Chapter Text
“I can fight only for something that I love, love only what I respect, and respect only what I know.”
- Adolf Hitler, Mein Kampf
The Führer couldn't help but cringe as he spoke and wrote it down; he was never much of a ‘romantic’, as people would put it. In fact, he was the last person to come to about it; not only did he have messed up genitalia, but it also affected his hormones in all the wrong ways - in the way that he couldn't get it on, almost at all. Even if the quote wasn't exactly about showing affection to another person, but to Germany, he still felt agitated at the word alone.
Love.
“Before you continue, could you put that goddamn cigar down?” Hitler almost spat at the man sitting in front of him. He had stopped counting how many times Himmler had visited him; all he knew was that it was far too much. Not only that, he has the absolute audacity to fill his luxurious office with smoke, doesn't he know how much he hates when people smoke in front of him? When did Heinrich Himmler get so confident?
It wasn't often the Reichführer would come and visit; being completely honest, they had no intention of liking each other, and they didn't. The only reason Himmler would come to Hitler to privately chat was to report on important information, before big speeches, and to ask for more resources and ‘power’ for the SS. Recently, that had changed to Adolf's favour, Heinrich had gained a new hobby, one might say. He has taken a liking to throwing accusations at people; anyone he didn't like would have their name put in a file in a large box under Himmler's desk, and the leader would have to deal with it.
“Have you heard about Fritsch?” Heinrich spoke, complying with the Führer’s request, pressing his cigar against his left palm and extinguishing it naturally. Adolf raised a brow, somewhat flinching as he did so - imagining how that would've felt, but didn't bother to ask.
“Heinrich, I know at least 10 or more Fritsch’s out there, you couldn't be more exact?” Hitler rubs his forehead, already tired of the SS leader, and he has just started his new constant ramble… “Which one?”
“Fritsch Richter, obviously!” Himmler stressed that he had said it like he was about to jump out of his seat. Hitler started to guess in his head what the problem with this new herd Fritsch was. Perhaps Himmler found out that he kissed a boy on the cheek when he was 11 years of age, or maybe he found out that his great-great-great-great-grandfather had Jewish heritage… though if that one was the case, Reinhard Heydrich would be on that list too, and the Führer knows how much that man adores him.
“He-.. He's part Slavic!” Himmler exaggerated, speaking as he was gasping for air. Hitler covered his face with his hands, “Why didn't I think of that?” he thought, failing to guess.
“He has a German name,” Hitler furrowed his dark brows, slightly raising one too.
Himmler straightened up with professionalism.
“Yes, he does, but there are allegations going around about it,” Heinrich replied, sitting accordingly with one leg over the other, “but I beg to differ, it's probably a fake name.”
He insisted. He sounded almost one hundred percent positive that what he had just said was the truth, even though these are nothing but measly rumors that got spread around, and Adolf didn't believe in rumors; he needed proof. He couldn't afford to lose men over such things as rumors.
“We can't do anything about it unless it's proven to be true, for now, just… keep his name under watch.” The Führer answered, keeping his tone neutral, “We can't afford killing men off at the moment, especially to rumors, Heinrich.”
The Reichführer suppressed a snarl and it was bluntly obvious, Hitler couldn't help but feel a tad bit offended. Heinrich leaned into the chair, crossing his arms.
“Of course, mein Führer!” Himmler smiled, clasping his hands together, in such cruel sarcasm. “You’re right, we can't afford to lose one single man that could very much possibly be a spy, of course…”
He stretched as he stood up, picking up his arm in military fashion to salute a quiet “Heil Hitler!”before leaving.
And so Führer was left forlorn and as hollow as ever. Classic. After all, it didn't matter much, that neo-pagan freak couldn't do shit without his saying; all he hoped was that nothing would go wrong and everything would go as planned, as his future, he wanted.
As Hitler sat looking at his decorative office walls - paintings of German landscapes - some he painted himself, but most were paid for, an expensive acquisition. He rubbed his temples in frustration before two soft knocks came from the door and interrupted his spiral of thought. He turned his head to look at the grand clock before realizing. Fuck… Goebbels was supposed to visit him today.
Originally, he had arranged a meeting with Joseph Goebbels a few weeks ago in advance for today, and he remembered it for the longest time until Himmler came along and swiped that memory away. That damn man, he's lucky he still somewhat tolerates him and is important to the party.
"Come in." The Führer relaxed his so ever tense body slightly as he spoke, granting the person on the other side of the door permission to enter.
The much shorter man enters holding a small notebook, his hand sliding off the shiny door handle as he closes it with a slight 'click', his flimsy figure walking slowly but rush-ly towards the moustached man before standing straight to salute a quiet but enthusiastic "Heil Hitler!". He sat down on the same chair across from the Führer, letting out a breath before speaking.
"I'm so happy you had time to privately have a chat with me. I'm deeply honoured." He admired, smiling, his face filled with glee and joy. It was no secret how much Goebbels loved Hitler; ever since they first met, he had never stopped thinking about him, talking, and quoting. It was almost an obsession, one might say.
"Of course, please continue..." Adolf almost rushed; funny enough, Hitler wasn't much of a busy man; in fact, he actually slept most of the time. The only times he was actually busy is before rallies or speeches, and if he had paperwork or planning for his nation to do, but even so, he had people do that for him. "Is it about another propaganda idea?"
"Sort of, I've got a new film concept," he stated as he flipped through his notes, showing off the idea to his leader.
It was a decent idea and was simple enough; a film about a German boy dying for what's right, in specifics for the movement. A film to capture loyalty and bravery, and all the other good traits the average Aryan man should possess. The film shall be named 'Hitlerjunge Quex'.
Hitler couldn't help but admit to himself he felt relaxed, countless times the propaganda minister had annoyed him to bits - but here, at this moment, he felt his suppressed anger disappear as Goebbels spoke. He had to acknowledge the fact that he was quite the smart man too; his ideas were impeccable, and he was grateful to have such a minister to handle his lies.
He felt himself getting too soft, and being soft is a weakness, and weakness is a Jewish invention. Hitler quickly tossed that feeling aside. Business was finished after all.
"You're dismissed," the taller man said, taking his hand out, nonverbally asking for a handshake. Joseph took it desperately with his bony hand, shaking it for a few seconds before Adolf pulled it away, to the other man's sorrow.
He stood up, his hand still shaken by the touch of his beloved, he took his notebook into his hands and saluted once again as a goodbye, almost hesitantly like he didn't want to leave. He walked to the door and opened it, as he did so, a small creased piece of paper clearly dropped from his notes.
"Somethin—" is all the Führer managed to say before Goebbels shut the door.
Hitler hurriedly stands up and quickly walks over to the small note. He picks it up and looks at the door. The reason he hurried so fast to pick it up was to run after Goebbels and return it, but who is he to chase after a subordinate like some desperate slave just to return something? He's the Führer, for God's sake. Goebbels can come get it himself, or next time he and his minister meet, he'll return it. There's no rush anyway, how important could it be?
Adolf Hitler stands up from his knees, walking back to his desk, popping himself down on his grand chair. He shoo's the folded piece of paper to the side, ignoring it completely. Though the more he sits by it and stares at it from the corner of his eye, it entices him to unwrinkle it. It wouldn't hurt to peek, would it? He's the Führer after all, and his minister would never mind.
Adolf grabs the paper and unravels it.