here from your ask on another blog, i hope you don't feel discouraged by lack of traction bc ib-blr is running on fumes so thank you for your service!! i love ur work already hehe, if i can request anything, can i ask for literally anything about hugo stiglitz, that man is so fine 😩😩
in the shadows of paris
in the shadows of paris
during covert exchanges, what happens when personal feelings entwine?
word count: 1990
warnings: implied typical canon violence
a/n: hugo stiglitz and fredrick zoller get nearly zero recognition in the fandom here on tumblr 😭
not proofread
you move quietly, you almost blend into the lingering shadows with how meekly you carry yourself. no one suspects anything from you, nor do they expect anything from you- aside from the usual typing reports, dealing with office work and remaining submissive- like a proper deutsch woman.
you know to keep your head down.
men rarely look at you- unless they were to praise your beauty or calm manner. to them, you were just an ordinary secretary, yet the epitome of a mans ideal.
a folder lies next to your desk in your empty office- details about millitary transport leaving paris the following morning woven through it's pages. three trains, two carrying supplies.
instead of delivering it where it's meant to be taken, you close the folder gently. you know the information would matter to someone.
the cafe on a narrow street wasn't anything outstanding in particular. just another quiet cafe on another narrow street.
you could see the fog built up on the windows, coating the glass in a layer of sheer and clouds. your jacket- something similar to the state of the window, is covered in specks of snow. as you enter the cafe, you shrug off your coat- with your heart beating a little faster than usual.
you've only met him a handful amount of times before. but you know he would be there.
he sits near the back, where the shadows blend into the chairs and the environment is visible from all angles- hes keeping an eye out, although putting on a show with a newspaper in front of his face.
when you near, his eyes look up from the letters of the newspaper which seem to blend into one another to meet yours.
they were darker than you remembered.
hugo stiglitz looked nothing short of what the tabloids had etched into papers, with commands to soldiers to shoot him point blank on sight. they painted him to be a monster.
but in short- he was simply tired.
you sit down across the table without a sound, letting silence speak for itself.
a naïve waitress passes, placing a cup of tea and a cup of black coffee before hugo, and for a moment, neither of you reach for your drinks.
you slide a carefully folded receipt across the table, and his hand meets yours by resting on it for a second too long, although you know it's a act to make him look unassuming.
'your late,' he mentions quietly.
your lips form into a small pout, 'the office was busy today.'
hugo opens the receipt, framing his body posture in a way no one could tell what was hidden inside the small piece of paper.
however, by the time he looks at you, you can tell his facial expression has changed, although you cant pinpoint it out exactly. you can see the small frown etch its way into his face.
'you shouldn't keep bringing things like this,' he stated, 'if they catch you-'
'they havent.' you reply, interrupting softly.
there was no defiance in your voice, only quiet certainty, and if you were in fact worried about being caught someday, hugo couldn't tell.
he studies you for a moment, deeply studies you.
you- of course, look the same as you always do. delicate and composed, refined and elegant, your eyelashes casting faint shadows across your cheeks as you look down into your still full teacup.
he knew you did not belong in a dirty war like this. who was he kidding? you weren't belonging of involvement in any war. you didn't deserve a life full of cheating and deceit.
and yet- you kept showing up. time and time again.
'you know what they do to traitors.'
your fingers responsively tighten slightly against the porcelain cup.
'yes.'
the singular word barely leaves your lips.
he folds the receipt and places it in his pocket, carefully, as if holding a forbidden object.
'you shouldn't stay long,' hugo mutters.
you nod, and yet both of you don't move.
this had all begun months ago with nothing more to it but hurried exchanges, names, locations and times spewed in covert sites.
now your meetings last longer. you've noticed it, and as has he. he notices the way your shoulders go from stiff to relaxed as you spend time with him, memorising his face as if your engraining him in your memories for the future. the way your eyes lift a little more when they spoke.
things like this are dangerous.
'im being serious, fräulein, you should stop doing this' hugo admits.
your eyebrows knit faintly, almost as if they were stitches from a weak thread untying themselves.
'why?'
'because, they're starting to look.'
the silence that comes after that statement sets it in stone for you. you feel it, the weight of someones eyes drilling into your exposed nape, which is already decorated in goosebumps.
he leans back slightly, still analysing the room- as he always did.
'a resistance member mentioned that the germans are investigating a female clerk for treason.'
your song of your breathing breaks apart, and your hymn comes to a halt for a few seconds.
'who?'
'an SS officer. herr standartenführer hans landa.'
for the first time since sitting down, you look him in the eyes, and he can see the fear inscribed into your precious eyes.
'what about you?' you naïvely ask.
for the first time, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
'everyone asks about me.'
despite everything, a small breath of laughter escaped you, a symbolism of how even when the street is dark, the lamposts shall continue to glow.
it suprised the both of them, and for a moment, hugo felt like he was far away, away from the gritty images of war, and on a mundane date with his love.
the cafe door opens, and in come a pair of black jackets with guns attached to the side of the uniforms.
'you should go.'
you rose instantly, straightening out your coat, and you stop for a quick glance- one more time to go over every detail of his face, every feature acting as a token of his beauty. you tried to remember his face one last time, incase it was the last time you would see him.
you looked close enough to see the faint scar printed on the side of his jaw.
close enough that you could see the trembling of his eyelashes as he took each blink.
'you'll be careful?' you ask,
he hesitates for a second. men like him do not promise such things. but something about the way you looked at him made the words come out of his mouth anyway.
'yes.'
you nod.
then you turn away and walk out to the quaint exit door, disappearing into the cold outside, and seemingly once again successfully blending in with the crowd of people.
in a city full of traitors, spies and villains, hands which are entirely covered in blood- testimonies to pure evil in their hearts, you were still the most innocent in the world.
and that- frightened him the most.
again please feel free to respond with any constructive criticism 🩷