Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Why the hell did you call me here?” Jitka grumbled over to Himmler as she brushed her blouse to smooth over the hastily put on blouse. Himmler simply raised his hand over to his neck, and looked on with an awkward expression, “Well Jitka! It’s an event that the fuhrer organised, i’m forced to well ... .bring someone along” He explained as she groaned in frustration, shaking her head in annoyance, this man is always dragging her along in some wild endeavour with the Reich gang, hopefully THIS time, it won't be so heart-stopping.

“I regret ever trying to help you, Heinrich” “Oh please, Jitka, i don’t like this as much as you do.” The duo stood side-by-side listening to Ribbentrop drone on, the hall was massive, you could compare it to Buckingham palace. Fitting for someone as dramatic as Hitler I suppose, She rolled her eyes at the thought, a small smile tugged at her lips as she sighed, the men of the Reich were so different to their public personas, sometimes contradicting even. “So i said to Mr. Cordell Hull, If you ever change your mind about partnering with the Nazi party, you know where to call me!” It seemed like Ribbentrop was yapping about the foreign minister of America, Jitka had to maintain a facade of interest as she feigned amusement. Her eyes wandered to the other officers in the room, some she had heard Himmler speak of before, others were new, like this one specific man that had approached the group.

“Who’s this little fraulein, Heinrich? Your Freundin?” Himmler’s glassy eyes focused as he lit up at the sight of his old friend, Pulling Jitka’s arm so that she was the centre of attention, (much to her annoyance). “Joachim! Mein Junge! This here ... .is Jitka, a good friend of mine.” He said beaming at the mere mention, as if he was introducing the queen, Jitka was ready to command the earth to swallow her whole, but she kept her composure and mustered up a strained smile. “Hello” She managed to stammer out under the eyes of all the people in the room, the pressure was overwhelming, the tension thick enough to be sliced with a knife. “Funny you would chose a madchen like her to participate, i was expecting you to bring a best friend-” “Jitka is my best friend, in fact, she’s one of the best people out there” Himmler said interrupting Peiper’s rude comment, making the poor woman burn in embarrassment and causing the other man to falter in his stoic expression.

“Pardon?” He croaked out, as Himmler was oblivious to the effect, his words were like a dagger to Peiper’s ego. This woman here overshadows him?! He, who had been practically Himmler’s favourite? The Reichsfuhrer schutzstaffel's right hand man Heil! One of the top in command! Overtaken by a small measly petite- “What are you looking at?” Jitka snapped at the man who had zoned out, staring at her with contempt and distaste, how rude! Does this man have no manners? She thought to herself, as he snapped back to reality. “Such a spitfire, can’t you learn to respect superiors?” “Respect is not given but earned, deal with it” She retorted to his prideful comment, causing him to narrow his eyes in a cold glare, she returned the intense gaze with a heat that only Hitler could replicate in his speeches.

“Calm down you two” Himmler quickly whispered as he successfully diffused the situation, causing Jitka and Peiper to turn to Himmler, the tension greatly lessened but still apparent as they both huffed and reluctantly faced the Reichsfuhrer. “You two are fighting like kids….” Himmler sighed as Hitler, who had been silently watching the whole interaction, chuckled.
“Now you know how I feel with you all” The Fuhrer said while taking a swig from his glass, causing Jitka to chuckle in response. “I suppose they all must be a handful, especially this man here” She scoffed, inciting a grumble of irritation from Peiper. “Must you always be this frustrating?” He snarled as Jitka smirked at him, satisfied that she had touched a nerve. “I’m plainly mirroring your actions” She hummed as he turned to face that smirking face of hers, that smug smile, oh how much he desires to wipe it off her damn face, but no he must remain calm, he has to, it’s completely out of character if he was to scream at her out of the blue.
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“HOW IN THE WHOLE OF GERMANY CAN SHE PLAY SO WELL???” Peiper yelled at the top of his lungs, as he threw the stash of cards in his hands onto the table after getting beaten four times in a row. “It’s just beginner's luck-” “SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT SHE'S PLAYING!” He shrieked at Himmler, gesturing madly towards the blissfully ignorant lady who was collecting Poker Chips like it was ornaments you can find somewhere on the street. “Er….. Go Fish, I suppose?” Jitka said with an oblivious but content smile, as long as she is winning, it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t understand a thing, fake it till you make it i guess. “Listen here you little prick, just because you have luck on your side, doesn’t mean you can brag and boast about it” He barked out as Jitka flashed a grin, causing him to lose composure for a moment, never in his life, had he seen a lady act this way, so carefree and bold, it was frustrating and yet quite enlightening to be honest, but he will never admit it.

“You are an infuriating girl, you know that?” he mumbled after a few rounds of poker, chit chatting and the men had now winded down, fully relaxed as Jitka leaned back with a peaceful expression. “Awe thank you, Liebe, I know you love it however” She teased in a nonchalant manner, as her words made him cough out the drink he had just taken a sip from. “I do not fancy your….. attitude!” He bashed in a forcefully defensive manner that raised quite a few eyebrows from officers across the room. “No need to be so aggressive, Joachim, why the sudden fuss over a small comment on your preference?” Himmler commented with a mischievous glint in his eye, as Hitler smirked as well. “Jesus Christ, Herr Peiper, you almost sent me to an early grave with how…. Tense you were!” Hitler remarked, causing Peiper to flush in response, well since he's the Führer, he can't really rebuke the Führer now can he? But the words still stung nonetheless.

“I was just on edge from the alcohol” Joachim muttered as Jitka leaned in, clearly in a playful mood, as she flashed that carefree smile once more. “Jumpy Joachim, can't handle a sharp tongue, hm?” She teased relentlessly, this lady is seriously going to be the reason for an early grave for the poor man, he simply couldn't resist giving a retort seeing that malicious smirk on her, but sadly he couldn't identify the innuendo before speaking. “Can't handle that face of yours, that's more like it.” Joachim spat out, which resulted in Himmler taking a double take and the noise in the hall ceased, replaced with a pregnant pause. “Did I hear that right?” Göring mumbled audibly, a mouth full of food, to Goebbels as the latter nodded “It seems like our Schutzstaffel here has an itty bitty crush, hm?” .

“Don't suggest that, Reichmarshall, bitte” Peiper muttered with a resigned tone, placing his hand on his now burning face as he realised his mistake and double entendre in his words. “Well it's hard to ignore your connotation, all I can say is….go get it my boy.” Göring winked as Peiper gave another exasperated sigh, his eyes flickering to Jitka who was standing with a poker face. “I-i don't like anyone! Least of all her!” “Yeah, keep talking as if I'm not here!” He denied as Jitka, unable to handle the feeling of being brushed to the side, piped up with a sarcastic remark causing him to turn to her, irritated.

“I'm not saying you aren't!”
“You already act like it!”
“It’s hard to ignore you! Damnit! Strutting into the whole damn place like you own it, getting everyone's eye on you!”
“Are you admitting I stole your attention?”
“. . . Oh Scheiße”

Joachim took a step back after blurting out the embarrassingly clear statement on his true opinion, his hand flying to his mouth, as he stared back at Jitka. Who by now, had lost her confident composure completely, and was staring wide eyed, face reddening with a hint of flusteration in her eyes. The room was filled with a tense silence once more, thick with tension, as Himmler finally remarked. “You two are made for eachother indeed” but this time, both Jitka and Joachim couldn't give a sharp or witty response, both clearly flustered and before long Jitka burst into guffaws, her laugh was infectious, until even Joachim can't help but let out a small chuckle, his flush still apparent but replaced with a newfound affectionate smile.

“You really are a lovable yet annoying lady” he said softly, shaking his head in resignation, as Jitka calmed down from her laugh. “You too you lovable bastard” She commented inciting another laugh from him, as they both looked at each other, the previous bickering and fighting now seemed like something that just built their relationship. “Are you free tomorrow?” She said softly, Joachim simply smiled, his stoicism now replaced with a shy demeanour. “Anytime for you, Liebling”

Chapter Text

The Luftwaffe youth rally had been a chaotic success. The introduction of **EINS (UNO)** had been a tactical masterstroke, bypassing geopolitical indoctrination in favor of sheer, competitive joy. **Göring's** defeat was legendary—stacked with a brutal, unrelenting series of ***"+4"*** cards dealt by a gleeful twelve-year-old, he had bellowed in outrage and then, to everyone's shock, laughed until he cried. It was the most human he'd looked in decades.

Now, the field was empty. Buses had left. **Baldur von Schirach**, citing "ideological indigestion," had called a cab and fled the scene of his own generational outreach failure.

Which left **Laurel** and **Göring** standing on the rain-slicked curb like two very powerful, very misplaced pigeons. The memo about coordinated chauffeur pickups had, thanks to a mischievous glitch in Bormann's new "eternal logistics" software (Laurel had been adding 21st century technology to the mix, it's complicated, includes a hyperventilating Himmler at the Excel app), been utterly lost.

***"Unglaublich,"*** Laurel muttered, checking her data-band for the tenth time. No cars. No *Nachtgeist* (she'd taken a civilian transport to "relate to the youth"). Just the gathering dusk and a suspicious smell of ozone in the air.

***"A walk will fortify the spirit!"*** Göring declared, puffing out his chest, secretly thrilled. An unexpected, **private** audience with her! No Hitler, no Goebbels, no shrieking Mussolini. Just them.

Then the skies opened. Not a storm, but a persistent, romantic **drizzle** that made the city lights shimmer on the wet pavement. The last rays of a blood-orange sunset bled through the rain clouds, painting the world in gold and grey.

Göring, of course, was unprepared. He never carried an umbrella—people held them *for* him. In a panic, he waddled to a closing newspaper kiosk and bought the last one—a garish, striped thing meant for tourists.

He bustled back, popped it open with a *thwump*, and without a word, pulled a slightly damp Laurel underneath its dubious shelter. They were forced close together under the small dome. The scent of rain, wet wool from his coat, and her future-tech ozone shampoo filled the space.

And then... it was **perfect**.

The drizzle drummed a soft rhythm on the nylon. The sunset turned the raindrops into falling jewels. They began to walk, their pace slow, mismatched. The only sound was their footsteps and the distant, mournful wail of a saxophone from a basement jazz club they were passing.

The jazz hustler, spotting the bizarre couple—the enormous man in a dripping uniform with a glowing red ring, the tall, severe young woman under his ridiculous umbrella—seized the moment. He launched into a slow, soulful, **deeply romantic** number. The kind of music that accompanied scenes of doomed lovers in smoky black-and-white films.

Göring’s face flushed a deeper red than his ruby. He glared at the club's dark entrance, mortified. ***"Unverschämter Lärm!"*** (*Impudent noise!*)

But he didn't speed up. He couldn't. Laurel was walking with him, close, her shoulder brushing his arm. The **Reich Chancellery was 20 kilometers away**.

**The Walk:** It was a slow-motion parade of accidental intimacy.
*   He'd point out a building he'd once looted for art with a nostalgic, "Ah, the Matisse was in the west wing!"
*   She'd reply with a dry assessment of its structural integrity and potential for vertical farming.
*   A puddle would force him to steer her gently around it, his hand a beacon on her lower back.
*   She'd adjust the umbrella when the wind changed, her fingers brushing his.
*   The jazz followed them for two whole blocks, a cinematic soundtrack they couldn't escape.

**The Witnesses:**
*   **Couples in cafes** pressed their faces to the steamy windows, pointing. *"Is that…?"* *"It is! The Reichsmarschall and the Fuhrerin! In the rain!"* It was absurdly, devastatingly charming.
*   **A tired shopkeeper** locking up smiled for the first time all day. *"Young love,"* he sighed, mistaking a geopolitical anomaly for a date.
*   **A group of Hitler Youth**, who had stayed late, saw them from across the street. Their eyes went wide. This was not the rigid, choreographed loyalty of rallies. This was… something else. Something human and strangely sweet. One boy elbowed his friend. *"Der Alte hat's drauf,"* he whispered. (*The old man's got game.*)

For twenty kilometers, the heart of the Nazi war machine was reduced to a man and a woman sharing an ugly umbrella in the rain, bathed in sunset and unwanted jazz, walking home.

By the time the gargantuan edifice of the Chancellery loomed before them, the drizzle had stopped. The stars were out. Göring’s arm was numb from holding the umbrella. Laurel’s hair was a masterpiece of damp, rebellious waves.

He closed the umbrella with a soggy *click*. They stood at the foot of the monolithic steps, the normal world—with its protocols and hierarchies—waiting to reclaim them.

Göring looked down at her, his usual bombast utterly absent. He was just a tired, old, eternally glowing man who’d just had the best walk of his several lives.

***"Das war…"*** he began, searching for a word grand enough.

***"Efficient,"*** Laurel finished for him, her voice soft. She looked up at the building, then back at him. A faint, genuine smile touched her lips. ***"We conserved fuel. And gathered… atmospheric data."***

She reached out and straightened his rain-spotted epaulette, a small, intimate gesture. ***"Thank you for the umbrella, Hermann."***

Then she turned and walked up the steps, leaving him standing in the wet street, holding a collapsed, striped tourist umbrella, his now revived warm demeanor glowing softly in the dark, his heart doing something it hadn't done since he was a young fighter pilot: somersaults.

"Warte" He said as she froze mid-step, a curious glance to him.
"Ja, Herr Reichsmarshall?" She inquired as he tossed the umbrella to a nearby aide who might have been summoned out of sheer dramaticality, his voice steady and slow, a contrast to his blustering demeanor. 
"Join me for Sachertorte, would you?"