more…ethereal." Schmidt drops the braid. He glances at the table, then picks up a Warsing cookie and smiles at Erik, holding it up to him. "Would you like one? You can have one, and all I want in return is a kiss."
Erik doesn't answer. He doesn't feel hunger anymore, because hunger is all he feels, it is all any of them feel. Silence. The clock ticks an empty, hollow minute by. Schmidt's smile fades to a baring of teeth. Finally, he shrugs.
"Suit yourself," he says. He drops the cookie back into the plate and amuses himself, toying with the end of Erik's braid. "Maybe I like you so much because you think I'm a liar. You think I'm a liar, don't you?" Erik doesn't answer. There is no answer he can give that Schmidt won't punish him for. After a minute, Schmidt chooses to go on.
"You refused the cookie because you don't think I'll really give it to you. You think I will take what I want and default on payment. Maybe that's why I like you, because you are so shrewd and practical." He laughs. "You have the Jew's greed and the Jew's prudishness."
Dr. Johann Schmidt touches the braid again. Erik's silver hair is a source of pride for both Dr. Klaus and Dr. Johann. When the young man arrived at the camp, it was black. But since Dr. Klaus, Dr. Johann, and Hydra began their experiments on him, the hair has turned brilliant platinum.
Of course, this has nothing to do with Hydra or its experiments. It's just the natural development of Erik Lensherr's unique mutation. But Hydra has taken credit for it, declared it a successful—if, as yet, induplicable—attempt to turn Erik's inferior Jewish features into high Aryan ones.
Johann wraps the hair around his hand, sliding it through his fingers. Erik gazes at the floor, eyes narrowing reflexively. Schmidt's constant attention terrifies him, because it is always accompanied by the threat of violence. But under his fear, Schmidt's cruel, ironic sadism disgusts him and his unimaginativeness and psychological simplicity are contemptible.
"Such a cold, pretty face," Schmidt says. "Why don't you talk to me?"
Silence.
"I think I know why you don't talk to me," Schmidt says, tugging playfully on the hair. "Because you're proud. That's it, isn't it? It doesn't matter that I have more power than any man in the world right now, you still think you're too good for me. Your silence is just your snobbery talking." The braid slips silkily through his fingers. "I think that's why I like you so much more than all my others. There's no pain or reward that could make you sell yourself; because you are too proud to ever sell yourself. They all, eventually, gave in to me. But you won't. You won't even deign to speak to me."
Erik stares at the floor. His chest is tight with a panic that doesn't quite manage to completely eclipse his loathing. He feels almost that he has escaped. The conversation has not gone in the cruel, cat-and-mouse fashion that Schmidt enjoys. By not answering, Erik has taken the fun out of Schmidt's brutal romantic teasing. Finally, Schmidt leans back on the couch.
"Back to your work," he says, with a touch of irritation.
Erik turns back to the tray. He feels liquid with relief. He starts to pour out the coffee when he falls to the ground. That's how it seems; as though, without warning or reason, he just falls to the ground.
Then pain blooms in his temple. His head throbs, his vision going red at the edges.
He rolls onto his stomach and tries to lift himself up when he sees Schmidt's boot and feels another crack against his head that drops him to the floor again in a crimson haze of pain. There is another shattering blow against his back and now he realizes it is Schmidt, hitting him with the butt of his revolver. Another blow and Erik lays on the floor, gasping, fighting to stay awake.
Schmidt puts his Luger back in its holster and grabs Erik by the shoulders. He lifts him up and throws him onto the sofa.
Erik groans against the cushions. He is awake and conscious of what is happening, but he's disoriented. What is happening doesn't completely make sense. It is like everything: the camp, the death, the ash clouds, all of its still seems unreal, as if it can't be true in a world that claims to be sane, rational and civilized.
Schmidt removes his black jacket and tosses it over the back of the chair. He kicks Erik's legs apart and kneels down on the sofa, between his knees.
"The less you fight me, the less I'll hurt you," Schmidt says. "But after you've been broken in, you won't be so reluctant to give in willingly. Very soon, you'll come to enjoy it." Schmidt runs his fingers up under the thin cloth of Erik's shirt. His right hand touches Erik's cheek and feels tears.
Schmidt is not an opportunist. He's not like other soldiers, who take advantage of the impunity they have to exploit their prisoners. Johann Schmidt isn't a philanderer with his hands in a cookie jar; he is a megalomaniac. Above all, he desires power.
"No," Erik can hear himself whimpering. His voice is pitiful, choked with tears, and somewhere behind his terror and desperation he holds himself in contempt for begging because begging is what Schmidt wants, what he craves, the powerlessness that he thrives on. "Please, please no."
"Yes," Schmidt mocks softly, reaching for the clasp of his trousers. "Please, please yes."
Then something unexpected happens. It is nowhere in the field of Schmidt's intentions, nowhere in the realm of possibilities he has scripted out.
There is a sound of tearing wallpaper. Schmidt raises his head in time to see the metal shield of the Reich that hangs on the wall go flying towards him. It strikes him in the head, knocking him onto the floor, unconscious.
Erik stumbles up from the sofa, sobbing. He wants to run, but there is absolutely nowhere he can go. He cannot hide from Schmidt in the barbed wire fences of the camp. Schmidt will come for him, and he will repay Erik's resistance with savagery. He will have the pain and tears he wants.
Erik collapses in the hall outside, knocking over an endtable. The sound brings Dr. Klaus out of his office.
"Gott in himmel," he mutters, touching Erik's face gently. "Go sit in my office. I'll clean this up before it gets infected."