A/N: Takes place during their winter together. Nothing really happens, but I suppose it qualifies as slash. (Hey, and it was only a matter of time before slash started appearing for these characters, right?)
"Django?" Schultz's voice is light – too light. "I have a question."
"Mm?" He often communicates in grunts and eyebrows. He seems to be understood.
"It's a rather… personal question." The voice is more than light; it's careful.
"Mm-hm."
"And I don't want to offend you."
"Offend me." That is worth speaking up for. He laughs. "I don't think you're going to offend me, Doc."
"Well. Nevertheless. I thought it polite to ask first." Django makes a gesture of invitation and Schultz purses his lips, choosing his words. "My question is: I have heard – from a variety of sources, none of whom seemed to be speaking from personal experience, but… I have heard that your kind are… are very…" A sweeping gesture in Django's general direction, which isn't very helpful. "… Favorably proportioned. More than most. Is there any truth to that?"
"… Favorably…?"
Another gesture, better aimed, and this time his eyes move down, away from Django's, down towards…
"Oh." He has to laugh. "You want to know whether it's true that nigger cock is bigger and better than white cock – is that it?"
"Well… in so many words… yes." His smile is big, if somewhat nervous, and he makes eye contact fearlessly.
Django shrugs. "People say." Shrugs again.
"Indeed."
He squints. "How was that supposed to offend me?"
Schultz lets out breath in a hiss as he rises. He steps away from the fire, turns his back, runs a hand over his hair. "Well, because what I was going to ask next is, if it is true that nigger cock is something spectacular and that you have one, I was going to ask whether you might consider fucking me with it." He turns around, his smile decidedly embarrassed now, and spreads his hands. "Academic curiosity."
Silence.
"Django?"
"Are you… serious?"
"Oh yes, yes," Schultz assures. "Think it over if you wish, but I am up for it, as they say, at any time." Django can only stare. Schultz adjusts the fire, starts undressing for bed. "Well. Goodnight!"
Django has still not figured out what to say by the time Schultz is rolled up in his blanket – facing away.
He doesn't usually turn his back like that. Eventually Django says: "Doc."
The answer is tense and immediate. "Yes?"
"You awake?"
"Do I not sound awake?" He's very nervous. "Listen, if I've offended you, I apologize."
"No. I just…" He heaves a sigh. "I don't, you know. I've never…"
"Ah. Do you know how it's done?"
Of course he knows how it's done. He just can't believe that the Doc would want it. That anybody would. "Um… you know it would hurt."
"Yes. I'm aware."
"But you still…?"
"Mm-hm." He sounds cheerful. Almost proud.
Django gets up and comes around the fire. Stands over him.
And Schultz flails his way up to sitting. "Will you?" he says, now bursting with glee.
"What part of it would hurt is not getting through to you?"
"Pssh." He waves it off… then frowns. "You're not that freakishly big, are you? I've seen you bathing," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Though maybe it's different when you're excited; that's what they say anyway. How big are we talking?"
Schultz's eyes go to his groin again, and somehow, the gaze is like a physical thing and Django feels a tingle. He reaches down with his palm to rub the itch away.
(Which, of course, does not help.)
"Big enough to hurt," he says again, firmly.
"Well I would hope so. Anything else would be a disappointment." Schultz turns away and for a moment Django thinks he's abandoning the whole thing… until he sees shifting and rustling and realizes that the Doc is moving to open his underpants, tugging them partway down his hips. "Go on. I really do want it."
Django clears his throat. Also reaches down into his trousers with one hand, pulling at himself lazily. He's part hard, at least. Could maybe get harder if he really…
"Pleeeease?" Schultz wheedles, like a kid after candy. He hasn't gone all breathy or passionate, which is good because that would be much too strange. Django kneels down beside him and reaches out.
Schultz's hips are warm and suddenly he realizes how chill is the air around them, even near the fire. He tugs hard at the Doc's pants, hard enough to hike his whole body back, and he hears a chuckle. "Oh yes. This is perfect."
Speech breaks the spell, and Django heaves a sigh and wonders what the hell he was thinking. Of course he is not going to fuck his partner. He pats him on the bare ass, and says: "No. Sorry. I can't."
"What?" Schultz turns to peek over his shoulder, pouting. "Of course you can! See – you're already hard, and goodness, the stories are true, aren't they. Please?"
His pants may be bulging visibly but he's not hard, he's barely half hard – and he is certainly not going to get any harder for an old white man. "No," he says again, more clearly. "Sorry, Doc. I just…" he laughs a little at Schultz's crestfallen expression – it seems genuine. "Sorry. But you don't look a whole lot like my wife."
"Mm." Grudging, sulking, Schultz settles down flat on his stomach. Pillows his head in his arms. "I could speak German to you," he offers, "If that would help."
Hilde had done that, every now and again. He can't even tell if Schultz is serious or not, but just in case: "For the love of God please do not talk sweet to me in German."
"Suit yourself." Schultz reaches for his underpants, still visibly sulking.
"Doc… I'm sorry."
"No no, it's fine," he sniffs, buttoning up.
Django apologizes again – and then when he thinks about what he is apologizing for, he starts to laugh. Schultz eventually chuckles too; there are no hard feelings and things are easy between them again by the time he goes to bed.
This was by far not the strangest thing that's happened to him in recent months, but it was pretty damn strange.
The End.
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