Of pancakes
and courgettes
Author: wanderingsmith
Started sept 2021
Summary: When morning came, Hubert was still smiling.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to
pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I
play with 'em..
Prequel: Petrol
Goto Chapter 2
Goto Chapter 3
Chapter one
sep 2021
When morning came, Hubert was still smiling, cheeks gone stiff from the
unaccustomed wide grin he'd worn from the moment he had left René in the
forest.
He must have managed to actually fall asleep at some point while he laid in
bed re-living that.... that *kiss*!! René had *kissed* him!!
Yes, in gratitude for a bit of benzin, Hubert knew that very well. But he
was no foolish boy; René had enjoyed himself as much as Hubert had,
regardless of his reasons for initiating things. Had even *teased*
afterwards. And Hubert knew himself to be a weak fool for the man's gentle
humour, on the rare occasions that it was aimed at him. To have that gift on
top of René setting aside his usual worried distance...
Yes, Hubert was still smiling as he settled his hat on his head in the
morning.
And for all that the colonel knew very well of his sentiment for René,
Hubert nonetheless made himself set aside the worst of the mad glee and
slowly make the smile ease down. This was *his* joy; he was not nearly ready
to let others share it -and try to ruin it. Not yet.
---
There were days when Kurt was especially glad to escape the paperwork that
landed on his desk. This was definitely one of them. Too many complaints to
sign and forward, too many reports to read -and comment on to prove he'd
read. Far too many orders to read and distribute.
He missed Hans.
Gruber was a fair assistant -certainly better-organized than Hans-, but far
too prim and proper and nose to the grindstone. Kurt would like to say a
word or three to his annoying mother!
Finally siting down at his table by the café window with a decanter of wine
was utterly lovely. Even if the wine was as awful as usual, at least Madame
Edith was not singing. Yet.
Taking a much-needed first sip, Kurt took a moment to observe the lieutenant
as he poured his own glass. The man had been... *odd*, today. And Kurt was
suddenly rather annoyed to have forgotten a possible reason why.
"Did you actually make him pay for that benzin, Gruber?" He hadn't really
thought the man had it in him...
Kurt saw again an odd ripple along the man's features, something that had
happened fairly often through the day, but Gruber's eyes were steady and as
blank as they often were when he replied evenly, "A gentleman does not
discuss such things, colonel."
"Um." The lieutenant had not been strutting -or limping. And René had been
entirely too pleased with himself as he'd greeted them, to which Gruber...
had seemed his usual quietly-pleased self... though he'd had that odd
reaction then too... "You should not let him go without paying his dues,
Gruber. Especially considering what it is going toward." He did wonder what
manure René had come up with that was still making Gruber react the next
day, though; the boy wasn't actually a fraction as gullible as he pretended
to be. Even for René, usually.
---
This time it was the general that had had a desk-full of correspondence.
Unfortunately, the satchel had only appeared *after* Hubert and the general
had left for tank exercises that had been scheduled in the evening. Finding
it on their return had caused some rare -public- swearing from the general.
And the required date on most of the reports meant that they had to leave on
the morning post. Resulting in Hubert watching the sun rise as he walked
away after handing the satchel now full of signed documents to the sergeant
in charge of the priority mail.
Luckily the general was not in one of his vicious moods, and had given
Gruber the day off to sleep rather than making him attend to the colonel.
But the array of colours mottling the sky were far too beautiful to ignore,
and he still had the second breath that had hit a couple hours ago; sleep
would wait. A walk to stretch out the stiffness of the late night would let
him take in the light... and he could stop by the café, of course. Hubert
grinned to himself; René had been delightfully cheerful last- the night
before last. Light of step and free with his smiles, and Hubert knew very
well he was mooning over the man. Again.
At least he was apparently hiding it well enough that the colonel had not
guessed what had happened. And by some miracle, Helga was too distracted by
her Gestapo boyfriend's schemes this week to pay Hubert any mind. He was
free to cherish his memory without interference.
And to think wistfully of a different life, where he could have sat and
painted this peaceful view -perhaps even to then go home to a smiling man
with soft lips...-, rather than having spent the night reviewing lies about
a war he had no interest in.
By the time he meandered into town, the café showed signs of having recently
been busy, but was down to only a couple tables of locals, with miss Mimi
clearing the detritus from a great many more departed guests. And René at
the bar brewing fresh pots, smiling the smile of a businessman on a good
day.
He looked up at the bell, and Hubert liked to think the smile softened,
though that was likely wistful thinking. "Coffee, lieutenant?"
Hubert walked over and leaned on the bar in deference to the long night,
allowing himself to smile at the man warmly, hoping it would not wake René's
nervousness, "I should not. I'm afraid my late evening turned into a late
night, and I'm overdue to find my bed." Empty though it was.
René made a low noise that Hubert chose to interpret as sympathy,
"Breakfast, then? I am afraid all I have, today, is sausage and bread."
Hubert shrugged, "That is far from the worst breakfast I've been offered."
For all that Hubert had tried to be cheerful, frustration and regret dimmed
René's smile as he poured himself a cup of the local acorn coffee and passed
Hubert what looked like some sort of herbal tea. Which was probably good for
him. The sort of thing his babushka would approve of. *Hubert* would rather
a cognac. But he was not about to refuse anything René offered him. Well,
perhaps Madame Edith's cottage pie.
Taking a sip of his bitter brew, René seemed to make himself cheer up and
looked at Hubert self-deprecatingly, "And if this dratted war was over, and
you could have anything, what would be your breakfast of choice?"
Hubert blinked at the strange idea. Anything... And then he sighed without
meaning to, the old memory almost bursting on his tongue.
"Yes?"
Hubert smiled at René's gentle tease, dark eyes watching him without any of
the hesitation that used to always make René shift away from him. "My
grandmother would make potato pancakes, whenever I visited."
René blinked, eyes going distant as though trying to picture something
strange, "Potato.. pancakes?"
"Yes."
"Um. I remember a neighbour making something called totsche, but I would not
call it a 'pancake'. ...It would go well with sausage, mind you." he shook
his head and refocused on Hubert, "However. Do you know how these 'pancakes'
were made?"
Hubert snorted loudly, sloshing the herb-y liquid in his cup as he'd been
about to make himself take a sip. He grinned at René's curious look, "My
mother banned me from touching a single pan after I managed to burn boiled
eggs. Then banned me from so much as the simplest task in the kitchen when I
bled all over, ironically enough, potatoes." By now, René was chuckling and
Hubert could feel himself falling a little harder at the sight, "I was only
allowed to set the table and clean the dishes," he brightened, "Oh! And pour
drinks!"
René managed to control his laughter and adopt a sober mien long enough to
intone "Well, that is the important thing." before he dissolved into
snickers until he had to wipe the tears from his eyes, and Hubert's cheeks
were back to hurting from smiling too hard.
When he finally caught himself with a happy sigh, René smiled back at him,
his eyes bright, much like they had been the other night when he'd teased
-*teased*!!- Hubert for the arousal that had risen during that soft kiss.
"My apologies, lieutenant. You've had so many careers, it is... amusing, to
think you could not learn such simple skills."
Huber shrugged, "No apology required, René. I am lucky that the lack has yet
to cause me any problems." But then he remembered the reason for his little
revelation and his smile dimmed, staring into his tea, "But no, I have no
idea how to make grandmother's potato pancakes." Then he shook his head,
looking back up, "And I remember having totsche. That is entirely different
from potato pancakes."
"Um." René gave the bar top a few desultory wipes while Hubert grimaced his
way through a sip of the tea. Then René looked up with what Hubert deemed to
be a bit of that old reluctance that always made him sad. He'd tried to do
honourably by René, within the limits of his duty, since that terrible day
where he'd had to command the firing party on his brother, but he knew there
had always been a rift between them. Distance and hesitation and the
double-dealings of war and that kiss had been all the more shocking and
wonderful for it; but Hubert was not so foolish as to have let himself
believe everything had changed. Still, he would take what little extra open
friendship René felt able to offer, and hoard the sweet joy of it as he did
his other small moments with this man. "Were you allowed to watch as she
made them?"
Hubert nodded, smiling softly at the memory, "Yes. The kitchen smelled like
heaven."
René gazed at him consideringly for another moment, then looked over
Hubert's shoulder to call out "Mimi, you have the bar." And then he nodded
toward the side door at Hubert as he picked up his coffee.
Hubert followed entirely willingly, of course, smiling to himself as he
allowed his gaze to stray to René's trousers; until they stopped moving and
he looked up to meet amused black eyes. Which was still a wonderful surprise
to find after so long that he would have been skittering away. Then Hubert
noticed the room that they were in and his brows rose.
"I think, for today, that I will trust your mother and have you sit on this
chair, right here, lieutenant."
Hubert giggled to himself, settling agreeably on the stool that René had
placed far from where he then went to stand, surrounded by knives and jars
and other half-remembered kitchen paraphernalia.
"Now, I do happen to have a potato," the wry grin he sent Hubert as he held
a very rough-looking example made Hubert snort at the memory of the last
time René had held up a potato before him, refraining from asking why he'd
carried a tuber that night, "I assume she grated them?"
Hubert's breath caught as he finally realized what René was offering, and it
took a moment for him to swallow the well of gratitude closing his throat.
He nodded at René's understanding look.
He pulled out a metal device that looked quite different from what his
babushka had used and set it over a bowl, looking at his hands as he started
to run the potato over it, giving Hubert a moment to recover himself. "Do
you remember watching her put them in the pan?"
Hubert frowned, trying to remember details from so long ago. He remembered
the ancient, darkened stove that had doubled as heat-source for the little
house, and the little door he had used to add wood to it and- "Some..."
"Was the mix thick like oatmeal, or more liquid, like thick cream puddling
around the potato gratings? Or strictly a lump of potato?"
Blinking at the odd thought, Hubert finally had to close his eyes, thinking
of sitting at the table taking that first bite of crispy sweet potato while
watching- his eyes opened, "More liquid."
René nodded, setting aside the grater and speaking mostly to himself, a
half-frown wrinkling his brow in thought, though without the worried tension
Hubert was so used to seeing when René frowned, "Still at least an egg,
simply to try to get these gratings to cooperate with each other, but only
enough flour to make it pancake rather than omelette. Do you remember if it
tasted of anything other than potato? Sweet? Spicy? Onion, garlic, herbs?
Christmas spices?"
Hubert shook his head at the list, "No... none of that- well, after they
were cooked, you would sprinkle sugar and...." he frowned, not certain what
the flavour had been.
"First things first," Hubert refocused at René's words, "I assume that they
were cooked in a pan," Hubert nodded, certain of at least that much, and
René nodded back, reaching for just such a well-used instrument resting at
the back of the stove, "Now, do you think it had oil, or perhaps grease; or
did it taste of butter?"
Hubert grinned, proud he remembered this, "Butter. I remember I used to love
the taste..."
René gave him an indulgent look, "You are not the only one. So. Fried in
butter. Was it thin and crispy, or thicker and a bit chewy in the middle?
Dark on the outside? Or barely tan? What size?"
"About.. the size of my hand?" he held out his open hand, looking at it a
little dubiously, but that was close enough, he hoped... He looked back up,
"Definitely thin and crispy. Not... *dark*.. but.. light brown?" It was
amazing how hard the little details were to recall out of the apparently
very vague, and yet so strong memories.
René nodded, muttering to himself, "Potatoes, so a good dash of salt of
course. Not too much butter, so not too high a flame..." he looked up at
Hubert, distracted, "And you said there was sugar? With something in it? Was
it.. a dessert type of flavour?"
Hubert nodded, "Yes. There was.. something... light brown in the sugar..."
"Um. Wouldn't be clove. Possibly nutmeg. Or.. no, not that... um. Let me put
this on to cook." Hubert watched, faintly amazed, as René poured a scoop
into the sizzling hot pan of something that looked... very much like what
his babushka made. Apparently recreated from the thin air of Hubert's
recollections.
And then René bustled to the pantry and brought out several small
containers, unscrewing the first one and holding it under Hubert's nose
"Smell this."
It was familiar, but definitely not related to potato pancakes and Hubert
shook his head. The second tin, however, made him blink and take a second
sniff, "Yes! That was it!" Slightly different, but then he'd found quite a
few things tasted slightly different in France, or even in Berlin, than at
home, even when they carried the same name.
René gave a self-satisfied smile, "Cinnamon." Then he shook his head as he
put a spoonful in a small bowl and then put away the spices, "Why cinnamon
on potatoes, I will *not* ask."
Hubert smiled at the teasing grumble, content to keep watching him cook, and
sniff at the smell of hot butter in the air, and lose himself in both the
pleasure of the past; and of the present. He watched René flip the pancake
carefully, and then grab a container from the counter and come back to
Hubert. "I am going to assume at least half and half."
Hubert blinked incomprehension until René added a spoon of sugar -also a
slightly different texture than at home- to the cinnamon and stirred them.
"Oh! Yes... that... seems the colour I remember..."
And the smell from the stove! Hubert was grinning and trying not to squirm
in his seat like the 6 year-old boy he remembered being in that old kitchen
with the dim sunlight and missing paint.
He likely failed, seeing as René was chuckling to himself as he returned to
the pan, but Hubert was not about to complain that he got to watch René in a
cheerful mood.
The simple, half-remembered, trick to using his spoon to sprinkle the sugar
on top of the tan pancake, toasted slivers of potato crisscrossing it, made
him sigh happily. And when he took that first forkful, he knew that he
moaned indecently, and fell on a second bite with entirely too much haste
for a grown man, but it was like stepping into the past! Even the smell of
that infernal herbal tea was like his babushka was sitting next to him.
Though the quick caress of René's palm over his skull as he stepped away was
only half something you'd give a child. And half... not childish at all.
Which he would relish appropriately. Later.
He finished the first pancake entirely too quickly, but he did not regret
it, licking his lips repeatedly afterwards to catch every bit of the old
flavours. Even if it was perhaps less buttery, less salty, less... -he
blinked to himself- well, less rancid, to be truthful, for all that that had
been part of the taste.
When René brought the second, Hubert caught his hand before he could step
away and smiled at him, not remotely abashed at his childish behaviour on
seeing René's self-satisfied expression, "Will you not try it?"
René almost beamed as he dragged a stool over, "As long as you do not bite
my fingers..."
Hubert smirked at the trailing words and wink, deliberately hooding his own
eyes as he looked at the delectable digits. But he made himself refrain from
flirting; he'd already had more gifts today, to say nothing of this week,
than he deserved. "I will control myself. Here, let me season it."
Watching him willingly take a curious bite of the treat, it suddenly
physically *hurt* not to throw himself in René's arms and kiss him madly.
But he was used to controlling that need whenever it attacked; however worse
the memory of that kiss made it, now. He must not be greedy; René had made
his babushka's potato pancakes, just for him. Was sitting at his side, their
knees almost touching, sharing his fork and his plate and pleased with
himself; and possibly with Hubert for the recipe?
-Had smoothed his hand over Hubert's hair!-
Hubert took a carefully calm breath and asked quietly "Who was it that
taught you to cook?"
René looked up from cutting himself a small bite in a corner without
seasoning, his expression sobering away from the quiet pleasure. "My mother.
My father left us when I was five. She taught us to grow as much food as
possible in our small plot, and cook so it was used well. And worked two
jobs trying to keep us all clothed and housed." His lips quirked, though
René's lovely dark eyes remained dull and pained, "I believe her family
disapproved of my father; rightly. And... she never mentioned any family of
his."
Hubert reached over hesitantly to touch his shoulder, uncertain of both his
welcome, even after having been allowed such personal information, and of
how to share the grief. When René only gave him a weak smile at the touch,
Hubert gave a gentle squeeze and used his other hand to take back the fork
he held out, keeping his eyes on his plate as he spoke quietly. "My father
died early in the last war. My babushka, whose recipe this is, still lives
in the small house he made her after he married, though I haven't seen her
more than twice since I enlisted. After father's death, my mother allowed
uncle Max to sneak her help for my education. She died of the flu in 1920."
He wondered how his babushka would like René. She would approve of his
cooking, certainly, and of his proper respect for his mother. And
considering how often she'd warned Hubert not to throw his life away for men
who cared nothing for him and his kin, he did not think she would disapprove
of René's avoidance of conflict...
"Heidelberg."
Hubert looked up with a twisted smile, hesitating only a moment before
speaking lowly, "A place Hubert Solovyov would have had even more trouble at
without his uncle arranging to not only pay, but change his name," he
shrugged, speaking more normally, "Though even before I was old enough for
university, uncle made certain I had an ed-"
"René! Where is- oh! Lieutenant..."
Hubert glared at miss Yvette mulishly for the interruption. And the teasing
leer. He usually did not mind the friendly woman, even though he knew she
was René's lover. But for once it was *his* turn to have René's
friendliness! How dare she cut his time short!
She, of course, ignored his expression.
"What smells so wonderful??"
"Nothing, Yvette. Just a very German dish; I am not about to start serving
such here! What did you need?"
Hubert hunched his shoulders and made himself ignore their continued chatter
and finish his breakfast. René had squeezed his knee before he had got up
and started to clean the kitchen as he answered miss Yvette. Hubert knew not
to pay attention to the words being said, after that. René was protecting...
both of them. That was a thought worth holding on to, and smiling for, as he
walked to his billet through the slowly-filling street to finally get some
sleep.
AN:- Totsche
are the alsace (next to Loraine where Nancy is, and also next to the
German border right where Baden-Baden is) version of latke has onion and parsley and fried in oil
- the recipe for his babushka's potato pancakes are from OH who is from
north Germany
- I have a whole head-canon you wouldn't believe for Gruber's family,
which I will eventually spell out, Namely here unless I slip out of this
fandom before I get to it. And a few ideas for René too.
Chapter two
sept 2021
He'd managed to wake up in time to return to the café in the evening, no
longer caring who saw him smiling. He might clutch at the memory of those
pancakes, and of René sharing of himself -and willingly touching him!-,
almost as tightly as he did to that kiss and the teasing it came with. After
all that, how could he care if anyone commented or teased?
He booted the old piano player away to let his fingers fly, lest he burble
away at anyone unfortunate enough to come near him. And was terribly pleased
when René brought him an unrequested drink, and then stayed to watch him
play. Allowing himself to believe that René's intent look was of passion,
even if he did nothing more than watch. He did not have to stay, after all.
Utterly ignoring the cautionary voice reminding him that René's warmer
behaviour was still most likely gratitude. As long as he did not expect
*more*, he could cherish the moments he was given.
--
Hubert grinned tiredly at the fetching view he encountered as he turned onto
the private path, "Hello, René."
The man straightened slowly, making Hubert frown with how painful the
movement seemed, but the smile he turned his head to send Hubert held only
cheerful welcome that lightened Hubert's dragging steps, "Lieutenant! Taking
a walk?"
Hubert shook his head, "...Not really. Another late night. I asked your
waitress, Mimi, if you were nearby and she said you were in the garden. May
I ask what you are doing?"
René rolled his eyes -as well as his neck and shoulders, and hips, much to
Hubert's appreciation-, "The beans have, as usual, all decided to be ready
at the same time. And with the several days of rain about to start, I cannot
let them sit."
"Ah." He looked at the rows upon rows of plants of every shape and more
colours than he had expected from what he thought was a vegetable garden,
though the flowers seemed... rather more like field flowers than the blooms
he vaguely recalled from 'flower' gardens in Berlin. "I do not think I have
ever picked beans..." And though he knew it was silly, he nonetheless could
not help feeling disappointed.
René's brows rose in mild surprise, "Were you also a danger in the garden?"
Hubert chuckled as he gingerly walked what seemed the encroached-upon
remnant of a path among the plants until he stood across from René,
squinting at the morning sun blinding him, a row of greenery that he assumed
were the beans standing between them, somewhat below knee-height. "No.
Though that may be because mother never had the time to grow one, at least
beyond a flower or two... and perhaps some herbs." he shrugged, "Babushka
had me help with weeding, sometimes. But I don't ever recall being asked to
pick much beyond carrots and potatoes. And snip the occasional, very clearly
designated, herbs."
René's eyes were crinkled into a smile, even if he was -barely- managing to
keep it off his lips. "If you are not too tired and wish to help,
lieutenant, I assure you it is quite simple..."
And so he found himself bent over across from René, trying to teach his eyes
to decipher shapes in the mass of green. When he finally caught sight of
something that seemed a bean, he hesitated, "How do I know if they are
ready?"
"If they look like something you would eat, they are ready."
Hubert snickered quietly to himself, refraining from making juvenile
comments, though he had the loveliest feeling that René was looking at him
and knew very well what he was thinking. When he finally identified a fruit
of a size he would expect to see on his plate, he again hesitated, wondering
if perhaps he should have let René go about his business undisturbed rather
than take up his limited time teaching Hubert skills he would likely never
get to use again. "I do not want to damage your lovely plants... I do not
simply pull, do I?" He was not even certain that that would result in
getting the bean off... the plants had felt as though they had quite a lot
of give to them as he struggled with the leaves; he suspected it would be
like pulling at a cable to discover some idiot had bundled several feet out
of sight. Except these plants might actually return to their original coil
without a swearing mechanic's help. So long as Hubert did not manage to tear
them out...
When he heard René snort, he looked up to find him grinning, a definite
twinkle in his dark eyes, "No, no jerking the fruit, lieutenant." He waited
as Hubert snickered, but then gently raised a bean out of his own foliage to
demonstrate, "To start, I'd recommend you use one hand to hold the stem just
past where the bean is attached, like so, and *then* tug it with the other."
By then Hubert was smiling far too softly, silently feeling vindicated for
always feeling that René was a good, and kind, man under his sometimes
distant and gruff bearing. "Of course, with your talented fingers, you'll no
doubt soon pick up the trick of holding the stem with two fingertips while
another two tug the fruit."
Shaking his head at the teasing compliment, Hubert did as he'd been told and
carefully tugged the bean off without damaging the plant. He nodded at René,
"Yes, I see. Not too complicated."
"No," René shrugged as he returned to his own patch of mad greenery with a
faint sigh, "Merely tedious."
Setting the hem of his tunic between his knees as a pouch as he'd seen René
do with his apron, Hubert slowly pawed through the leaves, trying to catch
sight of the beans that seemed to deliberately make his eyes miss them. "Are
all vegetable so thoughtless?"
René snorted, "Not... quite. And weather can affect how many flowers open at
once, and how quickly all fruit ripen. And, of course, having a period of
rain on the horizon as things are ready forces you to pick all at once,
where otherwise I could do this over three or four days without problem."
"Err, René?"
"Um."
Hubert held up the bean he had just pulled, "Is this still good? I do not
ever recall eating... one so large." He was barely holding back his grin by
the end.
And felt himself melting with affection as René guffawed. When he brought
himself under control, it was to give Hubert a definite leer, "Really,
lieutenant? Then I must remember never to expose you to courgettes that have
managed to escape notice. Now *those* are a challenge," he winked, "For the
cook, that is."
By then, Hubert was grinning widely, once again fighting the urge to launch
himself at the man crouched close enough that he could lean over and kiss
him... but no, he must control himself. And tease back. "Really? I did not
know French courgettes were so impressive." He would have leered at René's
waist if it had not been entirely out of sight.
"Oh, lieutenant. You have no idea..."
---
It had been most of a week since he'd gone to bed with the taste of René's
kiss on his lips, and Gruber still found himself entirely at ease and
pleased with life. Thinking of songs he had not wanted to sing in a long
time, and even playing several of them in the evenings; so often looking up
mid-lyric to catch René watching him, sometimes with simple fondness -which
was still a precious surprise, sometimes with something darker that made
Hubert's pulse rise like chasing after a runaway dog.
Sitting outside, now, at the colonel's insistence since the summer weather
had finally resumed after several days of unseasonably chilly drizzle,
Hubert was, truthfully, enjoying the midday sun on his closed eyes more than
he was listening to his superior chew over the plans for the coming
celebration of the general's birthday. He heard René's steps behind him and
automatically shifted his head to follow the sound, lacking any will to
resist the draw; smiling when he heard them come closer to him.
Before he could straighten and open his eyes to greet him, he felt a piece
of paper pressed into the hand he had let hang besides him, warming an old
break in the warm rays. And then René moved away without speaking.
Rolling his shoulder as though to work some stiffness out, Hubert brought
the hand up to the table, palm toward himself where the colonel would not
see.
'Meet me by the woodshed in 10 minutes.'
Hubert barely managed to catch his grin in time as he fisted his hand.
"Something wrong, Gruber?"
Thinking quickly, he twitched his shoulders and grimaced slightly, "Err,
actually, colonel, I'm a bit stiff. All that time indoors, this week. Would
you mind if I take a bit of a walk while you have your meal?"
"Oh of course not, lieutenant," von Strohm waved a vaguely annoyed hand, "Go
walk it off."
Hubert had to remind himself not to skip as he hurried off. At least until
he was out of sight.
When he got to the garden area behind the café, he gave the bean patch a
jaundiced look. As much as he had adored the time with René in such good
humour, he had decidedly *not* enjoyed the backache he'd had afterwards.
Turning toward the woodshed, he scanned the area for a familiar figure,
wondering if René had gotten delayed, finally calling out a quiet "René?"
"Over here, lieutenant."
Hubert's brows rose, but he followed the faint voice to a path behind the
woodshed, smirking to himself as he saw the cluttered, narrow space: there
was no room there for two men to have done anything lewd. Just as well he'd
gotten pulled aside to prepare for the party that day... Though in hindsight
he knew there had to have been something suspicious going on for René to say
such a thing to him.
He hurried on through when he saw René wave at him from the other end,
"After our conversation last week, when I saw this this morning, I simply
had to show you."
Hubert eyed the wide grin on René's lips with... well. Complete
appreciation, to be truthful. But also with a slight dose of curiosity. He
looked down before taking a step beyond the shed, realizing there was
another patch of garden back here, though much less orderly rows and more..
a mound of dark green, all the leaves seeming almost the same, compared to
the variety of the other garden. "And what is.. this?" Other than *prickly*
leaves!
Standing so close that Hubert could have leaned on him without moving, René
fearlessly reached past Hubert's retreating hand, gently shifting the
dangerous leaves out of the way to expose large orange flowers, one of them
actually filled with water, as well as several inches of dark green
courgette sticking up almost lewdly out of the bore of one of the plants.
"You will see, here, a lovely example of a proper courgette. It will be
perfect for tomorrow's supper." René then reached further, into the shadow
of the shed wall, and shifted another huge leaf aside-
And Hubert's mouth fell open, "My god!"
He watched in awe as René awkwardly twisted the huge... that had to be as
long as Hubert's forearm!! To say nothing of the diameter...
Then he remembered their conversation over the beans and could not stop a
crack of laughter. And considering that René had specifically *asked* he not
restrain such... he did not try. When he finally made himself stop so he
could breathe, he had to wipe tears from his cheeks as he met René's eyes,
seeming to glow with pleasure as they watched him, "I have not laughed like
that in... far too many years." René, still smiling, silently reached out
and wiped a finger along his jaw, taking with him a last watery tickle.
Shaking off his resulting stillness, Hubert nodded at the giant vegetable,
another snicker escaping him, "I will never again think disparaging thoughts
when someone compares their tool to a courgette..."
René's mouth dropped open in obviously fake outrage, "Lieutenant! How could
you have *ever* done such a thing??"
Hubert grinned, "A misspent youth."
René sniffed primly, though his eyes were laughing, "Your masters, not to
mention your uncle, neglected some important details of your education."
"They did indeed."
---
"Ah, lieutenant, I'm so glad you could make it!"
Hubert smiled at René's warm welcome as he held the door for his companions,
glad the café was empty enough for the man to feel free to greet him with
such friendliness, especially since it meant he could return it in
full-voiced kind. "Evening, René. I would not miss an invitation to supper
from you!"
René grinned briefly, looking past Hubert and obviously realizing who Hubert
was making announcements for. "Of course not. Colonel, captain, lovely to
see you both. I have set wine on your table and I will bring supper
momentarily."
"So what exactly is *for* supper, Gruber?"
"I am not certain, colonel. René simply invited me. I could hardly say no."
He should not find it so entertaining to mislead his superior so often. His
mother would certainly frown upon it. ...Though his babushka would grin
proudly!
Von Strohm gave him a dry look, "Of course not- Ah, René! What's for
supper?"
"Courgette, colonel. As I was telling lieutenant Gruber, this afternoon, the
only treatment fit for some courgette is to thoroughly stuff them."
Hubert choked back a snort, reaching for wine to clear his cough and
ignoring Bertorelli's suspicious look.
Von Strohm gave him a narrow glower, "This afternoon, is it? A walk to
stretch, lieutenant?"
Hubert shrugged, affecting his practised bland look, "I did need a walk. I
happened to encounter René, who offered to show me his courgette."
This time it was the captain that almost spat a mouthful of wine, and Hubert
could barely keep himself from smirking evilly at the man's horrified look
as it flicked from René to Hubert. Childish it may be, but he was thoroughly
enjoying discomfiting the man that so often gave him the cold shoulder.
The colonel, on the other hand, merely rolled his eyes. "Oh enough. Serve us
our meal, René."
"Of course, colonel."
A few minutes later, he set on the table an oven tray that was barely long
enough to hold even half the courgette; even diagonally. It had been cut
lengthwise, and Hubert grinned to see that it had indeed been 'stuffed',
namely with sausage balls in a tomato sauce, and even some cheese melted on
top.
"Mamma mia!"
"Good god, René!"
René winked at Hubert while the other two men gawked at their meal, "Yes,
colonel? Just a French courgette, well stuffed. I'd meant it for the
lieutenant... but I suppose he might be willing to share."
---
Hubert was enjoying a last splash of the cheap schnapps he kept in his
quarters, sitting on his bed with his legs stretched out, in nothing but his
shirt and trousers as he listened to the peaceful night sounds coming
through the open window next to him. It had been so lovely to tease von
Strohm and Bertorelli with René. That warm feeling of common-cause and
sharing a secret. And knowing René *liked* him enough to have instigated the
play. It had, after all, been long enough since he'd asked for that benzin;
there was no need to assume it was still gratitude -certainly his gratitude
when Hubert had blamed the French general for Herr Flick's injuries had not
lingered so long!
Hubert could hope it was... friendship... he *could*!
The knock at his door made him sigh as he hurriedly put his tunic back on.
The only good thing in the recent spate of late nights caused by the
heightened activity at the front was the lovely excuse to visit with René in
the morning, when he seemed less busy, and more open to conversation, than
in the evenings.
When he opened the door, instead of a soldier with a message, he found a
tense René waiting for him. And it suddenly occurred to him there could be
another reason René was being friendly. His voice was a bit slower as he
tried to bury the disappointment twitching through him, "René? You did not
tell me you needed more," René was standing frozen, making Hubert worry,
wondering what *else* could be happening "I do not-"
René finally took a quick breath and interrupted him roughly, "I do not need
petrol." He stepped through the door, which Hubert gave a closing swing to,
and came up to Hubert, cupping his cheeks and staring into his widening eyes
with a fierceness that bellied the edge of nerves Hubert could still see, "I
need you."
AN:if you are
not familiar with courgette, aka zuccini
zuccini flower full of water after a heavy rain
zuccini flower with 2 bees hiding in it after those same heavy rains
zuccini attached to plant (they will also often stick right up at you)
zuccini that hid too long > stuffed (yes, that is a full-size North
American oven)
Chapter three
sept 2021
Helga had barely set the receiver down when the phone of her desk rang again
and she picked it back up with a smooth "Yes, colonel?"
"Helga, have you found lieutenant Gruber yet?"
"No, colonel, he is not answering the phone at his desk, nor has anyone seen
him today."
"...I suppose it's possible he suddenly fell too sick to call for help? Go
check his rooms. If he's missing we may need to ask René if the Résistance
has got their hands on him!"
"Yes, colonel."
Having confirmed with the nearest guard that nothing had been heard or seen
from the lieutenant's room this morning, Helga stalked to his door, mentally
preparing contingency plans to contact both René and Herr Flick. Which is
why she was distracted and almost knocked before she realized that she could
hear voices within. Voice*s*. Leaning her ear to the unfortunately thick
door, she confirmed one voice was definitely Gruber. Sounding perfectly
healthy, and in a good mood besides; certainly she had never heard him laugh
like *that*. The other voice... was just deeper enough that she could not
identify it. Though unsurprisingly male-sounding. Helga's eyes narrowed with
annoyance for the worry the man had caused when he was apparently skipping
work to have a tryst!
She straightened and fixed a fulminating glare on her face and was about to
knock *most* firmly, when he opened the door just enough to look out,
freezing with wide doe-eyes at the sight of her, his light voice squeaking
most satisfactorily, "Helga! What are you doing here?"
"You are *late*, lieutenant. The colonel has been asking for you." She
glared at him, well aware of why he had not opened the door fully. She
wondered who he had inveigled into his rooms; she was not aware that any of
the men were interested in him 'that way'; and the bruised lips made it
quite clear there was no 'innocent' explanation behind his guest.
Not that she cared, but it was her job to know everything. How else was she
to get everyone out of the messes they got themselves into?
Gruber tightened his lips prissily, but knew better than to try to pull rank
on her; they had been through enough escapades since he had become ADC to
the general, and so dragged into the colonel's circle. "You may tell him I
will be there momentarily." She wondered if he was aware of the patch of
beard chaffing that that imperious tip of his chin revealed on his neck.
Helga raised a brow and crossed her arms, "I know he's there, lieutenant, I
heard him." She supposed she could have let the man escort his 'friend' out
in peace. But then, she knew she could intimidate Gruber. And she simply had
a bad feeling that any dalliance he got embroiled in would inevitably end up
causing problems that would be dumped in *her* lap. She wanted warning.
While the lieutenant straightened, looking almost as though he were going to
actually try to face her down like a man, Helga saw fingers take the edge of
the door besides him and open it further.
Revealing René Artois, smiling at her wryly in wrinkled clothes. And with
lips as bruised as Gruber's.
"Good morning, private Geerhart." He laid a hand on the lieutenant's
shoulder, spelling reassurance or possessiveness, or possibly a bit of both,
to Helga's rapidly blinking eyes.
She was rather annoyed at herself for not having actually foreseen this. For
all his scared-virgin skittering away from the lieutenant, the man behaved
somewhat differently when he was busy thinking of other things. Not only not
hesitating to stand near Gruber, but often actually treating him with an
oddly intimate thoughtfulness, compared to the colonel, or herself. To say
nothing of the story she'd heard of Gruber demanding payment in kind for
some benzin. She had not believed that, at the time, but it now seemed
possible the lieutenant had made *some* sort of demand, to have managed to
escalate their relationship so; good for him...
Helga glared at both men. This was never going to end well.
"Helga," the lieutenant had actually stepped a little more in front of René,
as though to protect him, though Helga hardly saw what from, "Are you...
going to report this?"
She'd been wondering that herself. It was entirely inevitable that *this*
relationship would blow up in all their faces. But would exposing them now
actually avoid that? And to whom? The colonel, the general... Herr Flick?
Madame Edith? Helga could see plenty of explosions in each case. And few
rewards for any of them.
She switched her glare to René, over Gruber's shoulder, "I assume you have a
plan ready to explain your absence when you arrive at the café?"
"I do."
Helga's teeth ground at the lack of forthcoming explanation. How was she
supposed to help them if they insisted on playing these childish games??
"Very well. Lieutenant, please ensure no one here can identify him. And I
will tell the colonel that you will present yourself within 15 minutes due
to an incident between a bird and your hat. Do *not* be late."
As she stalked away, she thought of the look Gruber had given René after
she'd spoken. She had known for some time -even the colonel had known, that
the lieutenant could not be fully trusted in matters relating to the café
owner. Now... she almost regretted her decision to keep this to herself. She
would have to be twice as vigilant; she was quite certain the man's loyalty
had now entirely moved on from the German army's goals.
At least her suspicion that René only cared for the Résistance the way the
colonel cared for Hitler -meaning not at all- suggested that Gruber's
loyalty would only be even more to René's survival than it had already been;
and *not* automatically to the Résistance's goals.
Sequel: The fallen...
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