Niles: “So I returned to the dry-cleaners yet a third time. I hardly need to tell you how the story ends.”
Frasier: “Just tell me when the story ends.”
Niles: “Fine. They realigned my pleats: The End.”
Frasier: “Sorry, Niles. I'm just a bit distracted today. You see, this morning, a man from my building approached me with a very intriguing problem. It seems he's been having a recurring dream.”
Niles: “Oh, please! That little gambit didn't work when we were in knee socks. What was your dream, Frasier?”
Frasier: “Oh, alright! It's been tormenting me. I haven't been able to sleep in weeks now. It's a bit hazy but it starts out in a seedy motel room. I'm naked.”
Niles: “Interesting.”
Frasier: “Yes, well...I roll over and discover on my forearm a tattoo: the word ‘Chesty.’”
Niles: “Interesting.”
Frasier: “Then the shower turns off and out from the bathroom steps...a man. Alright, go ahead, let me have it!”
Niles: “Are you saying that now or is that a quote from the dream?”
Frasier: “Please? We're both too intelligent to waste time on the obvious interpretation.”
Niles: “Yes. But you must admit, it's rather intriguing.”
Frasier: “Would you stop? It's obviously screaming for a Jungian interpretation. The sexuality in the dream is surely symbolic of some deeper, non-sexual conflict.”
Niles: “Alright.”
Gil: “Good afternoon, Frasier.”
Frasier: “Gil.”
Gil: “A little birdie tells me I was featured in your midnight movie.”
Frasier: “That's very clever. Off you go.”
Gil: “Very well. I'll see you tomorrow. Or should I say, ‘See you in your dreams’?”
Niles: “In this dream of yours, were there any cigars, bananas or short, blunt swords?”
Frasier: “Would you stop it?! I'm 43, a little late for latency.”
Waitress: “You guys okay over here?”
Niles: “Oh, we're fine.”
Frasier: “Well, you must be new here. I surely would have remembered such a pretty face as yours.”
Niles: “You're overcompensating.”
Frasier: “Right. We're fine. Bye-bye. I'm just baffled, Niles. Obviously, Gil Chesterton explains ‘Chesty’ but little else.”
Niles: “Perhaps you should tackle this from a free-association standpoint.”
Frasier: “God, must we?”
Niles: “Well, now focus on any detail in the motel room. What's the first thing that pops into your mind?”
Frasier: “Uh...a crescent-shaped lamp.”
Niles: “Perfect, crescent-shaped lamp. Run with that. Crescent...moon...Daphne Moon...French maid...brass bed...satin robe...”
Frasier: “Niles! This is my dream!”
Niles: “I was just showing you the process.”
Frasier: “You were three words away from a cigarette!”
( I don’t support anything in the movie whatsoever,this is just a hans landa fan fic because I have an insane obsession with Christoph waltz. )
BY THE TIME SHE slows, it isn't because she's safe.
It's because her body finally refuses to obey her.
Her lungs burn as if lined with glass, every breath scraping and shallow, ribs aching with each pull of air. Mud cakes the hems of her trousers, dries stiff along her boots. Her hair—once pinned, once neat—is half loose, clinging to her face with sweat and tears she doesn't remember shedding. Somewhere along the way she lost a glove. She can't remember when. She only remembers running—through alleys that smelled of rot and beer, over uneven ground that caught her ankles, past darkened windows that watched without seeing. Running until Nadine thinned behind her, until the road stretched too long and too quiet and the world felt terrifyingly open.
When she finally slows to a walk, it is with the lurching, hollow feeling of someone emptied out.
Her thoughts come in fragments now, jagged and unkind.
Bridget von Hammersmark.
The name surfaces again and again, refusing to stay buried. Bridget—laughing, adored, glowing under the weight of male attention. Bridget who was supposed to be far away, untouchable, protected by fame and scripts and applause. What was she doing in a basement tavern? Why there? Why with soldiers? Why with him, Because it wasn't just Bridget.
It was the strange captain.
She sees him now with unnerving clarity—the way he held his glass, a fraction too stiff, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes. His accent. Not wrong enough to be obvious. Not right enough to be invisible. It had pricked at her, an irritation she'd brushed aside in favor of Dieter's presence, the warmth of his shoulder beside hers, the comfort of routine danger rather than new suspicion.
Piz Palü.
The mountain.
She grimaces, a humorless sound escaping her throat. Of course. Of course it had been wrong. She had written down accents for years, catalogued them, learned to hear what others missed. And yet she had let herself be distracted. Let herself believe the night could be normal.
And then there was Hugo.
The thought of him makes her stomach twist.
Hugo Stiglitz—whose file she had read once, twice, three times. Hugo Stiglitz—who was supposed to be dead or imprisoned or erased entirely from polite conversation. Hugo Stiglitz—who should never have been sitting at that table, grinning like a wolf in borrowed skin.
She slows to a stop, hands braced on her knees, dry-heaving though there's nothing left in her stomach to give. The realization settles like ice in her veins.
He was supposed to be in prison.
Unless—
Unless someone had let him out.
Unless someone had needed him.
The pieces don't fit neatly yet, but she feels the shape of the truth pressing in from all sides, heavy and inevitable. British officers pretending to be Germans. An actress playing at treason. A tavern full of soldiers. A Gestapo officer who had seen too much and smiled anyway. A nod that sent her to safety while the rest stayed behind.
Dieter.
The name hits harder than the rest.
Her chest tightens painfully as she straightens and forces herself forward again, steps unsteady but determined. She doesn't allow herself to think of his face at the table, of the way his eyes had sharpened just before everything fell apart. She doesn't allow herself to imagine the gunfire reaching him. Survival demands cruelty now—even to her own heart.
By the time Paris rises in front of you again, you are no longer running so much as moving out of pure refusal to stop. Your legs feel hollow, your lungs burn with a dull, persistent ache, and every breath rattles like it has to scrape its way out of your chest. Two hours of blind flight, then another hour of walking—slower, staggering, guided more by muscle memory than intention—has stripped you down to something raw and trembling. The village of Nadine is far behind you now, swallowed by distance and night, but it hasn't released you. It clings. The sound of gunfire still echoes faintly in your skull, not loud anymore, just constant, like a wound that won't stop whispering.
You keep seeing the table.
The angle of Dieter's shoulders when he stood. The way he closed his book. That look in his eyes—focused, alert, already too late. You tell yourself, over and over, that he was trained for this. That he knew what he was doing. That men like Dieter Hellstrom don't simply die in basements. But the thought feels thin, brittle. You don't believe it, not really. Every time your foot strikes the pavement, your chest tightens again, and you wonder if the last thing he saw was chaos, or if he had time—just a second—to think of you.
Bridget's face flashes in your mind, incongruous and bright, laughing under low light. Why was she there? Why that tavern, on that night? You hadn't understood it then, but now confusion curdles into something colder. And Hugo—Hugo Stiglitz—surfaces next, ugly and unmistakable. You remember his name too clearly now, remember files, remember whispers. He was supposed to be in prison. Dead, some said. Or broken enough not to matter. And yet there he was, breathing, drinking, sitting close enough to touch. The stranger captain with the strange accent follows, his voice replaying in your head until you want to scream. It all tangles together, a puzzle snapping into a shape you're too afraid to look at directly.
By the time you recognize the street, you are shaking.
Not from the cold—not entirely—but from the realization that you know exactly where you are going. You hadn't planned it. You hadn't allowed yourself to name it. But your feet have chosen already. Your apartment feels impossibly small in your mind now, thin walls and thinner locks, a place where footsteps might echo too loudly, where shadows could move when you aren't looking. There is only one place in Paris that feels untouchable, insulated from questions and sudden knocks. One door no one would ever think to look behind for you.
Hans Landa's.
The penthouse rises above you like something unreal, all clean lines and guarded opulence. You hesitate only once, staring at your reflection in the glass—hair tangled, coat ruined, face streaked with dirt and dried tears. You look feral. Broken. But you don't turn away.
Jerry sees you immediately.
His reaction is instantaneous and unguarded, a sharp intake of breath that turns into a soft, horrified sound in his throat. His kind eyes widen, scanning you from head to toe as if trying to understand how something so wrong ended up standing in his orderly lobby.
"Miss—" he starts, already reaching for the phone.
You don't have to ask. He's dialing before you can speak.
The wait feels endless. Your knees threaten to give out where you stand, and you grip the edge of the desk to stay upright, the polished wood cold beneath your palms. When the elevator finally opens, you almost don't recognize Hans at first—not because he looks different, but because he's moving too fast. The usual careful pace is gone. His eyes lock onto you and widen, something raw breaking through his composure as he crosses the distance in seconds.
His coat is around you immediately, arms following, firm and encompassing. The smell of him—familiar, grounding—hits you all at once, and your body reacts before your mind does. You sag into him, fingers clutching at his jacket as if he's the only solid thing left in the world.
"My God," he breathes, half to himself. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't hesitate. He turns you toward the elevator, one arm still wrapped tightly around you, guiding you with quiet urgency. Upstairs, doors open, commands are given. Helen appears, startled and alert, and Hans's voice cuts through the space with controlled sharpness—tea, clothes, the guest room, now.
"Helen," he calls. "Tea. Immediately. And clothes. Warm ones. Prepare the guest room."
The maid barely has time to nod before he's already moving again, ushering you deeper into the apartment. The penthouse is dimly lit, lamps casting pools of amber across dark wood and stone. A Persian rug stretches beneath your feet, thick and impossibly soft, and the sitting room feels unreal in its calm—plush couches, heavy curtains, the city's chaos shut firmly outside.
Hans guides you down onto the couch, sitting beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh, close enough that the warmth of him begins to seep into your bones.
For a moment—just a moment—you almost forget.
The quiet. The warmth. The steadiness of his presence. It all conspires to make the past four hours feel distant, unreal, like something that happened to someone else.Then your hands start to shake. The image of Dieter flashes through your mind—his smile, his nod, the way he'd watched you leave. The gunfire follows immediately after, loud and merciless.
Your breath breaks.
Hans barely has time to react before you fold into him, a sound tearing out of your chest that you don't recognize as your own. You clutch at his coat, fingers digging into fabric as if he's the only thing anchoring you to the room.
You sob into his arms, words spilling out between gasps, unfiltered and frantic.
"Th-the both of us went to a tavern—o-or a bar—it was underground," you choke. "I just wanted—God, I just wanted a drink, I wanted one night to feel normal—"
His arms tighten around you, one hand steady at your shoulder, the other smoothing slowly, methodically down your back. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't rush you.
"Bridget," you continue, voice rising with disbelief and something close to hysteria. "The actress—Bridget von Hammersmark—she was there. She was there, like it was nothing, like she belonged—"
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright and wet, accusation spilling out as if she might materialize in the room at any second.
"She was laughing," you say. "Celebrating. As if she wasn't—she wasn't betraying us. As if none of it mattered."
The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh, a broken sound caught halfway in your throat. Germany's darling star, drinking in a basement tavern with soldiers and strangers, smiling like the world wasn't burning underneath her feet.
Hans lifts a brow slightly—not in disbelief, but in calculation. His gaze sharpens, the warmth in his posture never leaving even as his mind clearly shifts into motion. He files the name away instantly. Bridget von Hammersmark does not surprise him.
"Continue," he says softly.
So you do.
You tell him about the strange captain, about the accent that didn't sit right once you thought about it. About Hugo—how seeing him there made your stomach drop because he was supposed to be in prison, wasn't he? Or dead? You don't know anymore. You tell him about Dieter's nod, about leaving the table, about the bathroom and the gunfire and the way the world ended behind a wooden door.
And when you finally whisper, brokenly, "Dieter didn't come out," your voice collapses entirely.
Hans's jaw tightens—not visibly, but enough that you feel it beneath your cheek. His hand stills at your back for just a second before resuming its slow, grounding motion.
You don't see his expression.
You don't see the cold clarity settling behind his eyes, the way the pieces are already aligning in his mind—Bridget, the British accent, the tavern, the massacre, your escape.
You don't remember standing. Only being guided. Warm water. Clean clothes. Silence that doesn't feel hostile.
When you leave the guest room, it's because being alone feels unbearable.
The music draws you again. The record—old, slow, intimate—fills the air like a pulse. You find Hans in his bedroom, cigarette glowing softly in the dim. When he looks up and sees you there, freshly washed but still fragile, something unreadable passes over his face.
He gestures to the bed, not with urgency, not with expectation—just an open invitation, quiet and steady. You sit first, carefully, as if afraid the wrong movement might shatter what little balance you've managed to regain. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and forgiving, and when you finally lie back, it is only just enough to bring you close to him. Close enough to feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric between you. Close enough to sense his breathing, slow and measured, as though he is deliberately keeping it that way for you.
The record swells in the background, the voices braided together in a way that feels almost intimate in itself, the rhythm low and steady. It beats against your chest, not loudly, but insistently, like a second heart reminding you that you are still here, still alive. Your thoughts blur at the edges, exhaustion pulling at you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you shift—just slightly—toward him. The movement is unconscious, instinctive, your body seeking warmth the way it might seek air.
He does not hesitate.
The arm that comes around you is sure, practiced in its confidence, settling across your shoulders with a weight that feels protective rather than possessive. His hand rests where your arm meets your chest, thumb brushing once, almost absentmindedly, as if grounding both of you in the moment. When his lips press to your forehead, it is not a kiss meant to lead anywhere. It is something gentler, something older—an act of reassurance. He lingers there, breathing you in, as though memorizing the simple fact of you: warm, real, breathing beneath his touch.
You feel his gaze before you see it. When you tilt your head slightly, your eyes meet his, and for a long moment neither of you moves. His expression is stripped of calculation now, softened by concern and something deeper, something dangerously human. He searches your face with quiet patience, as if asking a question without words, waiting for you to decide what you need.
You answer by closing the distance.
The kiss is slow, almost tentative at first, as though both of you are acutely aware of how fragile this moment is. It carries the weight of everything you haven't said—fear, relief, grief, gratitude—folded together into something that feels necessary. His mouth is warm, steady, anchoring you as your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, fingers gripping just enough to remind yourself that he is real too.
It deepens naturally, not rushed, not demanding. He holds you closer, firm and unyielding in a way that feels like a promise rather than a claim. The world outside his bedroom—the tavern, the gunfire, the village—fades until there is only this: the music, the warmth, the solid certainty of his presence.
Somewhere in the quiet that follows, you realize your body has stopped trembling. The tension you didn't even know you were holding begins to ease, inch by inch, as if his arms are drawing the fear out of you simply by holding you there.
For the first time since Nadine, you feel safe enough to rest.
Pairing: Hans Landa x reader, slight Aldo Raine x reader but brief.
Description: As the only female Basterd it's your job to seduce Landa to gain information that may just tip the scales towards the Allies in this war. However, this job may be more mentally and emotionally tolling than expected, leaving you wondering where your true loyalties lie.
Warnings: Manipulation, gaslighting, mentions of Nazism/Nazis (naturally), betrayal, character death (not reader), suggestive but no smut.
Length: 11.7k (ya'll I went crazy)
You stepped into the softly lit dining room of the chateau, each footfall measured, each glance deliberate. Your dress was selected to attract attention but not suspicion—elegant but understated, fitting for your cover as an American socialite stranded in German-occupied France. You were here to gather intel from Hans Landa, the notorious “Jew Hunter.” Your mission was to gain his trust, charm him, and extract the secrets buried in his cunning mind.
Landa rose as you entered, his wolfish smile already in place. “Ah, Fräulein,” he said in a tone dripping with feigned warmth. “I must say, you bring an unexpected brightness to this dreary war.”
“Colonel Landa,” you replied, offering a polite smile. You extended your hand, and he took it, his grip firm but not oppressive. His lips brushed the back of your hand, his eyes locking onto yours as though daring you to look away.
“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the small, candlelit table set for two.
You obeyed, smoothing your dress as you sat. The air between you felt charged, like a taut wire. Landa’s reputation preceded him; you’d been briefed extensively on his charm, his ruthlessness, and his unsettling ability to peel back people’s layers with terrifying ease.
“Wine?” he offered, already pouring without waiting for an answer.
“Thank you,” you said, accepting the glass.
He sat across from you, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward slightly. His eyes never left you, scrutinizing every movement, every breath. “So, Fräulein, tell me—what brings an American woman to our humble corner of the world?”
You sipped your wine, using the moment to gather your thoughts. “I was visiting Europe when the war began. Circumstances have kept me here longer than I intended.”
“Ah,” Landa said, his voice light, but his smile betrayed a deeper curiosity. “And yet, you seem remarkably at ease in occupied France. One might even say… comfortable.”
You tilted your head, mirroring his playful tone. “I’ve learned that survival often depends on adapting to one’s circumstances, Colonel.”
Landa’s eyes glinted with amusement. “How pragmatic. I find that adaptability is a trait I greatly admire in others.” He took a sip of his own wine, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you feel his scrutiny. “And how, may I ask, have you adapted to the company of German officers?”
You met his gaze, allowing a hint of a smile to play at your lips. “By keeping them entertained, of course.”
Landa chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “A sharp tongue, an even sharper wit. I do enjoy clever company.”
You leaned forward slightly, careful to keep your movements subtle and deliberate. “And I enjoy men who appreciate a woman’s intelligence.”
Landa’s smile widened, his predatory nature slipping through for just a moment. “Then we are well-matched, Fräulein.”
The conversation continued, a delicate dance of words and glances. You allowed yourself to flirt just enough to keep his interest piqued, to keep him guessing about your intentions. Beneath the surface, you were cataloging every detail of the room, every piece of information he let slip, no matter how trivial it seemed.
But Hans Landa was not a man to be underestimated. He leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting to one of casual curiosity. “You are quite skilled at this, you know.”
“At what, Colonel?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“At making people believe exactly what you want them to,” he said, his smile sharp as a knife.
Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you raised your glass to him. “Then perhaps we’re more alike than you think.”
Landa laughed again, genuine this time. “Touché, Fräulein. Touché.”
As the evening wore on, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking a razor’s edge. Landa was too clever, too perceptive. But you also knew that his ego was his greatest weakness. And if you played your cards right, you might just come out of this alive—with the information the Basterds so desperately needed.
For now, the game continued, with each move being more dangerous than the last.
The dinner wore on, the two of you circling each other like predators testing the boundaries of their territories. You leaned into the role you were assigned, allowing Hans to feel that he was the one leading the conversation, the dance. But with every veiled compliment you offered, every calculated sip of wine, you knew you were feeding his ego—your most valuable tool.
“Tell me, Fräulein,” he began, setting his glass down with deliberate care. “Do you enjoy the theater?”
“The theater?” you repeated, tilting your head in mock consideration. “I suppose it depends on the performance.”
He smiled, pleased by your response. “And how would you describe tonight’s performance?”
You felt the trap hidden beneath his words, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you allowed a soft, amused smile to curve your lips. “I’d say it’s riveting. A masterclass in… subtlety.”
Landa chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “Flattery will get you far, my dear. But I must confess, you are far more engaging than most of the company I’m accustomed to.”
“And you are far more charming than I anticipated, Colonel,” you replied, leaning forward slightly, your voice dropping just enough to hint at something more. “I imagine you don’t often hear that.”
“Oh, on the contrary,” he said, his smile widening into something sharper. “I hear it often. But sincerity… that is rare. And I do believe you are sincere.”
He was testing you now, watching your every reaction, waiting for a crack in your facade. You forced a laugh, light and melodic, as if his comment were nothing more than a clever jest. “Well, I wouldn’t dream of lying to you, Colonel. That would be terribly unwise.”
“Indeed, it would,” he said, his tone dipping into something darker. “But you don’t strike me as someone who shies away from taking risks.”
You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. His words felt like a challenge, a thinly veiled acknowledgment that he suspected there was more to you than met the eye. But you couldn’t afford to falter now.
“Life is full of risks, Colonel,” you said, your voice steady. “The key is knowing which ones are worth taking.”
His eyes sparkled with something you couldn’t quite place—amusement? Suspicion? Admiration? Perhaps all three. “Wise words. Tell me, Fräulein, what risks have you deemed worth taking recently?”
You hesitated just long enough to make it seem as though you were considering your answer carefully. “Sitting across from you tonight,” you said finally, allowing a playful smirk to tug at your lips.
Hans laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that echoed through the room. “Oh, you are delightful,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s been far too long since I’ve encountered someone with your… talents.”
You smiled demurely, but your mind was racing. Every word, every glance, was part of a game you couldn’t afford to lose. Hans Landa was far too intelligent, far too dangerous, to underestimate. And yet, you could feel that he was intrigued by you, perhaps even a little disarmed.
But then, just as you began to feel the faintest sense of control, he leaned forward, his expression shifting to something colder, sharper. “Tell me, my dear,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper, “what really brought you to occupied France?”
Your blood ran cold, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you let out a soft laugh, meeting his gaze with a steady calm you didn’t entirely feel. “I already told you, Colonel. Circumstance.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Circumstance can be such a convenient excuse, don’t you think?”
The game had changed. Landa wasn’t just toying with you anymore; he was hunting.
And you were the prey.
Your breath hitched, but you recovered quickly. Landa’s eyes were locked onto yours, sharp and predatory, and yet there was something else there—a flicker of amusement, of genuine curiosity. He was testing you, yes, but you couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull of his presence.
There was a strange allure to him, something that both repelled and intrigued you. You weren’t blind to his cruelty, to the blood on his hands, but the way he carried himself—his charm, his intelligence—made it impossible not to feel drawn in, even against your better judgment.
You smiled, letting your lashes flutter slightly as you tilted your head. “Convenient, perhaps,” you said, your voice soft and measured. “But sometimes convenience is all we have in times like these.”
He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that sent an unexpected warmth through you. “You’re quite adept at turning a phrase, my dear. It’s refreshing.”
The conversation had shifted again, the tension between you no longer just a game of wits. It was something deeper, more dangerous. You could feel it in the way his gaze lingered on you, in the slight smirk tugging at his lips.
“I imagine you don’t often find yourself in refreshing company, Colonel,” you said, leaning forward just enough to blur the line between formality and intimacy.
“Indeed,” he said, his voice low. “Most people I encounter are far less… stimulating.”
Your pulse quickened as his words settled between you. The way he looked at you now wasn’t just calculating; it was hungry. And to your own surprise, you didn’t hate it.
Landa rose suddenly, his movements graceful and deliberate, and made his way around the table. He stopped beside you, his presence overwhelming. You turned to look up at him, your breath catching as he leaned down, his face inches from yours.
“Do you enjoy dancing, Fräulein?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur.
“I do,” you managed to reply, your voice quieter than you intended.
He extended a hand, his smile deepening. “Then allow me.”
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, and he pulled you to your feet with an ease that sent a shiver through you. The room was silent save for the soft crackle of the fire, but Landa began to hum a quiet melody as he guided you into a slow waltz.
His hand rested at your waist, his other holding yours as he led you in a steady rhythm across the room. You tried to focus, to remind yourself why you were here, but the way he looked at you—the intensity, the confidence—made it impossible to think clearly.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice almost teasing.
“It’s the wine,” you said quickly, though you both knew it wasn’t true.
He smiled, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as he pulled you closer. “I find that hard to believe.”
The proximity was intoxicating. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the faint scent of cologne and tobacco that clung to him. His gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared.
“Tell me,” he said softly, his voice like a velvet caress. “What is it you’re truly afraid of, my dear?”
Your throat tightened. He was too close, too perceptive. And yet, a part of you didn’t want to pull away. “I’m not afraid,” you said, though your voice betrayed you.
His smile widened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “Lying doesn’t suit you.”
Your breath hitched, and you felt your resolve slipping. You should have pushed him away, should have refocused on the mission, but the way his voice curled around you, the way his hand pressed against your back—it was dizzying.
“I wonder,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing your skin, “if the risks you take are worth the reward.”
“And what reward might that be, Colonel?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression a mix of amusement and something darker. “That depends on you.”
The air between you was electric, the lines between duty and desire blurring with every passing second. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, but for the first time, you weren’t sure you wanted to win.
The room felt smaller now, the air between you charged with an energy that was equal parts danger and allure. Hans Landa’s hand remained firmly at your waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your dress in a way that felt far too intimate. You told yourself this was all part of the mission, part of the game you were playing, but the pounding of your heart betrayed you.
“Perhaps it’s my turn to ask a question,” Landa said, his voice smooth as silk. He stopped your movement abruptly, keeping you close as his dark eyes searched yours.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to maintain your composure. “What do you want to know, Colonel?”
His smile deepened, and he tilted his head slightly, as if considering his next move. “Why is it that you tremble when I touch you, but you don’t pull away?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. How could you admit, even to yourself, that his presence unsettled you in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying?
“I’m not trembling,” you said finally, your voice steadier than you expected.
Landa raised an eyebrow, his smile turning almost predatory. “Are you sure?”
Before you could respond, he released your hand, only to raise it to your face, his fingers brushing the line of your jaw. The touch was light, almost reverent, but it set your nerves alight.
“Tell me, Fräulein,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the corner of your lips, “do you always lie so beautifully?”
You stepped back instinctively, but he followed, closing the distance between you in a single, fluid motion. “You seem nervous,” he said, his tone soft, but his eyes were alight with amusement. “Do I frighten you?”
Yes. He did. Not because of his reputation, though that alone was reason enough, but because of the way he made you feel. The pull toward him was undeniable, and that terrified you more than anything else.
“I’m not afraid of you,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Good,” he said, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck. “Because I would hate to think you didn’t trust me.”
The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. You were acutely aware of how close he was, of the heat radiating from him, of the way his gaze lingered on your lips.
“This isn’t appropriate,” you managed to say, your voice faltering.
“Appropriate?” he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. “We are at war, my dear. The concept of appropriateness is as fragile as peace itself.”
His fingers pressed gently against the nape of your neck, tilting your head slightly. You knew you should push him away, create distance, regain control. But the intensity of his gaze rooted you in place, your body betraying your mind.
“You don’t need to be afraid of what you feel,” he murmured, his lips so close to yours now that you could feel his breath.
The words sent a surge of panic through you. Did he know? Could he see the war waging within you—the fight between duty and desire, between logic and the inexplicable pull toward him?
“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat.
He silenced you with a quiet hum, his hand sliding from your neck to your cheek. His touch was impossibly gentle, a stark contrast to the sharp edge of his words. “You are an enigma, Fräulein,” he said softly. “And I find myself quite unable to resist unraveling you.”
Your breath hitched as his lips brushed against yours—not a kiss, not yet, but a deliberate test, a dare. You froze, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice low and filled with a dangerous kind of tenderness.
You couldn’t speak. Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to remember the mission, the stakes, the lives that depended on your success. But your body betrayed you, leaning ever so slightly into his touch.
“Interesting,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your cheek as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You seem conflicted, my dear. Care to share your thoughts?”
You stared at him, your pulse racing. “I think…” you began, your voice trembling. “I think this is dangerous.”
Landa’s smile returned, slow and deliberate. “Ah, but isn’t danger what makes life exciting?”
You hated how much you wanted to agree with him. Hated how much you wanted him to close the distance between you, to give in to the tension that had been building all evening. But you also knew that giving in would mean losing control—not just of the situation, but of yourself.
And in Hans Landa’s world, losing control could be fatal.
The barn was quiet save for the faint rustling of hay underfoot as you stepped inside, pulling your coat tighter around you against the night’s chill. The weight of the evening still pressed against your chest, the memory of Hans Landa’s hands on your waist, his voice curling around your thoughts like smoke. You wanted to shake it off, to bury it beneath the mission, but it clung to you stubbornly.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Raine drawled from the shadows, stepping forward with his usual swagger. His sharp eyes swept over you, narrowing slightly. “Took ya long enough. Thought maybe the big bad wolf gotcha.”
“I had to make it convincing,” you said, keeping your voice steady as you crossed the room. You’d rehearsed your explanation on the way here, but now, under Aldo’s scrutiny, the words felt thin.
“You get anything useful?” he asked, leaning casually against a post, though there was nothing casual about the way he was watching you.
You nodded, recounting what you’d learned—snippets of troop movements, subtle hints about upcoming plans, just enough to prove you’d been paying attention without betraying the full scope of the evening. But even as you spoke, Raine’s gaze never left you, his expression unreadable.
“And that’s all he gave ya?” he asked when you finished, his tone flat.
“For now,” you said. “He’s careful. But he’s intrigued, and that’s something we can use.”
Raine didn’t respond right away, his dark eyes boring into yours. Finally, he stepped closer, his voice low. “You sure you ain’t the one who’s intrigued?”
The question hit harder than you expected, and you stiffened, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I know what I’m doing,” you said, a little too sharply.
“Do ya?” he shot back, his tone calm but cutting. “’Cause somethin’ tells me you ain’t as steady as you’re lettin’ on.”
You opened your mouth to argue but stopped when he stepped even closer, his voice dropping further. “Look, I ain’t gonna pretend this is easy. Landa’s a sly bastard, and I’ve seen plenty of people underestimate him. But you—you’re actin’ like you don’t know which way’s up anymore. And that’s dangerous, darlin’.”
You clenched your jaw, willing yourself not to react. “I told you, I’ve got it under control.”
Raine studied you for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe you do. But lemme tell ya somethin’—that snake don’t charm folks for fun. He does it ‘cause it gets him what he wants. You start thinkin’ he’s more man than monster, you’re gonna lose. And when you lose, we all lose.”
His words cut deep, and for a moment, all you could do was stand there, your heart pounding in your chest.
“I know what’s at stake,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “And I know what he is.”
“Good,” Raine said, his tone softer but no less firm. “Just make sure you remember that next time you’re lookin’ into those snake eyes of his.”
He turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the barn. The silence felt heavier now, oppressive. You sank onto a bale of hay, pressing your palms against your temples as the weight of your own thoughts threatened to crush you.
You’d told Raine the truth—at least, part of it. You did know what Hans Landa was. But knowing didn’t make you immune to the pull of him, the way he seemed to peel back your defenses with nothing more than a glance, a word, a touch.
You told yourself it was all part of the mission, part of the role you had to play. But deep down, you couldn’t ignore the fear creeping into your chest—not fear of Landa, but fear of what he was beginning to awaken in you.
And worse, the fear that he already knew.
___________
The barn wasn’t just quiet—it was tense. You could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air as the rest of the Basterds lingered in various states of disinterest or curiosity. Most of them didn’t even look up when you walked in. You’d been part of the team long enough to earn your place, but tonight, the stakes were higher, and so was the scrutiny.
You caught Donny’s eye first. He was sitting on an overturned crate, absently fiddling with his bat. His brow furrowed slightly when he saw you, but he didn’t say anything right away. Beside him, Wicki glanced up from cleaning his weapon and offered you a faint nod—a small but genuine gesture.
“Finally back, huh?” Donny said, breaking the silence. His tone was light, but there was an edge to it. “Thought maybe you decided to stay and dance the night away with Herr Colonel.”
You sighed, tugging your coat tighter around you. “Funny, Donowitz. Very funny.”
“You’re a regular comedian, Donny,” Wicki muttered without looking up.
“Just sayin’,” Donny continued, ignoring him. “You go toe-to-toe with the Jew Hunter himself, and all you got to show for it is a couple crumbs about troop movements? Doesn’t exactly scream success to me.”
You bristled, but before you could respond, Wicki cut in. “Don’t listen to him. He wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit him in the head.”
“Subtlety doesn’t get results,” Donny shot back, turning his attention to you. “So? Did he spill his guts, or was he too busy trying to charm you?”
“Enough,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. The barn fell silent, and you felt their eyes on you—curious, skeptical, and in some cases, accusatory.
It was Omar who broke the tension, stepping forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and calm. “You okay?”
You blinked at the question, caught off guard by the genuine concern in his eyes. Omar wasn’t one to speak up much, but when he did, it was always sincere.
“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow.
Omar studied you for a moment longer before nodding. “Good. Just… don’t let Donny get in your head.”
“Hey, I’m just sayin’ what we’re all thinkin’,” Donny said, throwing up his hands. “You spend too much time cozying up to a guy like Landa, you’re gonna forget whose side you’re on.”
“That’s enough,” Wicki said sharply, his tone cutting through the room. He turned to you, his expression softening. “You did fine. We all know Landa’s not easy to crack. Just don’t let him get too close.”
“He’s not,” you said quickly, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt their weight. Were you trying to convince them, or yourself?
“Good,” Wicki said. “Because the moment he does, it’s game over. For all of us.”
The barn fell quiet again, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of their gazes, of their expectations. You’d been on plenty of missions before, but this felt different—more personal, more dangerous.
As the group began to disperse, you caught sight of Raine lingering by the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was enough: a silent warning, a reminder of the stakes.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you sank onto a bale of hay. Omar sat down beside you, his presence quiet but reassuring.
“You really okay?” he asked again, his voice softer this time.
You hesitated, the weight of the night pressing down on you. “I don’t know,” you admitted finally. “I feel like I’m walking a tightrope, and one wrong step…”
Omar nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Just don’t forget you’ve got a net,” he said. “We’ve got your back. No matter what.”
You managed a faint smile, grateful for the gesture. But as Omar’s words sank in, you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d still hold true if they knew the truth—if they knew how much of you Landa had already unraveled.
And worse, how much you feared you might let him.
_______________
The morning air in the barn was sharp, cutting through the haze of exhaustion that clung to you after last night. The Basterds were already stirring, their voices low but charged with energy. They were preparing, strategizing, and most importantly, waiting for you to play your role.
Raine stood at the center of it all, his arms crossed, radiating his usual mix of authority and impatience. As soon as you stepped inside, his eyes locked onto you.
“You’re late,” he said, though his tone was more matter-of-fact than accusatory.
“Long night,” you replied evenly, though the truth of it weighed heavier than you’d let on.
“Good,” he said, surprising you. “Means we ain’t wastin’ time. You’re meetin’ him again tonight, right?”
You nodded, and he gave a curt nod in return.
“Then we’re gonna make sure you’re ready this time. No surprises, no stumblin’. Landa’s a predator, and you’re the bait—but you’re gonna make him think he’s the one being hunted.”
The group murmured in agreement, though their faces told different stories. Wicki and Omar seemed genuinely invested, their eyes full of quiet concern. Donny, meanwhile, leaned against a post with his bat in hand, his expression skeptical.
“I don’t see why we’re wasting time,” Donny said, breaking the silence. “She already met the guy once. If she couldn’t nail him then, what makes you think she’ll do it now?”
“That’s enough,” Wicki snapped, his voice sharp.
“I’m just sayin’,” Donny continued, throwing his hands up. “She’s walking back into the same den with nothin’ but her charm and a prayer. Sounds like a suicide mission to me.”
“It’s not your call,” Raine cut in, his tone brooking no argument. He turned back to you. “Sit. We’re runnin’ through scenarios.”
You hesitated but obeyed, taking the chair in the middle of the barn as Raine gestured for another. He sat across from you, the air around him shifting as he leaned back and transformed.
In a matter of seconds, he wasn’t Aldo Raine anymore. His posture straightened, his grin turned sly, and his gaze sharpened into something unsettlingly familiar.
“Good evening, Fräulein,” he said, slipping into a near-perfect imitation of Hans Landa’s smooth drawl. “I trust you slept well after our last encounter?”
The room fell silent, all eyes on you.
“I did, thank you,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. “And yourself?”
Raine smirked, the tilt of his head eerily reminiscent of the real Landa. “Oh, I always sleep well, knowing I am surrounded by such… fascinating company.”
You felt your stomach twist, his mimicry cutting a little too close. Still, you straightened your back and met his gaze head-on.
“I’m sure you do,” you said, allowing a hint of playfulness to creep into your tone. “But surely a man of your… intelligence doesn’t trust so easily.”
Raine’s eyes narrowed slightly—he was testing you. “Trust is such a fickle thing, wouldn’t you agree? One must earn it. Or take it.”
“Which do you prefer?” you shot back.
The corner of his mouth twitched, and you could almost see the approval flicker in his eyes. “Ah, Fräulein, I think you’re beginning to understand me.”
“Enough of the games,” Wicki interrupted from the sidelines. “Ask her something real, something he might use to trip her up.”
Raine tilted his head, slipping further into character. “Very well, Herr Wicki. Let us see how the Fräulein fares under pressure.” He turned back to you, his expression unreadable.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice soft but cutting, “why is it that a woman of your beauty and charm would risk her neck for something as messy as war? Surely there are safer, more lucrative pursuits for someone like you.”
You hesitated, your mind racing. The real Landa would never accept a half-baked answer.
“Perhaps I enjoy the challenge,” you said finally, forcing a confident smile. “After all, a little risk keeps life interesting.”
Raine raised an eyebrow, his expression darkening. “Or perhaps,” he said, his tone turning razor-sharp, “you’re hiding something. A secret, perhaps? Something that would explain why you find yourself in such… dangerous company.”
The tension in the barn was palpable, every pair of eyes fixed on you.
“Isn’t everyone hiding something, Colonel?” you replied, leaning forward slightly. “But secrets have a way of revealing themselves to those who look closely enough. Don’t they?”
Raine’s smirk returned, and he leaned back in his chair, breaking character at last. “Not bad,” he said, his drawl slipping back into place. “You’re gettin’ there.”
“She’s better than ‘not bad,’” Omar said from the sidelines, his voice quiet but firm. “She’s ready.”
“Ready or not, she’s got no choice,” Donny muttered.
“Shut it, Donowitz,” Raine snapped, standing up and brushing off his coat. “She’s gonna be fine. But if any of you got doubts, keep ‘em to yourselves. Last thing she needs is a bunch of jackasses second-guessin’ her.”
The group dispersed slowly, the tension lingering in the air. As you stood to leave, Omar caught your arm, his grip gentle.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low.
“I’m fine,” you said, though the words felt hollow.
He studied you for a moment before nodding. “Just remember—you’ve got backup. No matter what.”
You nodded, grateful for his quiet support. But as you walked away, preparing yourself for the next meeting with Hans Landa, you couldn’t shake the feeling that no amount of preparation would shield you from what was coming.
Because this wasn’t just a game. It was a battle of wits, and you weren’t sure if you’d be the one to win.
__________
The sun was dipping below the horizon as you and Raine arrived at the edge of a quiet, cobblestoned village. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, and the sky was painted in muted shades of orange and purple. You felt a knot tightening in your stomach as you stepped out of the car, adjusting your coat against the chill.
“You sure about this?” Raine asked, his voice low. He leaned against the car, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger.
“No,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
Raine smirked faintly, his gaze softening for a brief moment. “Remember what we practiced. Keep him talkin’, stay in control. You feel like it’s slippin’—you signal, and I’ll be there.”
You nodded, clutching the small handbag at your side, its hidden compartment housing a blade and a cyanide pill. “I’ll be fine,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.
“Damn right you will.” Raine’s expression hardened again as he straightened up, adjusting his jacket. “Now go. And don’t let that bastard rattle you.”
You didn’t respond, instead taking a deep breath and walking toward the small café where Hans Landa waited. The street was quiet, almost eerily so, and the sound of your heels clicking against the stone echoed louder than you would have liked.
When you stepped inside, the café was dimly lit, its warm glow casting long shadows across the wooden tables. And there he was, sitting at a corner table with a glass of red wine in hand, his posture relaxed but commanding.
“Fräulein,” Landa greeted, rising to his feet with a smile that was equal parts charm and menace. “You look stunning this evening.”
“Colonel Landa,” you replied, your voice steady despite the quickening of your pulse. “Always a pleasure.”
He gestured for you to sit, and you did so, carefully draping your coat over the back of the chair. As you settled in, you felt his eyes on you, sharp and calculating.
“I must say,” he began, swirling the wine in his glass, “I was quite pleased when I received your message. It’s not often I have the opportunity to enjoy such delightful company twice in as many days.”
“I suppose I should consider that a compliment,” you said, forcing a small smile.
“Indeed, you should,” he replied, his tone light but laced with something darker. “Now, tell me—what brings you back to me so soon? Surely a woman like you has other… engagements.”
You tilted your head slightly, as if considering his question. “Let’s just say I found our last conversation intriguing. And I thought it might be worth continuing.”
Landa’s smile widened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Ah, intrigue. A dangerous game, Fräulein. But then, you do strike me as someone who enjoys a little danger.”
You didn’t flinch, instead leaning forward slightly, as if sharing a secret. “Only when it’s worth the risk.”
He chuckled, a low, almost musical sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Well said. And tell me, what is it about me that you find so… intriguing?”
You felt the weight of his gaze, the challenge in his words. “You’re a man who thrives on control,” you said carefully. “And yet, you’re willing to let your guard down—just enough—to keep things interesting. That’s not something you see every day.”
Landa tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he was determined to solve. “And what of you, Fräulein? What secrets do you hide behind that charming smile of yours?”
Before you could answer, the waiter arrived with a bottle of wine, interrupting the moment. Landa waved him off with a polite but dismissive gesture, then poured two glasses, sliding one toward you.
“To secrets,” he said, raising his glass. “And the thrill of uncovering them.”
You hesitated for the briefest moment before raising your own glass. “To secrets,” you echoed, clinking your glass against his.
As the evening wore on, the conversation ebbed and flowed, a careful dance of words and veiled intentions. Landa’s charm was disarming, his wit sharp enough to cut through any pretense. And yet, you found yourself holding your own, the hours of preparation with Raine and the Basterds serving you well.
But there were moments—fleeting, dangerous moments—when you felt the lines blurring. When his gaze lingered a little too long, or when your own words came too easily, too naturally.
And then there was the touch. A brief, fleeting brush of his fingers against yours as he handed you the wine. It was deliberate, you were sure of it, and it sent a jolt through you that you couldn’t ignore.
“Are you all right, Fräulein?” Landa asked, his voice soft and almost genuine. “You seem… distracted.”
“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, forcing a smile.
His smile returned, slow and knowing. “Good. Because I’d hate to think I was boring you.”
“Far from it,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.
The game continued, each move more calculated than the last. But as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but wonder who was truly in control—and whether you were losing yourself in the process.
The space between you and Hans Landa had all but disappeared. His eyes, dark and intense, never left yours, and the weight of his gaze made your pulse race. Each word he spoke was calculated to draw you in, to break down the walls you had so carefully built.
Landa’s fingers lightly traced the rim of his wine glass, his lips curling into that infuriating, knowing smile that seemed to suggest he was always one step ahead. “You hide so much, Fräulein,” he murmured, his voice smooth and velvet-soft. “But I can see the flickers beneath your control. The way you hesitate before responding. The way you move closer, even though you tell yourself you shouldn’t.”
You barely breathed as you absorbed his words. The room felt warmer now, despite the cool evening air that slipped through the window. Your heart pounded in your chest, the beat steady but frantic. The magnetic pull between you was undeniable. And yet, you tried to remain grounded, to remember why you were here in the first place.
But his presence was suffocating, and all your defenses, carefully put in place over the years, seemed to be crumbling under the intensity of his stare.
“You’re wrong,” you whispered, your voice thick with uncertainty.
“Am I?” Landa asked, tilting his head slightly, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He leaned forward just enough to close the gap, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me, Fräulein. What are you really hiding?”
Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you swore you could hear nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat. He was too close now, too close for comfort. His hand, casually resting on the table, was only a few inches from yours, and every inch of your body seemed to ache with the temptation to close that distance.
You tried to speak, to maintain some semblance of composure, but the words refused to form. He was drawing you in, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to resist anymore.
The tension in the air was palpable, thick with unspoken words and longing. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you saw it—the hunger, the desire, and something deeper—something more dangerous.
“Fräulein,” he said softly, his voice now lower, almost tender. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, brushing against yours. You froze for a moment, your pulse skittering at the light contact. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers lingered, just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.
Your heart pounded as you realized there was no turning back. The moment had arrived—the one you had feared, and yet somehow longed for.
Landa leaned in even closer, his lips a breath away from yours. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his body so close now that it felt like an inevitability.
And then, without a single word more, he kissed you.
It was gentle at first, almost tentative, as though he was testing you. His lips brushed against yours in a slow, deliberate motion, and your breath caught in your throat. Your mind screamed at you to pull away, to remember the mission, to hold onto your resolve. But your body—your body betrayed you.
You kissed him back.
The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to your cheek, cupping it as though he were marking his claim. The warmth of his touch spread through your entire body, the sharp, electric feeling of his presence overwhelming your senses. You could taste the wine on his lips, the slight trace of something darker in his flavor, something that sent a shiver of desire down your spine.
You felt yourself leaning into him, unable to stop. Every part of you seemed to crave him, even as your mind screamed in protest. But the kiss was intoxicating, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.
Landa broke the kiss just long enough to pull back slightly, his breath heavy, his lips mere inches from yours. His gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
“You don’t have to resist anymore, Fräulein,” he whispered, his voice low and filled with quiet triumph. “I know you feel it. The same thing I do.”
You couldn’t deny it. The desire was there, raw and undeniable. And for the first time since you’d met him, you realized that you wanted him—wanted him more than you cared to admit.
The room was spinning, your heart racing as he moved in once more, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that was full of promise and danger, a kiss that you knew would change everything.
There was no turning back now.
________
You entered the room with the others, trying to mask the unease gnawing at your stomach. You had gotten the intel—critical, valuable information—but it wasn’t just the mission that had weighed on your mind all evening. Hans Landa had invaded your thoughts more than you were willing to admit, and you knew you couldn’t stay lost in that dangerous game forever.
You placed the stack of documents on the table, watching as the Basterds gathered around, eager to hear what you had uncovered. Raine’s eyes followed you, calculating, unreadable, but you knew he’d been watching you ever since you left for your meeting with the Colonel. You didn’t dare make eye contact with him, though, afraid he’d see the truth in your gaze before you had the chance to explain.
“Well?” Donny barked, leaning forward with a grin. “What do you got for us, sweetheart?”
You took a steadying breath and forced yourself to focus. “I got everything we need,” you began, pushing the documents toward the group. “Landa’s plans, the key locations, and personnel lists. Even some of his more private dealings that could give us leverage.”
The room buzzed with excitement as the others pored over the papers, murmurs of approval and strategizing filling the air. They hadn’t noticed the tension in your posture yet, but Raine had. His gaze never left you, his expression too calm, too knowing.
As you stood there, watching the team digest the information, a creeping feeling of guilt weighed down on you. You had done your job—but at what cost? The memory of Landa’s touch, his quiet whispers, his deliberate flirty glances… it was all too much to process. You had let him get too close, and you weren’t sure what to do with it. What had started as a simple mission had turned into something far more complicated.
As the others discussed the next move, you stood off to the side, pretending to listen while your thoughts wandered back to the Colonel. You didn’t see Raine approach until he was standing directly in front of you, his presence commanding and intense. He wasn’t smiling—not that he ever did—but there was an unmistakable hardness in his eyes.
The moment the others were occupied with the details of their next plan, Raine spoke. “We need to talk.” His voice was low and clipped, and there was no room for negotiation in his tone.
You stiffened, swallowing the lump in your throat. “It’s been a long night, Raine,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
“No,” he said sharply. “Now. In private.”
His gaze was unwavering, and though you knew it wasn’t a request, you couldn’t bring yourself to defy him. You nodded, and he led you out of the room, his footsteps echoing through the halls as you walked silently behind him.
When you finally reached a small, empty room, Raine turned to face you, his eyes cold and assessing. “What happened?” he asked, his voice quiet but filled with a tension you could almost touch. “You’ve been back for almost an hour, and you haven’t said a word about what went on. But I know you’re hiding something. The others think you’re a hero—giving us everything we need—but I know better.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died in your throat. There was no easy way out of this.
“You’re right. I—I got the intel,” you began slowly, your voice shaking despite yourself. “But it’s… it’s not just that, Raine. I… I let him get too close. He—he kissed me.”
Raine didn’t flinch. He didn’t look surprised, but you could see the storm brewing behind his eyes. His jaw tightened, and the air between you grew heavy with tension. “Why?” His voice was strained, and for the first time, you saw cracks in his usually unshakable demeanor.
You struggled to find the words. “I didn’t plan it, okay? I wasn’t trying to let it happen—it just did. I… I thought I could keep my distance, keep focused on the mission. But he—he’s manipulative, Raine. He knew exactly what he was doing, and I—” You stopped, unable to finish the sentence. The truth was, you had felt something too. Something you couldn’t deny. And that was the problem.
“You let him kiss you.” Raine’s voice was thick now, the disbelief and frustration slipping through. “You let him use you, play you like a damn fiddle, and for what? Some information? What are you really after?”
The sting of his words hit harder than you expected. “It wasn’t like that,” you shot back, voice wavering. “I didn’t—he didn’t control me. But it… it did become personal. I’m not proud of it, but that’s the truth.”
Raine took a slow breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he processed your words. “You were supposed to be using him. Not the other way around.”
You looked down, guilt rushing through you like a tidal wave. “I know. I failed.”
He shook his head, taking a step closer. His eyes were full of something you couldn’t quite place—anger, sure, but there was something deeper. Something… personal.
“Do you think I don’t know how this works?” Raine asked, voice now quieter, more intense. “You think I haven’t had to walk that line too? To make sure you don’t get caught up in something you shouldn’t?” He stepped forward, his presence so overwhelming it made your knees weak. “You’re not the only one with demons. You’re not the only one who gets tangled in the mess.” His eyes flickered down to your lips for just a second before he pulled back, raking a hand through his hair. “I just… I thought you were better than this.”
You looked up at him, eyes searching his face, but there was no warmth in his gaze—just an unspoken distance that seemed to grow between you with every word.
“I’m sorry,” you said softly, but it sounded hollow even to you. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t mean to let him in.”
Raine’s gaze softened for just a brief moment, but then it hardened again, his jaw clenched tightly. “You’re not just playing a part, [Y/N]. You’re putting us all in danger. And I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”
You swallowed, the weight of his words pressing on you, but you knew you had no choice but to face the consequences. “I understand.”
There was a long silence before Raine spoke again, his voice quieter now. “You’re lucky you brought back something useful. But don’t expect me to forget this. Not yet.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the door, his steps slow but sure. He didn’t look back, and for a moment, you thought he might not say anything else.
But before he left, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “You should have known better, [Y/N].” And then, without another word, he was gone, leaving you standing in the dim room, haunted by his words and the decisions you had made.
You had no idea how this would end, but one thing was certain—you had just crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.
__________
It had been a few days since you last saw Hans, and though you tried to bury the thoughts of him beneath the weight of the mission, it was no use. His absence gnawed at you like a persistent ache, one you couldn’t ignore. Every attempt to focus on the next steps felt hollow, and the silence between you both felt deafening. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had heard from him.
Raine, meanwhile, still hadn’t said much to you. His cold demeanor was unsettling, the weight of his disappointment hanging over every interaction, but it was Hans that occupied your mind. You told yourself you had to stay strong, that you had a job to do. But the pull toward him, the memory of his touch, his words, was a constant undercurrent that you couldn’t escape.
After a particularly grueling morning spent preparing for the mission, you needed to clear your head. You slipped away unnoticed, deciding a walk in the nearby woods was the best way to silence the thoughts that crowded your mind. The air was crisp, and each step you took felt like it might ground you in something real.
The walk was supposed to offer some clarity, but the longer you walked, the more the tension inside you built. You tried to focus on the sound of your boots crunching the fallen leaves beneath you, but it was impossible to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest.
It was then, as you rounded a corner, that you stopped. That familiar, unnerving feeling washed over you again, and you knew without turning around that someone was there. You didn’t need to hear his voice, though you did, soft and purposeful.
“[Y/N].” His voice, smooth and sharp like a blade, made you tense. You turned slowly to face him.
Hans stood at the edge of the woods, watching you with an expression that was harder to read than usual. His sharp eyes tracked your every move as though trying to figure you out, but there was something more beneath his usual calculating gaze—something raw, something that made your heart race for reasons you weren’t sure you wanted to explore.
For a moment, you said nothing. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, to form the words.
He took a step closer, his usual grace now tinged with a sense of urgency. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, his voice a quiet accusation, though there was no anger in his tone. It was a statement wrapped in vulnerability. “I didn’t think you would leave me hanging like this, [Y/N].”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you struggled to maintain control of the situation. “It’s not that, Hans,” you said, the words almost choking you. “I’ve just… had a lot on my plate.” The lie fell from your lips so easily that it terrified you. But it was the truth, wasn’t it? You were trying to do your job and keep a distance.
His eyes flickered over you, narrowing slightly. He stepped closer, and you instinctively took a step back, feeling the tension between you grow. “Complicated, I’m sure. But don’t pretend it’s just that.” He paused, looking you up and down as if seeing through the barriers you had built. “We both know it’s more.”
You held his gaze, biting your lip. He was right. You were lying to both him and yourself. You couldn’t deny what was there, what had been there between you. But it was dangerous. He was dangerous.
“I thought I could keep my distance,” you murmured, but the admission sounded weak even to your own ears. “But it’s… harder than I expected.”
Hans studied you for a moment, his eyes dark and intense. “Harder than you expected?” he repeated, stepping closer still, the air between you crackling with tension. His gaze dropped to your lips, and you felt your pulse quicken. “I think you’ve been running from something far more than just distance.”
Your heart raced as he took another step, his breath almost too close. You tried to hold back, to remind yourself of the lines you shouldn’t cross, but you could feel the pull toward him again, that magnetic force you couldn’t resist. His fingers brushed against your arm as he reached for you, sending a shiver through your body.
Before you could stop yourself, you were stepping into him, drawn toward the heat of his presence. His lips brushed against your ear, and the sensation made you gasp quietly. “I’ve missed you, you know,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.
You didn’t know how to respond, your mind a jumble of conflicting emotions. You should pull away. You should stop this before it went any further. But every fiber of your being screamed that it was too late, that you already had.
“I’ve missed you, too,” you whispered, barely aware of the words slipping out until it was too late.
His gaze flicked up, a dark smirk curling on his lips. “Then why have you been hiding from me?” he asked, his voice thick with quiet amusement. “I’m not the kind of man you can just ignore. I won’t let you pretend like none of this matters.”
Before you could react, his hand cupped your face, pulling you toward him. There was no hesitation this time. His lips found yours in a kiss that was fierce, hungry, and all-consuming. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim, a challenge, a test.
You gasped as he deepened it, his hands moving to your back, pulling you flush against him. You had no idea how long you stood there, tangled in him, but it felt like time had frozen. The world around you vanished, and all that existed was the feeling of his lips on yours, the warmth of his hands, and the wild, uncontrollable pull between you.
When the kiss finally broke, you were breathless, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Hans rested his forehead against yours, his hands still on your back, keeping you close.
“You see now,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You can’t hide from this. Not anymore.”
You closed your eyes, your pulse still racing, and you knew in that moment that you couldn’t deny it any longer. You didn’t want to.
The question was no longer whether you could stay away from him. The question now was whether you would ever be able to walk away at all.
The tension between you and Hans was undeniable, thick enough to choke on. Every moment spent near him, every word exchanged, felt like a tightrope you were walking, straining at the edges of your loyalty to the Basterds and your growing feelings for the man before you.
The quiet of the night was broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the cool breeze as you stood facing him, your heart racing. You couldn’t keep the truth from him any longer. You had already begun to fall for him, and now, you knew there was no going back.
“I need to tell you something,” you said, your voice steady but filled with the weight of the words you were about to speak. “Something important.”
Hans, ever the patient observer, simply nodded, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “I’m listening.”
You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. “I’m not just some civilian, Hans. I’m not just… a woman on a mission. I’m part of a group. The Basterds.”
The revelation hung in the air, thick with the consequences of your confession. You could feel Hans’s gaze on you, his sharp eyes searching your face for any sign of deception.
“The Basterds?” he repeated, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “You’ve been one of them this whole time?”
You nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Yes. I’ve been gathering intel, keeping tabs on you, your movements. That’s why I’ve been working with you. To get closer, to learn everything I could.”
A long silence followed, the weight of your words sinking in between you. Hans’s face softened, his expression unreadable. You had expected anger or betrayal, but instead, there was only a calm scrutiny in his eyes.
“You’ve been playing both sides,” he said slowly, his voice cold and distant now. “This whole time, you’ve been working for them.”
You swallowed, the bitterness of your betrayal settling deep in your chest. “I didn’t want it to happen this way. I thought… I thought I could keep it separate, but now I—”
Hans cut you off, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. His eyes searched yours, a small smirk curling his lips. “And now you’re torn. Between duty and desire, between loyalty and… something else.”
You felt the weight of his words. “I don’t know what I feel anymore,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I never expected this. I never expected you.”
Hans’s expression softened, and he reached out, brushing a lock of hair from your face with a surprising tenderness. “I can’t say I’m thrilled by your deception,” he murmured, his voice low and almost soothing. “But I can’t say I’m not intrigued by you, [Y/N]. Despite everything, I see something in you. Something that’s… real.”
Your breath hitched at his words, the pull between you growing stronger. “Intrigued?” you echoed, unsure of where he was going with this.
He smiled, a slow, almost dangerous grin. “Yes, intrigued. Because, despite the fact that you’ve been lying to me, I don’t think you’re as loyal to them as you pretend to be.”
His eyes bored into yours, and you felt yourself faltering, unsure of how to respond. The tug of attraction toward him, the pull of everything you had been trying to suppress, grew harder to ignore. He was playing you, yes, but there was also something genuine in the way he spoke to you now, something you had never expected from someone like him.
“You’re not what they think you are,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more coaxing. “And I can offer you more than they ever could. All you need to do is make a choice.”
The weight of his words hit you like a punch. The life he was offering seemed tempting—freedom from the war, safety, a place by his side. But the life you had built with the Basterds, with Raine and the others, was all you had known for so long. Could you really walk away from that?
“I… I don’t know if I can make that choice,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’ve been in this fight for so long. I can’t just leave.”
Hans’s gaze hardened slightly, and his grip on your arm tightened just enough to make you feel the intensity of his emotions. “You don’t need to leave the fight, [Y/N]. You just need to leave them.”
Your mind spun at his words. “What do you mean?”
“Leave the Basterds. Come with me,” he said, his voice calm, but there was a sharp edge to it now. “I can give you everything you need. A life where you aren’t just a pawn in their war. You can be with me. You can be free.”
His words hit you harder than anything before, and you could feel yourself wavering. The life you had fought so hard for was beginning to seem insignificant in the face of what he was offering. You wanted to say no, to fight it, but something in you yearned for the freedom he promised.
“You’re asking me to betray them,” you said, your voice shaking, but you couldn’t hide the desire that was creeping into your chest.
“I’m asking you to stop betraying yourself,” Hans said, his voice coaxing, but firm. “You don’t owe them anything. But you owe yourself the chance to choose something real.”
You stood there, torn between the two lives that were pulling you in opposite directions. The Basterds, Raine, everything you had worked for—they were all part of you, part of the fight. But Hans… Hans was offering something new, something intoxicating.
“I… I can’t just walk away,” you whispered, your voice faltering, but even as you said it, you knew you were already considering it.
Hans stepped closer, his eyes dark with desire. “You already have, haven’t you? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know.”
Before you could respond, the sudden crack of a branch broke the moment, and you both turned sharply. Raine stood there, frozen in shock, his gaze flicking between you and Hans, disbelief written across his face.
“[Y/N]?” His voice was a mixture of confusion and betrayal. “What is this? You… you’ve been with him all along?”
You felt your heart sink at the sight of your dear friend, the man who had stood by you, the man who had trusted you. But now, with Hans at your side, offering you everything, how could you turn back?
Raine’s face twisted with pain and anger as he took a step forward, his hand instinctively moving to the pistol at his side. “I should’ve known. I thought we were friends, but this… you’re one of them.”
The words cut through you like a knife, but you didn’t have time to respond before Raine’s hand was on his weapon, the tension crackling between you all.
“I can’t let you betray us, [Y/N],” Raine said, his voice thick with emotion. “I won’t let you.”
You could feel the pull between the two men in your life, each offering you something completely different, and for a moment, you felt paralyzed. But as Raine’s gun moved toward you, your body reacted before your mind could. You pulled your own weapon and aimed it squarely at him.
The pain in his eyes was the last thing you saw before you fired.
Raine collapsed to the ground, his body twitching as life left him. The air around you seemed to freeze, the weight of what you had just done settling heavily in your chest. But Hans’s hand slipped into yours, steady and sure, pulling you away from the scene without a word.
“You made the right choice,” Hans whispered, his voice calm as he led you away.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The loss, the betrayal—it all felt like it was choking you. But as you walked side by side with Hans, leaving everything behind, you knew that there was no going back. The choice had been made.
On every What is Wednesdays I will explain a trope, a rhetorical device, or a literary technique in a few sentences. Put in the comments what you would like me to explain next.
What is... a drabble?
What is... dead dove?
What is... archetypal characters?
What is… deus ex machina?
What is… whump?
What is... plot bunny?
What is... canon vs. fanon?
What is… a headcanon?
What is… a plot hole?
What is… retcon?
What is… WIP?
What is… a sequel hook?
What is… a crossover?
What is… crack?
What is… a rarepair?
What is… a red herring?
What is… fluff?
What is… smut?
What is… OOC?
What is… a missing scene?
What is… Coda?
What is… a trope?
What is… Alpha vs. Beta Reader?
What is… a cliffhanger?
What is… an AU?
What is… a slice of life?
What is… a flashforward vs a flashback?
What is… BAMF?
What is an… OTP?
What is… an OT3?
What is… a reader insert?
What is… a squick?
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( I don’t support anything in the movie whatsoever,this is just a hans landa fan fic because I have an insane obsession with Christoph waltz. )
BY THE TIME SHE slows, it isn't because she's safe.
It's because her body finally refuses to obey her.
Her lungs burn as if lined with glass, every breath scraping and shallow, ribs aching with each pull of air. Mud cakes the hems of her trousers, dries stiff along her boots. Her hair—once pinned, once neat—is half loose, clinging to her face with sweat and tears she doesn't remember shedding. Somewhere along the way she lost a glove. She can't remember when. She only remembers running—through alleys that smelled of rot and beer, over uneven ground that caught her ankles, past darkened windows that watched without seeing. Running until Nadine thinned behind her, until the road stretched too long and too quiet and the world felt terrifyingly open.
When she finally slows to a walk, it is with the lurching, hollow feeling of someone emptied out.
Her thoughts come in fragments now, jagged and unkind.
Bridget von Hammersmark.
The name surfaces again and again, refusing to stay buried. Bridget—laughing, adored, glowing under the weight of male attention. Bridget who was supposed to be far away, untouchable, protected by fame and scripts and applause. What was she doing in a basement tavern? Why there? Why with soldiers? Why with him, Because it wasn't just Bridget.
It was the strange captain.
She sees him now with unnerving clarity—the way he held his glass, a fraction too stiff, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes. His accent. Not wrong enough to be obvious. Not right enough to be invisible. It had pricked at her, an irritation she'd brushed aside in favor of Dieter's presence, the warmth of his shoulder beside hers, the comfort of routine danger rather than new suspicion.
Piz Palü.
The mountain.
She grimaces, a humorless sound escaping her throat. Of course. Of course it had been wrong. She had written down accents for years, catalogued them, learned to hear what others missed. And yet she had let herself be distracted. Let herself believe the night could be normal.
And then there was Hugo.
The thought of him makes her stomach twist.
Hugo Stiglitz—whose file she had read once, twice, three times. Hugo Stiglitz—who was supposed to be dead or imprisoned or erased entirely from polite conversation. Hugo Stiglitz—who should never have been sitting at that table, grinning like a wolf in borrowed skin.
She slows to a stop, hands braced on her knees, dry-heaving though there's nothing left in her stomach to give. The realization settles like ice in her veins.
He was supposed to be in prison.
Unless—
Unless someone had let him out.
Unless someone had needed him.
The pieces don't fit neatly yet, but she feels the shape of the truth pressing in from all sides, heavy and inevitable. British officers pretending to be Germans. An actress playing at treason. A tavern full of soldiers. A Gestapo officer who had seen too much and smiled anyway. A nod that sent her to safety while the rest stayed behind.
Dieter.
The name hits harder than the rest.
Her chest tightens painfully as she straightens and forces herself forward again, steps unsteady but determined. She doesn't allow herself to think of his face at the table, of the way his eyes had sharpened just before everything fell apart. She doesn't allow herself to imagine the gunfire reaching him. Survival demands cruelty now—even to her own heart.
By the time Paris rises in front of you again, you are no longer running so much as moving out of pure refusal to stop. Your legs feel hollow, your lungs burn with a dull, persistent ache, and every breath rattles like it has to scrape its way out of your chest. Two hours of blind flight, then another hour of walking—slower, staggering, guided more by muscle memory than intention—has stripped you down to something raw and trembling. The village of Nadine is far behind you now, swallowed by distance and night, but it hasn't released you. It clings. The sound of gunfire still echoes faintly in your skull, not loud anymore, just constant, like a wound that won't stop whispering.
You keep seeing the table.
The angle of Dieter's shoulders when he stood. The way he closed his book. That look in his eyes—focused, alert, already too late. You tell yourself, over and over, that he was trained for this. That he knew what he was doing. That men like Dieter Hellstrom don't simply die in basements. But the thought feels thin, brittle. You don't believe it, not really. Every time your foot strikes the pavement, your chest tightens again, and you wonder if the last thing he saw was chaos, or if he had time—just a second—to think of you.
Bridget's face flashes in your mind, incongruous and bright, laughing under low light. Why was she there? Why that tavern, on that night? You hadn't understood it then, but now confusion curdles into something colder. And Hugo—Hugo Stiglitz—surfaces next, ugly and unmistakable. You remember his name too clearly now, remember files, remember whispers. He was supposed to be in prison. Dead, some said. Or broken enough not to matter. And yet there he was, breathing, drinking, sitting close enough to touch. The stranger captain with the strange accent follows, his voice replaying in your head until you want to scream. It all tangles together, a puzzle snapping into a shape you're too afraid to look at directly.
By the time you recognize the street, you are shaking.
Not from the cold—not entirely—but from the realization that you know exactly where you are going. You hadn't planned it. You hadn't allowed yourself to name it. But your feet have chosen already. Your apartment feels impossibly small in your mind now, thin walls and thinner locks, a place where footsteps might echo too loudly, where shadows could move when you aren't looking. There is only one place in Paris that feels untouchable, insulated from questions and sudden knocks. One door no one would ever think to look behind for you.
Hans Landa's.
The penthouse rises above you like something unreal, all clean lines and guarded opulence. You hesitate only once, staring at your reflection in the glass—hair tangled, coat ruined, face streaked with dirt and dried tears. You look feral. Broken. But you don't turn away.
Jerry sees you immediately.
His reaction is instantaneous and unguarded, a sharp intake of breath that turns into a soft, horrified sound in his throat. His kind eyes widen, scanning you from head to toe as if trying to understand how something so wrong ended up standing in his orderly lobby.
"Miss—" he starts, already reaching for the phone.
You don't have to ask. He's dialing before you can speak.
The wait feels endless. Your knees threaten to give out where you stand, and you grip the edge of the desk to stay upright, the polished wood cold beneath your palms. When the elevator finally opens, you almost don't recognize Hans at first—not because he looks different, but because he's moving too fast. The usual careful pace is gone. His eyes lock onto you and widen, something raw breaking through his composure as he crosses the distance in seconds.
His coat is around you immediately, arms following, firm and encompassing. The smell of him—familiar, grounding—hits you all at once, and your body reacts before your mind does. You sag into him, fingers clutching at his jacket as if he's the only solid thing left in the world.
"My God," he breathes, half to himself. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't hesitate. He turns you toward the elevator, one arm still wrapped tightly around you, guiding you with quiet urgency. Upstairs, doors open, commands are given. Helen appears, startled and alert, and Hans's voice cuts through the space with controlled sharpness—tea, clothes, the guest room, now.
"Helen," he calls. "Tea. Immediately. And clothes. Warm ones. Prepare the guest room."
The maid barely has time to nod before he's already moving again, ushering you deeper into the apartment. The penthouse is dimly lit, lamps casting pools of amber across dark wood and stone. A Persian rug stretches beneath your feet, thick and impossibly soft, and the sitting room feels unreal in its calm—plush couches, heavy curtains, the city's chaos shut firmly outside.
Hans guides you down onto the couch, sitting beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh, close enough that the warmth of him begins to seep into your bones.
For a moment—just a moment—you almost forget.
The quiet. The warmth. The steadiness of his presence. It all conspires to make the past four hours feel distant, unreal, like something that happened to someone else.Then your hands start to shake. The image of Dieter flashes through your mind—his smile, his nod, the way he'd watched you leave. The gunfire follows immediately after, loud and merciless.
Your breath breaks.
Hans barely has time to react before you fold into him, a sound tearing out of your chest that you don't recognize as your own. You clutch at his coat, fingers digging into fabric as if he's the only thing anchoring you to the room.
You sob into his arms, words spilling out between gasps, unfiltered and frantic.
"Th-the both of us went to a tavern—o-or a bar—it was underground," you choke. "I just wanted—God, I just wanted a drink, I wanted one night to feel normal—"
His arms tighten around you, one hand steady at your shoulder, the other smoothing slowly, methodically down your back. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't rush you.
"Bridget," you continue, voice rising with disbelief and something close to hysteria. "The actress—Bridget von Hammersmark—she was there. She was there, like it was nothing, like she belonged—"
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright and wet, accusation spilling out as if she might materialize in the room at any second.
"She was laughing," you say. "Celebrating. As if she wasn't—she wasn't betraying us. As if none of it mattered."
The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh, a broken sound caught halfway in your throat. Germany's darling star, drinking in a basement tavern with soldiers and strangers, smiling like the world wasn't burning underneath her feet.
Hans lifts a brow slightly—not in disbelief, but in calculation. His gaze sharpens, the warmth in his posture never leaving even as his mind clearly shifts into motion. He files the name away instantly. Bridget von Hammersmark does not surprise him.
"Continue," he says softly.
So you do.
You tell him about the strange captain, about the accent that didn't sit right once you thought about it. About Hugo—how seeing him there made your stomach drop because he was supposed to be in prison, wasn't he? Or dead? You don't know anymore. You tell him about Dieter's nod, about leaving the table, about the bathroom and the gunfire and the way the world ended behind a wooden door.
And when you finally whisper, brokenly, "Dieter didn't come out," your voice collapses entirely.
Hans's jaw tightens—not visibly, but enough that you feel it beneath your cheek. His hand stills at your back for just a second before resuming its slow, grounding motion.
You don't see his expression.
You don't see the cold clarity settling behind his eyes, the way the pieces are already aligning in his mind—Bridget, the British accent, the tavern, the massacre, your escape.
You don't remember standing. Only being guided. Warm water. Clean clothes. Silence that doesn't feel hostile.
When you leave the guest room, it's because being alone feels unbearable.
The music draws you again. The record—old, slow, intimate—fills the air like a pulse. You find Hans in his bedroom, cigarette glowing softly in the dim. When he looks up and sees you there, freshly washed but still fragile, something unreadable passes over his face.
He gestures to the bed, not with urgency, not with expectation—just an open invitation, quiet and steady. You sit first, carefully, as if afraid the wrong movement might shatter what little balance you've managed to regain. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and forgiving, and when you finally lie back, it is only just enough to bring you close to him. Close enough to feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric between you. Close enough to sense his breathing, slow and measured, as though he is deliberately keeping it that way for you.
The record swells in the background, the voices braided together in a way that feels almost intimate in itself, the rhythm low and steady. It beats against your chest, not loudly, but insistently, like a second heart reminding you that you are still here, still alive. Your thoughts blur at the edges, exhaustion pulling at you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you shift—just slightly—toward him. The movement is unconscious, instinctive, your body seeking warmth the way it might seek air.
He does not hesitate.
The arm that comes around you is sure, practiced in its confidence, settling across your shoulders with a weight that feels protective rather than possessive. His hand rests where your arm meets your chest, thumb brushing once, almost absentmindedly, as if grounding both of you in the moment. When his lips press to your forehead, it is not a kiss meant to lead anywhere. It is something gentler, something older—an act of reassurance. He lingers there, breathing you in, as though memorizing the simple fact of you: warm, real, breathing beneath his touch.
You feel his gaze before you see it. When you tilt your head slightly, your eyes meet his, and for a long moment neither of you moves. His expression is stripped of calculation now, softened by concern and something deeper, something dangerously human. He searches your face with quiet patience, as if asking a question without words, waiting for you to decide what you need.
You answer by closing the distance.
The kiss is slow, almost tentative at first, as though both of you are acutely aware of how fragile this moment is. It carries the weight of everything you haven't said—fear, relief, grief, gratitude—folded together into something that feels necessary. His mouth is warm, steady, anchoring you as your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, fingers gripping just enough to remind yourself that he is real too.
It deepens naturally, not rushed, not demanding. He holds you closer, firm and unyielding in a way that feels like a promise rather than a claim. The world outside his bedroom—the tavern, the gunfire, the village—fades until there is only this: the music, the warmth, the solid certainty of his presence.
Somewhere in the quiet that follows, you realize your body has stopped trembling. The tension you didn't even know you were holding begins to ease, inch by inch, as if his arms are drawing the fear out of you simply by holding you there.
For the first time since Nadine, you feel safe enough to rest.
Clumsy, observant, and newly assigned, you follow Hans Landa through a war that teaches you when to speak and when to survive. Some lessons leave no blood on your hands—only shadows
( I don’t support anything in the movie whatsoever,this is just a hans landa fan fic because I have an insane obsession with Christoph waltz. )
You were not raised to be here.
You were raised in a quiet German household where voices were kept low, shoes were removed at the door, and order was treated as a virtue bordering on religion. Your childhood was a series of perfectly sharpened pencils, neat stacks of books, and an almost absurd insistence on punctuality. Intelligence was praised, diligence rewarded, questions tolerated only if they had footnotes. Mistakes were embarrassing. Clumsiness, catastrophic. You once tripped during a lecture and—without even thinking—apologized to the floor itself.
And yet, somehow, that résumé ended up landing you in the Sicherheitsdienst.
No one explained why.
Your language skills were "valuable." Your memory, "exceptional." Your temperament, "nonthreatening." You suspected the last part mattered more than the others. You looked harmless. You sounded harmless. You were the girl people forgot to fear. And apparently, that made you perfect for Colonel Hans Landa.
The day you first met him, you dropped an entire folder of documents at his feet. Papers slid across the polished office floor like confetti at a wedding. Names, addresses, intelligence—scattered everywhere. You knelt frantically, apologizing, trying to restore order to what was already ruined. He watched, leaning slightly on his cane, smiling.
"How refreshing," he said lightly, bending to inspect your fumbling hands. "Someone who fears gravity more than me.
You did not leave the office that day. Somehow, you were kept.
Whispers followed you everywhere: the girl who works for Landa, the shy one, the clumsy one who hasn't been dismissed—or shot. If you could keep pace with Hans Landa, people reasoned, you must be doing something right. Or perhaps he simply found you entertaining.
Today, you would discover whether you really were.
The countryside rolls past as the car hums along the dirt roads, roof folded down, sunlight spilling over polished leather and steel. Four motorcycles escort you—two in front, two behind—their engines growling like small predators. You clutch your notebook, pen pressed to your chest, thumb already aching. Your stomach twists. This is your first field assignment. You are here to observe, to record, to survive.
Hans Landa sits beside you, utterly relaxed, pipe balanced between his fingers. He hums something cheerful, wholly inappropriate for the morning's purpose. You try not to stare. You fail. He catches your glance, tilts his head, smiles faintly.
"You look tense," he observes casually. "Is this your first time leaving the office?"
"Yes, Colonel," you manage.
"Ah," he says. "You will find it more educational than paperwork."
You are not convinced.
The car slows. Stops.
Perrier LaPadite stands outside his farmhouse, hat in hand, posture rigid with expectation. You step out after Hans, nearly trip over the uneven ground, catch yourself at the last second, and nod politely. Hans notices, says nothing.
He greets the farmer smoothly in French, "Bonjour, Monsieur LaPadite. I am Colonel Hans Landa, and this is my assistant." He gestures toward you. Your hands tremble slightly. You nod, barely audible.
LaPadite gestures for you both to enter. Inside, three daughters stand neatly, hands folded. Young, nervous, too small to understand why silence feels safer than movement. Hans approaches them with exaggerated courtesy, bowing, kissing each hand. You note his slow, deliberate movements. He lingers a fraction too long on the last girl. You bite your lip, uncomfortable, a mix of admiration and intimidation coiling in your chest.
They leave to fetch milk. Hans motions for you to sit at the wooden table near the small kitchen. You obey, notebook open, pen ready. Hans begins lightly: questions about the farm, the production, the family. LaPadite responds smoothly, but you notice the tiny cracks in his confidence. You write feverishly, thumb cramping as your pen scrapes across the paper.
Hans lights his pipe. Perrier, nervous, does the same. Hans explains softly that he and his men have been conducting inspections since the war began, and while they have found nothing so far, anyone hiding enemies of the state will be met with reward, not punishment. The words linger. LaPadite freezes. You feel a prickle of unease crawl along your spine. Hans pauses, pipe midway to his mouth, eyes fixed on the farmer. You feel a cold itch in your brain as the intensity of his stare radiates across the room.
And then, slowly, deliberately, in English:
"You're sheltering enemies of the state, are you not?"
LaPadite meets his gaze, expression frozen. "Yes," he admits, voice cracking.
"You're sheltering them underneath your floorboards, aren't you?"
"Yes," he whispers tearfully. One single tear rolls down his cheek. You freeze, pen slipping from your hand, stomach dropping. You reach for it instinctively—but Hans raises his hand. You sit straighter, trembling. Your first field assignment is already a lesson you do not wish to repeat.
"Point out to me the areas of where they're hiding."
With his pipe, LaPadite indicates the exact spot. Your eyes widen. They are right beneath you.
Hans studies the location calmly, then stands and walks over, gesturing silently. LaPadite nods, sobbing softly.
"I'm guessing they don't speak English, or they would have torn the floorboards apart if they knew," Hans says lightly.
"No, they don't," LaPadite replies.
Hans shifts back to French. "The both of you follow my lead." You nod mechanically.
Milk is brought to the table. Hans sips slowly, deliberately, savoring it. Then he turns to you. "Have you no manners?"
You startle. "Uh... merci, Monsieur, for the milk," you manage, voice quivering. Your cup remains full.
"Wise," he murmurs.
Hans moves toward the door, signaling the men to enter. Heavy boots thud against the creaking wood as soldiers move in. He grabs your arm, guiding you outside the house. You stumble slightly, heart hammering. He ushers you toward the car with a tilt of his chin. "We shan't bother your family any longer. So, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, I bid you... adieu."
Gunfire erupts. You scream. Your body reacts before your mind can process, dropping to the ground instinctively. The sound is relentless, echoing in the small farmhouse and your chest alike. When it stops, you shakily rise, helped to the car by one of the drivers.
"Are you alright, Miss?" he asks in German. You shake your head.
"First time?" he jokes, and you can do nothing but stare in shocked silence as he releases your arm.
From the farmhouse, Hans calls faintly, "Au revoir, Shosanna!" again, the name hanging in the cold air. You realize that one of the Dreyfus children has escaped. Your stomach twists at the realization. Hans adjusts his hat, signaling for the men to resume their positions.
The car rides back in oppressive silence. You clutch your notebook to your chest. Gunfire, screams, and the memory of the floorboards beneath you hammer in your mind. Hans does not glance at you once.
Finally, he speaks, cold and clipped, "If you are to be my assistant, I do not want you weak and slow. Get a grip."
His eyes close, pipe resting lightly against his lips, as though hunting and orchestrating terror is exhausting in a way only he can endure. You grip your side, black leather jacket clinging to you, feeling the cold, realizing with chilling clarity that everything you studied—law, morality, rules—ended beneath the floorboards of that farmhouse.
You have survived, but you understand now: the world is far darker than you ever imagined.
The work goes on as it always has, meticulous and unforgiving, yet something unspoken between you and Hans Landa has shifted—subtle, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
( I don’t support anything in the movie whatsoever,this is just a hans landa fan fic because I have an insane obsession with Christoph waltz. )
YOU HAD NOT meant to grow into yourself.
It just... happened. Somewhere between your first field assignment and the quiet accumulation of years, the girl who apologized to furniture and tripped over nothing learned how to stand still in rooms where men measured power with their silence. You learned when to speak, when to write, when to watch. Your clumsiness dulled at the edges, smoothed into something almost charming rather than disastrous. Almost.
You were still you—still capable of bumping into doors, still occasionally losing your gloves only to find them already on your hands—but there was something different now. Sharper. More deliberate. Your nose had lengthened elegantly, your jaw had decided to exist with conviction, and your eyes had learned how to hold a gaze for one extra second longer than comfort allowed. You dressed differently too. The dainty skirts and soft cardigans had vanished quietly from your wardrobe, replaced by leather, structure, darker colors. Burgundy jackets. Polished boots. Lip color deep enough to be taken seriously.
Hans Landa had never commented.
Which, somehow, felt like approval.
The car smells faintly of leather, tobacco, and oil. Klaus drives with the bored competence of a man who has ferried too many officers through too many cities to care anymore. The window beside you is cracked open, cold air slipping in, carrying the sound of Paris outside—distant traffic, voices, life pretending not to notice uniforms.
Dieter Hellstrom sits beside you.
And you are painfully, acutely aware of it.
You keep your gloved hands folded together in your lap like they might betray you if left unsupervised. Dieter leans back casually, one arm resting against the door, cigarette balanced between his fingers. Smoke curls lazily around his face, catching in the sharp angles of his features. The black coat draped over his shoulders makes his eyes look almost unfairly light, his hair impossibly dark. He has that presence—the kind that fills space without effort.
The office girls were right. He is the most handsome man in the building.
You steal a glance. Then another. You tell yourself it's observational. Professional. Entirely normal.
It is not.
You've watched him work with Hans countless times—cool, precise, efficient—but you've never been this close, never felt the gravity of him this clearly. You wonder, briefly, if he knows. You hope, desperately, that he doesn't.
The car slows.
"We're here," Klaus says flatly.
The cinema looms ahead, all posters and painted letters and quiet defiance. Klaus exits first, moving to open the door. Dieter steps out smoothly, like the ground arranged itself properly beneath his boots. Then he turns back to you and, to your absolute horror, offers his hand.
You hesitate for half a second too long.
He smiles—soft, almost saccharine.
You take it.
Immediately, your head collides with the roof of the car.
"Ow," you mumble, clutching your forehead.
Klaus snorts before he can stop himself, then immediately turns away, stomping a foot like he's suddenly very interested in the pavement. Dieter snaps his head toward him sharply.
"Klaus."
Silence.
Dieter turns back to you, concern genuine, eyes scanning your face. "Fräulein, are you alright?"
You nod quickly, mortified. "Y—yes. I am."
He looks like he wants to say something else. Instead, he releases your hand reluctantly, and the three of you walk toward the cinema.
A woman stands on a ladder, changing the film titles. Blonde hair pinned up, sleeves rolled. Klaus glances at the file in your hand, then back at her.
"She has blonde hair," he mutters. "That's the description of the owner I got."
You swallow, straighten your posture, and step forward first. Dieter watches you with mild surprise.
"Oh—um," you begin, switching into careful French. "Excusez-moi. Are you Mademoiselle Emmanuelle Mimieux?"
The woman pauses, looks down at you with furrowed brows. "Yes."
You nod politely. "If you wouldn't mind coming down, please. We have some business to discuss."
She looks at you. Then at Dieter. Then at Klaus, both standing with their hands clasped behind their backs, uniforms immaculate.
She exhales sharply and climbs down.
"What business?" she asks coolly.
Before you can respond, Dieter steps forward.
"Get your ass in the car."
You freeze.
You turn to him, shock and annoyance flaring simultaneously. You are certain this is about to go badly. You are certain she will refuse.
She doesn't.
She huffs, rolls her eyes, and gets into the car.
Your mouth opens slightly. What shocks you more—much more—is Dieter's hand landing lightly against her backside, a quick, dismissive pat meant to hurry her along. Something unpleasant curls in your chest, Dieter turns to you, utterly unfazed, and gestures. "After you."
He offers his hand again.
You take it, then let go far too quickly once you're seated, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how warm. Klaus shuts the door and returns to the driver's seat.
The car pulls away toward the café.
Your heart is still pounding.
And you haven't even arrived yet.
The café chosen for the meeting is not grand, not especially beautiful, but it is exclusive in the way men like Goebbels prefer—too small for the unimportant, too controlled for accidents. The tables are close together, the air thick with smoke and perfume and quiet ambition. The kind of place where voices are lowered instinctively and laughter feels rehearsed.
You sit beside Dieter Hellstrom.
Not across from him. Not politely distant. Beside. Close enough that your arm brushes his when he shifts, close enough that you can feel the warmth from his coat, smell tobacco and soap and something unmistakably him. You tell yourself this means nothing. You tell yourself proximity is circumstance. You tell yourself many things that do not help
Dieter sits comfortably, one arm draped along the back of your shared chair like it belongs there. He looks at ease in a way you envy—relaxed, confident, entirely aware of the effect he has on people. Every so often, he glances at you, subtle, quick, like he's checking whether you're still there.
You are.
Across the table, Joseph Goebbels speaks animatedly, hands cutting through the air as his assistant translates efficiently for Emmanuelle Mimieux and her superior. Emmanuelle sits straight-backed, composed, chin lifted just enough to appear unafraid. You watch her closely now—not as a subject, not as a potential threat, but as a woman navigating a room full of men who think they own the world.
The assistant—Goebbels’ ever-hovering shadow—asks about the cinema in the careful, precise tone of a woman whose job depends entirely on pleasing a man who is rarely pleased. Seating. Location. Accessibility. Emergency exits. The questions come one after another, clipped and efficient, as though she’s building a miniature empire out of floor plans and headcounts.
Emmanuelle answers politely, posture straight, hands folded in her lap. She does not fidget. You note this with mild admiration.
When the question of capacity arises, she hesitates only a fraction of a second before answering.
“Three hundred.”
The number drops onto the table like a poorly timed joke.
Goebbels’ expression curdles immediately. His lips purse, his brows knit together, and you can practically see the arithmetic racing behind his eyes—three hundred seats weighed against grandeur, propaganda, legacy. Three hundred is provincial. Three hundred is modest. Three hundred is, frankly, beneath him.
The atmosphere tightens.
You feel it in the way the air seems to pull inward, in the way conversations at nearby tables soften, in the way Emmanuelle’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. Goebbels is already dismissing the idea in his mind, filing it away under disappointing.
Then Frederick Zoller leans forward.
He does it casually, as though the conversation simply drifted in his direction rather than him seizing it outright. He looks every inch the hero the Reich has decided he is—uniform pristine, medals arranged just so, smile easy and practiced. And, notably, his eyes never leave Emmanuelle.
“Three hundred,” he repeats thoughtfully, “is exactly why it works.”
Goebbels turns, intrigued despite himself.
Zoller smiles, the kind of smile that knows it’s being watched. “It makes it selective.”
That does it.
Goebbels straightens slightly, interest sparked. Zoller continues smoothly, now fully in command of the room.
“Selective means important,” he says, glancing briefly at Emmanuelle—just enough to make the point personal—before returning his attention to Goebbels. “The best of the best. German officers. Leadership. Not French critics who believe themselves clever simply because they dislike what they’re shown.
Goebbels’ frown melts into something far more dangerous.
A smile.
“Yes,” he says slowly, savoring the thought. “Yes… exclusivity. Importance. Not everyone deserves a seat.”
You watch the idea settle in his mind, expand, reshape itself until it is no longer Zoller’s suggestion but Goebbels’ vision entirely. Emmanuelle exhales so quietly you might have imagined it.
You write everything down automatically—phrases, tone shifts, the exact moment the power dynamic changed—your pen moving faster than your thoughts. Beside you, Dieter leans back slightly and murmurs, almost fondly, “Smart boy.”
You glance at him.
He catches you mid-look and smirks, unapologetic.
At some point—when the tension has eased into something almost conversational—you reach for your cigarette case. You’re not entirely sure why. Nerves, perhaps. Or the foolish hope that doing something ordinary might ground you.
You flick your lighter.
Nothing.
You try again.
Still nothing, You give it a small shake, then flick it again. The metallic click is far too loud, echoing in the sudden, uncomfortable awareness that you exist. Conversations pause. Goebbels stops mid-sentence. Someone coughs.
You feel heat flood your face. Slowly—painfully—you slide the cigarette back into its case, as though careful movement might erase the moment. It does not.
Then—
Click. Flame. Warm and steady. You turn, eyes widening, to find Dieter holding his lighter out toward you, expression smug, brows lifted in silent victory.
He waits.
You stare at him for a long second—then deliberately close your cigarette case and turn away, refusing him the satisfaction. Instead, you fix your attention on the massive black poodle occupying its own chair beside you, belonging to Goebbels’ translator. The dog pants happily, tongue lolling, entirely unconcerned with power plays, propaganda, or social catastrophe.
You sigh.
“Traitor,” you mutter to the dog, Its tail thumps against the chair. Dieter chuckles quietly behind you.
Then—
“Ah! Landa!” Goebbels’ voice rings out across the café.
You are on your feet instantly, So is Dieter. So is Zoller. And just like that, humor gives way to attention, and the room snaps back into order.
Hands snap up in perfect salute, movements sharp and perfectly synchronized. Hans Landa stands just behind Emmanuelle, impeccably dressed, his posture relaxed, his expression warmly pleasant—as though he has wandered into a garden party rather than the center of carefully balanced power.
His eyes sweep the table, quick and precise, and then they land on you.
For the briefest moment, he pauses.
It is almost imperceptible—no one else would notice it—but you do. His gaze shifts, sharpens, and you feel it like a blade drawn just slightly from its sheath. He sees Dieter at your side, close, familiar, too comfortable. Something flickers behind his smile.
Hans has noticed it before. In meetings where your attention should have been absolute. In the corridor outside his office, when he stopped by your desk and found you distracted, your focus pulled just a fraction too far from him. It had irritated him then, that lapse—small, but unacceptable.
Now he understands why.
Hellstrom.
The realization settles behind his eyes, cool and controlled, and whatever amusement had rested there thins into something far more deliberate. His smile does not change—but something beneath it hardens. Possession, calculation, and quiet displeasure coil together as he files the observation away.
Distractions are dangerous.
And Hans Landa does not like sharing what he considers his.
Emmanuelle looks... winded. As though she didn't hear him approach. As though she felt him before she saw him. Her breath comes shallow, fingers hovering uselessly near the edge of the table, caught between instinct and instruction. You notice it immediately—how her shoulders tense, how her eyes flicker just slightly to the side before she dares to turn. You watch Hans closely then, because watching people is what you have learned to do best. His smile is polite. Warm. Immaculately placed. And never, ever empty. There is always something working beneath it, something measuring distance and weakness and opportunity all at once.
Goebbels announces—loudly, distractedly—that he has another meeting. He is already bored, already satisfied with the decisions made, the praise implied. Chairs scrape back against the café floor. The table erupts into movement. Men rise, uniforms brushing, voices overlapping. Emmanuelle begins to stand with the others, relief flashing across her face just for a second—Hans' hand settles on her shoulder.
Not firm. Not aggressive. No force at all, really. Just enough. Enough to stop her. Enough to remind her where she is. Where she sits in the order of things.
"Mademoiselle," he says calmly, pleasantly, as though he is offering her a kindness, "if you wouldn't mind staying a moment. I have a few questions. As head of security, of course."
She freezes completely, caught halfway between standing and sitting, breath trapped somewhere high in her chest. Around you, the others begin to filter away. Zoller presses a kiss to Emmanuelle's hand, lingering just a second too long, eyes soft, hopeful, foolishly brave. Dieter passes behind you, and before he goes, he gives you a smile—slow, knowing, just a little smug. You roll your eyes playfully in response, the smallest rebellion, one corner of your mouth lifting despite yourself. You feel lighter for half a heartbeat.
Hans snaps his fingers.
Sharp. Precise
Right in front of your face.
Your head jerks up, lips parting in surprise as you meet his eyes. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't frown. He simply points—two fingers, controlled and unmistakable—to the chair beside him. The one closer. The one you know better than to hesitate over. Heat crawls up your neck as you quickly gather your notebook and pen, muttering a quiet apology as you change seats. The moment you sit, his attention shifts away again, as though you have been corrected and filed back into place.
Then you are alone. Truly alone. Just the three of you at the table now—Hans, Emmanuelle, and you.
You move automatically, settling just behind and slightly beside him, posture straight, notebook open. Hans gives you a subtle nod of approval, the smallest acknowledgment, and signals a waiter over with an elegant flick of his hand. "Three strudels," he says pleasantly. "One cup of milk. And for my assistant—an espresso." Your shoulders loosen despite yourself, tension draining just a little. He always remembers. Every time. As if your preferences are another detail he has committed to memory, another piece of you catalogued and kept.
You grow comfortable again, slipping back into the familiar rhythm. Pen moving. Pages filling. You write as Hans asks his questions—about the cinema, the layout, entrances and exits, staff schedules, seating arrangements. His tone is conversational, almost indulgent. Emmanuelle answers carefully. Too carefully. Her words come measured, rehearsed, her eyes darting just enough to betray the effort it takes to remain composed. You note everything. Every pause. Every shift in tone. Every place where her answers are just a fraction too neat.
Then his voice changes.
It is subtle, but you recognize it now. The warmth sharpens. The softness gains an edge. The questions become narrower, more precise. The air tightens. This is the hunt. You feel it settle over the table like a held breath. Hans tilts his head, smiling wider, and suddenly asks, "Milk?" Emmanuelle hesitates. Declines. You write it down without thinking, pen scratching faster. Hans lifts his own glass and takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving her face, watching the reaction ripple through her despite her composure.
Time stretches. The café fades. Your hand aches, fingers stiff, but you keep writing until the page is full and then turn to the next. There is only tension now—predator and prey circling politely, civilly, deadly calm beneath it all. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel Dieter's absence like a physical thing, like a warmth removed from the room, and the thought irritates you for reasons you refuse to examine.
When it finally ends—when Hans stands, satisfied, conclusions drawn and filed away—you close your notebook with a soft snap. The sound feels final. Heavy. Another lesson learned. Another line crossed. Another quiet step deeper into a world you no longer pretend you don't understand.
And the most unsettling realization of all settles into you as you rise beside him, composed, efficient, unflinching—
You are no longer just surviving it.
You are adapting.
THE CINEMA SMELLED of old velvet, polished wood, and a faint trace of tobacco smoke that seemed to have soaked into the walls over decades. You followed the group inside, notebook at the ready, pen poised like a weapon, and Dieter at your side. The crowd was small—just you, Hans, Goebbels, his assistant who scurried with precision and too much ink in his pen, Frederick Zoller, Klaus the driver, and the dog—the enormous black poodle that seemed to regard everything with an almost human level of disdain. Even the animal was dressed in authority tonight, perched carefully in its chair, tail twitching as though it judged you all silently.
You slipped into the seat beside Dieter, letting your coat brush against his arm as he offered you a cigarette with a subtle smirk. You took it with a small smile, letting the warmth of the smoke calm the little knot of nerves that always seemed to appear in moments like this. Hans had already chosen his seat, the one that put him slightly ahead of the row, cigar in hand, cigarette dangling effortlessly between his fingers as he scowled at the blank screen. You sat between him and Dieter, the weight of the evening pressing down in a way that was both exhilarating and quietly terrifying. Hans' presence was like gravity: impossible to ignore, impossible to defy.
You reached for his bag—the small leather satchel you had learned to carry for him on trips like this, filled with pens, notebooks, lighters, small odds and ends, all meticulously packed for the man who liked to be prepared for every possibility. Your fingers hovered over his lighter. You had practiced the motion countless times: lift, spark, light. It was a small ritual, one that made you feel like you were helping, like you were part of the invisible machinery behind his perfection. You flicked it once, ready to bring flame to his cigarette, and—
Hans snatched it from your hand.
Fast. Smooth. Frustratingly precise.
He lit his cigarette himself, the tip glowing a quiet orange, and then, almost carelessly, he dropped it onto your lap. The sudden weight and warmth made you jerk back, eyes wide, unsure if you were meant to be angry, embarrassed, or both. Dieter glanced at you from the corner of his eye, amusement flickering across his features, but Fredrick noticed too and leaned slightly, curious. Hans' head snapped around, sharp as a blade, and you froze. He noticed them, the looks, the minor betrayals of attention, and the corners of his mouth tilted ever so slightly—but no forgiveness, no warmth, only the cold precision of a predator noting its territory.
You crossed your arms, the motion defensive, self-conscious, yet unwilling to give him the satisfaction of retreat. Dieter, reading your mood perfectly, leaned over slightly and offered you another cigarette with a small, conspiratorial smile. You took it, relief flooding your chest, allowing yourself a tiny spark of comfort in the otherwise controlled chaos of the room. Hans remained silent, unyielding, gripping his cigarette a fraction tighter and narrowing his eyes at the screen, completely absorbed in a boredom that felt dangerous. You resisted the urge to glance at him, instead leaning into conversation with Dieter and Frederick, whispering just enough to feel connected without drawing his attention. Frederick, kind and aware, invited you into the dialogue with a laugh, a crack in the tension that allowed you to breathe, even for a moment.
The movie began. A random German production, nothing special, yet you found yourself swept up in the small, absurd humor of it—the clumsy actors, the exaggerated gestures, the overly dramatic love scenes. You scribbled notes for Hans nonetheless, detailing the screen, seating, lighting, acoustics, as though any detail could be the difference between success and disaster. Dieter smoked beside you, casual, confident, glancing at the screen just often enough to comment quietly, making you chuckle softly without meaning to. Frederick leaned back, arms crossed, cigarette smoldering lazily in his fingers, occasionally nudging a small joke into the space between you, and you felt... at ease, if only momentarily.
When the movie ended, the group rose as one. Goebbels' assistant began scrawling notes furiously, detailing changes he felt necessary for premiere night—lighting, screen angle, seating arrangement, barriers. Hans and you remained seated just a beat longer, observing the room. You felt the faint hum of anticipation, the quiet thrill of being part of the machinery behind something much larger than yourself.
The group began a tour of the cinema, walking aisle by aisle, discussing where Goebbels might place banners, lighting, security checkpoints. You followed quietly, notebook in hand, capturing every suggestion, every subtle instruction. Hans walked ahead, silent, precise, already calculating contingencies and exit routes. You fell naturally into your place, observing, recording, learning. Dieter paused near the concession stand, turning to you with a small grin. You matched him step for step as he walked alongside, shoulders brushing, the faint warmth of shared proximity settling across you like a blanket.
"So," Dieter asked quietly, voice teasing, "did you enjoy the movie?"
"Yes," you laughed, louder than you intended, "it was quite funny. I especially liked the part where Frederick was copying the actor—he was ridiculous."
Hans' head turned sharply, annoyed, catching your voice despite the chatter around him. He hadn't noticed you walking behind everyone else earlier, and now he did. The way you trailed the group, head down, notebook in hand, small smile barely visible—he found it irritatingly deliberate. You looked like a kicked puppy, meek and obedient, and yet, somehow, impossible to ignore.
"Come over here," Hans said, voice low, sharp, his brows furrowed. The annoyance in his tone was unmistakable. "This is important stuff for you to be taking notes on. I'm sure you don't want to disappoint Goebbels by missing anything, especially security. Leave Sergeant Hellstrom alone." His words were clipped, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. You froze for only a heartbeat, then snapped to attention, flipping your notebook open as you hurried forward, Dieter watching with an unreadable expression—you could feel the heat in his eyes as he knew better than to intervene, knowing full well the consequences if he did.
Goebbels and his assistant stared at you as you crouched slightly to gather your notes, pen poised, taking in every instruction he repeated, making sure not a word was missed. You scribbled furiously, aware that Hans' gaze was nearly burning a hole in your shoulder, and the weight of responsibility settled firmly on your shoulders. Dieter's presence beside you, quiet and patient, was the only tether to normalcy as the room buzzed around you with authority, instructions, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke.
By the time you were done, the cinema felt less like a building and more like a battlefield, a place where every seat, every light, every breath could be calculated, cataloged, and commanded. You had survived the chaos of personalities, power, and protocol once again—and in that moment, you knew, somewhere deep, that this was no longer just observation. This was participation. And like it or not, you were in the center of it all.
( I don’t support anything in the movie whatsoever,this is just a hans landa fan fic because I have an insane obsession with Christoph waltz. )
BY THE TIME SHE slows, it isn't because she's safe.
It's because her body finally refuses to obey her.
Her lungs burn as if lined with glass, every breath scraping and shallow, ribs aching with each pull of air. Mud cakes the hems of her trousers, dries stiff along her boots. Her hair—once pinned, once neat—is half loose, clinging to her face with sweat and tears she doesn't remember shedding. Somewhere along the way she lost a glove. She can't remember when. She only remembers running—through alleys that smelled of rot and beer, over uneven ground that caught her ankles, past darkened windows that watched without seeing. Running until Nadine thinned behind her, until the road stretched too long and too quiet and the world felt terrifyingly open.
When she finally slows to a walk, it is with the lurching, hollow feeling of someone emptied out.
Her thoughts come in fragments now, jagged and unkind.
Bridget von Hammersmark.
The name surfaces again and again, refusing to stay buried. Bridget—laughing, adored, glowing under the weight of male attention. Bridget who was supposed to be far away, untouchable, protected by fame and scripts and applause. What was she doing in a basement tavern? Why there? Why with soldiers? Why with him, Because it wasn't just Bridget.
It was the strange captain.
She sees him now with unnerving clarity—the way he held his glass, a fraction too stiff, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes. His accent. Not wrong enough to be obvious. Not right enough to be invisible. It had pricked at her, an irritation she'd brushed aside in favor of Dieter's presence, the warmth of his shoulder beside hers, the comfort of routine danger rather than new suspicion.
Piz Palü.
The mountain.
She grimaces, a humorless sound escaping her throat. Of course. Of course it had been wrong. She had written down accents for years, catalogued them, learned to hear what others missed. And yet she had let herself be distracted. Let herself believe the night could be normal.
And then there was Hugo.
The thought of him makes her stomach twist.
Hugo Stiglitz—whose file she had read once, twice, three times. Hugo Stiglitz—who was supposed to be dead or imprisoned or erased entirely from polite conversation. Hugo Stiglitz—who should never have been sitting at that table, grinning like a wolf in borrowed skin.
She slows to a stop, hands braced on her knees, dry-heaving though there's nothing left in her stomach to give. The realization settles like ice in her veins.
He was supposed to be in prison.
Unless—
Unless someone had let him out.
Unless someone had needed him.
The pieces don't fit neatly yet, but she feels the shape of the truth pressing in from all sides, heavy and inevitable. British officers pretending to be Germans. An actress playing at treason. A tavern full of soldiers. A Gestapo officer who had seen too much and smiled anyway. A nod that sent her to safety while the rest stayed behind.
Dieter.
The name hits harder than the rest.
Her chest tightens painfully as she straightens and forces herself forward again, steps unsteady but determined. She doesn't allow herself to think of his face at the table, of the way his eyes had sharpened just before everything fell apart. She doesn't allow herself to imagine the gunfire reaching him. Survival demands cruelty now—even to her own heart.
By the time Paris rises in front of you again, you are no longer running so much as moving out of pure refusal to stop. Your legs feel hollow, your lungs burn with a dull, persistent ache, and every breath rattles like it has to scrape its way out of your chest. Two hours of blind flight, then another hour of walking—slower, staggering, guided more by muscle memory than intention—has stripped you down to something raw and trembling. The village of Nadine is far behind you now, swallowed by distance and night, but it hasn't released you. It clings. The sound of gunfire still echoes faintly in your skull, not loud anymore, just constant, like a wound that won't stop whispering.
You keep seeing the table.
The angle of Dieter's shoulders when he stood. The way he closed his book. That look in his eyes—focused, alert, already too late. You tell yourself, over and over, that he was trained for this. That he knew what he was doing. That men like Dieter Hellstrom don't simply die in basements. But the thought feels thin, brittle. You don't believe it, not really. Every time your foot strikes the pavement, your chest tightens again, and you wonder if the last thing he saw was chaos, or if he had time—just a second—to think of you.
Bridget's face flashes in your mind, incongruous and bright, laughing under low light. Why was she there? Why that tavern, on that night? You hadn't understood it then, but now confusion curdles into something colder. And Hugo—Hugo Stiglitz—surfaces next, ugly and unmistakable. You remember his name too clearly now, remember files, remember whispers. He was supposed to be in prison. Dead, some said. Or broken enough not to matter. And yet there he was, breathing, drinking, sitting close enough to touch. The stranger captain with the strange accent follows, his voice replaying in your head until you want to scream. It all tangles together, a puzzle snapping into a shape you're too afraid to look at directly.
By the time you recognize the street, you are shaking.
Not from the cold—not entirely—but from the realization that you know exactly where you are going. You hadn't planned it. You hadn't allowed yourself to name it. But your feet have chosen already. Your apartment feels impossibly small in your mind now, thin walls and thinner locks, a place where footsteps might echo too loudly, where shadows could move when you aren't looking. There is only one place in Paris that feels untouchable, insulated from questions and sudden knocks. One door no one would ever think to look behind for you.
Hans Landa's.
The penthouse rises above you like something unreal, all clean lines and guarded opulence. You hesitate only once, staring at your reflection in the glass—hair tangled, coat ruined, face streaked with dirt and dried tears. You look feral. Broken. But you don't turn away.
Jerry sees you immediately.
His reaction is instantaneous and unguarded, a sharp intake of breath that turns into a soft, horrified sound in his throat. His kind eyes widen, scanning you from head to toe as if trying to understand how something so wrong ended up standing in his orderly lobby.
"Miss—" he starts, already reaching for the phone.
You don't have to ask. He's dialing before you can speak.
The wait feels endless. Your knees threaten to give out where you stand, and you grip the edge of the desk to stay upright, the polished wood cold beneath your palms. When the elevator finally opens, you almost don't recognize Hans at first—not because he looks different, but because he's moving too fast. The usual careful pace is gone. His eyes lock onto you and widen, something raw breaking through his composure as he crosses the distance in seconds.
His coat is around you immediately, arms following, firm and encompassing. The smell of him—familiar, grounding—hits you all at once, and your body reacts before your mind does. You sag into him, fingers clutching at his jacket as if he's the only solid thing left in the world.
"My God," he breathes, half to himself. He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't hesitate. He turns you toward the elevator, one arm still wrapped tightly around you, guiding you with quiet urgency. Upstairs, doors open, commands are given. Helen appears, startled and alert, and Hans's voice cuts through the space with controlled sharpness—tea, clothes, the guest room, now.
"Helen," he calls. "Tea. Immediately. And clothes. Warm ones. Prepare the guest room."
The maid barely has time to nod before he's already moving again, ushering you deeper into the apartment. The penthouse is dimly lit, lamps casting pools of amber across dark wood and stone. A Persian rug stretches beneath your feet, thick and impossibly soft, and the sitting room feels unreal in its calm—plush couches, heavy curtains, the city's chaos shut firmly outside.
Hans guides you down onto the couch, sitting beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knee brushes his thigh, close enough that the warmth of him begins to seep into your bones.
For a moment—just a moment—you almost forget.
The quiet. The warmth. The steadiness of his presence. It all conspires to make the past four hours feel distant, unreal, like something that happened to someone else.Then your hands start to shake. The image of Dieter flashes through your mind—his smile, his nod, the way he'd watched you leave. The gunfire follows immediately after, loud and merciless.
Your breath breaks.
Hans barely has time to react before you fold into him, a sound tearing out of your chest that you don't recognize as your own. You clutch at his coat, fingers digging into fabric as if he's the only thing anchoring you to the room.
You sob into his arms, words spilling out between gasps, unfiltered and frantic.
"Th-the both of us went to a tavern—o-or a bar—it was underground," you choke. "I just wanted—God, I just wanted a drink, I wanted one night to feel normal—"
His arms tighten around you, one hand steady at your shoulder, the other smoothing slowly, methodically down your back. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't rush you.
"Bridget," you continue, voice rising with disbelief and something close to hysteria. "The actress—Bridget von Hammersmark—she was there. She was there, like it was nothing, like she belonged—"
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright and wet, accusation spilling out as if she might materialize in the room at any second.
"She was laughing," you say. "Celebrating. As if she wasn't—she wasn't betraying us. As if none of it mattered."
The absurdity of it almost makes you laugh, a broken sound caught halfway in your throat. Germany's darling star, drinking in a basement tavern with soldiers and strangers, smiling like the world wasn't burning underneath her feet.
Hans lifts a brow slightly—not in disbelief, but in calculation. His gaze sharpens, the warmth in his posture never leaving even as his mind clearly shifts into motion. He files the name away instantly. Bridget von Hammersmark does not surprise him.
"Continue," he says softly.
So you do.
You tell him about the strange captain, about the accent that didn't sit right once you thought about it. About Hugo—how seeing him there made your stomach drop because he was supposed to be in prison, wasn't he? Or dead? You don't know anymore. You tell him about Dieter's nod, about leaving the table, about the bathroom and the gunfire and the way the world ended behind a wooden door.
And when you finally whisper, brokenly, "Dieter didn't come out," your voice collapses entirely.
Hans's jaw tightens—not visibly, but enough that you feel it beneath your cheek. His hand stills at your back for just a second before resuming its slow, grounding motion.
You don't see his expression.
You don't see the cold clarity settling behind his eyes, the way the pieces are already aligning in his mind—Bridget, the British accent, the tavern, the massacre, your escape.
You don't remember standing. Only being guided. Warm water. Clean clothes. Silence that doesn't feel hostile.
When you leave the guest room, it's because being alone feels unbearable.
The music draws you again. The record—old, slow, intimate—fills the air like a pulse. You find Hans in his bedroom, cigarette glowing softly in the dim. When he looks up and sees you there, freshly washed but still fragile, something unreadable passes over his face.
He gestures to the bed, not with urgency, not with expectation—just an open invitation, quiet and steady. You sit first, carefully, as if afraid the wrong movement might shatter what little balance you've managed to regain. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and forgiving, and when you finally lie back, it is only just enough to bring you close to him. Close enough to feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric between you. Close enough to sense his breathing, slow and measured, as though he is deliberately keeping it that way for you.
The record swells in the background, the voices braided together in a way that feels almost intimate in itself, the rhythm low and steady. It beats against your chest, not loudly, but insistently, like a second heart reminding you that you are still here, still alive. Your thoughts blur at the edges, exhaustion pulling at you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you shift—just slightly—toward him. The movement is unconscious, instinctive, your body seeking warmth the way it might seek air.
He does not hesitate.
The arm that comes around you is sure, practiced in its confidence, settling across your shoulders with a weight that feels protective rather than possessive. His hand rests where your arm meets your chest, thumb brushing once, almost absentmindedly, as if grounding both of you in the moment. When his lips press to your forehead, it is not a kiss meant to lead anywhere. It is something gentler, something older—an act of reassurance. He lingers there, breathing you in, as though memorizing the simple fact of you: warm, real, breathing beneath his touch.
You feel his gaze before you see it. When you tilt your head slightly, your eyes meet his, and for a long moment neither of you moves. His expression is stripped of calculation now, softened by concern and something deeper, something dangerously human. He searches your face with quiet patience, as if asking a question without words, waiting for you to decide what you need.
You answer by closing the distance.
The kiss is slow, almost tentative at first, as though both of you are acutely aware of how fragile this moment is. It carries the weight of everything you haven't said—fear, relief, grief, gratitude—folded together into something that feels necessary. His mouth is warm, steady, anchoring you as your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, fingers gripping just enough to remind yourself that he is real too.
It deepens naturally, not rushed, not demanding. He holds you closer, firm and unyielding in a way that feels like a promise rather than a claim. The world outside his bedroom—the tavern, the gunfire, the village—fades until there is only this: the music, the warmth, the solid certainty of his presence.
Somewhere in the quiet that follows, you realize your body has stopped trembling. The tension you didn't even know you were holding begins to ease, inch by inch, as if his arms are drawing the fear out of you simply by holding you there.
For the first time since Nadine, you feel safe enough to rest.
( I don’t support anything in the movie whatsoever,this is just a hans landa fan fic because I have an insane obsession with Christoph waltz. )
Morning arrives without ceremony.
It does not announce itself with light or sound so much as with a gradual easing of the dark. The heavy curtains mute the dawn, turning it into something soft and gray, and for a long while you are not sure where you are. Your body feels warm—too warm for your narrow apartment, too still for a place where you usually wake with one ear listening for the world outside.
Then you breathe in.
Tobacco, faint and clean. Soap. Something sharper beneath it—ink, perhaps, or leather. The scent pulls memory back into place gently, like hands fitting a puzzle together without forcing it.
You lie very still.
The bed is large, the sheets cool where they are not touched by you, and beside you there is weight—solid, unmistakable. Hans sleeps on his back, one arm bent above his head, the other resting loosely near your waist as though he fell asleep halfway through guarding you and simply forgot to let go. His face, unguarded by intent or attention, looks younger in sleep. The lines that usually sharpen his expression are softened, his mouth relaxed, his breathing even and quiet.
You watch him for longer than you mean to.
There is something disarming about seeing him like this, stripped of authority and precision. No watchful eyes. No calculating pauses. Just a man, asleep, sharing space with you in a way that still feels unreal.
Carefully—so carefully—you shift, testing whether he will wake. He does not. His hand tightens slightly at your movement, not enough to stop you, just enough to acknowledge your presence even in sleep. The gesture sends a strange warmth through you, equal parts comfort and disbelief.
Your body aches now that the adrenaline has fully drained away. Your legs are sore from running, your shoulders tight from hours of tension, your head heavy with exhaustion. And beneath it all, a dull, persistent grief presses at your ribs. Dieter's smile flashes in your mind uninvited—easy, teasing, alive. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, willing the ache back down before it can reach your throat.
You don't want to cry again. Not yet. Not here.
The room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city waking somewhere far below. A car passes. Somewhere, a door closes. Life continues, indifferent and steady.
Eventually, Hans stirs.
It is subtle at first: a shift of breath, a faint furrow between his brows. His eyes open slowly, unfocused, then sharpen the moment he realizes you are still there. For a fraction of a second, something like relief crosses his face before it is replaced by calm attentiveness.
"Good morning," he says quietly, his voice low with sleep.
You nod, unsure whether you trust your voice yet.
"How do you feel?" he asks, turning his head toward you fully now.
"Tired," you answer honestly. "But... better."
He studies you, not intrusively, just enough to be certain you are still intact. His hand moves—slow, deliberate—to rest over yours atop the sheets. The contact is grounding, reassuring in its simplicity.
"You slept," he says. It is not a question.
"I think I passed out," you admit, the corner of your mouth lifting faintly.
That earns the smallest hint of a smile from him.
For a while, neither of you speaks. There is no urgency pressing in, no immediate role to step back into. The quiet feels earned, almost fragile, and neither of you seems willing to be the first to break it.
Eventually, he exhales and shifts slightly, careful not to disturb you too much. "Helen will bring breakfast soon," he says. "Nothing demanding. Tea. Bread. Something warm."
You nod again, grateful for the normalcy of it.
As the morning light slowly strengthens behind the curtains, you realize something quietly astonishing: the fear that drove you through the night has dulled. Not vanished—but softened. You are still mourning, still confused, still carrying the weight of what you escaped.
But you are here.
And for this moment, in this quiet room, that is enough.
Breakfast feels unreal.
The table is set neatly, almost ceremonially, as though the night before never happened. A pale morning light filters through the tall windows, softened by lace curtains that turn the city into a blur of white and gray. Steam rises gently from your tea. Toast sits untouched on your plate, butter already melting into the bread.
You find yourself watching him instead of your plate.
Hans sits across from you in a long-sleeved shirt rolled neatly at the forearms, the fabric soft with wear but pressed with obsessive care. His trousers are a deep, rich brown, the kind that looks almost golden where the morning light touches it, fitted perfectly to the long lines of his legs. Nothing about him is casual, yet nothing feels forced. He looks... settled.
The sun creeps through the window in thin ribbons, catching in his hair—gray threaded through brown, polished by age and discipline, shining faintly where it parts beneath his fingers when he absently brushes it back. His nose, prominent and unmistakable, bears the weight of his glasses effortlessly, as though they were made to rest there. They slide just low enough that he peers over them at the newspaper, eyes sharp, intent, moving with surgical precision across the page.
He eats with the same attention.
Knife and fork cut cleanly through his eggs, the sound crisp against porcelain. He chews thoughtfully, pausing to read, then to sip his coffee, then to underline something on the page with the faintest hum of approval. It's loud, a little inelegant, unapologetic—and somehow endearing. You don't think he's ever considered eating quietly in his life.
You should look away.
Instead, warmth blooms low in your chest, unexpected and unwelcome and entirely human. This version of him—shirt sleeves rolled, glasses tipped low, hair catching the light—feels dangerously soft. Not harmless. Never harmless. But real in a way you weren't prepared for.
You curl your fingers tighter around your teacup, afraid that if you speak, the moment will shatter.
Your appetite has vanished entirely. The plate in front of you feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else. The smell of eggs turns your stomach, and you curl your fingers around your teacup instead, grounding yourself in the warmth.
"I should get home," you say quietly.
The words barely exist in the air before his head snaps up.
"Home?" he repeats, disbelief sharp in his voice.
You nod faintly, eyes dropping to the table. "I—I don't think I should stay. I can manage."
"Fräulein," he says, incredulous now, folding the newspaper with a sharp snap. "You cannot go. Not after last night."
You look up.
"They know," he continues, leaning forward slightly. "Whoever survived knows that you did. You were there. That makes you a liability. They will come for you."
The sweetness in your chest collapses inward.
You bring a hand to your face, rubbing at your temple as the weight of it all crashes back down. Dieter's smile intrudes again, uninvited. His voice. His warmth beside you. The way he had looked at you—like you were something worth noticing.
The phone rings.
The sound is sharp, slicing through the room.
Helen appears at the doorway moments later, her expression carefully neutral. "Herr Standartenführer—Leon is on the line."
Hans rises immediately, already moving toward his office. "Thank you."
You sit frozen at the table, breakfast abandoned, tea cooling rapidly in your hands.
You hear only fragments of the conversation through the half-closed door.
Your stomach twists violently. Hans emerges moments later, face composed, voice controlled. "I'll be there shortly. Do not touch anything until I arrive."
The line clicks dead. He looks at you then.
"I'm sorry," he says calmly, too calmly. "I have to go. Leon and the others are at the tavern."
"No," you gasp, pushing back from the table so abruptly your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. "No—don't tell me anything. I don't want to hear it."
He lifts his hands placatingly. "You won't. I'll investigate. I'll sort it out. And when I have answers—then I'll tell you."
You nod numbly.
"For now," he adds, more gently, "you stay here. Keep a low profile. Don't leave."
He leads you into the living room, the radio humming softly, shelves of books lining the walls like silent witnesses. You pick one at random, though the words blur immediately. Your hands tremble.
He disappears briefly—then returns fully dressed
Uniform immaculate. Trench coat buttoned. Hat settled just right.
You look up—and your breath catches.
He fixes his hat in the mirror, adjusting it with practiced ease, then glances back at you. A small smile curves his mouth—not the predator's smile. Something softer. Familiar.
You've never seen him like this.
So calm. So unguarded. It feels almost... domestic. You in borrowed pajamas. Him preparing to leave for work. The radio murmuring quietly between you.
"I'll be back soon," he says lowly.
You only nod.
The door closes behind him with a final, gentle click.
And you are left alone—with your thoughts, the echo of last night, and the terrifying realization that the safest place in Paris now belongs to Hans Landa.
LA LOUISIANE GREET HIM like a room that has already given up its secrets.
Hans pauses at the bottom of the stairs, allowing the silence to settle around him. The air is stale, thick with the residue of smoke and panic, the kind that clings long after the living have fled. He does not rush. He never does. He lets his eyes travel slowly, deliberately, across overturned tables, shattered glass, chairs lying where men fell or were dragged. Violence, to Hans, is never chaos—it is a language. And this room is speaking loudly.
He steps forward at last, boots sounding too precise for a place like this.
His mind works ahead of his body, already assembling fragments: accents, pauses, glances that lingered a second too long. And then—unbidden, unwelcome—your voice slips into his thoughts, cracked with exhaustion and fear, whispering through tears.
A strange man... a captain... from the mountains... his accent was wrong.
Hans's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
He stops first at Hugo Stiglitz.
The man lies slumped inelegantly, stripped of the reputation that once preceded him like thunder. Hans studies him with cool interest, hands clasped behind his back. Stiglitz had been a myth once—a name spoken carefully, a cautionary tale whispered in barracks and prisons alike. Hans had admired him, in a way one admires a dangerous animal from a safe distance.
"And this," Hans murmurs softly, "is where legend ends."
He notes the wounds. The closeness of them. The rage. This was not strategy; it was personal. Stiglitz had not been eliminated—he had been answered.
Hans straightens, eyes already moving on.
Another body draws his attention. Neatly dressed. Unfamiliar face. Too clean in posture even in death. Hans crouches slightly, tilting his head as though listening for something the man might yet say.
"Who are you," Hans wonders aloud, voice almost gentle.
Leon steps closer. "No identification, sir. Accent was... German. Supposedly."
Hans hums. "Supposedly."
He straightens slowly, and now his thoughts sharpen, aligning with the memory of you standing in his living room hours earlier—mud on your shoes, tears streaking your face, voice breaking when you spoke of the table, of the laughter, of the moment something shifted.
A captain, you had said. From the mountains.
Hans looks down at the stranger again.
"German," he repeats quietly, tasting the word. "But not born of it."
He does not need confirmation. The cadence, the error, the audacity of it—it is all there, written plainly in the room. The man had learned German the way one learns music from paper, not from breath.
Hans exhales through his nose.
Then his gaze moves again.
And stops, Dieter Hellstrom lies sprawled across the central table.
For the first time since entering, Hans does not speak
He stands there longer than necessary, eyes tracing the outline of a man he had seen less than a day ago—alive, immaculate, irritatingly charming. Dieter had laughed easily, moved confidently, occupied space as though it belonged to him by birthright. He had been competent. Loyal. Predictable.
Now he is none of those things.
Hans steps closer.
The wounds tell their own story. Too many. Too deliberate. This was not about efficiency. This was about punishment. Someone had wanted Hellstrom to know he was dying. Someone had hated him enough to make time for it.
Hans feels something shift in his chest—not grief, not quite—but a tight, unfamiliar pressure.
"How strange," he says softly, almost to himself, "to see yesterday lying so still."
Leon watches him carefully now.
Hans straightens, smoothing his coat as though the gesture alone can restore order.
"He was not careless," Hans continues. "He was observant. Suspicious. Annoyingly so."
His eyes narrow.
"And yet he missed something."
Or someone.
Hans's thoughts circle back to you again—your shaking hands around a teacup, the way your voice faltered when you said Dieter's name, as though saying it aloud might make the truth real.
Hans turns away abruptly.
"Seal the village," he orders. "Every road. Every witness. I want accents catalogued, statements transcribed, timelines reconstructed."
"Yes, sir."
Hans takes one last look at the table.
At Dieter.
At the mistake that cost him everything.
Then he ascends the stairs without another word, already rebuilding the night piece by piece in his mind. The mountain accent. The unknown man. The arrogance required to sit among Germans and believe oneself invisible.
And you—running, surviving, remembering details that now sit at the center of everything.
Outside, the cold air greets him sharply. Hans adjusts his gloves, his expression settling back into something calm, controlled.
They have revealed themselves. They have killed his officer. And they have underestimated him, Hans steps into the car, already certain of one thing, The next time he sees you, he will listen even more closely.
Hi there, I'm Gray (or Sparrow)! I didn't really want the 'ao3' to be always at the end of my name, but I got the username and title mixed up when I was making the account, and here we are lol.
My Dragon Age inspired Rolan profile picture and banner were gifted in a secret Santa event by the talented and thoughtful @Owleeve.
I really enjoy writing Baldur's Gate 3 fanfic, especially based on Rolan, Cal, and Lia but most anyone really, especially NPCs (and, apparently, an unexpected redemption series featuring Rugan and Aradin that broke me).
I've loved finding so many friends and talented folks in the fandom, please feel welcome to connect 💛
[Fic list under cut]
Rolan, Cal, & Lia Multi-Chapter fics - Mature & Explicit
What if Rolan was a Companion. Complete. Mature Follows the game with Rolan as a companion and gn!Tav. Good ending.
What if Rolan was a Companion... and Everything Went Wrong. In progress, we're back baby! Companion piece to the above. The game with Rolan, angst, and pain. Bad ending.
The Elturian Prodigy - In progress, Explicit due to violence. A story of Rolan, Cal, and Lia, or 'What Baldur's Gate 3 looks like in my head'.
Rolan, Cal, & Lia One shots - General/Teen
A Perfectly Reasonable Exchange. General. Rolan and gn!Tav go on a romantic walk, then Cal and Lia ask how it went.
The Bet. General. Cal and Lia try to keep romantic liaisons secret from Rolan.
Distraction. General. Lia must distract Rolan and Cal so her lover can sneak away.
Our Turn. Teen and Up. Cal and Lia take care of Rolan after he defeats Lorroakan. Emotional hurt. Inspired by this art by @dreaminginpencil.
RolanxRugan Mature. Rugan wants a discount. Rolan wants release. They come to an agreement. Based on & inspired by ask by @jellyfitzjelly.
Rolan Lore / Head Canon - General
Rolan romantic line suggestion
Descent into Avernus / BG3 theme
Player-is-evil Rolan ending suggestion
Letters from Rolan
Auntie Ethel Vicious Mockery 1
Auntie Ethel Vicious Mockery 2
Rolan, Cal, and Lia react to Ramazith's Tower bathroom
Environment in Ramazith's Tower post-game
Ramazith's Tower post-game part 2
Rolan 'dating service video script'
Rolan's Hair
Cal's Hair
Cal post-game
Rolan Meets With a Therapist
The Northern Bastards - Aradin & Rugan - Explicit
Multi-Chapter
How To Keep a Man and Lose a Devil. Complete. Explicit sexual content. Aradin makes a deal with Raphael, Rugan and Aradin get a love story. Concept and title credit to @crowwolf. Follows Parts 1 - 10 listed below (One Night Stand to Ten Out of Ten).
Meet Me By The Trams. In progress. Explicit. A modern(ish) AU set in the North of England in the mid-2000s.
"One-Shots" (Basically a Multi-Chapter fic. It got out of hand.)
What if Aradin pushed Zevlor too far. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. ZevlorxAradin. Aradin is a piece of shit. Zevlor puts him in his place. Secret Santa.
A One Night Stand at The Blushing Mermaid. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. RuganxAradin. Rugan finds a way to shut Aradin up.
A Second Night Stand at The ElfSong Tavern. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. Aradin hasn't learned his lesson. In appreciation for @benicemurphy.
A Third Night Stand Under the Stars. Explicit sexual content, dubious consent. Aradin hits rock bottom. Rugan reluctantly tries to help him get his shit together. In appreciation for Merdyr.
Fourth Time's A Charm. Explicit sexual content. Rugan is tasked by the Zhent to kill Aradin. It doesn't quite go to plan. Requested by @fangbanger3000
Five Times Too Many. Explicit sexual content. Rugan and Aradin would've been best if they never met again. But they did. In appreciation for @lizziemajestic.
Six Times to Say Goodbye. Explicit sexual content. Rugan and Aradin meet for last time (lies). They've a few things to get sorted out. In appreciation of everyone's support.
Seven Times at Night, Once in the Morning. Explicit sexual content. Rugan and Aradin reconnect with actual mature conversation and sex. Rugan catches feels. In appreciation of Octoberskyies.
Eight Times to Get It Right. Explicit sexual content. There's a lot unsaid and unresolved. Time to say it and resolve it. In appreciation of @faerieologymajor and @vera-king-hrfl. Inspired by ideas from @fangbanger3000, @benicemurphy, and @lizziemajestic.
Nine Times to a Confession. Explicit sexual content. Time for love and making love. In appreciation of @forget-me-maybe and bepisfan69.
Ten Out of Ten. A Perfect Score / Too Good to Be True. Explicit sexual content, Major character death, Graphic depictions of violence. The End. In appreciation for @lemonsrosesandlavender, @theycallmeratt, and rolypoly.
At The Eleventh Hour. Explicit sexual content. Bonus mini chapter. Declarations of love. Finally. Inspired by @benicemurphy.
A Twelfth Night. Explicit sexual content. Aradin uses Speak With Dead.
Lucky Number Thirteen. Explicit sexual content. A Happy Ending.
The Bathhouse. Explicit sexual content. Modern AU spicy one-shot.
Love Confession Character Analysis (not explicit)
Brew, love? Rugan and Aradin drink some tea. Fluff, slice of life.
Oneshots with Other People's Tavs - Various Ratings
The Night at Last Light Inn. Explicit sexual content, Rolan and M!Tav, Nox, share a passionate night, belonging to and in collaboration with @bihanny.
Memories of Clover. Explicit sexual content, drama & romance with @azrielsbbg's F!Tav, Clover, winner of a Rolan fic giveaway.
Touch of The Tempest. Mature. Rolan tries to teach f!Tav, Nuelith, to control her magic, and triggers a terrifying loss of control. For Mandi.
A Wizard Keeps His Word. Mature. Atop the Elder Brain, Gale sacrifices himself for his lovers f!tav, Kira, and Astarion. For @callmesimplyflo.
Happily Ever After. General, Astarion and Ghost (m!Tav), in domestic bliss. Secret Santa for Eddie.
Despair. Deliberation. Defiance. Mature. The Dark Urge is confronted and comforted by Jay, f!Tav, after slaying a tiefling bard. For jayofthenorth.
Other Oneshots - Various Ratings
What if Lorroakan was Named Larry Pickle. Mature, Comedy with a lot of silliness and 4th wall breaks.
In Memory of Kanon. General, Kanon, no!
What if Kanon Lived: Canon, No. In progress, not published. An alternate timeline of the game in which, you guessed it, Kanon lived.
Commissioned and Gifted Art
Commissioned art for The Elturian Prodigy by Alvin Asiaten.
A favourite scene from the 'What if' fic, Lexindre drew this incredible piece from Chapter 36 as a birthday gift. <3
