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Author's Chapter Notes:
Warning: Terrible attempt at parody. One of my very first Eroicafics, and it shows.
By all appearances, it was a typical day in NATO's Bonn office. The chief was firmly wedged in his office chair, munching chocolates and ogling Agent G. Alphabets were scurrying to and fro, looking rather pale and muttering about laying in supplies of wool socks. And as usual, Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach was throwing a tantrum.

It had been a rather difficult morning for the Major. Upon arriving at the office, he had been informed that he was being sent to the south of France that very day to handle an incident involving a German diplomat, a gay dance club, and a certain notorious art thief. After much ranting and creative swearing, Klaus learned that the mission had abruptly been cancelled, and that he had been ordered to take two weeks' vacation instead. The chief had all but handed him a plane ticket to London, encouraging him to avail himself of the opportunity to meet up with...well. More yelling and threats of violence ensued, but his lecherous superior had persisted. Just as Klaus was preparing to send another agent or two to Alaska to calm his nerves, that order was rescinded as well. He was now being sent on a mission to investigate a London club whose owner was, according to the briefing, a suspected associate of several unnamed underground figures. It also happened to be the preferred nightspot of most of the city's upper class fops and their hangers-on.

At this, the Major had finally snapped. There could be only one explanation for this absurd string of assignments--once again, he was in the hands of a fic writer trying to wrangle a rogue plotbunny and to force him into some kind of romantic encounter with Eroica.

Naturally, he would not stand for this. "I WON'T STAND FOR THIS!" he roared. "This is absolutely ridiculous! NATO would NEVER give such ludicrous assignments! Do you know ANYTHING at ALL about international politics? About espionage? NATO does not bail out idiot diplomats! And it's UNDIGNIFIED for a NATO officer to go into stupid faggot nightclubs! A good German would never even SUGGEST such a thing! I DEMAND that you stop writing this DISGUSTING, MINDLESS TRASH at once!"

But his ranting was to no avail. The author stood firm in her intention to write the fic and exorcise the demon bunny before it wreaked further havoc in her fragile young mind. Sitting calmly on a desk and toying with Agent Z's hair, she informed the Major that, while she regretted subjecting him to such silly plot devices, she would continue writing this particular story to save her sanity. To tell the truth, she rather enjoyed putting him into awkward situations--but she chose to keep that from the Major, as she was not feeling particularly suicidal that day.

Klaus had begun to turn an interesting shade of red, and his hand was twitching toward his Magnum. Taking that as a sign that it was time to move things along, the author abruptly vanished from the scene in a puff of green smoke, privately vowing to keep herself out of the fic from then on.


Klaus impatiently waved his hand, trying to clear the smoke. As his surroundings became visible, he realized that, wherever he was, it was most definitely not the office. He stood in the doorway of a large, dimly-lit room, at the edge of a crowd of half-dressed, undulating dancers. Off to the right, he could see a bar and a few scattered tables. He sighed, exasperated--that infernal author had sent him to the nightclub after all, dammit. Well, she needn't think he was going to roll over and submit to this assault on his dignity! He turned and reached for the door...and it wasn't there. It had completely vanished, leaving him trapped in the midst of those disgusting, perverted...ARRGH!

Klaus stalked over to the bar, ordered a beer, and took it to an unoccupied booth. He was stuck there. Fine. That didn't mean that he had to talk to anyone, or look at anyone, or even acknowledge that any of them existed. But so help him, if any of them even dared to GLANCE in his direction...

His train of thought was derailed as a lithe, familiar figure slid into the seat across from him. Shit. Well, he had expected this. Naturally, the faggot would be only too willing to go along with the writer's plans to get them together, no matter how idiotic. "Eroica...what are you doing here?"

The thief smiled, catlike in the club's smoky haze. "I believe that's my line, darling. After all, isn't this my 'preferred nightspot?' And aren't you a little out of your element?"

The Major glared. "You know what I mean. This is a setup. A laughable, poorly-contrived setup, and we both know it. I suppose I am expected to get up and dance with you, or make some kind of sordid revelation, but I refuse to go along with it. I will not be manipulated--so why are you playing along? You don't like being toyed with any more than I do."

Eroica laughed. "Because sometimes...it's fun. It's nice to do something a little silly once in a while. Besides," he continued more seriously, "things are under someone else's control now. There's no point in fighting this; we're stuck here until something interesting happens."

"Or until the author gives up," the Major countered. "I don't suppose that you have the patience, but I can wait her out."

Eroica was about to respond when the music abruptly stopped and the dancers began to applaud. Spotlights shone on the club's small stage and a band began to play. "Aah, the floor show's about to start," the blond murmured. "Oh, don't look so scandalized, darling! You act as if you've never seen a man in a dress before."

Onstage, a tall, curvy drag queen began to sing in a throaty voice, reminiscent of Cher. "Does he love me? I wanna know...how can I tell if he loves me so?" A chorus of three joined in for the backing vocals. Eroica grinned.

"Is it in his eyes?"
"Oh, no, you'll be deceived."
"Is it in his eyes?"
"Oh, no, he'll make believe--if you wanna know if he loves you so, it's in his kiss."

Klaus slid farther into the corner of the booth, looking very pointedly *away* from the stage. Men in dresses singing outdated American pop...it was revolting. He glared at the man across from him. The thief was enjoying this far too much. He was gazing at Klaus with a glint in his eye that made him distinctly uncomfortable. The Major looked away quickly. He was NOT going to let that fop get any ideas.

"Kiss him, and squeeze him tight, and find out what you wanna know...If it's love, if it really is, it's there in his kiss!"

The Major glanced up from his beer to find Eroica still watching him thoughtfully. Any minute now, he was going to say something laced with innuendo, and earn a well-deserved punch in the nose. He could feel it coming, and he waited. But the thief remained uncharacteristically silent. He was no longer even paying attention to the show, but simply sitting and staring at Klaus. The Major fought a sudden, unbearable urge to fidget.

"How 'bout the way he acts?"
"Oh, no, that's not the way, and you're not listenin' to all I say. If you wanna know if he loves you so, it's in his kiss."
"That's where it is!"
"Oh, yeah, it's in his kiss."

The music was winding down, the lights dimming...and still, Eroica was watching him with that look in his eyes. Klaus had had enough. He was not going to allow the thief to make him uncomfortable! He shoved his beer aside and took in a breath, preparatory to a menacing growl.

He was so busy getting angry that he was unable to duck out of the way as Eroica suddenly lunged across the table. A hand slipped around to the back of his head, fingers entangling themselves in his hair. Klaus's eyes widened as Eroica's mouth easily caught his own. Taken completely off-guard, he could not stop himself from responding somewhat favorably, or even from permitting the thief's tongue to slip briefly between his lips.

It happened in a matter of seconds. Before Klaus could push him away, Eroica was standing up, sliding out of the booth with a smug smile. "I thought so," he purred, then turned and walked away, across the room and out the door that had mysteriously reappeared on the opposite wall.

Klaus sat in stunned silence. After a moment or two, it occurred to him that he really ought to be going out and killing Eroica just then. He carefully navigated around the dancers--who were beginning to leer at him, dammit!--and over to the door.


In a tiny apartment somewhere in New York, the author smiled triumphantly and crossed another stupid plotbunny off her list.

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