Stille Nacht – A Landa/Hellstrom Holiday Fanficlet
Slash – Rated M – Landa/Hellstrom – WARNING: some of the content in this ficlet may be very disturbing.
This story has a rather odd trajectory. It began when street_spirit01 suggested we write holiday ficlets about Landa asking Hellstrom if he'd been naughty or nice. So I commented that in my story I would assume that both Landa and Hellstrom are from Austria. Hellstrom still has deep-seated childhood-based fears of the Krampus and Landa taunts and humiliates and terrifies him a la the scene in that homoerotic masterpiece, "The Servant," where Dirk Bogarde and James Fox are playing hide 'n' seek. That idea was greeted with great enthusiasm by both street-spirit01 and Miss Talitha, who, as it turns out, is also a huge fan of "The Servant." :-)
And that's what I started to write. But Landa and Hellstrom wouldn't let me. They had an entirely different story they wanted to tell. It's a much darker one, but I rather like it. I promise, street_spirit01 and Miss Talitha, that I will indeed write the "hide 'n' seek" Landa/Hellstrom story. That will probably be next since I need a break from all this angst for a little happy-go-lucky BDSM. Then I'll return to more angst with chapter seven of These Eyes So Green. :-D
"Shall we toast once more, Major?" Landa raised his glass. "To Christmas?"
Hellstrom quickly raised his glass. "To Christmas." As he drank he found he couldn't take his eyes off the gentle movement of Landa's throat as he swallowed his own champagne. He had dreamed for ages of an evening just like this, of time spent alone with Landa in the Standartenfuhrer's sumptuous Parisian townhouse.
Hermann, Landa's long-time driver and manservant, came in with coffee and cake and began to clear the dishes from their Christmas Eve feast.
"You may leave once you've finished the washing up," Landa told him. "Frohe Weihnachten."
"Danke, Standartenfuhrer. Frohe Weihnachten."
Landa sliced a piece of the cake, a fine Buche de Noel, and handed it to Hellstrom on one of the delicate porcelain plates that came with the townhouse, once owned by a prominent family of Jews.
"This cake is quite good," he told Hellstrom. "Hermann found it in a little pastry shop near the Bois. I'm afraid I have quite a weakness for good pastry," he added, "which is why I must constantly exercise to keep myself trim." He lightly patted his flat stomach.
Dieter gazed at that graceful hand. He found it hard to believe that Landa had any weaknesses at all. Though taller than Landa, Dieter always felt as though he were looking up at him, rather than the other way around. Landa was, after all, the notorious Jew Hunter, the single greatest investigator in the Reich's armed forces.
"You're awfully quiet tonight, Major. Have you somehow abandoned your highly-skilled powers of speech?"
"Not as skilled as yours, Standartenfuhrer."
Landa grinned at that. They could hear cheerful laughter in the street below. "It's getting late," Landa said as he glanced out the window toward the passing voices. "About time for Saint Nicholas—or Pere Noel—to put in an appearance, don't you think? Will he bring the Krampus with him?"
Dieter laughed. "Not likely, sir. The French have no dark undercurrent in their yuletide celebrations."
"That's why they've lost to us twice in the last fifty years," said Landa. "They're simply unprepared for terror. Whereas we thrive upon it." Both men chuckled at that.
"I was terrified of the Krampus as a boy," Dieter suddenly said. "So terrified that I would run and hide under my bed or in my closet, missing the December 5th celebrations entirely."
Landa poured himself some coffee and took a sip. "And what terrified you so? Afraid to look in the face of the devil? He's nothing more than a wicked hobgoblin, you know."
"Not to me," Dieter replied. "I always felt—I knew he would hurt me."
"So, a little pain, a few scratches here and there, a bump on the head—what terror is there in that? These are nothing more than the common slings and arrows of boyhood."
"No," Dieter went on. "It was that I knew he would hurt me. He wouldn't hurt the other boys, but he would hurt me. I knew I would be his victim."
"Come now, Dieter. You can't say that the Krampus was only after you. How solipsistic can one boy be?"
"It wasn't like that," Dieter snapped.
"Calm down, my boy. You're upsetting yourself."
"One did hurt me. My uncle—" he stopped and was silent.
"Your uncle?"
"My father and my uncle—my uncle Dieter, the one I was named after—used to dress up on Christmas Eve. Father would play Saint Nicholas and Uncle Dieter, well, he was the Krampus.
"From the time I was four years old he would chase me all around the house, inside and outside, into the old, abandoned barn we had on our property. I was ten or twelve when he finally caught me. You'd think I'd be harder to catch as I got older, but in fact, I was easier to catch.
"I wanted to be caught," Dieter continued. "And I wanted Uncle Dieter to catch me. I wanted him to be the one to catch me because I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to touch me the way I'd seen men touch each other in the changing houses at beaches and lakes like Wannsee.
"But it wasn't the rapture I thought it would be. It hurt. It hurt terribly, and I was humiliated. I was never able to feel the same about Uncle Dieter after that—and I've had to carry his name all my life.
"I closed myself off after that. I was numb. I couldn't feel. I was like that for years. Then, when I was fourteen, I was alone in my dormitory at school. I had to stay back from our field hike because I'd been sick with a cold.
"I was all alone in my dormitory—in my bed, when I—thought of it again. And this time it excited me, remembering it—and afterwards, I wanted to die. I wanted to hurt myself—and I did.
"And somehow, hurting myself freed me from it. I no longer felt I was to blame for what had happened. And a part of me that had died when it happened also came to life again. The shock of the pain brought it back."
"What was that part of you?"
"The part of me that—" Dieter's voice trailed off.
They were silent for quite a while after that. It had grown still and quiet in the streets, now empty. People were home with their families, basking in the hushed tranquility of Christmas Eve, that calm and spiritual prelude that always precedes the festivities of Christmas Day. Even in wartime, it was there as it always had been when Dieter and Hans were boys.
Finally Landa spoke. "We are the sum of all our desires—and all our fears," he told Dieter. "And what they say about us is usually quite revealing.
"It may surprise you to know this, Major, but I am quite a student of the Jew Freud. Shocked? You shouldn't be. To capture my prey I very often have to open its mind and peer deep within to find its secrets and desires. And when I find these, I find its weaknesses. And no one knew better than Freud how much can be found when one unlocks another person's psyche.
"You see, Major, Freud had a theory, that one's sexuality begins taking shape from birth, when the infant first responds to the touch of its mother. As a child grows up, it finds itself responding to all manner of stimuli—at home, at school, and at church. A simple bath becomes a delicious self-caress of the body with a slick bar of soap. The strong legs of a fellow schoolmate as he climbs a ladder to reach for a book sends shivers down one's spine. And in church—you are Catholic, are you not, Major?"
By now Dieter's heart was pounding, and all he could do was nod in reply.
Landa smiled. "I thought so. Well, then you are as familiar as I with that image of the nearly naked Christ, slender and pale as porcelain, delicate arms outstretched, graceful feet stacked neatly for the penetration of the nail, clearly suffering—and yet in radiant ecstasy."
Landa leaned forward in his chair then, his razor-sharp eyes fixed on Dieter in an appraising gaze so clear and so frank it unnerved the major.
"I have my own Freudian theory," he continued, "about Catholic boys, as you and I once were. There are, you see, three ways for a young boy to respond to that image of suffering on the cross. The one that is most talked about is of course the one that finds both humility and inspiration in the profound divinity symbolized by that act of supreme self-sacrifice.
"But then there are the two others, the ones never spoken of, both a combination of exhilaration and desire. There is the one that wishes he had inflicted the wounds on that deceptively soft-looking white skin, that he had tortured that gaunt body, that he had been the source of such exquisite suffering.
"That boy, of course, is me."
Landa paused for a moment to let those words sink in. His usually hazel eyes were now a blazing and brilliant emerald green and Dieter, transfixed, thought that he had never seen more beautiful eyes, a more beautiful face, a more beautiful man. He swallowed, and caught Landa's glimpse at the clear bob of his Adam's apple.
"Then there is the other," Landa continued. "The one who wishes it was he upon that cross, he whose flesh is peppered with wounds and punctures, he who has suffered the thrilling agony of unspeakable torture and humiliation, he who glories in such complete and utter submission."
Again Landa paused, giving the meaning of his next words even greater weight.
"And that boy, my dear Dieter, is you."
Dieter's breath caught in his throat. A hot flush suffused his body. He felt the sharp stab of desire in his belly, and he was suddenly, achingly erect.
The weight of silence filled the room, broken only by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. The air seemed thick and heavy.
The clock sounded, then began to chime. Dieter turned toward those chimes, counting each one. Four...six....eight….twelve. Midnight. It was Christmas Day. He turned back to Landa and was met with a gaze of fiercely bold determination—and raw, naked desire.
"You will stand up now, Dieter," Landa said quietly, "and remove your uniform."
Without hesitation, Dieter rose to his feet and began to undo the belt around his tunic.