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Klink drums his fingers against his desk as Hogan drones on. Requests, complaints, rations, Geneva Convention.
Klink loses track of the details. It doesn't matter. He knows this act like he knows his name. At the end of the monologue, Hogan will make a suggestion, Klink will deny it, Hogan will rephrase it—making it seem like Klink's idea—the idiotic Kommandant will approve, agree, and all will go accordingly.
It's all a script—a reliable routine that varies only in the finer details but never, never in the process.
“Well, Colonel?” Hogan prompts.
Ah yes, this is his cue. “Denied, Hogan.”
Another cue. Hogan recites a masterful shuffle of words.
This is where Klink nods, eyes widening, hand waving as he considers those marvelous lines. Klink knows their parts by heart: Prompt Hogan to continue, make more agreeing noises, throw in a few grunts of disbelief, let Hogan continue for a reasonable amount of time, pretend Hogan's brilliant scheme is his own idea.
Except this time he loses the script. He does none of that.
“Hogan, that's the stupidest idea I've ever heard,” he says, the words surprising him as he hears his voice saying things he knows breaks character.
Hogan blinks. He goes into another shuffle of phrases that should no doubt tilt the scales back in his favor.
Klink isn't even listening.
Hogan stops mid sentence—Klink can tell based on the lilt of his voice: Hogan has paused where there should be no break, no rest in the measure.
Hogan pulls out a trick that's never failed to create a reaction. He seals the phrase with the clincher: “Wilhelm?”
Klink’s script has crumbled to ashes. He doesn't snap, twitch, or shake a fist in the air.
He tilts his head and gives a level look that causes Hogan's footing to stumble in what should be a well-rehearsed routine.
Hogan doesn't give any sign of the misstep—not so that anyone would notice if they were watching, anyway. Except… Klink notices. He knows this dance. He could replicate the steps blindfolded.
“Well, what's your brilliant idea?” Hogan throws at him. If Klink won't follow, perhaps he wishes to lead?
“I am sure you will think of a less stupid idea,” Klink counters. Oh no, he doesn't care to take the reins. Only to vary the steps.
“Any suggestions?” Hogan asks. A stall. Improvisation benefits from well timed pauses, an allotment for weaving webs out of the air.
Klink fidgets with his watch. His thumb brushing the leather strap. Oh, he has plenty of suggestions. Unfortunately, none of them are permissible within the Geneva Convention. Or any other convention.
“Well, Kommandant?”
“Dismissed, Colonel,” Klink states without looking up.
Hogan sputters. Offended. He rattles off strings of words that no doubt tie into the script, routine, and every single act of this confounded play of theirs.
Klink doesn't bother deciphering today's jumble. What Hogan wants will no doubt be summarized into one concise sentence. That single sentence is the key.
Hogan always leads him to the key, to the lock; illuminates the path he must follow.
Klink misses his cue. Hogan prompts him.
Klink sifts through the commentary running in his head. He snatches at a line, murmuring it under his breath without processing what it says.
Hogan's eyes widen. His footing falters so much that even an untrained eye would note the slip.
“What did you say?” Hogan asks.
Klink realizes what it is he's uttered—how he's taken one step too far. He's upended their dance right off the cliff.
He can't retract his words, so he repeats them. “Your ways of convincing Helga and Hilda would no doubt be a fool proof method—” he can't seem to continue. In his mind, the words are sweet; but in his mouth, they become bitter.
There's a pause, a silence. The curtain should no doubt be falling—an unexpected end.
Klink's head snaps up as his chair rolls back, Hogan wedges in, perching on the edge of the desk.
“Hogan, what are you doing?!” he gasps.
“Taking your suggestion,” Hogan says as he locks an ankle behind one of Klink's legs, pulling him in closer.
Klink struggles to regain his rhythm. The music has changed signatures; he is eager for this beat, but is unsure if Hogan will change tempos—or songs—before the next measure.
Hogan grasps Klink's hand in his, their fingers interlock. Hogan's other hand comes to rest on Klink's neck, but the touch is fleeting as it trails down to the small of Klink's back.
Klink follows. His hand reaching for Hogan's shoulder, letting his fingers curl into the leather. He lingers; then dares a move. He repositions his touch so his fingers can brush the skin beneath Hogan's shirt collar.
Hogan increases the pressure to Klink's back, his other hand tugging at the hand clasped within his.
Klink falls into the rhythm. He rises from the chair, sliding it backwards with one foot as his other steps towards Hogan. He closes his eyes as he feels the beat of his heart.
“You were saying?” Hogan asks, his breath hot against his skin.
There are no lines for Klink to recite. This time, he's on his own.
“Colonel,” Klink begins. This is no place for a rehearsal, is the thought that runs through his head. “Do you believe we have an audience?”
Hogan raises an eyebrow. He casts a glance at the door, at the window with shade drawn.
Klink's fingertips are featherlight as they dance upon Hogan's neck.
Hogan leans in, his lips brushing Klink's ear, grazing his cheek, and lingering at the corner of his mouth.
Klink shudders. He turns a fraction, his lips meeting Hogan's.
Hogan breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against Klink's and curling his fingers into the small of his back.
“Shall we continue after roll call?” Hogan murmurs.
Klink nods, catching his breath. He has always followed Hogan's lead. He hopes to continue for the indefinite future.
Hogan presses his lips once more to Klink's, capturing him in a kiss.
Klink tightens his grasp, clinging to Hogan's hand.
This is a new act in their play, the song modulating into an unfamiliar key. Klink wonders if this step is a fluke—or if it will be an addition to their repertoire.
He hopes for the latter. The countless hours needed to perfect a new routine can be exhausting; But with the right partner? Well, sometimes the journey to exhausted can be quite the exhilarating experience.