Title: Risque Cliché (or, Why We Shouldn't Be Allowed in Fandom)
Warnings: Slash. Obviously.
Disclaimers: None of these characters are mine.
Special Notes: Bianca and I were discussing how you could not slash certain fandoms; I protested when she named "Hogan's Heroes" as one of those fandoms, and one thing led to another... It's like a dare gone horribly, horribly wrong. She posted the original third one because I was too chicken to. I'm so embarrassed.
Cliché #1: Small Spaces Turn People Gay
People Who Take the Expression "In the Closet" Much Too Literally
"Hold me, Newkirk, it's all too much."
"Oh, for—Colonel, this really isn't funny. Bloody hell, you're the one that got us locked in here in the first place," Newkirk said, trying to move in the closet. His foot hit something and Hogan yelped.
"Watch it, will you?" There was the sound of cloth rustling, then a heavy thump and a murmured 'sorry', and suddenly Newkirk felt something warm and bulky next to him.
"Please tell me that's you," he said, cautiously feeling the flesh underneath his hand. What he determined to be an arm shifted.
"Unless you know of someone else in this closet, yeah, it's me."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, then Hogan spoke.
"You're sure you left your lock-kit on the other side of the door?"
"For the last time, yes, I did. You're worse than Carter when you're bored, you know that?"
Newkirk felt more than heard the sigh, the warm gust of breath near his cheek. They had been breaking into a house of a general when someone had approached and Hogan had pushed them into the cloak room—and who the hell had locks on the outsides of their cloak rooms, anyway? Bloody Germans.
The general had long since left, heading to Berlin for a week-long conference with the head screwball himself, but as of yet, neither Kinch nor LeBeau had thought to come looking for them. Newkirk squinted to read his watch in the darkness, trying to reflect the dim light from the crack around the door onto its face. Another hour at least before they began to worry.
"Hey, Newkirk?" Hogan said, shifting again. Newkirk stifled a sigh. The man was like a three-year-old sometimes, officer or not.
There was a silence that Newkirk almost began to be concerned by. He wrinkled his forehead in confusion.
There was a dry brush of lips across his, and a warm weight settled on his thigh, gently kneading and finding its way onto his hip. He leaned back, but the lips followed, and this time a tongue pushed inside his mouth. Newkirk could feel the brush of skin against his face, and he fisted his hand in Hogan's hair. Hogan moaned and moved closer, and suddenly Newkirk was a lot more interested in figuring out how to make him make that sound again. That particular breathy moan that made him think of doing this again, only somewhere with more space, less coats, and a comfortable bed.
"Colonel Hogan," he said against his mouth, and he could feel Hogan grin.
"Robert. The name is Robert. Rob, even, if you prefer."
"Can I call you Peter?"
"Not a chance in hell."
He leaned in again, feeling hands pressing down on his shoulders and he reached up to card his fingers through some loose strands of hair.
"What the hell?"
He let go, shoving Hogan off and looking up into Kinch's astonished face. A brief flash of panic ran through him, but Colonel Hogan looked up from the floor and grinned.
"Nice timing, Kinch."
"What are you doing in here? LeBeau's getting the papers right now."
He must not have seen anything. Newkirk let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and stood, brushing himself off of the dust and heading towards the exit. He caught Hogan's eye, ducking his head when the other man just winked at him, but he could not ignore the brush of a hand next to his when they followed Kinch towards the door.
Cliché #2: Hypothermia Is a Great Way to Meet Guys
Near Death Always Turns Me On
"S'cold," Hogan said. His teeth had stopped chattering long ago, but now his voice slurred in a way that made Newkirk tug him closer to him. He pulled his legs up around Hogan's, urging him to lean further into the chest behind him.
"Don't you worry, we'll get you home and get you a blanket and a nice cup of tea, and you'll be as good as new," Newkirk said brightly, frisking his hands up and down Hogan's arms as briskly as possible. The friction served to warm him up a bit, but the skin beneath his still felt chilly. He frowned when Hogan's head lolled onto his chest.
With one hand, he lightly slapped his cheek. "Come on, you can't go to sleep on me now, you have to keep awake. Come on."
"Just wanna sleep," Hogan murmured, his nose brushing against the side of Newkirk's neck. Newkirk shivered from the contact and the cold, then pushed Hogan's face further into his neck to keep his nose and cheeks warm.
"I need you to keep talking to me, guv'nor."
"What should I say?" Hogan said sleepily, blinking. Newkirk could feel the soft flutter of eyelashes against his neck.
"Um, tell me about your family. Or Connecticut. Tell me about that. Ever had a winter this cold there?"
"Mm. Got frost bite once." Hogan yawned. "That wasn't fun. It didn't feel like this though… except I was sleepy, and sort of numb. I don't think I'm cold anymore."
Newkirk was glad that Hogan could not see his face just then—hypothermia. Made sense, after getting drenched when he fell through that puddle of ice. The water underneath must have been freezing, and sitting out in the snow had not done anything for him, either.
"Colonel Hogan?" No answer. He shook the body laying on his sharply, feeling the desperation creep into his voice. "Colonel Hogan!"
"Mm?" Hogan mumbled something, soft lips fumbling to form words. Newkirk shivered. "You're hot."
"Hot?" Newkirk pulled back, putting his hand against Hogan's cheek. Hogan leaned back, trying to escape the warmth.
"Too hot," Hogan muttered. It reminded Newkirk of his little cousins when they got sick; burning with fever and pulling away from his hand because it was too cold.
"Sorry, sir, but you're going to thank me for this later," Newkirk said, pulling Hogan close again and ignoring his complaints. "Or give me a top of the line dressing down for not leaving like you told me to." He paused. "Probably the latter."
"What're you talking 'bout, Newkirk?" Hogan asked.
"Not rightly sure," Newkirk said. "Here, sir, we really need to get moving. There's a barn a little way—do you think you can get there?"
Hogan muttered something and buried his face in the front of Newkirk's sweater.
"Don't wanna move."
"I don't think I can carry you, mate, you're going to have to walk." He stood up, hauling Hogan up by his arms and staggering a bit when the man slumped. "Just put your arm around me, like that, there's a good colonel…"
They stumbled their way through the woods, Hogan cursing occasionally when his feet refused to cooperate with him.
"How do you feel, sir?"
"Like my legs are made of lead. How much farther?" Newkirk looked up, glancing around the forest for the marker. There, to the side of the tree that was struck by lightning last spring. "Not much. You can probably see it in a few minutes."
"Good." There was relative silence, broken by twigs and branches snapping as they made their way through the woods. After a few more minutes of staggering, the dense brush gave way to a pseudo-path, padded in heavy snowfall. The back of a barn loomed into view, and Newkirk left Hogan leaning against a tree while he poked his head around to look around. When he came back, Hogan was laying on the ground, tilted to the side and trying to right himself.
"Whoa, come on, you can do this, just a few more steps."
The barn door creaked when he kicked it open, and the rafters were just shoddy enough to make Newkirk wonder if it was not safer to chance outside, but Hogan groaned at the warmth inside and he reconsidered. There were some old bales of hay to the side, piling up into the loft. Newkirk eyed the rotting ladder, but decided instead to gently push Colonel Hogan onto a stack of warm hay to the side. He settled next to him, shoving the hay to create some semblance of a nest and inhaling the musty smell of farm animals and soft dirt that permeated through the dilapidated building.
Hogan started shivering suddenly, trying to huddle into the hay. Newkirk gave a sympathetic wince and moved closer.
"It's going to hurt like hell for a bit, but I promise it will get better."
In the midst of chattering teeth, Hogan looked at him. "If you're lying, I'm going to court martial you."
"Good to know, sir."
Despite the threat, Newkirk was still concerned. He had stripped Hogan of his sweater—a semi-dry shirt, however thin, trumped a sopping wet woolen jumper out in the cold—but now he fumbled with the buttons to strip Hogan of his shirt.
"What're you doing?"
"Your shirt's still damp. Let me get it off of you," Newkirk said, batting away Hogan's hands. He muttered "stubborn as a mule" beneath his breath.
"Only when you're healthy," Newkirk said, pulling it off. Hogan immediately shuddered when the cool hit his skin. "Here. Turn around."
Newkirk wedged Hogan's body against his own and the wall, padded by a liberal amount of hay. Hogan tucked his head into his shoulder, not even voicing a complaint when Newkirk slid his arms around his waist.
"This is a rather compromising position, I hope you realize," Hogan said after a while. Newkirk let out a relieved laugh.
"We could make it more compromising, if you'd like," he said jokingly, but Hogan tilted his head up to look at him then, and something about it suddenly did not seem so funny at all.
"I'd like," Hogan said, staring at him with a strange intensity.
Newkirk leaned in, lightly planted a kiss on Hogan's cheek, and drew back when Hogan tried to turn his face and catch his lips against his own. "Later. When you're better."
"Warmer you mean? Admit it, you just hate cold feet," Hogan said with a grin, but it faltered a bit when a shake ran through him. He tucked his face into the crook of Newkirk's shoulder, obscuring whatever he said next.
"What?" Newkirk asked, nudging him.
"I said that I plan on taking you up on that."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Go to sleep."
Cliché #3: Everyone Looks Better While Drunk
If There's Beer, It Ain't Queer
"Newkirk," he heard a voice hiss at him. "Newkirk!"
"What?" he said crossly, refusing to open his eyes. He twisted the blanket around him tighter, burying his head in something warm and soft. A hand pushed at his shoulder and he batted it away irritably.
"Newkirk, get the hell up before I bust you down to private," the voice growled. Newkirk sat up in bed, staring at Hogan, who was glaring at him. From all together too close. He had been in this situation before—the symptoms were there; painful throbbing in his head, a queasy feeling in his stomach, and the unmistakable stench of homemade alcohol on the sheets. A quick look down verified the rest of it. No clothes, sheets drawn up…
Except instead of a girl with buck teeth and too-close-together eyes that he had picked up after copious amounts of alcohol, his commanding officer was bunching the sheet around his waist like a virgin protecting her honor. He blinked. Some niggling flash of a memory at the back of his mind was screaming about how apt that analogy was, and it was worrisome.
Hogan pushed himself into the corner of the altogether too small bunk. "I don't remember, do you?"
Newkirk winced, trying to sort through the night. "Something… LeBeau kept handing me glasses of that wine he made."
"I remember that."
"And I kept drinking them."
"And…" He remembered standing up, the world tilting to the side and finding himself pushed against the lockers and laughing hysterically at something that was probably not at all funny. Blank. Carter pushing him into a chair and telling him something about getting him a washcloth. Blank. Someone shoving a bowl into his hands and backing away before he bent over and lost his stomach again. Blank.
Hogan sighed. "Great. Another pain in the ass—"
Newkirk looked up alarmed. "Not literally, right?"
"No!" The color drained from Hogan's face. "No. Um. I don't… you're not…" He gestured vaguely with his hand.
"No, I'm good."
"Good. That's… this is unbelievably awkward."
"Oh, I wouldn't say unbelievably," Newkirk said, glancing around. They were in Hogan's room, the door tightly shut and a chair wedged underneath it, which did not bode well for the events of the night before, if or when they were recovered. Shooting a glance at Hogan, he could see him thinking the same thing.
"Maybe nothing happened."
Hogan looked relieved. "Yeah. That… I'm sure we just got tired, and I know I wouldn't have been able to make it to the top bunk—"
"Nor would I been," Newkirk said encouragingly.
"And in our sleep, we just… Well, we sensed another body next to us, and—"
"Dreaming of women, of course," Newkirk interrupted.
Hogan nodded, "Of course, dreaming of women, we, um, cuddled."
Suddenly a loud banging on the door had them both swinging to look, wincing at the motion. "Sir? Are you in there? We can't find Newkirk."
"He's in here. He must have wandered in here while he was drunk," Hogan called back.
"Oh. Roll call, sir."
"Be out in a minute."
Hogan and Newkirk stared at each other for a minute, then Hogan said, "I guess you realize this doesn't leave this room."