reached for the gun ██ inglourious basterds p.t

[pocket howitzer]

Achie gingerly fingered his nose. For most part, it had healed perfectly fine. Most of the swelling had subsided, and if not for the bridge of yellow bruises and the slightest bump, it would have been surprising to learn that it had been broken at all. But still, the man couldn’t exactly say he was pleased. And it was more than the remaining bruises. Archie drew back from the small bathroom mirror, frowning as he did. If he was one to wax poetic, he would have suggested that the injury represented where things had started to go wrong in his otherwise successful life.

He peered into the mirror, noting the worn and rather apathetic person staring back at him. God, he could hardly recognize himself now. Two weeks ago, Archie had been a fine example of an English man; prim and proper, with not a hair out of place, and his pallour flush with life. He had been looking forward to America, eager to extend the wealth of his business outwards, and perhaps guide it into a powerful, internationally recognized firm before finally settling down with a wife and child, and ********. Archie laughed hollowly. Now he couldn’t even be ******** to shave. The man quickly doused his face with water, rinsed his mouth and spat. He grabbed a towel off the rack beside him and carefully petted himself dry as he moved from the bathroom.

Hellstrom was to pick him up in half an hour. Archie threaded his still damp fingers through his hair as he threw the towel aside. He wasn’t exactly sure what they were to do that night. Apparently he wasn’t exactly in Landa’s inner circle enough to be a privy to that sort of information, but he understood, at least, that something significant was to happen. Archie proceeded to dress himself slowly, slipping into one of the suits that had brought from home.

Home. The word struck him almost painfully. Landa had been considerate enough to allow him to stay in his luxury hotel room upon release from the hospital. It wasn’t as if he could move anywhere, much less do anything, what with Landa’s firm grip on all his particulars. And the constant in-and-out of both Hellstrom (the man who had ‘saved’ him that night) and a Fredrick Zoller, ensured that his movements were carefully tracked. These four, sparse walls were as good as home now, Archie supposed.

It had been best to maintain pretence that he was still preparing to plant his business in the country. With Landa’s encouragement, Archie had pursued the necessary steps it took to establish it. After all, Archie thought as he knotted the tie; drawing a fat Windsor knot at the base of his throat, what better way to trap me here than to be tied to a business. It was almost a shop front, if you will, to hide what was happening in the background. A grim smile curled Archie’s lips at the recollection that fateful day, when he had rightly inferred that Landa was part of some major crime organization. The smile faded, if only he understood how major it was. He would have gladly been subject to whatever that psychopath in the alley wanted of him, if it meant that he was free from this.

Archie’s fingers slowed upon his cufflinks, thoughts drifting back to that night near two weeks ago. If there was a fault to his person, it was that he never really was afraid. Archie wasn’t sure if it was due to his upbringing, but it had, nevertheless, encouraged a sense of immortality – that he could survive whatever was thrown at him, regardless. That he was right in whatever he endeavored, and that he could deal with whatever the outcome. Some described him as arrogant for it.

In either case, what had set him on the path of success had eventually been his downfall. Had he been any other person that night, he would have gone along with the psychopath. He would have played his game until he was either rescued or left to be. But he was Archie Hicox; the arrogant, and prideful son of Sir Hicox. And the son of Sir Hicox was bested that night, and the carefully crafted plans he had arranged for himself had collapsed the moment he turned his back and ran.

The corners of Archie’s lips tightened, the man shoving the thoughts aside as he forcefully clipped the final cufflink in place. There was no point in wasting thoughts on that lunatic, no matter what part he played in having Archie trapped in this godforsaken country with a group of white supremists on his back. The Fuehrer, really?. In either case, there was certainly nothing he could do now, and he highly doubted that he would even encounter him again to pay him back in kind.

A knock came on the door as Archie slipped into the jacket of his suit. He didn’t bother answering, and nor did the person expect him to.

“Are we ready, Mr. Hicox?.” Hellstrom asked smoothly, as he stepped through the door. The barest hint of a smile upon his lips.

--

If Dieter was to be perfectly honest, he was looking forward to what was to transpire. It had been quiet, as of late, between the Basterds and the Nazis. Both parties had been withholding attacks, as if daring each other to make the first move. It had been no surprise to Dieter that the Basterds were the first to crack, patience nor subtlety was their strong suit. And what had been even less surprising was the fact that the first person to crack was the infamous Jew Bear himself. Oh, God. They were almost too predictable, but that was the beauty of it.

See. What little part that had been a surprise was Archie. Dieter had been irritated at first, but now he understood how significant the man’s role had been. Of course, had he not been able to be thoroughly proficient in German, it would have been another story. If he had also been rather spineless, Dieter supposed that he would have been reading about him in the local papers as an unidentified, dismembered so-and-so. But no, Archie Hicox had come and effectively set up the play that night. Landa had been very pleased, and now all the Basterds had to do was walk blindly into their trap. As he said: predictable.

“Are we ready, Mr. Hicox?.”

Dieter shut the door after him with a muted click, before glancing to the occupant. His smile grew wider. The man’s suffering coaxed a sense of amusement from Dieter. Not that Archie voiced it or anything, his pride was too great for that, but it was present in every other aspect. It was evident in the way he moved, the way he spoke and even how the man presented himself. Dieter was a clever man, observant, and he had watched with some interest Archie’s own self regard wane in the face of his imprisonment. Comparatively to the prim and pompous lawyer he had caught glimpses of in those first few days of recovery, Archie now stood there; tidy in a suit, with some day’s growth upon his face that did little to hide the resignation upon his features.

Fredrick had, on more than one occasion, voiced his concern for Archie. The man hardly possessed what it took to live like they did, and he was bound to break soon. But Dieter doubted it. Archie Hicox was all depressed about it now, but the man wasn’t as stupid or as weak as Fredrick suggested. He was sure Landa knew it, too. Archie just needed a push in the right direction, so to speak, something to ignite the flare that had been snuffed in the meanwhile. One could hardly be a successful lawyer if they were to bow to each little mountain they had faced. He would be an asset, Archie Hicox, once he had been broken in.

But that was for later, Dieter closed the thought in his mind, slipping it away for some other time. Tonight was for another purpose. As far as Archie was concerned, they were merely to go out for a film. But, as it had been said, Archie was a clever man and was obviously suspecting something else. If he had been bothered to think about it, Dieter supposed the man would have figured it out by now. However, judging by his silence, he hadn’t. But it was hardly an issue.

The two men stepped out of the room, and made their way from the hotel. Dieter chatted amicably in German, to which Archie responded to in English, vague and uninterested. In any other circumstance, Dieter would have been rather annoyed, but he let it slide for the moment, deciding there were more pressing concerns than Archie’s personal vendetta.

They were to meet the Basterds at the crossroads of some insignificant block, near the German district. Not that Aldo and his men knew they were expecting it. Dieter had planted the rumour near a week ago, guiding it to Aldo’s men to have them make do with it. As far as they knew, he and Archie were visiting the German cinema that night to take advantage of a free screening of a patriotic film. But the part they didn’t know was the fact that they were to be surrounded by Landa’s men, ready to shoot at the signal. Aldo Raine, Dieter thought, you are so predictable.

--

Aldo clicked his snuffbox shut for the umpteenth time, before flicking the lid open again. It was a habit, just as addictive as the snuff itself, to open and shut the tin whilst lost in thought. Smithson frowned pointedly at him, eyes flicking significantly from the tin to Aldo himself, prompting the man to pocket it as he cast his own glare back to Smithson himself. The silence that grew between them was almost deafening, thick and apprehensive. Beside him, Smithson could feel Omar shift.

They had heard word about a rendezvous of sorts with Dieter and the Brit guy (as he had come to be known). They were attending some pro-Nazi screening that night, unaccompanied, unarmed, and completely for their taking. Aldo had come across it discussed in some unassuming grocers, some excited young woman twittering about how exciting it would be to meet Dieter Hellstrom in the flesh, and how handsome his accomplice was despite the unfortunate incident with his nose. Aldo had paused in handing the dollar notes over, so engrossed in what the woman was saying to have forgotten about the rather unimpressed shop keep who had been attempting to wrestle the money from his fingers.

“Ma’am.” He had said, before hurrying out of the store, change forgotten.

It didn’t take much to formulate a plan. The German district was rather cut off from the main part of town, a funny sort of coincidence, but it allowed them to execute their plot largely without concern to witnesses or people who would get in the way. Some two blocks before the cinema, the Basterds would line the streets. They would be armed, Aldo had said, and the moment Hellstrom and the Brit were in the midst of them, they would attack. And it would be a free-for-all, he said, while glancing towards Donny with a smirk.

Briefly, Aldo had wondered if it were some intricate sort of ploy. But he dismissed it. The Nazis didn’t do simple things such as rumours and the like. They preferred grand sort of plots; big, impressive things that they could sign with flourish. It would have been rather understated for Landa and his men to have simply arranged a cinema night. But still, Aldo’s brow furrowed, there was something not quite right. The man snuffed some tobacco, ah, well, he supposed they should go about it with more care than usual. Perhaps lay off some of the dramatics and do a quick in-and-out job, just to be on the safe side.

And so found them that night, tucked into the shadows in wait for their targets. Aldo canted his head, eyes flicking across the street towards where he knew Wicki and Donny to be. He had told Donny to take it easy that night. Nothing fancy, and for no longer than necessary. He had promised a free-for-all, but it was to be with due caution. But he knew that he may have well told a tiger not to eat meat. Donny was eager, almost too eager. And even Aldo was rendered privately surprised at how much the man wanted to lay his hands on that Brit. He supposed it was a matter of pride. He was the Bear Jew after all. The thought curled Aldo’s lips to a smile, some barest hint of affection directing itself towards Donny. It was to be his night.

--

Shosanna found it rather cool that night, causing her to wish that she had worn something a bit more substantial than a simple blouse. She rubbed her hands together absently, drawing comfort from the fact that she would be home soon. She had been at Marcel’s. Shortly after their coffee, they had become an official couple. It occurred so quickly that even Shosanna was left somewhat surprised, albeit, pleased; warm and happy, and feeling very much adored.

The recollection coaxed a smile from Shosanna’s lips, the woman ducking her head as she did as if hiding her happiness from prying eyes. She had all but forgotten about Fredrick as well; the younger man’s eager conversation and earnest smiles a distant memory in the light of Marcel. That was, Shosanna’s smile slipped, that was until he stepped into her store. She had been caught by surprise, having expected Fredrick to steer clear with all things considered. And it had taken Shosanna a few moments to collect herself, only managing to compose herself just as Marcel walked in. She had shot the man a grateful smile, as if he had saved her somehow, before addressing Fredrick.

This time, their business was formal. The transaction was conducted without a word otherwise and Fredrick promptly left; no smiles, no teasing, nothing. Shosanna’s blue eyes followed the man’s dejected form momentarily before she shoved the entire exchange aside and tossed the money into the till with more force than necessary. If Marcel found the display odd, he didn’t mention it, and he had kissed her before leaving, with a promise to pick her up after work.

Shosanna rubbed her bare arms absently, a small frown marring her face. Fredrick had drifted in and out of her thoughts since then, it was almost as if he was tormenting her without being physically present. That particular thought eased a smile from the woman, only someone as insistent as Fredrick could manage that. Still, it troubled her. What with her relationship with Marcel, there was honestly no need for the German man to be anywhere in her thoughts – it was growing tiresome, and Shosanna was finding it begin to impede in her time with Marcel. Shosanna found it rather offputting, after all, to engage in sex with another man on her mind. Not that they had, but still.

The woman had glanced upward upon the conclusion of that particular train of thought. It had been a quiet night, the streets almost devoid of people. Hence, Shosanna found it rather odd to have caught sight of a figure, tall and almost inhumanely still at the corner a block down. Curiosity slowed her foot down, overriding the instinct to turn and go another direction. She narrowed her eyes, head tilted to one side as she attempt to make sense of the picture. It was odd, there was no reason why someone would be so still and quiet – the stores had long been shut, and no public transport came down the way. Shosanna flicked her head, looking behind her before casting her eyes forward once more. What troubled her the most, however, was the familiarity of the form. The stance, and how the person bore himself – it was all rather familiar to her.

[maxwell must go free]

Donny stood at Aldo’s side, growing more anxious with each passing moment. He’d been so long-suffering the past two weeks, the perfect example of patience. He hadn’t hauled himself out of bed and chased down the Brit the second he’d been able to get up. He hadn’t defied Aldo and taken matters into his own hands. For two endless weeks he’d behaved admirably. Donny was tired of being good. At least they weren’t hiding in the alley anymore, that had been the worst part. Stealth didn’t suit Donny one bit.

Now that they were standing face to face with the Nazis, Donny could barely contain himself. These last few seconds before he felt blood on his hands were like torture. He searched their faces, his eyes scanning for only one person. Sure, he wouldn’t hesitate to beat the living s**t out of anyone who got in his way, especially not Hellstrom, but he wanted the Brit.

In the rapidly vanishing light Donny almost missed him. Donny inhaled sharply, immediately at attention as his black eyes settled on him. The man standing near Hellstrom could hardly be the same person. The Brit had let himself since Donny had seen him last. The smooth, well-kempt prat had been replaced by a scruffy, hollow-cheeked caricature of himself. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Apparently the two weeks hadn’t been so good to the Brit. Donny was a bit dismayed to see that his nose had healed just about perfectly. Ah well. This time, no doctor was going to be able to repair what Donny would do to him. He could feel the familiar ruthless grin spread across his face as the Brit made eye contact with him. Donny was delighted to see that the Brit recognized him.

He heard Aldo and Hellstrom exchange words, but their dialogue fell on deaf ears. Their banter meant nothing to him. Now that Donny had honed in on the Brit, nothing else mattered. He looked over quickly at his leader then back to the Brit. He wasn‘t going to stand here quietly and let another peaceful, unharmed moment of the Brit‘s life go by. Donny brought up his bat, fed up with all of this. He’d waited too long to stand here and chat with a pair of ******** Nazis. Especially when he hadn’t gotten to repay the one for the painful healing process inflicted upon him.

“Oh, can we just shut the ******** up and get on with it?”

Without waiting for Aldo’s response, Donny charged forward. Immediately after he’d moved, gunshots had rang out from both Nazis and Basterds though he noticed none of it. Donny was heading for the Brit and no shot to the arm would stop him this time. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he was within arm’s reach of him This was the moment he’d waited for. Even as the Brit tried to get away, Donny was ready. He swung his bat with more force necessary, praying it‘d hit home before the Brit edged out of reach. For an instant, he thought he might miss. If he got too far away Donny would have to pull his gun. He disliked guns; they ended the fun just as it was starting. But the end of the bat just grazed the Brit’s temple, knocking him to the ground.

As soon as the Brit was down, Donny fell upon him. Rage and gratification mixed in his face to contort it into a horrible expression. He wasn’t going to get away again and the thought of that was almost more exciting than Donny could bear. He was about to turn the Brit’s now-stubbly face into a mask of blood and shattered bone when something stopped him. It was that same nagging feeling he’d felt the first time they met. Donny really just wanted to feel the crack of bone against the bat. However, he found he was frozen where he stood, a foot planted on the ground on either side of the Brit’s body. Donny stared down at the Brit, his murderous expression melting into one of confusion. He couldn’t do it.

--

Fredrick walked down the street purposefully. On missions he always felt eerily calm and collected. His mind set aside the trivial things and he focused on the task he had been given. Landa told him to do something, he did it. End of story. Honestly, Fredrick really did not have a problem with Jews. He was indifferent to them one way or another. This was just something that needed to be done.

If his face had been visible in the dark alleyway, it would have reflected a rather uncharacteristic sharp, unyielding expression. It looked quite incongruous, clashing with the soft, roundedness of his face. Usually Fredrick was warm, open, amiable and it showed quite clearly. Now, however, with the seriousness of the situation weighing on his mind that friendliness had vanished. His mind was made up. He had to protect Archie and Dieter. If one of the Basterds happened to get in his way, then he would take care of him.

For one heart-stopping moment, Fredrick spotted someone in the alley. He backed quickly against the wall and froze in the darkness. The person seemed to see him, he wasn’t quite sure. After the briefest of pauses, the slight figure continued on their way. Good. Fredrick really didn’t want to kill a bystander. He had no issue with someone just walking down the street. He watched until the alley was empty again, then made his way soundlessly to the building.

He let himself in quickly. The thought crossed his mind that possibly someone would stop him, but the only person around was the swastika-marked janitor he’d spoken to in the past. Fredrick knew the man wouldn’t stop him. Fredrick was one of Landa’s men. He moved as he pleased in this part of town.

It was a few moments later when Fredrick was settling down on the rooftop. He scanned the streets below, watchful. His nerves were taut, but he felt no unease. Sniping was only natural for him.

There they were. Fredrick cursed inwardly as he realized the Basterds were already there. They had materialized out of the darkness, ready for Dieter and Archie to show up. They had no idea about Landa’s other men waiting in the wings, but Fredrick knew they would emerge when the gunshots started. Even in the half-darkness, Fredrick recognized the unhurried, cocky gait of Aldo Raine. His grip on the gun tightened and he had a sudden urge to just start firing. It would be so easy to just shoot him from this distance, to effectively take out the leader of the Basterds. Even he wasn’t naïve enough to think that would end their problems, however. If Fredrick shot Raine, his comrades would most definitely shoot back. They would kill Archie and Dieter before he even had a chance to defend them. So he merely watched. Besides, this was something of an initiation for Archie. Fredrick’s orders were to stay out of that and help only if needed.

Fredrick strained his ears, but couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Whatever it was, the conversation was brief. They were all standing at a polite, expectant distance. Then loud, grating voice of the Bear Jew shattered the still moment and suddenly there was movement everywhere.

Fredrick leaned forward, trying to make sense of it all. There was so much noise and confusion… Fredrick aimed a couple of shots, watching as one bullet made its mark and dropped a Basterd. He wounded another a few seconds later. But damn it! There was too much going on. All he knew was that up here he wasn’t nearly as effective as he should have been. Landa was usually right about all things, but Fredrick couldn’t help it. He needed to be down on the ground where he could help his fallen comrades. He was losing sight of Dieter and Archie -- exactly what he needed to avoid.

With one more quick glance at the fray below, Fredrick grabbed his gun and ran back down the stairs to the ground as if his life depended upon it. A small, sure voice in his head confirmed that in fact his life did depend upon it. He threw the doors open and then paused, getting his bearings straight. He brought his gun up and aimed carefully. He had to defend Dieter first. His orders were to guard Archie, but his deep friendship took automatic precedence. Fredrick would always choose to help his best friend first.

He shot the Jew nearest to Dieter. Fredrick couldn’t quite place the name, something that started with a U. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that unfortunately he’d missed the mark. Because the man was shorter than average, Fredrick had shot him just a little high. The bullet hit the small man right below the collarbone instead of in the heart. Despite the miss, it had stopped the man. As long as he wasn’t coming after Dieter anymore, it was good enough for now. Dieter was safe for another few moments.

Fredrick next turned his sights to the Jew attacking Archie. The Bear Jew. A small, pitiless smile crossed Fredrick’s face. Now was his chance. He could take out the Bear Jew and cripple the Basterds permanently. Fredrick’s finger was on the trigger when a voice called out behind him. Generally he wouldn’t have paid the slightest bit of attention to a single voice, but…this one belonged to a female. Also, if he’d been seen, that would complicate things in the future. He’d been so close to killing the Bear Jew… With a soft sigh of disappointment, he turned his head quickly to find the speaker.

All at once the fight went out of Fredrick. The battle before him drained away. He forgot about his mission, about protecting anyone. The only thing he saw, the only thing that was important, was the person staring at him, her blue eyes wide in the dim light. Fredrick blinked, the hand holding his gun falling limply to his side.

“Emmanuelle?”

[pocket howitzer]

The mild sense of anticipation that the evening had started off with had grown, then, to become encompassing and inescapable. The atmosphere was charged, almost palpable, and even Hellstrom had come to grow serious – his features set far too stern for someone who was supposedly out to see a film. It was making Archie become rather unsettled, nervous even. At least Hellstrom had a weapon on him, the gun at home in an inside pocket, but Archie had nothing. Or at least, nothing that he could use to possibly defend himself should all hell break loose. It was quite uncharacteristic of him to be completely out of his depth; or left to be completely ignorant.

It was due to this that Archie failed to notice Aldo until Hellstrom stopped them. He had missed the man slip from the shadows, missed the smug smile that was etched upon his features and missed the figures that eventually surrounded them. If there was something that he didn’t miss, it would have been that man. Archie had frowned slightly when Dieter had stopped them both, eyes cutting to him in mild curiosity. A smile had settled upon the other’s features once again; small and cruel. He was speaking. Archie glanced to the person that Hellstrom was engaging with, brows raising slightly at the man. It was hardly the sort of person that Hellstrom entertained; rough and crass, a perfect opposite to Dieter’s collect manner.

Archie’s brow knitted in momentary confusion, but all that melted away when he noticed him. Oh, God. He could remember those black eyes anywhere; that promising grin, that face. All at once, the recollection of that night came to him, causing his blood to seemingly freeze. Archie recalled the smells, the sounds, the pain – and all that once, he was angry. The initial fear that engulfed him having recognized the man had since gave way to anger; a calm and collected sort that largely differed from the volatile, unpredictable rage that was evident in the other’s cruel smile.

Once again, like last time, Archie’s world condensed to just the two of them: the other’s words and actions taking precedence over any other living being. He watched a flurry of expressions cross Donny’s features; impatience, annoyance, and that very second he had enough. Archie saw it coming long before Donny spoke, that familiar accent thick with temper.

It was only when Donny started moving did Archie react, drawing low and tense as if he were prepared to meet him head on. But it was the gunshots that startled him. Archie had handled guns, he understood their power, and was never really afraid of them, but then, he hadn’t ever been in the midst of a shoot out either. It was this that prompted self preservation; the loud discharge, and the crack of bullets upon metal and concrete – Donny might have been blind and deaf to it, but Archie wasn’t. He swore, turning on his heel, arms brought upwards to protect his head. Or so was the plan.

The bat had blindsided him, clipping his temple just enough to have him stumble, vision blacking momentarily as he fell. Get up, get up, get up, Archie thought desperately as he strove to collect himself, eyes screwed shut. He had crumpled on his knees before falling forward, but he had twisted himself around as soon as he was able, not wanting to have his back presented, so utterly vulnerable. And, there, before him was a scene that was already distressingly familiar with. Donny; victorious over him, bat in hand and his face twisted in cruelty. Archie stared up to the man, trying to focus his double vision whilst attempting to ignore the dread that swept through him.

It was a mess, all of it. His ears rang loudly over the sound of gunfire and shouting, his head ached, pounded, but even then Archie fixed on Donny. His breath came shallow as he looked upward to the man, waiting, almost patiently for the inevitable. Had Archie been able to focus, he might have caught Donny’s expression soften to confusion. He hadn’t. But he still managed to recognize an opportunity when it presented itself.

Without preamble, Archie hoisted himself upwards, taking full advantage of Donny’s delayed response. The tackle brought both men downwards with Archie astride, a hand fisted in Donny’s shirt as he drew the other back. Archie’s fist landed sharply upon Donny’s cheekbone with a solid crack, the force enough to have the man’s head snap to the side. But any satisfaction wrought from the minor success was short lived; Archie’s concussion catching up with him as light exploded behind his eyelids just as the world heaved before him. Immediately he sagged forward, the hand that had been clenched in Donny’s shirt now used to keep him upright.

“What the ******** is wrong with you.” Archie ground out, half unsure to who he was speaking to.

--

Aldo realised that he should have known better. He had underestimated Landa, not expecting him to use methods so crude, so perfectly ordinary. He had caught on the moment Dieter received them. The b*****d had known they were going to be there, they had walked straight into their hands. That slimy smile told him everything, and Hellstrom mocked him with it. Aldo attempted to buy them time, gears turning in his head as he exchanged insignificant pleasantries with Hellstrom. To simply run away was cowardly and Aldo wasn’t going to have that.

But long before any sort of plan had formed in his mind, Donny made his move. He would have to chew him out for that later, if we lived through this, that sonnvabitch, Aldo thought desperately. Donny had moved before he was able to utter a word, and he had not been quick enough to grab onto his shirt he man darted forward. Aldo knew that Donny was making a beeline for that damn Brit he was so obsessed with, he hardly needed to look to know.

Instead he didn’t worry about it. If Donny wanted to put himself at risk by charging straight for the guy, then Donny put himself at risk. He had the other men to worry about; more so now, seeing as he led them into this particular mess. Aldo had immediately backed off when the fire started, hand reaching to grab his gun that was tucked into the back of his pants. (Like Donny, he wasn’t much a firearm person, he much preferred his hunting knife. Nothing beat getting all up close and personal with a knife, and it had so much more finesse than the crudeness of a bat.)

Beside him, both Utivich and Ulmer were laying fire. Wicki, too, the man shooting from further down the street – coming up from behind and tagging the Nazis whilst they were concentrating on the other Basterds. Aldo didn’t doubt the skill of his men, and, sure enough, the number of Nazis were already dropping. Aldo’s blue eyes sought those cold, flat ones of Dieter’s, and then he smiled.

“Smitty.” He said,

“Yes, sir.” The man strode forward, gun held before him, cocked and ready to fire. The resulting bang was loud, echoing up through the street before disappearing into the night. A moment passed, the corners of Aldo’s lips tightened, but Dieter hadn’t fallen.

“Utivich!.” Omar yelled, voice cracking with the force of it as he tossed the gun aside and ran forth.

Smithson had crumpled. Aldo could have sworn he was watching a scene from a movie. Omar was on his knees before his fallen comrade, tearing open the collar of his shirt in what would reveal to be a neat, bloody wound. Desperately, Omar pressed the heel of his palm against it, trying to stop the flow. But the action did naught save for drawing a wretched cry from the man. A woman appeared. Aldo tilted his head upwards slightly, regarding her, wondering what she was doing.

“Utivich, Utivich,” She said desperately, touching his face, his hands.

Aldo frowned, how did she know Smitty?. Was she his lover or something?. Aldo’s cool blue eyes swept the scene before him, watching the events unfold as if detached from it entirely. As if he were some witness, or some man who understood it to be unreal and set up. He watched that Brit guy momentarily overpower Donny. He watched Dieter turn his heel and run. He watched that little sharp shooter of Landa’s, that pet of his, stare wide-eyed, towards his fallen man tended to by Omar and the woman.

It was then that Aldo snapped out of it, the man returning to the situation just as suddenly as he drifted from it. Distantly, he could hear sirens flare.

“Sonnavabitch,” he spat, shoving his gun away as he strode towards Omar and Smithson.

Utivich looked a right mess, pale and disorientated. Between the woman and Omar, they had managed to staunch the blood, sealing the wound momentarily with a crude bandage. Brushing the two aside, Aldo grabbed Utivich, pulling him upwards with a degree of care and arranged the man so that Aldo was baring most of his weight. They were to make a house call to their local doctor tonight.

“Ma’am,” he said, both addressing and dismissing the woman. She looked prepared to protest, lips pressing together before her eyes fell to Smithson and she nodded.

“If he dies, I’ll hunt you down.” She promised, to which Aldo responded by tilting an imaginary hat at her. He was hardly going to let one of his men die on him now.

“Omar, if you could please.” For once, the man didn’t protest, rushing forth and grabbing both his and Smithson’s weapons that had been abandoned before seeing to the other Basterds. Aldo would later discover that two more had been injured, though Utivich bore the worst.

“Donny.” He called, already making his way to jack whatever car was the closest. “I’d get my s**t together if I were you, son. Cops are comin’.”

Aldo supposed Donny would want to take care of unfinished business first before worrying about the cops. There was no point in even suggesting the man to abandon his prey before then. He had just about enough, after all, in hearing about the goddamn Brit. Hell, if he hadn’t known any better, Aldo would have assumed Donny liked the man in his own sick and twisted way. Whatever the case, Donny had the Brit in the perfect place now, and if he wanted to take his own sweet time and tearing him into pieces, then that was his initiative. Aldo’s main concern, at this moment, was to deal with Smithson.

--

Shosanna knew that she was hardly in the safest part of town. But even then, gunfire was the last thing she expected, and even less (if that were possible), an outright brawl. It had happened so suddenly, the night quiet, separated from the bustle of the main town before it exploded in a rain of bullets. The woman had instinctively ducked, shielding herself. And it was only some few seconds later that she realized that she wasn’t in the path of it. Still her heart beat hard and fast within her breast, her breathing rapid as she attempted to determine where the shoot out was. The torrent of fire echoed loudly up and down the streets, making it hard for Shosanna to pinpoint it.

For some long, confusing moments, the woman simply stood in place, waiting for the sounds to change; to draw closer, edge away, or disappear. Belatedly, she realized that even though she might have been safe where she was currently, who was to say that the bearers of the weapons weren’t simply going to barrel down the street at any moment?.

The thought prompted the woman to move; Shosanna throwing a glance towards either end of the street before tucking herself into a small alleyway. She moved down it carefully, picking her way through the narrow path before edging out the other end. Beside her, to the series of stores that lay on the left of the alley a figure burst through, causing Shosanna to leap back within the safety of the alley, both hands slapping upon her mouth to stifle an escaping scream.

She recognized the figure. She would recognize it anywhere. How many times had she seen Fredrick leave her store after all?. A small part of Shosanna told her to leave; don’t look, ignore it, turn away and forget. But her curious nature caused her to follow the man almost without thought, trailing after him with a growing sense of dread.

She was there when Fredrick shot Smithson. His back had been presented to her, obscuring her vision, but it could hardly hide what the man had one. Fredrick’s name left her lips before Shosanna could even think, the word was uttered almost deploringly. And he had heard it, apparently, causing him to turn his head. Whatever Fredrick had been expecting, however, it had not been her.

But Shosanna didn’t notice, couldn’t bare to notice. Utivich. The man’s name came from her, choked somewhat as she pushed past Fredrick, barely noticing the man as she fell to her knees beside Smithson. He was her friend, after all, not to the point of Marcel, but definitely not as distant as Fredrick.

If Shosanna was a weaker woman, she may have cried over Smithson. She might have lost her composure over the sight of blood, or the bullet that was firmly lodged within his chest. Instead, however, Shosanna wordlessly ripped the hem of her shirt, heedless to the chill of the air as she tended to the man. Between she and Omar both, they had mopped up most of the mess and manage to secure a bandage to it. Crude, but it would have to do until he received proper medical attention.

Carefully, Shosanna gripped Smithson’s hand. The coldness of the appendage frightened her somewhat, though she tried hard not to show it. She smiled down to the man, her eyes wet, and his own lips were upturned slightly regarding her.

“Shosanna,” Omar started, beside her. Though whatever he intended to say was interrupted then by Aldo.

The man appeared by her side, causing Shosanna to hastily collect herself and stand aside as he drew Smithson upwards, heedless to the hiss of pain it drew from him. Whilst she had seen the Aldo several times over the years, they had never crossed paths entirely until now. The woman regarded the man, weighing him up as if reluctant to entrust Smithson to him entirely.

Shosanna glanced to Smithson when Aldo spoke, his intentions were clear – going to the hospital was hardly the first point of call for someone so beneath the law. They would sooner be thrown in jail.

“If he dies,” the woman promised meeting Aldo’s gaze squarely, “I’ll hunt you down.”

After all, whilst Shosanna’s friends were few and far between – the woman found herself fiercely protective in them. Aldo appeared to understand this, for he didn’t mock her. Instead the man lifted his free hand and tilted what would have been a hat. Shosanna lifted her head just so in acceptance, the promise sealed between them; Utivich would be fine.

The woman didn’t move until the men were off, she didn’t pay attention to Omar, or the other Basterds, nor to Donny or Archie. With the distraction of Smithson and Aldo gone, those immediate worries ceased – there was only one man whose presence troubled her. Fredrick. She had, after all, known about the man’s connections with Landa. She knew, to a degree, what he did. But to bear witness to it was another thing entirely.

Shosanna supposed she should have been angry. Livid. Fredrick had shot one of her friends for Christ’s sake. But, rather, she felt sad; heavy in the heart now that she had discovered it all. She had been afraid of Fredrick before, frightened to think what the man could manage. But now, there the man stood, defeated almost – regarding her in that same way he did when she had told him ‘no’; and it was heartbreaking.

--

Dieter swore in furious German. Hans would not be pleased. Damn Fredrick and that silly girl!. It had all been going smoothly until then. Aldo had been trapped, the man knew it, and Dieter had savoured the expression of realisation the other man had worn the moment it had all clicked. A tad slow today, Raine? Dieter thought before framing it vocally;

“Guess so.” Aldo had replied, “What you say we do now?.”

But they had been interrupted then by Aldo’s pet. Really, the Bear Jew needed to be put on a muzzle or something. Not that Dieter was honestly troubled by it; after all, the moment that Donny had moved did the rest of his men start firing. No, he wasn’t troubled, but he didn’t really appreciate being caught in the fire either.

They caught the Basterds on the back foot regardless; the men forced to step back as they clumsily withdrew their own weapons. Dieter supposed that’s where the entire thing started falling apart; whilst Aldo’s men were hardly a match against the tactile force of Landa, they did make up for it when it came to violence. They shouldn’t have been allowed to reach for weapons.

The sharp, crisp sounds of German pistols were diminishing, the men falling one by one. That was, until Fredrick. The sound of Fredrick’s bullets was a sharp, clean, whiplash. Usually followed by a body hitting the ground. And upon hearing the first bullet, Dieter’s lips lifted to a customary smug smile in spite of the one that Aldo gave him.

The fire was short lived, prompting Dieter to glance towards where he understood Fredrick to be. The man had escaped his hiding place from the rooftop, having decided to involved himself in the thick of it, and, God!. That stupid boy. A harsh sound escaped Dieter, almost a crude sort of laugh having realised that it was her that caused Fredrick’s bullets to cease. That woman he was so obsessed with. Any other time Dieter would have drawn amusement from the fact that, yet again Fredrick was ignored in favour of another man. A Jew no doubt. And for one cruel moment, Dieter thought Fredrick deserved it.

Hans would not be pleased. Zoller wouldn’t shoot now; the woman had effectively disarmed him. About Dieter, Landa’s plans lay in pieces. It was best now to escape, and recoup later. If anything, they had injured a few of Aldo’s men, even if it had cost them some of their own. Dieter cast a filthy look to Fredrick before he turned, and fled. The Basterds could do what they wanted with him, that woman could do what she wanted with him, and he would surely face the consequences under Landa. Dieter supposed he would feel sorry for his friend once the time came, but until then, the man had to face the consequences of his actions.

[maxwell must go free]

Wilhelm couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Fueled by Aldo’s endless supply of bravado, he and the other Basterds had fallen into the mindset of thinking they’d sail easily through this night. They’d take care of the Nazis, make sure it all went off without a hitch. They’d all be back home unscathed and with a great story to tell of how they’d finally got that sonofabitch Hellstrom and his new apprentice. It had never seriously crossed his mind to think there could be complications. Wilhelm sighed inwardly at the ingrained American arrogance. They always thought they had the upper hand. Even in the worst situations, they were always sure they’d come out on top.

As the other Nazis had come out of nowhere, guns blazing, Wilhelm knew immediately they’d played right into Landa’s hands. He had never been the type to lose his head under fire so Wilhelm had immediately began firing himself. His mind was blank, serene. His undivided attention was directed toward the Nazis in front of him. Only in the very back of his mind was Wilhelm really dismayed at how things had gone.

Suddenly the Basterd on his left dropped to the ground, a perfect bullet wound in the side of his head. But it didn’t make sense, the position of the wound. For a wound like that, the shot would have to have come from above them. He looked up quickly and saw it. Oh god, they were in even deeper than they’d thought. There was a sniper on the roof of the nearest building. Wilhelm seriously doubted that Aldo had counted on that. He thought privately that the Basterds would never have come up with the idea of a sniper.

Wilhelm turned his attention back to the task at hand, trying not to think of his fallen comrade. The man was dead, there was nothing they could do for him now. He’d known what risks he was taking when he became a Basterd. Wilhelm set his mind to taking out the Nazis around him.

When the gunshots finally stopped, Wilhelm looked around to take note of all the damage. Aldo and Omar were gathered next to Smithson, who had taken a bullet to the shoulder. Wilhelm looked away from them and walked quickly over to the other injured Basterd. He tended to the wound, working quickly to help staunch the bleeding.

After he was satisfied that the Basterd would be at least temporarily stable, Wilhelm made his way over to Aldo and the others. There was that girl there he recognized from one of the local convenience stores. She was a pretty girl and Wilhelm wasn‘t surprised at how many men found her desirable. More importantly though, she was a supporter of the Basterds and that was why he personally approved of her. Specifically, Wilhelm knew Shoshanna was a good friend of Smithson. This must be very difficult for her.

Wilhelm glanced around him to take a headcount of the remaining Nazis and Basterds. Hellstrom was still around but he was getting ready to book it out of there, Wilhelm could tell. The one round-faced boy who tended to spend a lot of time at the convenience store was staring, moon-faced, at Shoshanna. Donny was deep in conversation with the new guy that was still hanging around. Wilhelm frowned faintly. That was very strange. Suspicious, as Aldo might call it.

All in all, it seemed the Nazis had won this battle, as much as that pained Wilhelm to admit.

--

When the Brit jumped up, it broke Donny’s paralysis. However, he didn’t move fast enough out of the Brit‘s grip. He was slightly shocked at the sheer force of the Brit’s counterattack. He didn’t expect the slender man to push him back with such power. While he was still marveling at his surprising strength, Donny’s head was knocked to the side by a punch that came out of nowhere. For an brief moment Donny couldn’t see anything; he was just stunned and in sudden serious pain. Gradually, the world came back into focus. Oddly enough, Donny wasn’t as angry as he thought he would be after being punched. He was actually impressed at how fast the Brit had acted. Now, however, he seemed to be sagging. The Brit was falling forward, clinging to the front of Donny’s wife beater. Instinctively, Donny grabbed his shoulder to keep him from hitting the ground.

The confusion was back in Donny’s face. He couldn’t figure this guy out. He seemed like just your stereotypical Brit -- “Let’s go have tea with the Queen, pip pip cheerio!” When Donny had first made up his mind to attack him, the Brit had actually given him a moment’s pause. He hadn’t expected him to stay on his feet for more than a second. But he’d held his ground for just an instant before Donny had gained the upper hand.

Then Donny had found out he was a Nazi. That had totally thrown him for a loop. When Hellstrom had shown up to rescue the Brit, it hadn’t been just the gunshot wound that had hit him like a ton of bricks.

Now he’d just thrown a considerable punch right into Donny’s face. He had no idea what to make of him. A small part of him wanted to beat the Brit senseless, but another part…a stronger part…wanted to get to know him better. He wanted to know how such a smarmy p***k could land a punch on the Bear Jew. And even more than that, he wanted to know why he hadn’t already shattered the Brit’s face.

Donny stared up into the Brit’s stubbly, white face. His eyes had gone unfocused and he looked like he might be sick. Donny knew the signs of a concussion when he saw them. He’d inflicted enough concussions in his life. He reached up and snapped his fingers in the Brit’s face.

“Hey. Stay with me here. Don‘t you dare pass out.“

The Brit’s eyes finally focused again on Donny’s face. Donny gripped his shoulder with so much pressure he knew it had to hurt. His black eyes were narrowed slightly with rage, but also that eternal hint of perverse humor played at the corner of his mouth.

“You know what the ******** is wrong with me? It’s the fact that you’re a goddamn Nazi piece of s**t. That’s what’s wrong.”

Donny stepped back from the Brit, shoving him back onto his feet. Donny continued to hold his gaze for another moment. He knew he probably should have bashed the Brit’s brains out when he had the chance. However…suddenly things started to click into place. The reason he could never just kill the Brit like he deserved. Donny found that he wanted him. He’d wanted him ever since he’d first seen him.

The current disheveled state he was in wasn’t making things any less attractive. Looking at the man in front of Donny, Aldo seemed like a very distant second at the moment. There was a certain tranquility in the Brit that Aldo couldn’t ever possess. Even when Aldo was still, he wasn’t calm. When Donny looked up into the Brit’s blue eyes, there was something about him that he wanted to be near. It didn’t make any sense at all. Donny couldn’t really harm him because he had never been so attracted to anyone in his life.

Donny placed his hands on his hips in an unconscious stance of challenge.

“Do you even have a ******** clue who I am?”

--

Fredrick’s mind was a blank. It seemed that he had lost the ability to process what had just happened. His eyes followed her, his breathing shallow and quick as she strode quickly out into the street. Robotically, he tucked away his gun. He wouldn’t be using it again tonight.

Since he had met Emmanuelle, Fredrick had done everything in his power to keep the truth from her. Even if, god forbid, she would never reciprocate his feelings, Fredrick still would do his best to never sully her vision of him. Even if she told him no till the day he died, he still wanted to be her friend. He needed to keep her thinking he was just a young foreign actor who’d moved to America in search of better prospects. He had never wanted her to know he was a paid murderer.

Well, all the careful deception was shattered now. She had witnessed him performing his duties as one of Landa’s men. She’d seen him shoot a man and nearly end his life. In fact, if the Jew had been just an inch or two taller, Fredrick would have no doubt killed him. If it had just been a stranger, he might have been able to come back from that. Possibly he could have told Emmanuelle that the man had done something horrible and deserved the bullet in his chest. Fredrick was a persuasive person; he could have convinced her without a huge blow to her impression of him. Yes, she would have feared him for a long while, having seen his true capabilities. But he thought in time she could have spoken to him again.

As soon as she fell to the Jew’s side, Fredrick knew there was nothing he could do to salvage the situation. Utivich had been her friend and he had shot him in right in front of her eyes. She would never accept Fredrick now. His reputation with her had been irreparably damaged. The realization was almost physically painful. He could no longer entertain ideas of being hers when she’d seen him make an attempt on her friend’s life. She would never have him.

Fredrick met her eyes again. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say to her. He had no excuse, no justification to smooth everything over. Fredrick took a step closer to her. He was speaking French without realizing it.

“Emmanuelle, I…you weren’t supposed to see that. You have to understand…I need to tell you.”

He couldn’t stand to look into her eyes anymore and see that deeply sad expression on her beautiful face.

Fredrick’s dark eyes moved from her face to Dieter’s. The look on his friend’s face was truly murderous, but somehow easier to bear than Emmanuelle’s. For a moment, he just stared at Dieter. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he would be looking at him like that. All at once it came rushing back to him: his mission. For the first time since he had committed to becoming one of Landa’s men, he had failed. And Fredrick had no real excuse why. Dieter was practically asexual and could never grasp how he felt. At the very least, Dieter had definitely never been in love. He only saw that Fredrick had stopped firing for no good reason. Fredrick couldn’t deal with Dieter’s sharp tongue and cold hard logic right now, so he looked away from him.

He stepped closer to Emmanuelle. Now that she had rose to her feet again, he could try to talk to her. Fredrick gazed at her, his wide dark eyes imploring. Would she even listen to him? He seriously doubted it.

--

Hans looked up from the paperwork he was poring over to glance at his watch. It was nearing midnight now and he knew Dieter would be calling him soon. Generally he preferred to hear Hellstrom’s reports in the security of his office, but with a situation as delicate as this, he had asked in particular to receive a phone call immediately afterward. Just a brief description of how things had gone. Hans would have an exhaustive report from Dieter as soon as he saw him in person.

He was somewhat anxious about this specific mission. He had taken a route unanticipated in the Basterds’ minds, a method that was something he’d never really thought of using before. Hans had staked a lot on this night and he had…certain expectations for the outcome. Especially concerning Archie Hicox. He was very interested to know how it had panned out with him. Hans had no misgivings about how Dieter would perform. One of his best skills was dealing with tense situations. If something unexpected had occurred, Hans knew Dieter would find a way to slip out of the situation unharmed.

It was just the fact that Archie was reluctant to say the least. He didn’t want to think that his new recruit would act irrationally. Hans would hope that he would be cooperative. It was vital that Archie acted as a valuable asset to Hans. This was a perfect opportunity for him to prove himself.

[pocket howitzer]

Aldo cast a glance to the figure sleeping, sprawled, upon the couch. It was Omar. They had only just returned from the doctors and while Aldo went and put Smithson, still unconscious, in his room - Omar had simply fallen exhausted upon the couch and drifted off. Huh. The edges of Aldo’s lips turned downward, if only he had it so easy.

The man knew that the entire night was an unmitigated failure. He had ******** it up hardcore. Aldo knew that Omar would be enraged once he woke; that he would pelt him with words, threaten, and quite possibly leave for a number of days. And, for once, Aldo didn’t blame him. The man was arrogant, he was cocky and self assured, but his pride could admit failure. And, son, did he fail his men tonight.

Aldo dropped himself unceremoniously into a seat, features hard as he studied the man sleeping before him. He had lost a Basterd that night. It hadn’t been Donny, or Omar, it could have almost been Utivich as well, but it wasn’t. It was one of the little guys who had, before then, been largely unacknowledged by Aldo. But the rest of the men acknowledged him, the rest of the Basterds knew the ******** well. Aldo shifted, retrieving his snuffbox from his pocket.

And now he had more of a problem on his hands. Aldo pinched a hash of tobacco, pressing the fibers together before lifting it to his nose. Rather than Landa being shaken, it was him. They had messed with his core, and now the rest of the men were unsettled. They weren’t sure of what to think anymore. Unsure whether or not to trust the man who maintained leadership over them. This was a right problem on his hands now.

The darkness of the night had turned to a washy, pre-dawn light. The house was silent. Aldo glanced to the door. No other Basterd had returned as of yet, and, immediately, Aldo’s thoughts turned to Donny. He hoped that he killed that damn Brit. And he was eager for the man’s return, moreso than he would admit. He wanted Donny to walk through that door, stride cocky and sure; with his hands soaked and his clothes flecked with blood. He wanted Donny to say;

“I tagged that ********’ Brit good, Aldo. You should’ve seen it.”

He then wanted Donny to brace himself and swing, as if he were still beating the man now. And then he wanted Donny to laugh, coarse and victorious. And then Aldo would want to ******** him. Because that was what they did, and if they could still have that, then everything was still normal.

But Donny didn’t come through that door. No one did.

--

Archie didn’t respond immediately, still recovering from being forced upright. The scene before him had lurched alarmingly, forcing the man to seal his eyes shut for a moment to gather his bearings. Donny was waiting almost expectantly in front of him when Archie opened his eyes, prompting the man to frown in mild confusion. It was then when the last few minutes registered in his mind; thoughts untangling themselves to provide Archie a recount of what had just transgressed with a clarity that surprised him.

Automatically, Archie’s blue eyes flickered to the bat that lay forgotten between them, having been dislodged from Donny’s grip with his attack. He… was still alive?. And relatively unscathed at that. Archie brought a hand upward, brushing his fingers against where Donny had tagged him. The touch drew a wince from the man. It would bruise, and Archie was glad to find that the immediate affects were only mild; his vision clearing as the world seemed to steady. The headache, however, would most likely malinger.

That aside; he was left to deal with Donny. This confused Archie. The man had come towards him with every intent of murder, and yet he was still alive and there the man was; addressing him. It was bizarre. Archie supposed he should have been grateful. He wasn’t dead nor dying, and did not appear to be in any immediate danger from Donny’s temper. Archie was at a loss as to how to respond. …But that could have also been the concussion as well.

Archie met Donny’s challenging glare wholly, the edges of his lips turned downward as he regarded the man before him. And, all at once, he smiled. Oh, God. Relief flooded him like no other; he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t dying, Donny’s tenuous grip on sanity was in place for the moment… But then the other’s words caught up with him, prompting the man to sober just as quickly.

“A Nazi.” He repeated, the slightest slur betraying the lingering effects of concussion; “I’m part of the Allied Forces; I am British, you do realise.”

It was, perhaps, a too literal explanation, Archie’s mind seizing the familiar circumstances of World War 2 through the confusion. Honestly, his head hurt too much for this. All he really wanted to do was go to sleep, but this man was awfully insistent. Archie was forcefully reminded of when he had been subjected to a similar exchange with Landa, disorientated with drugs and largely in pain. God, he was so sick of this country.

“And no. I don’t.” Archie said plainly, his blue eyes narrowed as he fiercely met Donny’s challenge in spite of his current state; “I hardly make it my business to engage with such insolence.”

--

Shosanna didn’t step away when Fredrick approached her; she held her ground, standing dignified in spite of her torn clothes and Smithson’s blood that coated her hands. Her expression was firm, providing the man with nothing to go by: no anger, no sadness, no indication of what Shosanna felt currently.

She waited. Shosanna hadn’t been ignorant to the racial feud that took place just beyond her little store. She had been largely uninvolved then, merely going about her business, serving whoever had stepped past the threshold of her store, accepting them with no bias. What more could she do?. She was hardly going to align herself with anybody, despite her roots. And she had closed herself off from involving herself from any of the men that happened to be part of the feud. For most part anyway.

Shosanna glanced to the part of the street where Smithson had fallen, the asphalt stained with his blood.

“I am Jewish, you know.” The woman stated in French suddenly, eyes flicking back to catch Fredrick’s pained brown ones.

Her tone was critical, almost detached. That part of her she had hidden away was now in the open between them. Not that Shosanna was ashamed of it, but more that she did not want to become involved. In being nothing more than the daughter of French immigrants, nothing had been expected of her.

“No different than them.” Shosanna continued.

She had spent part of her life growing up with Smithson; their paths crossing often having lived in the same neighbourhood. Families tended to settle with like families, and Shosanna immigrant parents with their Jewish roots had found a home in the Jewish outskirts of the city.

“Would you have done the same to me if he ordered you?.”

She was referring to Landa, the question serving to betray what knowledge she had of Fredrick that was beyond what the man himself had told her. Shosanna, after all, was ignorant to Fredrick’s stance regarding the entire thing. She wasn’t aware that race mattered little to him, that it was merely coincidence that had them stand; one Jew, the other a supposed Nazi. As far as she was concerned, Fredrick was no better than Landa; that he looked upon the Jews with the same contempt and disgust that Landa did.

--

Dieter took some moments to straighten himself; soothing out his clothes, his hair, ensuring that he looked the professional that Hans expected him to be. He knew that he was stalling. The exchange that he was about to have with Landa wasn’t one that he was looking forward to, even if it was a mere phone call. Inwardly, he cursed, damning himself, then Fredrick, and finally Aldo Raine.

In retrospect, Dieter had come to realize that they had hardly been as bad off as he had been lead to think. They had injured several Basterds, and even Fredrick managed to kill one before balking. Aldo was left a man short, crippled somewhat, his American arrogance had lead to defeat. All was not lost.

Except for, Dieter’s lips twisted, both Archie and Fredrick. Vaguely, Dieter cast a thought to the British. The Bear Jew had wanted to get his hands on him, Dieter noticed, and even he, the man who had shot him in the first place, had been cast aside in favour of Archie. Yet, strangely enough, Dieter saw that the Bear Jew had failed to follow through with what he so badly wanted. In those hectic and chaotic moments, Dieter witnessed the Bear Jew hesitate; he saw him standing over Archie stock still as if he… didn’t want to do it. The thought concluded itself with such sureity that Dieter started; the man’s form straightening as if touched by a live wire.

The man turned it over in his head. It was so abstract that he would have not believed it had he not seen it himself. Archie had even managed to momentarily overpower the Bear Jew, the recollection strange enough to coax a smile from Dieter. That… was an interesting thing. The Bear Jew, after all, was notorious for, well, beating Landa’s men to a near unrecognizable state. So for the man to hesitate where a Nazi was concerned. It was. …Strange.

Dieter didn’t trouble himself with Fredrick at the moment, too caught up with the revelations regarding the Bear Jew. For that moment, the man highly doubted that Archie was dead. As long as the British wasn’t, Hans would still have use for him, regardless of where the man stood.

With due care, Dieter keyed in Landa’s personal phone number before bringing the mobile to his ear.

“I have some urgent news for you, Hans.” He said without preamble, “We must meet immediately.”

[maxwell must go free]

Wilhelm stepped out of his room to check on Smithson. Stretching out his hand, he touched the smaller man’s pasty forehead. He felt cool to the touch, but not cold. Good. Smithson would be fine, it would just be a painful healing process. Wilhelm knew the boy would be a soldier about it. Despite his slight stature and seemingly awkward demeanor, he was tougher than most people expected.

Wilhelm sat in a chair next to Smithson’s bed. He wasn’t really worried about him and knew he probably didn’t need to sit up with him, but…Smithson’s presence comforted him. Sitting near the unconscious boy helped calm Wilhelm’s disorganized thoughts. This night had left him with a lot to think about.

Wilhelm had seen the exchange between Donny and Landa’s new recruit. It wasn’t the interaction of sworn enemies. He didn’t know what label to put on it. Perhaps it was nothing. A small voice in Wilhelm’s head said that it was most certainly not nothing. He closed his eyes briefly to try and shut out that voice, though he knew he couldn't ignore the truth forever.

In the silence of the house, the clicking of the snuff container was unusually loud. Wilhelm found himself annoyed at the sound. Of course, if he really was honest with himself, he was annoyed with Aldo altogether. No, “annoyed” wasn’t the right word to describe how he felt. “Livid” suited his mood much better. Wilhelm could have forgiven the fact that Aldo had led them all into a trap, though he himself had seen it coming. Everyone made mistakes. No, it was the fact that he seemingly brushed it all of. The fact that in a matter of two weeks, three of his men had been injured and one lay dead -- none of it ruffled Aldo in the slightest. He just squared his shoulders and continued on. It was infuriating to watch.

Wilhelm thought about telling Aldo what he’d witnessed after the Basterds had gone their separate ways. Donny, Aldo’s personal attack dog, had not only wavered, he had fraternized with the enemy. When Wilhelm had finally decided to head back, the two of them had still been talking. Donny’s stance had gone from offensive, to defensive, to finally merely wary. Wilhelm had turned his head before he saw anything else. He felt almost guilty observing the obvious chemistry between them.

Really, Wilhelm should have told Aldo what he’d witnessed. But…Aldo had gotten himself into this situation. He’d just have to get himself out of it. Aldo never listened to any of the Basterds anyway. The thought of Aldo slowly losing the trust of the other Basterds was worrisome, though Wilhelm was slightly satisfied at the same time. Wilhelm had seen the dark, sullen look on Omar’s face. Aldo was more than likely in for another verbal onslaught from the younger man soon. A small, pleased smile crossed Wilhelm’s face. He would just love to go off on Aldo himself. Unfortunately, Wilhelm knew that day was unlikely to come.

--

It had been several minutes by now, and yet Donny was still talking to the Brit. Sure, they weren’t having a pleasant chat over tea, but…the two of them weren’t trying to kill each other. Unconsciously, Donny began to relax. The bloodlust had faded from him just about entirely.

Donny stared into the Brit’s slightly dazed face, not comprehending what he meant. He must have hit him a lot harder than he thought if the Brit was convinced he wasn’t a Nazi. Hell, he worked for Hans Landa. What else could he be?

“What the ******** are you talking about? Not a Nazi?”

His dark eyes flicked from the Brit’s face, all the way down to his feet, then back up again. He was sizing him up, as was his unconscious response to any man he met. Usually it was just Donny estimating how much work it would take for him to beat the living s**t out of the other man. But this time, it had something of a sexual nature to it. He appreciated the Brit on a physical level, he wasn‘t going to deny that any longer. Again, his eyes took in the strong, lean build under the coat he was wearing. He was younger than Aldo, and clearly in better shape.

All that aside, though, he was still a Nazi. Even if he thought right now that he wasn’t, under the influence of the concussion, it didn’t change the fact that he was in the business of killing Jews. Donny smirked, quite unpleasantly.

“You work for Hans Landa, who’s only the most famous Jew killer in this whole part of town. That makes you a Nazi, no matter what country you were born in.”

Donny was amused by this guy in spite of his hatred for all things Nazi. He didn’t even know who he was talking to. This guy really knew nothing. Hellstrom apparently hadn’t thought it necessary to tell his new recruit a goddamn thing. Of course, Donny would be delighted to educate him.

“Well, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Donny Donowitz. You might know me better as the Bear Jew.”

Donny stood back, crossing his arms over his broad, muscular chest. It would happen now. The Brit would realize who he was talking to and then the fun would start. He waited for the recognition to dawn on the Brit’s face, yet…it never happened. He really had no idea who Donny was. Instead of being enraged, Donny was actually kind of…well, thrilled. He was starting with a totally clean slate here.

“Nothing? You have no idea who I am. That’s ******** amazing.“

Donny raised an eyebrow. Generally, Donny wasn’t a stand-around-and-talk kind of a person, but he was really enjoying this conversation. His pleasure showed in the taunting tone of his voice.

“So who are you, if you’re not a Nazi? Do you have a name?”

--

In his bewilderment, Fredrick just said the first thing that came to mind.

“I had no idea you knew so much about me.”

There seemed to be too much information for Fredrick to sort out. He could only blink and stare at the young, somber blonde woman standing in front of him. First of all, Emmanuelle knew who he was. She’d known Fredrick’s hidden life the entire time, it seemed. That was very difficult for his mind to grasp. Why had she talked to him all this time, knowing what he did? Knowing of his very dangerous connections? It suddenly dawned on him that this had to be why she had turned him down.

Emmanuelle was a Jew? She was…the type of person he was trained to kill. He didn’t care about that fact personally, though it suddenly made things a lot more complicated. She didn’t look Jewish in the slightest anyway. Generally they were darker and had wavy hair. Fredrick thought she looked like the perfect Aryan girl, a girl the Fuehrer would have considered exemplary. That was what confused him about Landa and his men’s way of thinking. Why would you hate someone just for some small fact that really didn’t affect anyone? A fact that wasn’t even obvious half the time?

He shook his head quickly. Fredrick took another step toward Emmanuelle, his dark eyes still focused on her face. He wanted to touch her, but he knew that would be totally inappropriate in the situation. Fredrick kept his hands at his side.

Somehow had to convey to her somehow that he still cared deeply for her. In his straightforward mind, he thought he could just fix it all with his endless supply of determination.

Fredrick shook his head again, this time firmly.

“I also did not know you were Jewish, but…it doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

In Fredrick’s eternally confident mind, he wanted to think that this was something they could push through. Nothing would stand in his way to be with Emmanuelle. Not his career, not her ethnicity. As naïve as he was, Fredrick wanted to think that his simple acceptance would fix everything. To him, all of these things were just obstacles to overcome. She just needed to trust him. He would make this work.

“I never wanted you to see any of this. I would never hurt you.”

When she still stared at him as if he’d started speaking Greek, he realized that his words were having no impact on her. And honestly, deep down he’d never really thought he could change her mind just by talking to her. She didn’t believe him. She only saw the facts. She saw that he killed her people to pay the bills. His perpetually sanguine personality couldn’t save him in her eyes.

For the first time since he’d met her, Fredrick began to accept that he would never have a future with Emmanuelle. Even when she’d said there was someone else, he’d never actually believed that she was finished with him. And now that he knew there was nothing he could do to show her he wasn‘t the soulless murderer she thought he was, Fredrick felt completely hollow.

Fredrick suddenly was incredibly tired. The only thing he wanted was to get away from this, all of it. To just forget this had happened. He looked down from her face, unable to maintain eye contact with her any longer.

“I have to go, Emmanuelle. I…I‘m sorry.”

--

Hans sat across from Dieter in his office, his mind processing everything he’d been told. It had been an evening of both wins and losses. Of course, none of Hans’ disappointment showed on his face. He was very upset that Fredrick had failed him. Yes, he had take care of one of the Basterds. That much he did approve of. Dieter had also said that Fredrick had injured two of them. He was happy with that.

However, he had stopped firing when that girl had showed up. He’d been distracted by her yet again. Hans could just smack Fredrick for his weakness. He would definitely confront him about that. He had to let go of his silly feelings for that girl before it really started to get on Hans’ nerves.

The situation with Fredrick could wait. Eventually, Hans would have to figure out what his next move would be and whether Fredrick would be included. Within the next couple of days, Hans would lay out his next plan of attack. It boiled down to whether he would strike against the Basterds again or give them time to regroup. He wouldn’t worry too much about that at the moment. The Basterds would be too stunned to do a thing tonight. First, he needed to talk to Dieter about a few more things.

Hans’ voice was pleasant, yet he studied Dieter’s face with an ominous intensity. He felt that Dieter had, on a lesser scale, failed him too. Archie had yet to show up. Archie had been his and Fredrick’s responsibility. Why hadn’t he showed up yet? Why had he not heard a single word from his British newcomer yet? That was the question he needed Dieter to answer.

“So Dieter. I am grateful that you rushed so quickly to tell me about the events that have transpired this evening. I appreciate your unfailing promptness, of course. But I have a few concerns. My question for you at the moment is where is Archie?”

He waited, outwardly patient. Hans wasn’t nearly as annoyed with Dieter, but he felt that he had some explaining to do as well.

[pocket howitzer]

He felt like s**t. Beyond s**t, if it were possible. Smithson’s thoughts were hazy, caught between the feel of drugs and an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. God. What happened?. It was a slow process, but Smithson eventually roused; eyes opening slowly, but only to the narrowest of slits before he screwed them shut again. It was the oddest feeling, being doped up on painkillers; to feel nothing of the pain he knew was there. He had been shot. He had felt the bullet penetrate his skin; had felt it burrow, burning hot, scalding, in his shoulder, making its home there. He had never felt anything like it before. Sure, Smithson was no stranger to physical abuse – he had been on the receiving end of it more times than he could count as a child, but being shot was an entirely new experience he would have gladly lived without.

Everything seemed to be muffled, Smithson noticed. That or he happened to be wrapped entirely in some sort of material that hindered every single one of his senses. He knew that he was on his bed, but, he couldn’t feel the bed; he couldn’t feel the knotted sheets he lay upon, nor the hard stretch of mattress beneath that. That was entirely unsettling, Smithson noted distractedly. His hearing was affected, too, what sounds of the morning coming slow and filtered. Sight, yes, not that he had managed to see very much, but what he managed had been distressingly wavering. He groaned, the sound low and pitched. Now he understood what Donny felt just a couple of weeks ago. The thought almost made Smithson smile in spite of it all; the expression set lightly upon his features before it gave way to a rather pained grimace.

Smithson shifted, testing his movement, before he slowly attempted to pull himself upward. It was a stupid move that ripped a wretched gasp from the man; his eyes snapping open as what little blood left drained from his face. Though he couldn’t feel pain per se, he could feel it. An uncomfortable pressure as his movement caused the fresh wound to pull uncomfortably, it tight against the stitches that sealed it. Oh, God. That couldn’t be good. His stomach heaved, and it was all Smithson could do when he twisted in the bed to be sick onto the floor.

Distractedly, the man noticed a pair of boots before a set of hands carefully eased him back onto the mattress. ********, he really was a wreck. Cold, clammy, with his gaze unfocused as he attempted to grapple with the fact that, ********, he had been shot.

Blindly, Smithson grabbed Wilhelm’s arm. His grip was weak, and his arm was finely trembling with the effort;

“I’m so sorry, man.” Smithson said, tone wavering as he spoke in a manner that suggested he had really no idea to the fact he was talking at all, “I really ******** up.”

-

Archie would look upon the entire exchange later with a sense of disbelief. This was the man who had attempted to kill him. Twice now. And the second time, Donny had aborted the mission himself to be able to… to what?. Accuse him of being a Nazi?. Introduce himself?.

His lips turned to a small frown. His name?. Automatically, Archie brought a hand upward to draw a business card from the breast pocket of his suit before remembering that they were with the rest of his confiscated items. For a moment, the man stood in awkward confusion; hand pressed against his chest before he thrust it towards Donny,

“Archie Hicox.” He said simply, relying on the familiar routine. It made more sense than the concussion, and Donny, and the entire mess he was in.

“I’m in country to establish an American branch of my firm,” Archie continued, straightening. Donny had rather sportingly accepted the handshake and now appeared to listen with a degree of interest, Archie noticed. Or at least some sort of interest. Distractedly, Archie raised a hand, pressing the bridge of his nose in an effort to dispel the pressure that had built uncomfortably behind his eyes.

“Unfortunately, I’m in a bit of a situation,” He said, grimacing somewhat as the pressure of his fingers roused old pain from the bruises that still lined his nose. Usually, Archie wasn’t the sort of person to talk so candidly, preferring to think about what he was to say before allowing it to cross his lips. Apparently, a graze to the side of the head with a bat loosened him up better than a pint of beer.

“Thanks to our previous, how should I say this, exchange, Mr. Donowitz. I am rather unable to leave the country, however much I wish to do so. My particulars have been seized; I have no identification, no money, no ticket -.”

Archie cut himself off there, hand dropping listless to his side. God. He was truly in a ‘situation’, wasn’t he?. This was the first time he had uttered aloud just how much of a ‘situation’ he was in, and, as things tended to be; it sounded far more worse in the open than it had ever did in his head. At least in his head, he could have come up with ways around it – he could have ignored that he was trapped in America as he went about setting up a business he wasn’t even interested in anymore. But now that the situation had been dragged out of him, now that the words hung before him like dirty laundry, Archie could see just how well and truly ******** the ‘situation’ was.

His blue eyes caught those of Donny’s. Half of him wanted to blame the man that stood there, his lips twisted in a cold smirk that was already familiar to Archie. Most of him wanted to blame Donny for it. But he couldn’t. Had he not been so himself: so sure of his abilities, so reckless, the entire circumstance could have been avoided. ‘What if’s were cruel things.

Silence lapsed between the two men for a moment before Archie cleared his throat.

“So,” he started, as if content to finish what he had started earlier;

“If you were quite done with me tonight - it's quite tiresome being accused of being a Nazi after all; I would appreciate if I could go back to the hotel.”

It was less asking for permission, and more just merely to excuse himself as Archie started to withdraw from the conversation, the man already turning on his heel to leave.

--

Dieter had been tip-toeing around the fact that Archie was unaccounted for. It would be a rather delicate issue to approach, and it had to be handled accordingly. The man held Hans’ gaze for a drawn moment, features neutral as he carefully worded what he was to say. The explanation came from Dieter with due care, pausing every so often to gauge Hans’ reaction:

“It was the Bear Jew who attacked first.” He said;

“Apparently Raine is having some trouble with controlling the man as he failed to wait for a signal or approval.”

Dieter had seen, after all, the surprise that had been scrawled upon Raine’s features as the Bear Jew leapt forward to attack. Raine hadn’t been expecting it.

“However; Donowitz didn’t kill him.” The use of the Bear Jew’s name was almost as significant as what had occurred. Having the names to refer to Aldo’s men wedged a further distance between them, its purpose to discourage feeling for them. Names like the Bear Jew dehumanized the Jews; made them less human and more just another thing.

“He stopped, Hans. Donowitz had been standing over Hicox ready to kill him. There was no mistaking the fact that he didn’t. Couldn’t, perhaps.”

Dieter didn’t fathom why Donny didn’t or couldn’t. Fredrick had long ago pinned Dieter for a man who wasn’t at all affected by things such as affection. And he honestly did live in a world that was created upon the order to kill or let live. Simply, if he were instructed by Hans to dispose of Fredrick, the most Dieter would feel was a momentary regret before the task was fulfilled. For the man to consider the fact that Donny didn’t or couldn’t on the basis of emotion would have been as far-fetched as Landa betraying the Fuhrer for his own interests.

“In either case; I do highly doubt that Hicox would be dead at this moment. If Donowitz wanted to kill him, he had the chance. Any remaining Basterds had fled, and it was only myself and Fredrick with that woman who remained.”

Dieter understood that he had done wrong in merely running away, but he hoped that Hans would excuse that for the opportunity that Archie had created again;

“I believe, in fact, that it is highly possible that Archie will return to his hotel in a matter of time. But this thing with Donowitz, perhaps it could be of use to you?.”


--

Shosanna returned home unsure of how she was supposed to be feeling. She felt strange, like she was empty inside. Now that she had admitted to Fredrick that she was Jewish, the weight of her secret no longer existed. In any other circumstance, she supposed it was a good thing. It meant that she didn’t have to hide herself away, it meant that, well, Fredrick had –

Her thoughts ended abruptly there, Shosanna ducking her head as if the physical action helped to sever the train.

Why did it always have to come back to Fredrick?. Why did always have to start and finish with the damn man?. Why did she care so damn much?.

The woman pressed the heel of her palm against her shut eyes, trying hard not to cry. (But why was she crying anyway?.) It took some moments for Shosanna to collect herself. Whatever Fredrick had said, the man was right to assume that it mattered little to the woman. Regardless of that flimsy promise he gave her, it did little to free Fredrick from the hate crimes he had committed against those who were no different from herself. Shosanna glanced upwards, catching her reflection upon a shadowed glass before her. The only thing that separated herself from someone like Smithson was the fact that her French blood bestowed upon her blond hair and blue eyes. She lifted a hand and carefully touched her cheek; she could pass for a German ideal, really. They preferred these colours.

I should dye my hair, Shosanna thought wildly, her own surprise evident in her reflected image. Black hair and blue eyes wouldn’t differ her too much from Smithson.

Her breath caught at the comparison, suddenly remembering the fate of her friend. Cast in shadow, Shosanna wasn’t able to see the blood that still stained her hands. But now that she recalled it to be there, all she would smell was that faint iron tang; strong and overwhelming. She could feel the stickiness in her fingers, and, oh God – she was going to be sick. Shosanna hurriedly stumbled to the bathroom, shedding her clothes as if they were contaminated. She would have to dispose of them later.

The water ran a faint sort of red for a moment; stark against the clinical white of the shower. Shosanna stared at her hands, turning them over and over under the spray of water. There was even blood under her nails. God. She hoped that Utivich was okay.

[maxwell must go free]

Wilhelm had already been getting to his feet to help Smithson when the smaller man vomited. Well, at least he’d been aware enough to be sick on the floor. Wilhelm wasn’t squeamish in the slightest and was only vaguely surprised. Smithson never been shot before and his body had endured a lot of suffering today. And of course, Aldo had not tended to him in the most tender of manners. It wasn’t in Aldo’s personality to treat much of anyone kindly though it probably wouldn‘t have killed him to have been a touch more compassionate. Wilhelm supposed you could only expect so much from the nearly heartless man. He knew it was unusual enough that Aldo even referred to this particular Basterd by name.

So there was also the fact that Smithson’s already-traumatized body had been handled roughly as the bullet was removed and the wound was stitched. It was only natural for his body to react negatively. Wilhelm would clean the mess up in just a moment. Right now he had to calm the younger man.

What shocked Wilhelm was the sudden outburst from Smithson. He had to be at least somewhat delirious to be apologizing for what had happened. He had done nothing wrong. If anything, Smithson deserved an apology himself. Wilhelm placed his hands on Smithson’s narrow shoulders, careful not to touch the wound, and eased him back down to the pillows. He reached out to smooth Smithson’s damp, sweaty dark hair off his forehead. It was mildly distressing to realize that his forehead was no longer cool to the touch, but now uncomfortably warm. There was a distinct possibility that Smithson was working on an infection.

Wilhelm’s voice was soft as he moved closer to the prone figure in the bed.

“Shh, Smithson, you’re all right. Don’t apologize for getting shot. That’s ridiculous. No one is upset with you.”

Wilhelm had no idea why he’d called Smithson by his first name. Mentally, he thought of him as Smithson but called him Utivich to his face. A part of him genuinely cared for the Basterds, though he tried to be remote. He knew he couldn’t afford to get too attached to any of the men he worked with. By the same token, however, sometimes one needed to practice a little gentility.

Wilhelm allowed his comrade to cling to his arm. He was still very young and shell-shocked at the moment. He could be forgiven this brief moment of weakness, at least in Wilhelm‘s eyes. He could feel Smithson’s grip slackening, but when he attempted to take his arm back, there was sudden strength again in the shaking hand. The last thing Wilhelm wanted was to further upset the exhausted young man, so he allowed Smithson to hold onto his arm as he wished. He sat near Smithson’s bedside, talking softly to him as he continued to stroke his forehead. When Smithson finally sank back into real sleep, Wilhelm went about the process of cleaning up.

Wilhelm looked up from the floor he was scrubbing as he heard heavy footsteps heading down the hallway. Aldo had finally given up on Donny and was heading for bed. Wilhelm was half-tempted to call out to his fearless leader, but he held his tongue. He found that he didn’t want to help ease Aldo’s conscience -- or talk to him at all, really. The fact that in Smithson’s fevered, overworked mind he felt he had to apologize for the debacle Aldo had led them into frankly disgusted Wilhelm. Smithson should feel proud that he had fallen in the line of fire, not ashamed of himself. Wilhelm’s mouth was a thin, tight line as he quietly gathered up the cleaning products and soiled rags. If the Basterds were going to remain together, things would have to change.

--

Donny took the business card, reading the name as the Brit said it aloud. Archie Hicox. Finally Donny had a name to put with the face. Not that it was a great name to begin with. Donny smirked. Wasn’t Archie the name of the redheaded loser from the comics? It was a ridiculous name, even if the guy in the comics had two attractive females fighting over him. Donny’s nasal voice was more than slightly derisive as he responded.

“Oh great. Nice to meet you, Archie.”

His thick dark eyebrows drew together as he listened closely to what Archie was telling him. Was he telling him that it was his fault he was a Nazi? Oh wait. Strike that. He evidently was not a Nazi but somehow was working for Landa. That didn’t add up, not that Donny really cared to do the math. Anyway, whatever the specifics were, Archie was basically saying Donny was responsible for the entire situation. He couldn’t help but be amused at that. Donny laughed, the sound more of a bark rather than an expression of humor. Now Archie was walking away. Again. This was, what, the third time he’d tried to dismiss Donny? And for the third time, Donny was responding by pulling him back in. You didn’t just stroll down the street when you were done talking to the Bear Jew. That wasn’t how it worked.

Donny caught Archie’s arm in his iron grip, trying to ignore the firm appeal of a toned bicep beneath his fingers. He shook his head, the dangerous smile still lingering at the corner of his full mouth.

“Okay, maybe it’s my fault that you had to get a nose job. Which, by the way, turned out way better than I’d hoped. I was really looking forward to seeing you with a crooked, busted-up nose.”

Donny’s grip tightened subconsciously on the bat still held in his right hand at the memory. Shattering Archie’s nose had been a whole lot of fun. There was a slight bump that just barely kept his aristocratic nose from being totally perfect. He paused as he looked Archie up and down again. He’d been attractive before, but now, with his scruff and his lack of polish, he was almost irresistible. Donny tilted his head to the side as he met Archie’s eyes again.

“But how is it my fault that Landa made you his b***h? Just get the ******** out of it. Who cares if you don’t have legit ID? How do you think kids get into bars? And you could get money if you really wanted it. McDonald‘s is always hiring. If that‘s too degrading for your precious British self, you could always just find a rich a*****e and rob him blind. Once you got the cash, go buy yourself a damn plane ticket. You should change your name too, because it‘ll be harder to find you first off and also just because it‘s a ******** stupid name. It‘s not rocket science, Archie.”

Donny tapped two fingers on Archie’s temple. He was thoughtful enough to make it the side of his head he hadn’t decided to take his bat to earlier.

“For being a lawyer, you sure don’t know how to think outside the rules. Sometimes you gotta take things into your own hands. Don’t just stand there and whine. ********’ do something about it.”

A sudden idea struck Donny. His smile, as full of violent assurances as always, broadened. He wasn’t sure about the details, but hell, they could give it a try. He guessed he probably owed Archie something anyway. He had, after all, injured him twice in the two weeks since they’d met. Even Donny had to admit he’d been a little harsh on the unfortunate b*****d.

“Landa wants to kill us all anyway. Just come stay with me till you get your s**t together.”

For the billionth time, Donny wondered to himself why he gave a ******** about this smarmy, irritating, and now helpless British guy. He should be dead at least three times by now, yet here he was, standing relatively unscathed in front of Donny. Not only that, Donny was offering the Brit a place to stay without murmuring a word of it to Aldo or the others. Well, if Archie accepted (as if he had a choice), then they’d just have to deal. Besides, Aldo wasn’t exactly anybody’s favorite person at the moment.

Donny caught the incredulity and hesitation on Archie’s face. He clapped him on the arm forcefully.

“Come on. We’ll talk about it over a beer. Or wait, you Brits drink tea.”

Donny tossed his head in the direction he planned on heading, gesturing for Archie to follow him.

“Actually, now that I think about it, you probably shouldn’t be shooting back any alcohol right now anyway. Probably not great for this nasty concussion you’ve got yourself.”

--

Hans had noted Dieter’s usage of the Bear Jew’s surname. Dieter was doing his best to impress upon his employer that though he may have deviated from the plan, the situation had been out of his control. He supposed that Dieter was partially correct though he expected more from his most indispensable recruit.

He sighed deeply, more for theatrics than for actual emotion. Yes, Dieter and Fredrick had both made a mess out of his plans but there had been no real damage. They had not followed the plot though it had for the most part worked itself out. Hans watched Dieter’s thin, intense face as he talked his way out of serious trouble. They could salvage the situation fairly easily, he agreed with Dieter That wasn’t what bothered Hans. It was the fact that his two most valuable men had failed to deliver the anticipated results. Hans would never forget that fact.

Hans composed his face into a more pleasant expression. It wouldn’t do to let Dieter know how much trouble he was if Archie Hicox didn’t return. It would mark the first real misstep Dieter had made, so Hans would be fairly lenient if Archie disappeared. But still, he had to learn of the consequences.

“Well, Dieter, whatever the details of the situation are, the matter of Archie Hicox still remains. I have invested a great deal of time and money in him and it would trouble me greatly if all of that was a waste. So let’s hope that he returns in a timely fashion. In fact, I’d advise that you specifically to make sure that happens.”

Hans let that sink in, then moved along to the next point.

“Now then. If Donowitz for whatever reason has a weakness regarding Archie, then I’m sure it could be exploited to our advantage. We will have to ask Archie if -- no, excuse me -- when he returns what he can tell us.”

Hans smiled at Dieter, as usual the expression not reaching his flinty grey eyes. Privately, he just wanted Dieter to get out of his office and out of his sight for a while.

“I would love to continue to discuss this further with you when the time is more opportune. As it is, I do have some things to take care of.”

Hans rose to his feet, a wordless sign that Dieter was dismissed for the evening.

“So thank you for stepping into my office for this discussion. I will contact you the next time I need you. Auf Wiedersehen, Dieter.”

He watched as Dieter disappeared from his office. Standing at the window, he followed Dieter’s brisk progress down the street. If Hans knew his employee, he’d make certain that Archie Hicox showed up again. It didn’t matter one way or the other to Hans what method Dieter used to retrieve his new recruit. Just as long as he returned.

As soon as he could no longer see Dieter, Hans turned away from the window. Pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket, he dialed Fredrick’s number. He counted the rings. At the fifth ring, Hans was transferred to Fredrick’s voicemail. It wasn’t often that Hans encountered a recorded greeting, especially not Fredrick’s. The boy usually answered on the second ring, maybe the third on rare occasions. He listened with a grim sort of half-smile to the recording. Fredrick, even on an electronic medium, was just as warm and articulate as he was in the flesh. He left a message as Fredrick’s polite, slightly-accented voice requested.

“Hello, Fredrick. This is Hans. I heard from a friend of yours that you were having a difficult evening. I wanted to give you a call and talk to you in more detail about the events that transpired earlier tonight. So if you could please give me a call at your earliest convenience, I would appreciate it very much. Thank you.”

Hans clicked his phone shut after leaving the message, his face taut. The issue was that Hans didn’t leave messages. It bothered him a great deal that Fredrick hadn’t answered. It confirmed his suspicions that Fredrick was avoiding him. It would be better for Fredrick in the long run if he just faced the consequences of his actions, as Dieter had. Ah well. Hans had other matters to tend to. If he hadn’t heard from Fredrick by tomorrow, then he would be concerned.

Perhaps Dieter would have two wayward man to find. Hans knew that if he ordered Dieter to hunt Fredrick down and kill him, then Dieter would do it or die trying. Hans was leaning toward the second scenario. He had a feeling that pitted against each other, Fredrick would be the victor -- he was the more skilled of the two. That is, if he were able to keep his personal attachment at bay. Oddly enough, Fredrick was devoted to Dieter. Their relationship was absurdly lopsided because Hans knew Dieter would barely hesitate to murder his friend if told to do so. In contrast, Hans was willing to bet Fredrick would probably even cry over the loss of Dieter, as strange as the thought of anyone crying over Dieter Hellstrom‘s misfortune may be. It astonished Hans how such an efficient killer could be so emotionally weak.

[pocket howitzer]

If this was how he had been at first, Archie thought distractedly as Donny eagerly offered his assistance; the man’s lips pulled to a wide, crooked smile as he did. If, that night, had the other man’s smile had been genial, rather than edged with cruelty, (Not that, Archie amended privately, it differed too greatly even then) perhaps things would be different – perhaps he would have been, tonight, dining with Churchill at a fancy French affair, discussing the next step in his venture as opposed to suffering the consequences of a bat to the head.

“Mr. Donowitz. That’s hardly a good idea in any sense of the word.” Archie said, or at least was planning to before Donny clapped him on the shoulder suddenly enough to have him stagger under the sheer force of it.

In either case; it served to distract Archie from protesting. And, instead, Archie’s lips worked to a small frown, brows furrowing as he sought to steady himself. A hand lifted, fingers pressing against the temple that Donny’s own had tapped earlier; the action serving to stall for time as Archie gathered his bearings for a second time that night. He understood the man before him enough to rightly assume that, again, his choice in the matter wasn’t too much of a concern. The sentiment irritated Archie; annoyance flaring momentarily in his gut, before giving way to a tired sort of resignation. It had been a trying evening (or few weeks, if he were being honest), and he was far too worn to protest.

Archie passed Donny a cool look; head cocking slightly as he slanted a glance down the length of his nose as he regarded the man before him. For some reason or another, unconscious to Archie, Donny had prompted a return of the pompous, well-off lawyer that had ceased to exist two weeks ago. Having offered no protest, Archie merely stood in wait; his features arched in an expression of expectancy. He had no doubt that the other man’s plans, crude and spontaneous, were hardly going to be successful. In those few weeks spent in the care of Landa, Archie had come to understand the extent of the man’s power. Not that it was explained to him, but it was perfectly evident in Landa himself; the way he carried his person, the manner of which he interacted. The extent of the Nazi’s could be felt throughout the city, it gave life to the underground workings of the state, and served to fuel every criminal transaction of the country. Archie wondered if Donny understood this, if the man standing before him knew just how widespread the power of Landa sprawled.

But on the other hand, some wretched, hopeful part of Archie had seized to Donny’s words. And, although he knew that escaping the Nazi’s would take much, much more than simply changing his name and skipping the country – maybe there could be safety found in what the other man promised. Donny, after all, had managed to survive the onslaught. He had survived Hellstrom in their first encounter also. Archie had long since deduced that such exchanges between the Nazi’s and whatever gang Donny was part of were commonplace, hence, to believe that he could find safety with Donny – well. …Well. So long as the man wouldn’t take his bat to him again, a part of him pointed out critically causing Archie’s blue eyes to flicker to the object in question.

“This nasty concussion I’ve got myself.” Archie repeated, gaze slipping back to Donny’s dark eyes.

The hint of irony was evident in his tone, syllables drawn and laboured in his rich Queen’s accent. In all honesty, there was nothing more Archie wanted than whiskey at that moment in time. But, like Donny had suggested, it would be a stupid decision.

The thought prompted yet another flare of confusion. Just as Donny couldn’t understand Archie, Archie sure as hell couldn’t figure the man before him either. Honestly, what sort of person attacks another man with intent only to then offer to save his life?. Or sympathise (if one could refer to it as such, really) with an injury. It simply didn’t make sense. And yet the offer was honest – at some point the bloodthirsty rage that had propelled Donny to attack him earlier had seeped from the man’s form; and, despite Archie’s current state, he had observed it transgress from offensive to a wary sort of relaxed.

But who was he to psychoanalyse considering the fact that he considered ******** safety in it – some sort of truth in Donny’s words. Archie sighed inwardly, forcing the tangled mess of thoughts from his mind. If he survived the night, there was time to sort it out later.

“The stereotype is greatly appreciated,” Archie said finally, “So, if you could please.”

--

Dieter wasn’t one to feel guilt. It was hardly an emotion that existed upon the small scope the man entertained. Perhaps if he was someone who was more a slave to emotion, like Fredrick, he would have felt guilty at letting Hans down, but, if anything, the entire situation spurred further his own hate towards Raine and his men.

He understood that he had trod upon a very fine line with Hans, though he did not know just how deeply his failure had disappointed his leader. Should he have been one of the lower ranking lackeys, he would have been disposed of – having been useless in failure. Second chances were not something Hans gave freely, if at all, and Dieter knew that it was due an otherwise faultless record that he was still alive.

The man scowled, the expression twisting his features to an ugly mask. Dieter was a prideful man and one thing he prided himself on was his impeccable skill and ‘faultless’ record. And Raine had ruined it for him. His footsteps hastened, the sound of his boots fasted and clipped upon the bitumen. That’s wrong, Dieter’s mind pointed out, it was Hicox. Hicox. Dieter stopped suddenly, his back snapping ramrod straight as the man’s name was thrust back into his consciousness. Yes. Had he not been so utterly useless. Dieter rapidly recalled the events of that evening, his step slow as he scrutinised every detail.

The Bear Jew had stopped. The action was a signpost in his mind; blood red and glaring. He had stopped, and Archie had a chance. Dieter failed to consider the fact that Archie was hardly made aware of what was to transgress that night, or that he hadn’t been armed – the fact of the matter was that Hicox failed to take proper advantage of the situation. Archie had stopped too. Dieter’s lips twisted savagely, the man’s hands fisting tight enough for his roughly shorn nails to bite into the flesh of his palms.

Dieter’s anger towards Raine seemed trivial comparatively to the hate directed towards Hicox at that moment; the man unknowingly baring the fault of his failure that night. Even Fredrick was forgotten – the younger man’s broken expression upon realising Shosanna’s presence absent from his mind as the scene of Donowitz and Hicox played over like a broken reel. How Dieter craved to take his luger to Hicox ******** balls and shoot. Bitterly, he wondered why Hans cared so much in keeping the British man – but he knew that it would be a great asset to have a man so well versed in law on their side. It was, after all, easier to conduct crime within the realms of law.

The man’s dark, watery eyes regarded the gaudy decoration of the hotel he now stood before; thoughts still heavy with the hate he cradled towards Hicox, the very man he was to return safe to Hans.

--

The heavy sound of his boots were the only disturbance in the early morning; a continuous, unbroken march through the desolate streets that eventually came to a stop before a low set, run down two story house. Gerold’s dark eyes scrutinized the establishment; the man’s round, youthful face marred only by a small frown as he stared. Andy had died that night. And the reason for it, at this moment, was most likely pacing restlessly within the walls of the house like a caged tiger. He didn’t want to go in; didn’t want to meet the eyes of the man who more or less signed the death warrant of his friend. But he had to. The thought prompted Gerold to straighten; the man’s fists clenching as he wavered on the spot before hurriedly running the steps.

The door shut heavily behind him, announcing his presence. Not that anybody was there to witness it (or at least conscious, what with Omar still dead to the world). Gerold was dimly aware of the ache in his forearm as his eyes swept the immediate area; his own souvenir from their botched mission that night. He had been watching Smitty then; distracted by the small, cruel smile that played upon the other’s lips as he had approached Hellstrom with his gun drawn. The recollection of the man’s expression caused Gerold’s stomach to both drop and clench uncomfortably. Smithson wasn’t a cruel man by nature, he didn’t exactly take to murder with the same demented joy that Donny did, or the clinical efficiency of Wicki. He was good at it in a studious sense. In the sense that he was the straight A Jewish kid all grown up, and if Raine were to grade them on their skills in killing – Smitty would definitely bag himself another A for it.

And so when Smitty had gone to finish Hellstrom off, what with that particular expression upon his features, Gerold couldn’t help but be distracted. The cost of it was minor – he had been skimmed by a rogue bullet. But to Andy and Smitty, the cost of Raine’s cockiness was so much more.

Gerold glanced to the direction of Smitty’s room, hesitating momentarily before deftly climbing the stairs.

“Hey.” The man said in surprise, having not expected Wicki.

He paused at the doorway, a hand pressed to either side as he regarded the other man in mild confusion. Wicki, as far as Gerold understood, maintained a distance between himself and the other basterds. The man didn’t maintain the same depth of comradeship that he and Andy did (had, Gerold corrected himself), that they and Simon did. But the sharp tang of bile that made itself apparent to Gerold moments later eased the man’s suspicions, though he cast a searching glance to Smitty before finally coming to regard Wicki once more.

“He alright?.” Gerold asked, finally easing himself from the doorway into the room.

If he was to be perfectly honest with himself, Gerold would admit that he entertained an interest in Smithson that extended beyond that of pure friendship. Not that Gerold would admit to being queer or anything, but there was something in Smitty’s unassuming manner that appealed to the man – that had him entertain not-quite-normal thoughts about him; a series of ‘what-if’s that only made themselves known in the dead of night when there was nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. And perhaps if Gerold was braver, or maybe if Smitty’s one sided adoration towards Raine wasn’t so perfectly obvious…

But this was hardly the time and place for it. Gerold stepped deftly about the taller man as he waited for a response. Not that it would be necessary, seeing as he had just perched himself upon Smitty’s bed, keen eyes taking in the other’s rough form.

“Andy’s dead.” Gerold stated plainly, quite possibly interrupting whatever Wicki was saying. He twisted in his seat to glance towards the other man, any previous concerns regarding Wicki and Smitty forgotten in light of this stark and heavy fact.

“What do you think we should do?.” He said. The question was a loaded one; one that would have Wicki pause and contemplate before answering it completely. What should we do about Raine.

--

The walls of the house were thin. Or at least they seemed to be in the light of early morning when the rest of the city had barely roused; before the neighbour’s goddamn kid woke screaming for attention, or the dogs down the road started barking. Aldo currently sat in a chair that occupied the corner of his room. Perhaps he should have stuck to bootlegging and moonshining. His upper lip curled at the thought, annoyance marring the man’s features, because, hell, the more people you invited, the harder it was gratify them all.

Aldo slowly eased himself forward, bearing his weight upon his knees as rested his forearms against them. The faint stirrings of displeasure within the basterds were threatening to boil over, from the pan and into the fire so to speak. And, now, Aldo wasn’t a stupid man – certainly not educated like Utivich was, but he understood how things worked. How people worked. And he knew that it was going to be a feat to unite his basterds once more.

He rubbed his forehead distractedly as he mulled over his thoughts, turning them over in his head, detached and slow. There had been word going around of a Nazi gone rogue. Some ******** up German psychopath that had murdered ******** of the Fuhrer’s own men. ********. Aldo could hardly believe it when he first caught wind of it. But the thought that followed was a steely resolution to bag this man for himself.

Naturally, information was difficult to come by. Most gangs weren’t exactly eager to admit they could hardly control their own men. That and problem men were usually dealt with before entirely uncontrollable. But this man hadn’t – whether it by being undiscovered before it was too late, or that he was that damn skillful at not being caught, well, it hardly mattered to Aldo. All he needed to know was where to find him.

The early morning light fell in slanted bars across the floor. Aldo studied it with a frown; easing back to his chair as yet another plan took form in his mind. He wouldn’t need the basterds for this particular assignment. No. They needed time to recover. The events of the last few weeks were raw, and any further instruction on his part would merely deepen the wound between him and his men. The man idly rubbed his thinning moustache, his expression thoughtful. Once they had the power of this ex-Nazi, the scales would once more be tipped to their favour. What with Smitty injured (the extent of damage to his shoulder would need to be determined at a later point), and Kagan no longer in the picture – brute strength within the basterds would be gladly welcomed.

[maxwell must go free]

Wilhelm had been deep in thought when a soft sound brought him back to the present. He looked up as the door opened. Hirschberg was standing in the doorway, his dark eyes glued on Smithson’s prone form. Wilhelm wasn’t exactly the most empathetic of men, but he could still spot unrequited attraction when he saw it. Especially when it was as evident as in Hirschberg’s case. He was surprised that Smithson didn’t notice it himself. Smithson could be a bit oblivious, though, that much was true.

The look of longing on Hirschberg’s face bothered Wilhelm. Was it odd that he felt somewhat…possessive of Smithson? He decided that yes, yes it was peculiar. He didn’t own Smithson. And he certainly didn’t feel the same way Hirschberg felt about him Still, he was determined to distract Hirschberg. To peel his black eyes away from him.

Wilhelm offered Hirschberg a thin, tight smile.

“It’s too soon to tell. There’s a definite possibility that he’s got an infection.”

He opened his mouth to further explain his thoughts on Smithson’s condition when Hirschberg cut him off. Wilhelm’s already-strained smile faded completely from his face. Of course Kagan was dead. Wilhelm had watched him die. He’d seen the bullet’s sniper imbed itself in Kagan’s temple. Watched his body drop almost gracefully to the concrete. He cleared his throat, willing himself to stop thinking about it. There was nothing they could do for Kagan now; it would be better for all if they could get past it. Wilhelm nodded slowly and deliberately.

“Yes, Hirschberg. I know. It’s hard to accept, but we all saw it.”

He held Hirschberg’s darker eyes for a good three seconds before he answered. How to go about this delicately? Wilhelm couldn’t think of a way to phrase his thoughts that would be considered…well, not mutinous. He broke eye contact with Hirschberg and looked down to Smithson’s still body. He made a soft sound in his sleep, bringing both Wilhelm’s and Hirschberg’s eyes to his face. Again, that protective feeling rose up in Wilhelm’s chest. He felt the urge to snap at Hirschberg and just get him out of the room. But his responsibility laid in aiding the other Basterds when they needed it. His bizarre notions of being Smithson’s watchdog would just have to be stifled. Hirschberg needed peace of mind.

“I…I haven’t gotten that far yet. I do think something has to be done. I’ll have to talk to him.”

Wilhelm sighed very quietly before continuing.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to approach him about it tonight. I’ll address it tomorrow.”

He gave Hirschberg a final, firm look. Maybe after the conversation Wilhelm planned to have with Aldo had transpired, he’d continue along this risky path. They were treading on dangerous grounds here. Never in Wilhelm’s memory, and he’d been with the Basterds a long time, had their been such an unsettled, subversive feeling in the ranks. It worried and saddened him. This couldn’t be the thing to pull them apart. Especially when Landa had the upper hand. If the Nazi was able to detect the weakness within the Basterds, he would hone in on that frailty and use it to destroy them.

Again, he had opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted. He heard the door fly on its hinges and hit the wall. Instantly, Wilhelm was on his feet. His eyes flicked to the clock on his nightstand. 3:06 AM. The house was generally completely silent at this time. The worst scenarios played through his head, almost like a film projector. The Nazis would never do something so stupid as to approach their headquarters… Wilhelm was nearly out Smithson’s bedroom door when Aldo brushed past him, already halfway down the stairs.

He followed their fearless leader into the sitting room and instantly was bewildered. As shocking as it was, there actually was a Nazi in the Basterds’ headquarters.

--

Donny could hold his liquor well but after a few pints, even he was feeling buzzed. Not drunk, no. It took more than lager to get someone like the Bear Jew inebriated. He was merely pleasantly warm and relaxed. He stumbled ever so slightly and grabbed Archie’s arm for support. The Brit had taken his advice and stuck only with non-alcoholic drinks. Donny was vaguely disappointed with that, since he was curious to see Archie drunk. He’d be willing to bet that Archie was amusing. Not a sullen drunk, like Aldo tended to be.

Donny let himself into the Basterds’ headquarters. Usually at this time of night, or day as it technically was in the AM, he’d be a little more quiet. However, the evening with Archie had been oddly cathartic. He was feeling much less tense and wound up than usual. So when he reached the door, instead of opening it just enough to let himself and Archie in then closing it quietly behind him, he let the door fly open and crash into the wall behind it.

Donny looked over at Archie, blinking owlishly.

“So here’s the place. It must be weird for a Nazi like yourself to be here.”

He was aware of how loud his nasal New-England-accented voice was in the old house. The sitting area was unsurprisingly empty though he figured they probably weren’t sleeping now. Belatedly, he realized he’d called Archie a Nazi again. Ah well. He didn’t mean it in a cruel way. Honestly, right now he could barely remember why he’d ever felt animosity toward the Brit. The more time Donny spent around him, the more he believed him. About the whole not-being-a-Nazi thing.

As soon as he heard the sound of feet drumming on the floor above him, it crossed Donny’s mind that maybe he should have been quieter. Aldo appeared in the sitting room, his face and body both tense and alert. Behind him, he could see Wicki, the same alarmed expression on his face.

Then the room erupted.

Guns came out of nowhere. There was yelling. Donny stepped in front of Archie, shielding him from the guns suddenly pointed at him. He hadn’t quite expected this reaction. Of course, he had just assumed that everyone would be feeling as amiable as him. Stupid alcohol.

Donny held out his hands in a defensive motion. His voice grew even louder, reverberating off of the walls. He was sobering up fast and he could feel his temper rising.

“HEY! Everybody calm the ******** down! Put your guns away. Let me ******** talk.”

His eyes met Aldo’s in particular. The expression on his rugged face was one of cold contempt. Well, Aldo could just be displeased. ******** him. (or, as in Donny’s case, don’t ******** him.) Not as though Donny exactly wanted to be his best friend or anything else right now. Donny mirrored Aldo’s stance, tilting his head back slightly and squaring his broad shoulders. Now that the room was silent, he had no idea what to say.

“You all just need to listen for a second. This is, uh, Archie. He’s gonna be staying with us for a couple days.”

--

Fredrick swayed slightly as he shuffled from the living room to his bedroom. Finally, his trembling legs gave out from underneath him and he collapsed onto the bed. He laid where he had fallen, the thought of getting out of his clothes and under the bed covers too much work.

Fredrick had avoided Hans Landa’s phone call. Actually, calls in the plural form. That would come back to haunt him. He could expect to be in serious trouble when he finally got back to his employer. He hadn’t even listened to the messages yet. Goddamn. Fredrick would just have to be his most charming and appeal to Landa’s good graces. If he even had such a thing as good graces.

Not that he cared much about what happened to him right now. He was ridiculously, blackly drunk.

Generally, Fredrick wasn’t the type to overdo it. He’d have a beer or two with Dieter after a successful assignment but always in a public place. And he never drank alone. But then, tonight was different. Tonight was the night Fredrick had messed up unbelievably. After tonight’s events, his life could never go back to the way it had been before. Fredrick could actually feel a considerable part of his characteristic naïveté erode.

It wasn’t an option to just stop what he was doing. Even through the blurry, queasy world the alcohol had created Fredrick knew he’d be killed if he ran. He knew that plainly and simply. Landa didn’t play games with men who bailed on the Fuhrer. Fredrick would be stalked mercilessly until he was caught and murdered. He shuddered. The thought of it made him feel cold all over. Life for him was at an all-time low but he wasn’t to the point where he didn’t care if he lived or died. The fear of Landa’s inevitable retaliation if he decided to get the hell out of Dodge was very real.

It was an impossible situation Fredrick was entrapped in. If he planned on staying alive he would have to continue hunting down Jews as Landa directed . Knowing full well that the woman he loved (and always would love) was one of them. Why had he even become one of Landa’s men anyway? It was impulsive decisions such as that that made his life more difficult than necessary. He had been attracted to the mystique surrounding the job. Not only that, but he had been feeling alone and, yes, a bit frightened in America. Landa’s seemingly warm acceptance and elegant German had been just what he had wanted to hear at the time. He had lured Fredrick in with that effortless charisma that he possessed in spades. And Fredrick had fallen right into Landa’s snare. Now he had no way out.

Fredrick closed his eyes against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew it wasn’t just the fifth of Smirnoff that was making him sick.

--

Hugo Stiglitz had been heading to a hole-in-the-wall bar for a shot of scotch. He of all people knew the importance of laying low. He couldn’t just waltz into any tavern -- especially in this part of town. He was playing with fire as it was, crossing over into Nazi territory, so he was limited to the seedier, more anonymous establishments in town. Not that he really minded. The loud music, spastic lights, and endless parade of half-drunk skanks wasn’t his style anyway.

When he heard the gunshots rattling out through the alleyway, Hugo had stopped midstep. He listened intently. After the peace had been restored, Hugo had chanced a look around the corner. His cold eyes scanned the faces of the men present. Some of them standing in the alley he recognized the faces of but didn’t know them by name. One face though he knew quite well. One thin, twitchy face that made Hugo’s lip curl in an involuntary response.

Hellstrom.

Hugo’s feelings toward Hellstrom couldn’t be summed up in a sentence without expletives. Put mildly, he despised him. He was a scrawny, staring creature, Landa’s glorified pet. Hugo’s only regret about taking out 13 of the Fuhrer’s men was that Hellstrom hadn’t been one of them. What he would give to put a bullet in his slimy temple. No, actually, gunshot was too good for him. He’d make it gory, make him suffer. He’d have to get creative. Hugo’s mouth twisted into a pitiless smile. The thought of Hellstrom’s misfortune was indecently exciting to him. Someday that pathetic accuse of a human being would get what he deserved and Hugo would be all too willing to deliver it to him.

Personal feelings aside, the skirmish between the Nazis and the Inglourious Basterds had been sloppy and amateur. At least on the Basterds’ part. The Nazis had started out impressively. Hugo admired the sniper in particular, he’d been incredible. A stunning shot. Then…something happened that he wasn’t quite clear about. The methodical precision that was Landa’s calling card had degenerated quickly into an erratic, careless affair. The next thing he’d known, Dieter Hellstrom had strode past him, clearly pissed off. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t pleased the scumbag one bit. Hugo had resisted the urge to reach out with one powerful hand and grab Hellstrom by the scruff of his bony neck. Then he’d crush said neck in his grasp.

Hugo stayed in control of his impulses. He let Hellstrom pass without harassing him. He’d tracked him for a good distance. If Hellstrom had been in the right state of mind, he would have definitely noticed that he was being followed. He may be a greasy, disturbing, piece of work but Hellstrom was no fool. However, thanks to whatever had put him into such a rage, he swept down the streets to a place Hugo had known in the past. His jaw tightened. If there was only one person he feared, and that was a big if since the concept of fear was pretty foreign to Hugo, it would be Hans Landa. He was a ******** to be reckoned with. Dangerous. Calculating. A snake in the grass.

Hugo watched Hellstrom take the steps quickly up to Landa’s office. He thought briefly about waiting for Hellstrom to come back out, but he had other things to do. With one last glance, he continued down the street to his favorite bar.

[pocket howitzer]

Aldo stared. Words failed him at that moment. They failed him pretty damn good. There had been no doubt in his mind that it had been Donny. What other vaguely normal person went about so loudly at such a time in the morning?. Aldo had been expecting Donny to be high with victory, gloating at his success. He had expected Donny to be sprayed with blood and matter having finally dealt with the man who had been a thorn at his side for the past fortnight. But what he did not expect was for his Basterd to be half drunk and dragging the damn Brit with him.

Aldo stood motionless; blind and deaf to the momentary chaos that engulfed the room – the shouting, the cocking of guns. His thoughts had glutted; overwhelmed by the sheer amount of implications that were presented by the two men before him. It was only when Donny’s black eyes met his that Aldo hardened; lips pressing to a thin line.

He knew that the Brit wasn’t truly a Nazi. He had long discovered that the man had been forced to the ranks after drawing sanctuary from Landa’s name. But that was hardly his problem now, was it?. The Basterds were hardly a rescue squad. He had his own responsibilities to deal with than to worry about others; namely that of his men. It was due to this that he never troubled himself to inform Donny of Archie’s position. As far as he was concerned, the Brit was on borrowed time before he was either killed, or forced to do Landa’s bidding, and killed for it regardless. In either case, the idea that Donny himself would reach forth and drag the damn Brit from Landa’s clutches himself had never crossed his mind; it had never graced his thoughts in any way, shape or form. Especially considering the reasonable amount of hate and anger Donny had channeled into the very idea of the man.

Christ. Did Donny ever think?. Aldo’s lips twisted to a scowl, it serving to deepen the lines on his face. Did the concept of action and reaction not cross his mind?. What did Donowitz suppose Landa to do when the man discovered that one of his own were being held by the Basterds themselves?. Simply leave him there?. Aldo doubted that particular chain of thought had crossed the mind of the infamous Bear Jew. Donny Donowitz, after all, was known for his distinct pleasure in beating the s**t out of Nazis, and not for his aptitude in anything that required the least bit of thought. Some part of Aldo suggested he was being harsh on the man, but witnessing Donny step forth to shield the damn Brit from attack quickly saw that thought severed.

“A word, Donowitz.” His tone was gravel rough; harsh, and thick with barely checked anger. Aldo didn’t wait for a response; the man striding forward as soon as he spoke and grabbing a fistful of Donny’s wifebeater. Roughly, Aldo hauled Donny from the doorway, hardly sparing a glance to Archie as he more or less dragged the rogue Basterd into the kitchen.

“What the ******** do you think you’re doing.” Aldo growled at Donny, roughly shoving the man back as he spoke. In any usual occasion, he would have had trouble handling Donny as such – but the other man’s slightly tippy state coupled with the raw edge of Aldo’s anger made it an achievable feat.

Aldo stood back with a false air of patience. The rage that had once been evident upon his features had soothed, betraying nothing as he waited for an answer. He studied Donny before him, his blue eyes critical. The gulf between them was wide, Aldo noted distractedly as Donny looked to him defiantly; an expression that he was utterly new to receiving though he had witnessed it directed to a million other people in a million other circumstances. When the hell had it disintegrated between them so badly?.

--

Omar scrambled off the couch at the sudden noise – his heart thumping in his throat as he grabbed his weapon and pointed towards the source of the sound. It took a few moments for the picture to process in Omar’s sleep-addled mind, and, whilst he recognized there was something not quite right with the image Donny and this new guy presented – it simply didn’t process.

“Donowitz – you ********’ scared the s**t outta me.” Omar said, words twisted in annoyance. That had been the plan at least.

The house seemed to come alive with Donny’s arrival; the previous silence giving way to footsteps pounding down the stairs. It was only then that Omar noticed the Nazi. Calm reigned for a brief moment longer before all hell broke loose. He recognized him vaguely from the fight that night. But what the ******** was he doing with Donny?. That particular thought would trouble Omar later, at that moment he had stumbled back, cocked his weapon and was wholly prepared to shoot before Donny exploded at them.

Everything froze. The entire room was suspended in a delicate moment, the consequences to rest upon Donny’s broad shoulders. Omar’s dark eyes flicked between the Brit and his friend; his brows knitted and a frown tugging the corner of his lips. The silence lengthened, the air drawing thick with apprehension. Omar watched Donny struggle with his thoughts; he knew his friend enough to know that there was a gaping hole in both foresight and common ******** sense that brought them all to this situation. And, in all honestly, if that was all Donny had by way of explanation…

‘Jesus ******** Christ, Donny. Do you ever think?.’ Omar thought vaguely.

All eyes fixed upon the newly introduced Archie, though the weapons had yet to lower. Omar’s expression eased to confusion. Since when did they becoming a hiding ground for Nazis?. The question rested half formed on his tongue, just about to be spoken before Aldo strode forth and grabbed Donny roughly by the shirt.

“A word, Donowitz.” Their leader managed before manhandling Donny from the room, heedless to any protests that spewed forth from the man. The kitchen door was slammed after them with force enough to dislodge a hanging from the wall – it meeting the floor with a dull thud, and it was only then did Omar lower his weapon.

If anything, Archie looked apologetic about the entire thing. The man stood by the door where Donny had left him as if trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Omar’s eyes narrowed as he studied Archie shrewdly, looking for any sign that he was to lay fire on them or do something, anything, that would have been typical from any other damn Nazi. As stupid as Donny was, he hardly would have taken him to their hideout if not for a good reason. Omar trusted Donny that much, and was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt thanks to at least twenty years of friendship. He couldn’t speak for the others though.

Omar glanced to the other men in question; noting Wicki’s wary expression, as well as Gerold’s one of unease. Quickly, he looked back to Archie, as if afraid that he was to pull something when his head was turned. In all honesty, Omar still didn’t know what to make of it. The very man who was standing before them was the same person that Donny had been eager to lay his hands on the entire two weeks. He and the rest of the Basterds had been regaled with stories of just how Donny was to be putting the Brit out of his miserable existence for the last fortnight, so what the hell was he doing here?. More than that, Donny had actually stepped directly in the line of fire in order to protect him. It was really ******** bizarre.

It was only then that it clicked in Omar’s head. Hell, he hadn’t been friends with Donny for two decades for nothing; they had ******** shared sandwiches in grade school for ******** sake. Donny wanted him. The realisation fell out of the blue, only registering in Omar’s mind when Archie chanced a glance his way. He noticed the man’s pretty blue eyes just as he noticed his trim form and collect manner that existed in spite of the situation. Yeah. Donny would have liked that. Omar could have laughed out loud. No ******** wonder Donowitz was so damn eager to get back at the Brit, he was ******** obsessed with him.

Still though, regardless of whatever feelings Donny entertained for the man, it still didn’t explain the entire situation. Namely; what the ******** was a Nazi doing here?.

--

Archie had long since gotten over the bizarre series of events that night by the time they had reached the door of where Donny and the rest of the Basterds lived. To be honest, he hadn’t really been expecting the other man to be serious with his offer; but when he found himself seated at some unremarkable diner nursing a tea, it was then that Archie decided to stop worrying about it altogether. (He could have done without the entire venture, really. What with his head still pounding, and the vague sense of exhaustion that engulfed him. But Donny seemed rather taken with the idea and so, as he had been taught was polite, Archie had obligated.)

One thing, Archie mused to himself as Donny guided them semi-drunkenly to the house, he had learned about the other man, was that Donny Donowitz was a complete talker. Even in his muddled state of mind, Archie found it amusing for someone such as Donny to chatter almost endlessly about everything and anything that crossed his mind. And he spoke with such conviction, with hardly a thought spared to whatever party suffered due to an ill-placed word. Distractedly, Archie recalled the face of the woman who had been on the wrong end of one particular comment. Poor thing. She had been so offended.

A loud bang startled Archie from the recollection; the sudden sound drawing a wince from Archie, and he glared at Donny without thinking. Not that the warning look served to ruffle Donny in the slightest as he blithely introduced the house, blinking at Archie through the haze of lager, the expression almost a complete juxtaposition upon Donny’s features. Pointedly, Archie raised a brow, choosing to ignore the entire Nazi comment. Their exchange was interrupted, however, by the hurried sound of footsteps that clambered down the stairs that lay further in the house. Archie’s gaze slipped from Donny’s black eyes to glance towards the origin of the sound, ‘I wonder,’ he thought, ‘if the rest of these men are prepared for a Nazi in their base.’

The chaos that erupted was enough of an answer, and the following moments of confusion did absolutely nothing for Archie’s pounding head. It was Donny’s powerful, accented voice that put a stop to the ruckus – it loud over the shouts of the other men, over the thump of boots upon the floor of the house. The familiar scene of guns pointed towards him greeted Archie next, though the man was hardly given a chance to react what with Donny’s form shifting to slip between them. Archie’s breath caught in his throat upon realizing the other’s actions, and at once he felt grateful at having been saved from a second flurry of bullets.

A tense set of moments followed Donny’s words. Naturally, all things considered, the man had put forth a rather impossible suggestion. One of the men, their leader Archie’s mind corrected, apparently thought so too – he wasting no time in dragging Donny away for what was no doubt an explanation, his anger almost palpable. Archie flinched slightly when the shadow of Donny’s form slipped from his, he left feeling horribly exposed before a line of men who would not hesitate to fire should he even give them the wrong look.

In the stark silence of the room, the sound of Donny and Aldo arguing could be clearly heard. Archie vaguely wished that he had listened to his initial misgivings; this was an utterly idiotic venture, how did Donny ever think that the rest of his men would honestly be comfortable with having someone branded – albeit incorrectly – a Nazi in their dwelling?. Archie was careful not to show his thoughts on his face; the man’s features schooled to a careful blank as he regarded the men before him.

The one closest was the first to lower his weapon. Archie only catching the movement in his peripheral vision before he canted his head just enough to cast a glance to the man, half thankful. He had been studying him for the last few moments, his face wary and drawn. But when Archie glanced at him, the man’s features reshuffled to an expression of both surprise and wonder. And had it not been for the circumstances, Archie would have asked.

--

Dieter flicked through the papers with an air of indifference. The papers were written in Hicox’s precise hand – the letters delicately drawn, penned with careful loops and flicks. The handwriting was as presentable as the owner; none of this dirty, messy scrawl that most Americans possessed. The corners of the man’s lips twisted downward, finding annoyance in Hicox even in the work papers he had left behind. Spitefully, Dieter shoved them aside, heedless to the creases that were borne from such careless handling.

The term ‘stake out’ was considerably layman. It suggested that one was not in control of the situation, or was unable to dictate his own circumstances. Dieter had decided that the best course of action was to lie in wait for Hicox to return to the hotel room. More than a stake out, it was the most assured course of action he could take – the papers in question were considerably important, containing personal information of several of his clientele. In other words; Hicox would have to return to collect them. Dieter’s lips lifted to a humourless smile. And he would be here to meet him.

The mere thought of Hicox’s face at being discovered lifted Dieter’s spirits somewhat. ‘This calls,’ the man thought idly as he glanced about the immediate area, ‘for a celebration.’ A bottle of spirit was soon discovered, and Dieter raised a drink to the Fuhrer and his cause. The shot burned as it went down, causing Dieter to wince, but it warmed him soon enough – pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Idly, he thought of Fredrick. The man’s name prompted Dieter to cant his head in a manner almost contemplative. His annoyance from just hours earlier had since been dulled; eased somewhat by both the lapse of time coupled with alcohol. He wondered what the younger man was doing; how he was faring in the midst of being discovered by the woman he adored. Dieter’s lips curled upwards at the thought, cruelly finding amusement in the other man’s pain. He had learned long ago that such trivial attachments were the undermining of personal success under Hans and the Fuhrer. Fredrick had just learned that night was that it was an impossibility to lead two lives – that whatever daydream he had been entertaining would amount to nothing. When one joined the ranks of the Cause, one’s entire life was dedicated to the Cause.

“Let that be a lesson, Fredrick Zoller.” Dieter murmured aloud, glass raised to a toast, “To the Fuhrer’s thousand year reign.”

[maxwell must go free]

Donny glanced down at Omar. His friend’s annoyance amused him. As he met Omar’s eyes, he felt there was an understanding between them. Omar knew, of course he did. They’d been friends since time out of mind; he couldn’t hide a damn thing from his friend. Omar could sense the way Donny felt about Archie. How every moment he spent with the Brit, the more he wanted him. How a small voice in the back of his head had seriously hoped that this evening might end in the bedroom. Donny’s smile grew ever so slightly lascivious.

Every now and then, Donny got a weird vibe from his friend. Like how since he’d started ******** Aldo, Omar had been slightly cool with him. He wondered what went through Omar’s head. Omar could read him like a book, but sometimes when Donny looked into his friend’s long face, he had no idea what he was thinking.

Donny’s grin widened.

“You’re so ******** jumpy, Omar. It’s just me. Well, and this guy here.” He gestured in an offhand manner at Archie.

Donny’s smirk faded when Aldo came toward him. Oh, he was pissed. Donny was in for it now. As Aldo grabbed the front of his wife beater, Donny’s first instinct was to resist. More specifically, it was to throw Aldo off and…maybe take a swing at him. It surprised him how enraged he was at his leader and part-time lover. He thought that just because he was their oh-so-fearless bossman, he could get away with ******** up royally and not having to take s**t for it.

He allowed Aldo to drag him, though not without a string of irritated profanities. Finally, Aldo released him as they reached the kitchen. There was a short pause where they were both merely facing each other, breathing heavily. Donny met Aldo’s eyes, insolence radiating from every pore. There was none of that hero worship, none of that barely-suppressed lust that usually was so evident in Donny’s face when he turned to look at Aldo.

Suddenly the frustration that had been festering in Donny’s chest for the past month became too much to handle. Donny was sick of Aldo stalking around like he owned the place. On his watch, Kagan had died. Smithson had got shot. Even though Donny had been preoccupied with Archie, he wasn’t totally blind to the misfortune of his comrades. He took a step closer to Aldo, invading his personal space in a typical gesture of aggression. In spite of Donny’s rage, a not-so-subtle hint of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth.

“I could ask you the same thing, Aldo. What are you doing? You ******** up big time. That‘s why you‘re so pissed off right now. You stepped right into Landa’s trap and you just can‘t stand it that the Nazis have the upper hand now. Don‘t take out your ******** on me!”

He knew he’d gone too far. Donny had really the crossed the line this time. What was the quote he’d heard once on TV? Oh yeah. You're so far past the line, you can't even see the line. The line is a dot to you. He could only expect Aldo to react accordingly. It was one thing to bring Archie into the Basterds’ territory. Donny knew it wasn’t the greatest idea he’d ever had. To add insult to injury, now he was smearing Aldo‘s leadership abilities. He saw Aldo’s feigned patience evaporate. Donny’s smile spread slowly, daring Aldo to give in to the fury that was just barely kept in check. He wanted him to snap. He met Aldo’s gaze with an unspoken challenge in his own dark eyes. He was ready for whatever the ******** Aldo had in mind.

Oh, how Donny thrived on conflict.

--

The tension in the room was palpable. As soon as Donny had crashed in through the door and shattered the quiet, Wilhelm had had a bad feeling that all the strain that had been building up would peak tonight.

Especially when he saw the way Donny looked at Archie. The way his eyes followed Archie’s every move. It was the look he’d normally reserved for Aldo. Like a starving man eyeing a buffet table. As if at any moment Donny would throw caution to the wind and take him right there in the sitting room. Wilhelm could kind of see what Donny liked about him. He was tall, slender, refined. And also, clearly not Jewish. For whatever reason, Donny seemed to go for the gentiles.

Wilhelm knew the situation was bad, but he hadn’t realized it was that bad. He’d hoped that Donny’s unwavering obsession with Landa’s newest recruit was purely revenge-driven. Maybe that’s what it had been in the beginning but Wilhelm had a sneaking suspicion that Donny had wanted him since day one. That made the whole situation way more complicated. Wilhelm could make the educated guess that Donny and Aldo’s relationship wasn’t monogamous, that neither of them were committed to each other. Yet he was willing to bet that Aldo would be very displeased to know just how badly Donny wanted one of Landa’s men.

When Aldo crossed the room to grab a handful of Donny’s shirt, he honestly thought he might paste one on the Bear Jew right then and there. However, Aldo knew the importance of maintaining professionalism. He admitted himself that he was a slave to appearances. But then Aldo was enraged. Wilhelm had no idea what to expect. He was almost disappointed when Aldo merely dragged Donny out of the room to upbraid him in the kitchen. The slam of the door was deafening in the small sitting room. He watched the picture fall from the wall to crash on the floor.

Well, no matter what was happening next within the Basterds, Hicox wasn’t going to do anything stupid. It’d be suicide to start anything with so many watchful eyes on him. Besides that, Wilhelm was pretty sure that Hicox wasn’t enlisted as Landa’s man by choice. He figured he could cut the guy a break and treat him like a human being. From his seat next to Omar on the couch, Wilhelm looked up at Archie. With a grim half-smile, he gestured toward an empty chair.

“Have a seat, Hicox. It’s going to be a few minutes. Nice to meet you, by the way.”

Wilhelm strained his ears to listen to the exchange going on in the kitchen -- though it wasn’t necessary. Aldo and Donny had never been known as quiet, soft-spoken individuals. He closed his eyes briefly. If Donny kept bashing around and yelling like that, he was going to wake Smithson. That was the last thing he needed. Wilhelm was growing more concerned about the small man. The last time he’d checked on him, Smithson had been feverish and halfway delirious. In fact, he wanted to go look in on him very soon before the idea struck Hirschberg. Involuntarily, Wilhelm’s eyes flicked over to the younger man. Good, he was still distracted by Archie’s presence in the headquarters. He had nothing against Hirschberg. Why did he feel so annoyed by the thought of him hanging around Smithson? It was completely illogical yet impossible to ignore.

Here in a minute he‘d head back upstairs. Right now, he had to admit he was very interested in what was going to happen between Aldo and Donny.

--

Fredrick couldn’t exactly remember how he had showed up at Dieter’s door. The world was spinning alarmingly due to the amount of vodka in his system. Apparently though he’d been capable enough to call up a cab. The taxi driver must have recognized him because Fredrick certainly couldn’t recall paying. In this district, being Landa’s man had its advantages.

It seemed that no matter how much he’d drank, Fredrick couldn’t pass out. Even after he’d poured out the last of the Smirnoff into a shot glass he was still all too aware of the thoughts that he really just wanted to silence. He’d have to distract himself somehow or he’d lose his mind.

Fredrick managed to climb the stairs without staggering too much. For just a second, he just stared at the closed front door. Was this really what he wanted to do? Dieter had no idea he was coming. He might not even be here. Fredrick squinted at the window. The living room light was on -- Dieter would never waste electricity. No, he was still up. But he knew, even in his drunken haze, that his friend was not happy with him. He could quite possibly tell Fredrick to get the hell off his doorstep and that would be it. He’d have to hail another cab and head back home. He’d have to try, though. He’d do his best to explain his actions to his friend and hope he’d understand. He knew Dieter wouldn’t understand how he felt about Emmanuelle, since he didn’t waste time with love of any kind. Dieter thought romance not worth it. However, he was hoping that Dieter would just comprehend how much Fredrick needed company right now and set aside his negative feelings for the night.

Fredrick knocked on the door quietly. For an agonizing moment, he thought Dieter might just ignore him. As he was about to give up and make the trek back down the stairs, Dieter appeared in the doorway with a wary expression on his thin face. Fredrick thought he’d never been so grateful to see his friend. He offered Dieter a tired, hopefully charming smile. Despite the large quantity of alcohol he’d consumed, Fredrick’s soft German was just barely slurred.

“Good evening, Dieter. I’m sorry to bother you at such a late hour, I was just hoping to spend some time with you. I…I want to tell you what happened.”

Fredrick blinked, suddenly swaying on his feet. The world swam in front of his eyes. He reached for Dieter to steady himself, as he knew he wouldn’t be on his feet for much longer. The last thing he wanted was to faceplant right into Dieter’s doormat. Fredrick pitched forward and fell against Dieter’s chest. He was mortified to lose his dignity like this, even if it was just in front of his friend. He really wasn’t sure he could stand up straight again now.

“I apologize, Dieter. I’m so sorry to show up in a state like this. I think I may have drank too much earlier this evening. But…”

He realized as he stood half-supported by his comrade that this must be rock bottom. Funny, it hurt far worse than he’d thought it would. Fredrick looked up from where his face was pressed against Dieter’s button-down shirt, his brown eyes beseeching.

“Could I please just stay here for the night?”

[pocket howitzer]

Donny could have struck Aldo and he would have been less affected by it. But, no. The b*****d had chosen to question his abilities as a leader. That’s what shitted him off. Aldo’s initial reaction was to slam his fist into Donny’s ever present smirk, and he very nearly followed through with it. His had hands clenched, and his body had stiffened as if preparing to deal the blow before the man forced himself to stop. It took near every single ounce of self control, but Aldo refused to stoop to Donny’s level. Donny was the man who acted sans thought; merely following whatever impulse struck him and Aldo, well, he was above all that. He could be as cruel as any of his men, but there was more method in his cruelty – his actions were borne from more careful preparation than he would admit, and that the other men would never know.

Instead Aldo canted his head slightly, regarding Donny through a narrow glare. He could feel the anger that pulsed from the man, and, honestly, Aldo found it nearly as intoxicating as any lust fuelled glance that had ever been directed towards him.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you, son, of the man who struck out without my sayin’ so?.” Aldo said, his words heavy with significance.

His tone was level, but still loud, even with the slightly thicker walls of the kitchen. Aldo knew that, without a doubt, the other Basterds were listening in to their conversation. The thought fanned his annoyance, but he could deal with that later. And, the man supposed, it would do well for them to hear Donny get put back into place.

“Now, I don’t know about you, Donowitz.” Aldo continued, “But I had a bit more of a plan goin’ than to just run in there with your guns blazing.”

Aldo knew that it was unlikely that they would have walked away entirely unscathed and, considering the circumstances; the man knew that they had come off rather lucky. A man down and another couple injured was a small price to pay considering the fact that had been one of Landa’s plans. He wondered just how angry Landa would be when he discovered that what had been a carefully constructed mission had been a failure. He knew Landa well after all; he knew just how meticulous he was, understood just how upset he could become should someone fail him. Knew how Landa could lavish attention and reward to those he was pleased with. Yeah – he knew that quite well.

Aldo recalled their last meeting – recalled the atmosphere of the restaurant, recalled the taste of expensive wine upon Landa’s tongue. But the recollection dissipated as soon as it had come, and Aldo found himself back in the run down, pathetic excuse for a kitchen, staring into Donny’s challenging black eyes. For all Donny’s passion and barely checked emotion that appealed to Aldo, there was a finesse lacking that Aldo could never look past. Perhaps he was just used to a certain type of luxury.

“In other words, Donowitz, my leadership is peachy – it’s your own damn ability in following instruction, that being; you have none. So don’t try and flip this all on me when you’re flaunting your s**t whilst I’m trying to save all your goddamn asses.”

With each word did Aldo’s voice rise – but the man refused to give in to the fury that seethed within him. At least, perhaps not in the way the other man wanted. Without preamble, Aldo seized Donny’s shirt once more – hauling the man towards him in a messy clash of mouths that was more painful than anything else. He kissed him roughly; relaying his anger and frustration in what would have been an intimate exchange for most. Aldo shoved Donny back just as suddenly, he only sparing some few seconds to note the other’s now dishevelled look before he turned his heel and stalked out of the kitchen. Not a glance was spared to the other Basterds, or to the Brit that had trailed Donowitz home.

Aldo slammed the door after him. He needed civility - needed someone that could meet him on his own goddamn level.

--

Dieter sighed inwardly. He had briefly returned to his apartment in order to collect some necessary items before returning to Hicox’s hotel room before being interrupted. The man had paused, a small frown upon his lips as he briefly wondered who, exactly, would be at his door at such an inappropriate hour. Dieter considered ignoring it, he actually turning away from the door to continue what he had been doing before a thought struck him. What if it was Fredrick?.

Dieter wasn’t too sure why the other man had come to mind once more. But, all things considered, it was a likely assumption. Fredrick had been thoroughly quaked by the events that had transpired that night, and Dieter could hazard a fairly accurate guess as to what the man had been doing before knocking at his door. Really, Fredrick was too predictable Dieter thought, eyes cast upwards in brief exasperation before he moved to answer.

As he had expected, Fredrick stood upon his doorstep. Dieter’s dark eyes flicked from the other’s face, down to his unsteady feet before upwards again – assessing the damage. Yes. He was quite thoroughly drunk. A thin eyebrow lifted in response to Fredrick’s poor attempt at a smile; it decidedly lacking its usual air of charm. In any other circumstance, Dieter would have found Fredrick’s inebriation amusing – especially considering the fact that the man usually attempted to steer clear from becoming completely and utterly drunk. Actually, being perfectly honest with himself, Dieter still found the concept of Fredrick drunk in spite of the events that had lead up to it.

The barest hint of a smile had started to grow upon his face before Fredrick more or less stumbled into his arms. He certainly wasn’t expecting that and their combined weight nearly had Dieter stumble back, he only managing to catch himself before automatically bringing his arms up to steady the other man. He just about started laughing. Oh, God. Fredrick was too tied up in his emotions for his own good.

Distractedly, Dieter could feel the other man murmuring against his chest – the words muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Not that he paid them much heed however – that was, until the younger man tipped his head back and looked to him imploringly. That look couldn’t be good, Dieter thought idly as he met the other man’s unfocused gaze; his dark brown eyes slightly glassy thanks to alcohol.

“Unfortunately, Fredrick, I have things to tend to tonight.” Dieter started as he attempted to free himself from the younger man.

But Fredrick wouldn’t have it, he refusing to let go. Oh, for the love of –

“Fine.” The man amended, his words clipped with a degree of irritation. Fredrick would simply have to come along.

Dieter managed to coax Fredrick into the small unit, forcing the younger man onto the couch before finishing up what he had returned home to do. He didn’t take long, and within the next half hour, he had brought them both back to Hicox’s room at St. Ives hotel.

Not overly concerned to Fredrick’s state of comfort, Dieter deposited the man onto the bed. Methodically, and completely ignoring anything that so happened to come from the other’s mouth – Dieter removed Fredrick’s jacket, shoes, and loosened his shirt before leaving the man to revel in his misery. Satisfied, he turned from Fredrick who was now sprawled gracelessly on the bed. With any luck, Dieter thought idly, his features only betraying a hint of annoyance towards his unexpected accomplice, Fredrick would fall to sleep quickly and leave him unharassed.

--

A brief flash of surprise coloured Archie’s features at being offered a seat – he peering curiously to the man who had spoken before deciding on an action. The speaker was a tall man with strong, regular features; not intimidating exactly, but quite stern. In other words, he didn’t look as if he’d be entirely unpredictable like Donny. The corner of Archie’s lips lifted to a strained smile – thanking Wicki whilst perfectly relaying his fatigue, discomfort and every other such emotion he had experienced that night.

Archie sunk into the chair less gracefully than he would have liked. He still had the effects of the concussion to deal with, despite the fact that the worst of the symptoms had worn off. It coupled with the late hour didn’t have the man in his best form. Idly, Archie pressed a finger to his temple – trying to relieve some of the pressure, his eyes pressing shut as he did.

The sound of the kitchen door slamming open again forced Archie to look upwards, wary all at once. The rest of the men in, too, had their attention locked to the man who stalked out. Their leader, as Archie had guessed earlier. Archie took the opportunity to quickly study the man as he strode past him. Several hours ago – he had looked self assured to the point of verging on cocky in the face of Hellstrom. Now his face had clouded over with anger, making him look all the more severe. He walked with his head high and back straight, not bothering to spare a glance to anybody in the room. The main door was similarly slammed and Archie fancied that he could feel the house quake due to it.

It seemed that the collective occupants of the room heaved a collective sigh at the man’s departure, Archie inwardly likening the change of atmosphere like a suddenly dissipating storm. A small frown touched upon his features – curling the very edges of his lips downwards as he wondered about the group of men he was currently with. For a gang that was so heavily tied and at war with Landa’s, they couldn’t have seemed more different.

--

Gerold was silent as he watched Aldo leave the house. Not that Donny and Aldo didn’t fight, but they usually worked it out between them (in a manner of speaking). Funny, but it seemed that Aldo’s back was something they were starting to see more and more often. The man frowned slightly, quickly glancing back to where Donny was emerging from the kitchen before looking to Archie again.

As with pretty much everybody else, Gerold had long since figured out Donny’s attraction to Archie. To put simply – Donny was a pretty damn easy person to figure out. Every single damn thing that the other man even slightly considered usually crossed his face. Any arch of the brow, any twitch of the lip, and any glance that Donny gave meant something. And anything that happened to shoot Archie’s way, well, yeah.

Whatever, Gerold decided. So long as he didn’t wake up with Landa in his face. Archie didn’t even look like he could stand on two feet at that moment, much less pull off some intricate plot that would have them delivered to the Nazis dressed up in ribbons.

He cleared his throat; “I’m gonna check up on Smitty.” Gerold said before disappearing up the stairs leaving Donny and the others to sort whatever remaining problems out.

[maxwell must go free]

Before he’d even had a moment to defend himself, Donny was standing alone in the kitchen. Whatever he had been expecting, that wasn’t it. He’d thought that Aldo would at least punch him (and honestly, that was what he had been hoping for). Somehow, instead, Aldo had just ended up in making him feel guilty for what had happened. He’d turned it around on him to make the whole thing his fault. Which was bullshit…right? It was Aldo’s whole plan that had brought them to the Nazis’ movie premier. The same thing would have happened whether Donny had broken rank or not.

And to top it all off, now he’d just kissed him and left. What the hell was that about? In that one forceful, harsh kiss, Donny had felt that powerful urge that usually led to Aldo’s bedroom. Though he hadn’t really been interested in Aldo that evening, it still was frustrating for him to get him all excited then storm off. Instead of taking him upstairs where they’d have their typical battle for dominance before one of them gave in, he’d turned on his heel and disappeared. It wasn’t characteristic of Aldo. Though… sometimes he did just up and vanish, which was weird. But he never just walked away when he’d started something between the two of them.

Out of nowhere, Donny suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long time since he’d slept, and his arm was aching from the wound that was still healing. Funny, he’d almost forgotten about it during the excitement of the night. But now that he was ready to pass out, the injury was making itself known yet again.

Donny let himself out of the kitchen and back into the sitting room. He blinked at the sight of Archie sitting in the chair, appearing incredibly uncomfortable even to Donny’s relatively oblivious eyes. He figured it was probably safe to let him sleep now; his concussion didn’t seem that bad. He glanced around the sitting room which had more or less emptied out. Just Wicki and Omar. He nodded to them both before turning back to Archie. Donny looked down at him, a ghost of his trademark smirk slowly returning. At least he’d won that battle. Archie was here for the night.

“Hey. Sorry about that. So I said you could stay here. You ready for bed?”

Without waiting for Archie’s response, Donny turned on his heel. He just trusted that he’d follow. He led Archie to a room that had once belonged to a Basterd who’d died a month or two back. Since then, it had stood unoccupied. Really, Donny would rather the Brit was coming to his bedroom, but…even he, as illogical and impulsive as he was, knew that probably wouldn’t fly. He got the feeling that Archie was kind of a prude. Yet another thing about this guy that he was inexplicably drawn to.

Donny turned back to Archie, once again struck by just how much better that scruff suited him. That smarmy accent was here to stay, but at least he didn’t look so much the part anymore. Donny’s nasty smirk was back in full force now. He clapped Archie on the arm, unaware of just how much it rocked him on his feet each time he smacked him. Even if it was just out of the violent affection typical of him.

“Don’t ever shave again. This whole homeless look works way better for you.”

--

Hans had always been a light sleeper, so he jerked awake instantly when his phone buzzed into life. His conversation with Aldo Raine was brusque and to the point. As usual. When he arrived, then they could have a lengthy dialogue with all of the propriety and etiquette trademark of any conversation Hans engaged in. But their phone calls were always under a minute long.

He supposed that on some subconscious level, he’d known that Aldo would make an appearance this evening. These appointments usually occurred after particularly stressful moments. Such was the reason that he had dozed off on the couch still dressed in his suit rather than going to bed. Hans got to his feet lightly, vaguely aware of a knowing half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Hans set about preparing for Aldo’s imminent arrival. For him it was nearly a subconscious process by now, as this was just one rendezvous in a series of many before it. Usually he preferred to meet first in a public place, but at this hour the only the types of establishments open were the ones Hans wouldn’t be caught dead in.

He reached for a pair of wine glasses and set them on the polished wooden table. He took a quick mental rundown of the wines he had on hand. After a few moments of deliberation, Hans reached for the Gewürztraminer. Obviously of the German variety -- as if he would have anything else in his repertoire. It would have been better to serve with a well-prepared wild game dish, but Aldo hadn’t exactly provided the time to deliver a five course banquet. Hans knew he’d be at the door within the next five minutes. They would have to do with just the wine for now. Not as though it was really of a high priority for Aldo. The wine and pleasantries were merely foreplay.

Oddly enough, the hate between the Basterds and Hans’ men only fueled their clandestine relationship, if you could call it a relationship. It certainly wasn’t based on love, far from it. However…it was these liaisons that kept things from escalating to a full-scale war. What the two of them did in Hans’ apartment helped relieve all the hostility that smoldered day after day. If their men had any idea about their meet-ups, it would be catastrophic for both of them. Their reputations for leadership would have been irreparably damaged, they knew that. And maybe it was that risk of being caught that was one of the reasons that this had been going on for so many years. It may have seemed insane for Hans to have his sworn enemy in his apartment, but it was just one of those things that he couldn’t explain. And he hoped he’d never have to try.

There was a sharp, quick knock at the front door just as he‘d opened the bottle of Gewürztraminer to let it breathe. Hans paused at the mirror to check that he looked presentable. He was satisfied with his reflection. He looked like he’d just finished smoking his pipe by the fire, not as though he’d been snoring softly on the couch for the past two hours.

When Hans opened the door, he knew by the look on Aldo’s face that their usual intellectual banter would more than likely be cut short. There was tautness in every angle of Aldo’s body and a certain hard anger written in the lines of his face. Just the sight of Aldo in such a state of anger made Hans pause for a moment to collect himself. There was so much about his adversary that appealed to Hans. For instance, the way he stressed his name almost to the point of being unrecognizable -- “Haaaans”. It was all just very thrilling and it made it tough for Hans to keep from just skipping straight to the final event of the evening. However, that just wouldn’t be fitting. There was a method to how these things happened -- that was why Aldo came here instead of spending his evenings with his pet Jew. Hans tilted his head to the side, arching an eyebrow.

“Aldo! It’s a pleasant surprise to see you this evening. Please come in.”

At the table, Hans poured the Gewürztraminer into both glasses. He slid one to Aldo. He watched him over the rim of his wine glass, observing the emotion that he was so obviously keeping on a very tight rein. Maybe after the first bottle was gone and they were on the second or third, then Aldo would give into the simmering rage that he was just barely managing. The rage that Hans could count on Aldo to express the same way that he had ever since they were young.

Hans rested his folded hands on the table, watching Aldo thoughtfully.

“Not that I don’t thoroughly appreciate your visits, I do wonder what exactly brings you to my door at 3:30 in the morning. Tell me about your night.”

--

Fredrick allowed Dieter to push him onto the couch. He sat quietly, occasionally asking a question or making a statement that his friend either didn’t hear just didn’t acknowledge that he‘d spoken. When Dieter left his apartment, Fredrick followed him to the St. Ives, swaying only just slightly. He shuffled into the hotel room behind his comrade, docile as a cow. Already he could feel the crushing depression lifting somewhat. Just being in the presence of his friend for a half hour, even if Dieter was preoccupied, was easing the pain as no amount of alcohol could. He was completely unmindful of the fact that Dieter was irritated by his presence.

He didn’t know why they were in the hotel. He supposed he could ask Dieter, but he seemed distracted. Besides that, he wasn’t really concerned with the details. Fredrick gradually came to the conclusion that it had something to do with Archie. Thoughts about Archie felt foreign and kind of distant. Had he really been so worried about the Brit only a matter of hours ago? Ah, yes. It was coming back to him now, slowly. That was before his carefully-cultivated double life had fallen apart. Though even that thought had lost some of its pain since he‘d ended up at his friend‘s apartment. He was just glad Dieter had let him be around him.

As he laid sprawled out on the hotel bed, Fredrick was suddenly aware that Dieter was undressing him. Well, not technically. He had removed his shoes though and now he was undoing the top buttons of his shirt. A frown crossed Fredrick’s round, smooth face. Through the haze of the alcohol, he wasn’t precisely sure what was going on. It didn’t occur to him to think that Dieter was making him more comfortable so that he would fall asleep and stop being a nuisance. However, Dieter’s physical contact made Fredrick feel far from drowsy. All he knew was that it was oddly exhilarating, feeling Dieter’s long, slender hands grazing his neck and chest. He sat up, his mind unexpectedly lucid for a moment. His brown eyes met Dieter’s blue ones, a question scrawled upon his youthful face. He spoke in German, of course. They never communicated in any other language, though they both were fluent in English and French.

“Dieter…what are you doing?”

Fredrick had to admit, he was excited by the touch even if it had been brief. He hadn’t ever engaged in sexual activity, well at least nothing that required the removal of clothing. It confused him, since he had always thought he was only attracted to women. Specifically, one woman in question. Though…if he was honest with himself, there was something about Dieter’s cool, detached air that had always attracted him on a subconscious level. He’d always been drawn to those who seemed indifferent to his charms, ever since he could remember.

Fredrick reached out to touch Dieter’s shoulder but his depth perception was affected. His hand fell lightly against Dieter’s neck, where he could feel his warm vitality. His pulse against Fredrick’s hand drew him nearer instinctively. At this close range, he was now able to smell Dieter’s cologne. It was the same cologne he’d worn ever since Fredrick had met him, except he’d never noticed how appealing it was before now. Underneath that, he could detect his natural, slightly ashy scent. Dieter smelled almost like autumn. It was intoxicating on a different level than any alcohol he’d ever imbibed.

Oh. This was confusing.

Maybe he was reading too much into this, since he was far from a good state of mind. It was probably just the alcohol, but Fredrick suddenly wanted to feel Dieter‘s hands on his body again.

[pocket howitzer]

Dieter was forced back when Fredrick sat up suddenly. He frowned, not appreciating the action in the least. A sharp retort was ready on his tongue, and the only thing that stopped him was the look on Fredrick’s young, round face. That could not be good. Fredrick peered up to him with open confusion, but it wasn’t only that.

Dieter had long since guessed that Fredrick was a virgin – it was obvious in the way he treated women; as if they were delicate things that needed to be cared for, tended to, and entertained. Honestly, Dieter believed the creatures didn’t deserve the pedestal Fredrick put them on. Women were manipulative, vile things. But, no, Fredrick wasn’t that shy little virgin – he was as hungry as any other man. Dieter could see it in his face right now.

“You’re so foolish, Fredrick.” Dieter responded with a sneer in his voice.

He had been hoping that the other man would withdraw as he usually did when he was being particularly harsh, but such wasn’t the case. Fredrick appeared deaf to the biting tone of his words, and, instead, he had actually reached out and touched him. Dieter’s breath caught in his throat. They were friends, (or at least Fredrick assumed so, Dieter preferred to think of them more as business associates if he were to classify their relationship) but there was a distinct space between them; some unseen barrier that ensured that they never got too close, or too involved with each other’s lives. One could not afford it in their industry. But with that simple action, Fredrick had violated it.

Dieter could feel the other’s touch warm against his neck; a heavy, warm, and not entirely unwanted pressure. His initial plan was to throw Fredrick off, to shove the other man away, but the thought had been completely stalled. Their breathing was the only sound in the room now – light and rapid; it matched Dieter’s escalated heart rate, and the growing, unadulterated want that had unfurled in his chest. The air was thick now; heavy with the suggestion that hung between them, unspoken yet to be acted upon.

The tip of Dieter’s tongue swept against his lower lip in a subconscious gesture; his darkened eyes flicking between those large brown ones of the man before him, to Fredrick’s thin lips – slightly moist and parted. Dieter exhaled delicately when he felt Fredrick shift slightly, the younger man drawing closer and, without thinking, Dieter moved – planting his hands to the mattress either side of the other man, coming ever closer to sealing the gap that lay between them. They were sharing breath now, and Dieter could smell the cheap vodka that the other man had consumed. It was disgusting, almost repulsive. It didn’t suit Fredrick at all.

It was perhaps this that allured Dieter the most. Sometimes he was so sick of the charming, little man that Fredrick was; so much like a puppy, that seeing him broken like this attracted Dieter like nothing else. The thought made him smile a little before the man leant that small space forward to claim the other’s lax lips in a smooth kiss. Alcohol made Fredrick stupid, but Dieter was perfectly satisfied with being in control.

--

It was a good thing that Donny failed to mention the fact that the room he was currently in belonged to someone who had just recently died. Not that Archie was one to be caught up in ghost stories, but it was always an unsettling thing to know. Especially when he was about to lay between the very sheets that the other man did; rest his head where he had, enclosed in the same room that had once been his.

Thankfully ignorant to that piece of knowledge, Archie shut the door after himself with a muted click. He stood for a moment, perfectly silent with his hand rested lightly on the knob of the door until Donny padded away. Archie withdrew then, releasing a breath as he did – the sound particularly loud in the confines of the room. He wasn’t exactly sure what had propelled him to wait until the other man had left before relaxing. Archie supposed it was because Donny hadn’t exactly given him much of a reason to trust him entirely yet.

‘Save for the fact he’s saved you from Landa?.’ Some part of his mind pointed out. Archie sighed inwardly, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

‘For how long?.’ He answered before shoving it out of his mind completely. He could deal with that later.

Archie crossed the room deftly, shrugging from his suit jacket and undoing his business shirt as he did. The articles were then left to sit upon the back of a chair, leaving the man in his vest and slacks. His shoes, similarly, were toed off and set neatly aside.

He then paused a moment, head cocked to one side before moving again. The house had since settled into a pre-dawn quiet; the excitement of the previous hour now a memory as those involved reclaimed sleep. In an effort not to disturb the other occupants, Archie quietly moved to the door and opened it just so. Through the narrow slit, the man found the bathroom that lay further down the hall. Still mindful of any noise, Archie carefully walked out and shut himself in the cramped room, flicking the light on as he did.

Archie just about jumped upon seeing his reflection in the worn and dirty mirror. He stepped closer, heart still hard and fast in his chest as he accessed the damage. His face was paper white and thin, cheeks hollowed in a testament of the last stressful two weeks. Already, there was a purple smear of fresh bruises by his temple where Donny had tagged him earlier that evening. Archie’s lips turned to a small frown, the man canting his head slightly to see. At least it wasn’t as obvious as when Donny broke his nose. Some part of Archie wondered what the hell he was doing in the house of the psychopath.

‘Because,’ another part answered, ‘he would have killed you already if you wanted to.’

Donny’s image came to the forefront of Archie’s mind – those broad shoulders and powerful arms. Donny Donowitz was built like a tank. He didn’t even need that bat of his. Archie stared at his reflection a moment longer before dipping his head, turning the taps on as he did. Archie didn’t possess the bulk that Donny obviously did, but even the vest he wore now was enough to betray Archie’s taut form and solidly packed muscle. He washed his face; the ice cold water a welcome relief.

Archie’s reflection, this time, stared back to him with fat, heavy drops of water rolling down his cheeks. Tiny spheres lay upon his lashes, but it was those that sat on his facial hair that arrested his attention. Archie palmed his jaw in a manner almost thoughtful. Donny had said that looking homeless suited him, what a strange thing to say. Well, the man figured as he turned the taps of and concluded whatever other business was necessary before returning to his borrowed room; it wasn’t as if he could tend to his facial hair at that moment anyway.

--

Truth be told, Aldo was prepared to throw any sort of caution to the wind and have Hans Landa the second the other man opened the door. The other man must have noticed it, too, for Hans had paused before graciously welcoming him in.

If Aldo’s relationship with Donny was ******** up, then he had no idea what to make of what he had with Hans. Aldo stepped into the familiar hallway, followed Hans to the familiar kitchen, and sat the familiar table. They had been lovers for almost as long as they had been rivals, and Aldo was pretty certain that the first time they had sex, at least one of them had been injured by some grievous wound the other had inflicted. That had been at least two decades ago, and here they still were. Why they couldn’t simply reconcile their differences and peruse a legitimate relationship – he had no idea, but Aldo was sure it was because this thing they had between them defined them.

Aldo took a healthy mouthful of wine before setting the glass down. He wasn’t much of a wine person, and Hans knew that. He much preferred the rustic flavor of scotch or whiskey, but Hans always insisted on class.

“Well Hans,” Aldo started, his words thin with the anger that still surged through his body; “Had a couple of men injured on me tonight. One died, so that’s two in the last two months.”

He paused there, leaning back in his chair somewhat as he appeared to consider something.

“’Parently that’s not going down too good with the men, I’m sure you can understand.”

They spoke as if they weren’t completely involved in each other’s lives. As if the other man wasn’t the underlying reason for every single one of their actions. Aldo had wondered long ago, when, exactly, had they started this elaborate play. When had it started, and who had dictated the rules?. Who was it that had said, ‘when you do this, I’m going to do that?.’

Aldo’s lips pressed together in a thin line, the man’s blue eyes flicking from place to place as his thoughts ran – the familiar sorts of ‘why am I here again,’ to more foreign ones that wondered when Hans had become so thin, or that he looked rather tired. Aldo’s light blue eyes eventually fixed upon those of the man before him;

“I heard you’ve had a rough night yourself, Hans. Word goin’ round of a botched mission.”

It was a taunt as much as it was a condolence. They had two decades to get over the fact that, yes, they killed each other’s men, interfered with any plans and ensured the other suffer in their respective leadership roles – so there was no real reason to tiptoe around such facts. That and Aldo was never really one for subtlety.

“That said, Hans,” Aldo started as something of a smirk grew upon his lips, “I’m beginning to think you know me too well.”

He was, of course, referring to the false rumour that the other man had planted in an effort to send Aldo’s men straight into their trap. Hans, in all the time that Aldo knew him, was more one for extravagant affairs - Aldo had always said that it was the German in him. After all, his Highness was known for his taste in drama. It always had to be something significant with Germans, which was why Aldo aligned himself with the Jews. He could still recall the look on the other man’s face when he had turned up with Donny the first time – Hans’ handsome, rugged face slack with surprise before he recovered himself. It was somewhat poetic, Aldo supposed.

Already the man could feel the tension easing from his form. Despite how utterly their relationship defied any sort of explanation or reason; there still was a measure of comfort in the familiar routine. Something that his own flagging relationship with Donowitz lacked. The thought caused the edges of Aldo’s tips to turn downward before the man swept the thought aside entirely. If he wanted to concern himself with Donowitz at that moment, he would have stayed at the house and dealt with it there.

Aldo drained his wine in a sudden action.

“Now, I hate to be rude, but I’d like to get to business now.”