Work Header

Explosive Remnants Of War

Work Text:

There was something undignified about signing the documents that was getting on the Major’s nerves. It wasn’t the act itself—the unerring efficiency was the power behind Reich’s machine of destruction, and there was no efficiency without order.

It was the mundanity of it.

Even something as minor as the diet regimen of the non-vampiric forces was a brick in the grand plan. But setting said grand plan into motion was years away; decades, if he was being pessimistic. He would still see it, his war that would make the heavens tremble and the devils weep. In due time.

In due time—while at the moment, his only job was to go through the mind-numbing paperwork.

No one was dying gloriously today except Major’s patience.

“Good afternoon, mein Herr,” purred a body suddenly sprawled atop of the documents, knocking quite a few of them off the table in the process—mixing together the to-do and done stacks. “Whatcha doin’?”

No, scratch that. Today, Major’s patience had a good chance of dying less-than-gloriously, tortured and slaughtered by a certain cat boy.

Schrödinger lazily stretched, changing the kick the Major aimed at his throat to a near miss—one which left even more casualties among papers that were once (a few minutes ago) in their proper places. “Aw, are you not glad to see me?” Schrödinger asked, pouting.

“Is there anyone who is glad to see you, ever?” the Major asked flatly. “Get off the table.”

“Fine,” Schrödinger huffed. He jumped on the floor, almost slipping on sheets. After wildly flailing his arms to regain balance, he turned to the Major with a wide grin, “You were holed in this room for hours. It can drive anyone crazy—even more than I do! Soooo, I decided to take on the task of entertaining you since no one else dared to.”

“You are failing miserably,” the Major stated, reaching for one of the few surviving documents. 

Schrödinger caught his arm in midair. “No, herr Major. I haven’t even started. You see,” he said, not shrinking under one very unimpressed glare, “we thought that I couldn’t quite take people together with me. Even if I tore my abdominal muscles carrying them bridal-style! You found it unfair, and so did I; after all, why can I be aware of myself holding some silly lab results, but not of myself holding a hunky guy?”

“Did you just say that ‘we thought’—”

“Sh-sh-sh!” Schrödinger waggled his finger. “I am getting to that.”

The Major narrowed his eyes and clasped his hands under his chin, now listening with attention. He suspected that Schrödinger was setting up a joke, for which he might’ve as well been shot—but a minor chance of the boy actually discovering a way to bypass some of his limitations was exciting enough to let him talk.

“Well, the entertainment for today consists of me taking you on a lovely five-minute holiday,” Schrödinger continued. He flashed a bright smile. “Which can be achieved by you getting inside me.”

“For your own good, I hope you are not insinuating sexual intercourse.”

“Mein Gott, no!” Schrödinger put a hand on his mouth and opened his eyes wide in mock embarrassment. “I did not expect you to have such a dirty mind, mein Herr.”

The Major sighed. “Then what is it?”

Schrödinger ran a hand up his thigh in a manner that did nothing to Major’s properly cleansed mind, but could’ve definitely roused something in the minds of lesser men. “I am going to cut this beauty open, and you put your hand in there. Then, we are off.”

The industrial light mounted at the ceiling, chosen because it was easy to install not because it was easy on the eyes, shone on dreary-white sheets scattered on the floor and reflected on a small knife—barely better than a box cutter.

The Major didn’t desire a holiday, nor was it needed. It was, as he told himself, a mere experiment on Schrödinger’s powers. Nothing more.

“Put that thing back,” he said, and before the boy could make his trademark disappointed face at him, added, “and step away from the documents; the last thing they need is blood on them. We do not have an infinite supply of paper.”

While Schrödinger enthusiastically skipped to the other side of the room, the Major unlocked the drawer that was holding a relic knife, tucked away in a sheath—not used in many years. It had glorious insignia on its inky handle and memories of taking a man’s life in its steel, and time hadn’t yet dulled its song. After deliberating for a moment, the Major made a call and barked orders to come and clean the mess in his office in a few minutes.

Approaching Schrödinger while wielding that blade, the Major couldn’t help but notice that the boy was looking at it with a gleaming hunger in his eyes—or, perhaps, at the hands holding it.

Crouching down with a heavy exhale, Major aligned the knife just to the middle of quadriceps before changing his mind and moving a little to the side. The Doktor would have known the exact place and angle, but the specifics did not matter much to the two of them here.

In one swift motion, before Schrödinger could either take a breath or release it, the Major made the cut. Bright-red arterial and burgundy venous blood poured on the ground, just narrowly missing the tip of Major’s fingers and his boots.

Schrödinger let out a brief, low hiss of pain.

“You’ve been shot in the head before,” the Major noted idly.

“Yes, but it never left me alive afterwards,” Schrödinger said with a strained chuckle. “Though it’s not like I care, and neither do you.”

“True,” the Major agreed. “Do I need to remove my gloves now?”

“No—unless you wish to travel to the other side of the planet without any of your clothes,” Schrödinger said. Tightness almost left his voice.

The Major nodded and flexed his index and middle fingers. He pressed them against the wound and for a second got lost in fascination as they stained with red. It wasn’t a sight he’d forgotten, but the one he missed. Gently—not willing to be done with it too quickly—he pushed the middle finger inside. Flesh easily gave way for a second before he reached the depth of the cut; tiny ripples went through the surrounding skin as he gently moved the finger down, closer to the edge of the wound.

“Don’t tense up,” the Major ordered as Schrödinger’s leg muscles contracted, not leaving any space for the second finger. “Didn’t you tell me I need to get the whole hand in?”

Schrödinger snorted with laughter. “Well, that might’ve been a little ambitious of me for my first time…” he drawled in a suggestive tone, dampening any enjoyment the Major might’ve had. “Seriously, mein Major, a phalange or two should be enough.”

Looking at blood trickling down his glove in several streams, some getting under the sleeve of his coat, the Major had to agree. Going slow was pleasant—and justified by not wanting Schrödinger to pass out from pain—but there was a definite limit.

Once the quadriceps relaxed a bit, the Major inserted his index finger into the wound. It went in with a soft wet sound. The middle one, in the meantime, pressed deeper, ripping through soft fibers to put the whole knuckle inside. Red gushed out in a gorgeous little river; he looked up at Schrödinger, who seemed to be no less thrilled than him.

Straightening up as much as he could without letting go of Schrödinger’s flesh, which his movement stretched and tore nonetheless, the Major asked confidently, “Where to, Scharführer?”

Schrödinger smirked in response—and then everything went red, and black, and dozens of colors for which mankind had not yet invented a word.

The Major blinked heavily as the scenery before his eyes changed to sand and dust. Dense smog covered the ground, stretching to the skies and blocking the sun—if not for being in half made of metal, he would’ve coughed his lungs out in the first minute there. Flames of fire were rising up as far as the eye could see—and more appeared on the horizon.

It was then when the sound had hit him.

Letting go of Schrödinger’s leg, the Major looked around the site of a cover bombing. Explosions resonated throughout the desert, with screams coming from several directions at once. Somewhere distant, a gunfire of modern automatic weapons pierced the air, and he could’ve sworn he’d heard a faint melody of artillery and mortars even further still.

He stood there for a minute, just taking it in.

It was very hard to see, but there were some fighters there—infantry stationed in the middle of nowhere that had not anticipated air bombardments coming for their souls. A few dots were running through the smoke just barely on the edge of the Major’s vision before dropping down as fire enveloped them.

“Perhaps, you were actually right.” he finally said. “I think I needed this. We can talk about your promotion upon your return.”

When the answer didn’t come, he glanced at Schrödinger—who was laying on the ground, utterly pale in the face, yet watching the Major intently.

The Major thinned his lips. “This won’t do.”

He kneeled down next to Schrödinger and undid his tie, then wrapped it very tightly above the cut, restricting the blood flow. After briefly deliberating, he let go of one of the coat’s sleeves and pressed it on the wound as the sky was splitting above them.

Schrödinger grinned weakly. “Thanks, but… why, mein Major? I planned to have a quick death here and then come back for you, giving you a couple minutes of solitude to wank at the war like you wanted to.”

“I do realize that,” the Major replied. Ah, to hell with it, they were alone save for a few dying men hundreds of meters away, and it was his five-minute holiday—he could allow himself to unwind. Especially since no one would have believed Schrödinger if the latter decided to blab. “But in case you were not aware, Kätzchen, most people consider so-called ‘wanking’ to be better as a mutual activity.”