Chapter 5 – Sedated
Darlin', don't you, stand there watching, won't you
Come and save me from it
Darlin', don't you, join in, you're supposed to
Drag me away from it
- Sedated, Hozier
Hogan sighed and shifted for what felt like the millionth time. His head had started to hurt like nothing else not so long ago and he could feel his hands trembling but he had no idea what was causing it or why, indeed, he was so unconcerned about it. For some reason, he just couldn't seem to care that his heart rate was all jittery and inconsistent, and his breaths were coming far too short.
Must…be…cold. The words drifted through his mind lazily, as if that too, was too much effort.
Something, deep down, some basal survival instinct was writhing and screaming at him to do something, telling him that all was not right, but it was muted and buried, nothing more than a niggling feeling in the back of the Colonel's mind as he lay there wistfully, slumped on the ground.
Then suddenly the world seemed to tilt on its axis and he groaned as pain ripped through him, seemingly from his centre, burning, all consuming, never-ending – and then just as suddenly, it was gone.
Slowly opening the eyes he hadn't realised he had closed, Hogan froze as he took in the scene in front of him, his heart thundering in his ears, his limbs suddenly tingling as adrenaline shot through his system.
A large room, with a warm fire blazing in the hearth, the yellow light spreading and illuminating him on a – couch? What in the world…?
Hogan sat up slowly, his hand still subconsciously clenched around his abdomen where the pain had been not moments ago. The heat of the fire was welcome on his chilled skin, and he realised with a jolt that there was a warm rug underneath his bare feet and the couch was a warm marine-coloured felt, soft and luxurious. The corners of the room were shrouded in darkness that the firelight couldn't quite reach, but Hogan felt his eyebrows reach for his hairline as he glanced up at where a glittering almost-chandelier hung, the candles unlit in their brackets, but the crystalline hangings absolutely entrancing in the semidarkness and flickering light source.
Hogan was about to get to his feet when he heard a noise behind him, the sound of a door closing, and he instead dropped to the carpet, pressing against the couch, his heart beating a tattoo in his chest once more, his mind jumping to a thousand conclusions yet accepting none of them.
Damned if he knew what was happening or where he was or what in the name of all that was holy brought him to a cabin very much like the ones he used to visit in the winter when he was younger, but he was not going to be caught like a sitting duck. He glanced around, looking for a poker, because that, at least, could be used as a weapon, but nothing came into his view as the footsteps neared. Hogan prepared himself to tackle whoever it was, and, as the pair of feet rounded the couch, Hogan pushed off the ground and grabbed the man around the middle, both of them collapsing in a heap on the ground, a small yelp emitted from the body Hogan had wrangled to the ground.
Then suddenly, the Colonel was hit with the smell of fresh tobacco and musky soap. Beneath his hands the skin he had revealed through his rough tackle was warm and the material slightly damp, as if pulled over still wet skin. The sapphire eyes that blazed in the firelight sparkled as the man beneath him laughed warmly.
Hogan froze for the second time in as many moments, his heart doing a painful constricting thing when that laugh washed over him, the breath warm, and hair messy and damp and cheeks pink and body warm and –
"Honestly, Rob, if you wanted a hug, you only 'ad to ask," Newkirk said, wrapping his arms around Hogan's waist, and, as the colonel had gone limp from the sheer shock and the complete lack of sense, Hogan felt Newkirk push him off gently and rearrange then on the floor, shuffling to lean them both up against the couch.
"Peter…" The colonel breathed, reaching an arm out as if to touch the corporal but dropping it again. The English man merely smiled at his name and sent a shockwave of something through the colonel when he reached out a hand and joined theirs together, his skin too warm and Hogan's heart beating dangerously irregularly, as if trying to escape his fast constricting chest.
What's going on, he groaned in his mind, even as his mouth could not bring itself to actually say anything to Peter out loud.
"I've made dinner, and if you don't tackle me when I emerge from the kitchen, we can eat it soon," Newkirk said, seemingly unaware of his Colonel's turmoil, laughter interwoven in the words, spoken quietly in the flickering semidarkness of the room. Hogan simply blinked and struggled to comprehend that Peter was sitting on the carpet next to him, not bleeding, completely uninjured, and looking like he fell out of every heaven the Colonel had ever dreamt of. Oh, and he was -still holding my hand. Hogan looked down numbly and wasn't sure he hadn't made a sound when his stomach lurched at the sight of their joined hands.
He looked back up.
Hogan drank in the image Newkirk presented like a man in the desert finding an oasis – he was wearing what appeared to be denim pants, and a soft flannel, that had probably been tucked into the jeans to reveal a slim figure. The colonel let his gaze travel up the corporal's body, aware that he was staring, but unable to stop himself. The firelight softened the otherwise sharp features on his corporal's face, as Hogan's eyes travelled up the smooth neck and past the light stubble, but his eyes – the eyes that the Colonel couldn't stop analysing if he was threatened with dismemberment of some body part – they were bright, and focused on him and he had to be sick or poisoned, because he would swear up and down there was a light in those blue orbs that he had seldom considered.
Hogan closed his eyes and laid his head back against the couch, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted as he felt a warm hand close on his shoulder and felt the rush of air as Newkirk got to his feet. The absence by his side hit him like a cold vacuum and he was frightened by the intensity of loneliness that suddenly washed over him.
"Peter…"
From his comfy office, Major Kessel looked at Doctor Strauss who smiled back, Hogan's pained grunts and then the quiet words he had uttered aloud coming through loud and clear to the two men. They had bugged Hogan's new bedroom thoroughly, after all, and Kessel was nearly buzzing with the feeling of success,
"The hallucinogens have begun their work," he commented, turning to Strauss who had a smug smile situated on his face,
"Indeed they have, but I wish we could know what he was seeing," there was a note of real longing in his voice and Kessel chuckled darkly,
"So do I. What do the subjects normally experience?"
"It varies so greatly we are unable to describe a pattern more specific than the manifestation of desires, longings and strong emotions," Strauss replied, walking away from the table and seating himself on Kessel's armchair,
"Such as?" Kessel asked, turning around and leaning back against the desk, his uniform in perfect condition as ever, his jackboots shined to a perfect gleam, his hair bearing a harsh side parting,
"Love, hate, anger, jealousy,"
"I see," Kessel moved also, ignoring the silence on the bug and instead sitting across from Strauss.
"And what happens then?"
"It's like they're trapped in a living dream, so they see whatever their mind conjures up," Strauss reached out and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanted on the table, "but the difference from the other, older hallucinogens is that we can influence the visions, and use it to break even the strongest soldier,"
Kessel's eyebrows reached for his hairline, "Truly?" he asked, feeling a shock of excitement run through him. Strauss had never disclosed these details in his report.
The young scientist smiled slyly as he leant back against the couch again, his drink in hand, "Truly, Major. Instead of the hundreds of Marks needed to keep multiple prisoners alive, and the soldiers needed to keep them confined…" he faded off and Kessel nodded his understanding.
They didn't need anyone, not even the walls to keep these prisoners with them, if they could trap them and manipulate them within their own minds,
"I think you don't need this praise, Doctor, but allow me to say, if this works, you are truly a wonder," Strauss's smile grew lazy as his sharp blue gaze fixed on the Major's own darker eyes,
"I know," he said, tipping the brandy back, his eyes meeting the ceiling, where two floors above, Colonel Hogan staggered to his feet.
The Colonel's breath was coming in sharp pants now and he was for the first time taking the new holding room in.
When that young private had brought him in earlier, he had been blindfolded, as the captain waiting at the door to the third floor has ordered. When he had arrived it was to such a piercing nausea that he had stumbled to the bed and fallen into the previous stupor.
Now, it was as if his brain turned on for the first time and he was seeing.
The room was plush, all Germanic architecture, warm wood, gorgeous chandeliers and the bed was a far cry from the mattress he had shared with Peter. It was a real feather mattress with thick coverings. A fire was blazing in the grate and the carpet was soft under his feet.
He was reeling, the room spinning oddly, the colours too bright, the air too warm, cloying, choking what little air his laboured breaths were able to draw in. Hogan steadied himself on one of the four posts of the bed and closed his eyes. He felt a wave of nausea and fear wash over him again, and then felt the overwhelming panic.
God, God, God what…what was that dream? His eyes snapped open as he remembered how warm Peter's hand had felt on his shoulder, how nice…the edges of his vision flickered and Hogan gripped the post tight, forcing himself to just stop. Stop thinking.
Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
He forced himself into every technique he had ever known in all his years of military service.
This is not normal. He reminded himself, yet he pressed that thought away.
This was not the room he had seen in that vision. However he wasn't sure if the warmth and comfort of this current room had influenced the vision. Was it a vision? Was it a dream? He was desperate to rationalise it all out, but his body hurt in every imaginable way and his vision was blurry again.
He felt his legs give out under him, and heard his own cry of pain as if outside his own body as his knees hit the carpet.
WHAT IS HAPPENING?
The confusion, the fear, the agony – suddenly it was gone again.
Hogan could hear the fire crackling once more, closer than in the holding cell, felt the rug from before, differently textured to the holding cell, and he heard Peter's voice, muted, as if through walls.
The Colonel opened his eyes.
He was back in that cabin, and this time, as he turned his head slowly, he could make out the corners of the room, could see more detail. It looked like a typical American house, complete with pictures on the mantle now, a dining room straight ahead from where the colonel was looking, resplendent with large windows, hung with lacy curtains, facing onto a street. Candles lit the long dining table, the chairs surrounding the table were a deep brown, high backed, fitting for such a large table.
Hogan pushed off the ground, waiting for some sign of discomfort from earlier, yet none was forthcoming. He paused a moment, then pinched himself hard, feeling the pain, exclaiming loudly, as his heart started thundering.
Not a dream then.
"What was that?" Peter emerged from a swinging door, carrying a tray of something, which he carefully set down on the dining table. He walked over to the Colonel, and Hogan had to physically stop himself from jumping when a casual hand wrapped itself around his waist yet again and Peter guided him towards the table as if there was nothing remotely wrong with what he was doing.
Not that the Colonel minded.
Except that he should.
And absolutely nothing made sense.
"What's up with you today?" Newkirk's tone was concerned as he leant in closer to the Colonel as they came to a stop at the dining table and Hogan forgot to breathe.
Too close.
"You're so tense. Was the General difficult today?" Newkirk leaned away, as if to get a better estimate of the colonel and Hogan risked a glance to his right, where Newkirk was pressed against his side, their bare feet brushing.
Mistake.
His breath caught in his throat.
Newkirk's eyes were filled with a most intriguing mixture of heat, worry and love that Hogan had long since given up hope of inspiring in another person.
After all, a career Air Force man did not a good husband make.
"I…" he started, but then Newkirk reached out a hand and traced the apple of Hogan's cheek, and Hogan faltered,
"It'll be alright darlin'," Newkirk said, the words mumbled, intimate, and the Colonel all but melted into that touch, turning to nuzzle the palm of Newkirk's hand, his hands, quite without his input, reaching out and placing themselves on the corporal's waist.
Hogan felt a warm wave of heat rush through him as he realised that the corporal's shirt was raised, revealing a smooth strip of skin that he carefully ran his fingers over.
His brain all but shut down then when the corporal let out a husky laugh and stepped right into his colonel's space, pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh, "What, don't feel like talkin' tonight, guvnor?" he asked, placing specific emphasis on the final word, as if he knew that the colonel usually got a jolt low in his belly whenever the English corporal did use that word. As if he knew that it would add weight to the pry bar on that door Hogan had so desperately been trying to hold close these last months.
Hogan found himself turning before he could think about it, so that they were chest to chest, and he could almost taste the tobacco that hung on Peter's clothing. His extra height gave him clear view of the light dusting of freckles over Peter's nose, endearing and unique. The younger man glanced up through his lashes at the Colonel.
Hogan's heart skipped several more beats and he realised he had to be bruising Peter's hips with the force he was gripping them.
Marking him.
Mine.
And then he was kissing the man like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.
Peter let out a moan, wanton, low, and he gave himself to Hogan's control.
The colonel pushed him, with more force than he intended, against the wall leading to the kitchen, a sudden hunger coursing through his entire being.
He couldn't think.
He couldn't see.
His entire existence had centred down to the point of contact with Peter's soft lips, the spiky brush of his stubble against Peter's cheek as he moved to the corporal's neck. Peter arched into him as he bit down, and moaned softly, breathily and this wasn't enough, not nearly enough, more, want, need -
And suddenly the pain was back, and his bones were on fire, he was lying in a pit of snakes, on a bed of nails.
Hogan's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling was different.
The floor was different.
His breathing was erratic, and there was no electric touches. No warmth from Peter.
He was alone.
The scream that left Hogan echoed down the third floor corridor, followed then, by complete silence.
In the office, Kessel furrowed his brow, "What happened?" he asked, also having heard the scream over the bugs in the room, his own pulse faster than normal from the sudden sound.
Herr Strauss also looked rather worried, "I'm…not sure, Herr Major,"
Kessel felt a spike of anger, "You arrogant little insect -" he started, but the young doctor was not to be cowed, and held a placating hand up,
"I told you that every subject reacts differently," he said, slowly, calmly, "the drugs are starting to take full effect, but I believe our dear Hogan is stronger than all the others,"
"What do you mean?" Kessel asked, "Why isn't he in dream land now? Why did he scream?" Kessel stalked closer to the young doctor, the gleam in his eyes menacing, his entire posture that of a predator about to pounce.
Still, the young doctor was not moved. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and looked Kessel in the eyes, "I mean, Herr Major, that the Colonel's body is fighting the drug. He'll be in excruciating pain,"
"So what does that mean?" Kessel demanded, his voice still rough, but the dangerous light in his eyes slightly dampened,
"It means he'll take longer to adjust, that is all. I will go and check on him in person now. We do not want him to hurt himself before his purpose has been served," and with that, Strauss turned for the door. Giving a sharp "Heil Hitler" accompanied by a click of his boots, Strauss exited, leaving Kessel to stew in his own juices.
The major watched the door close, and before he could throw something at it, the phone rang, startling him out of his fury.
He glared at the phone like it was the reason for this little hitch in their plan, before yanking it up, "What?" he demanded,
"General Burkhalter for you, Herr Major," came the secretary's timid voice,
"What does he want?" Kessel asked,
"He said he has important new directives for you, Herr Major," she replied,
"Bloody Wehrmacht!" Kessel exclaimed, "Alright, put him on!" he added, a lock of his otherwise perfectly styled hair falling into his eyes as a result of his agitation.
"Herr Major?" Burkhalter's nasally voice inquired,
"Heil Hitler!" Kessel said,
"Heil Hitler!" Burkhalter replied, "Now, onto business Kessler. New orders from Berlin, did you get it?"
"What?" Kessel managed and heard an exasperated sigh from the other end,
"Never mind. There is to be a compulsory lecture on prison management and prisoner routines to be given at Stalag 13 in four days. You had better attend,"
Kessel felt a flair of irritation, egged by the earlier scene with Strauss, "I am a part of gestapo! I do not take orders from the Wehrmacht!"
"SILENCE!" Burkhalter bellowed back, and Kessel could see the expression on his pig-like face and felt a wave of repulsion go through him. How men like that could command positions of power in the glorious Third Reich was beyond him. Burkhalter was still talking, and Kessel tuned in in time to hear "These orders are from HQ themselves! I will see you there, Kessel!" before the click of the line being cut reached him.
Kessel slammed his receiver down and huffed.
A lecture? What was he going to learn from a lecture?
He pushed roughly off his desk.
One of these days he was going to show that blimp of a general what it means to be a real commander.
He sighed and composed himself.
Four days was enough time to crack Hogan. He would get the information and then shove it in Burkhalter's face when HQ makes him the new region commander for excellent work.
He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he could see straight through it.
If only the stupid American Colonel would just cooperate!
Doctor Strauss unlocked the room where they had placed the Colonel and was unsurprised to find that the man had passed out on the floor.
Typical.
He signalled the guards behind him to get the Colonel onto the bed.
He was still physically unhurt.
That was good.
"Bring him food and water," he added, as the guards turned to leave, "and no matter what you hear, do not enter this room, is that clear?"
They nodded silently. Strauss took a last look at the Colonel before turning around and closing the door.
He could not wait for the Colonel to wake. After all, the drug only worked when the subject was conscious. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he would get such a strong patient. Normally they die within the 48 hour period, because they never could find the drug off. They could still get the information they needed out for the men they drugged, but it was always a pity that Strauss never got to play with them afterwards. Their systems simply collapsed under the stress.
This, on the other hand, was going to be a very interesting experiment.
Hi guys! I know it's super short but I wanted to give you amazing people something to show you I haven't abandoned you or the story! I will be finishing this! Thanks for all your support, it means the world to me!
Aza