Adolf let out a weary sigh, settling into his armchair with a wince of pain. The Fuhrer's doctor, Theodor Morell, watched his charge with steadily mounting concern. It was his job to see to Hitler's health and wellbeing, though the Fuhrer often treated him more as a pill dispenser than a trusted advisor.
"Mein Fuhrer, you cannot keep doing this," Morell pleaded, "You must think of your role. Your responsibility. Your dream."
"I am living my dream, doctor." Hitler retorted, making an attempt to smile that transformed midway into another wince, "Every day, I run the greatest nation on the planet, and every night, I serve the most beautiful mistress in that nation."
"And if that mistress demand you serve her too vigorously," Morell countered, rising to kneel by his Fuhrer's side, "Who then should run the nation you leave untended?"
This was enough to give Hitler pause, and the great leader fell silent for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he considered the question. Morell took the opportunity to press his advantage, to strike while the iron was hot.
"Please, mein Fuhrer. This nation needs you to lead it. Yet right now you can hardly walk, let alone lead."
Again, the Fuhrer remained silent, deep in contemplation. At last, he gave a slow, subdued nod.
"Eva is... perhaps a little overzealous, in our, erm, sessions..." Hitler admitted sheepishly, allowing himself to grimace in pain.
"Exactly," Morell exclaimed, relieved he was getting through to his charge, "How many broken ribs have I treated you for? I can't just keep giving you pills to get you through the pain. This has to stop!"
Hitler's face darkened at this, his eyes straying to the pill bottle on Morell's desk. The doctor immediately understood his mistake: Though the Fuhrer would never admit it, he had long since become dependent on the pain medication Morell had been giving him. Desperate to change the subject before the Fuhrer grew mad, Morell instead began to probe.
"What does this woman do that you enjoy so much, anyway?" he asked.