Chapter Text
The ferry groaned against the waves like it knew it was carrying something dangerous. Aldo Raine gripped the railing, wind slapping his face, salt in his teeth, and stared at the silhouette of the island in the fog.
A mansion sat on a rise above the harbor, white and smug, its windows glowing faintly in the predawn gloom. Every detail whispered the wrong things: wealth, ease, victory. And at the very center of it — Hans Landa.
Aldo swore under his breath.
He’d been told: you’re being paired with Detective H. Landa. The words had burned into his brain like acid. Paired. With him.
A man could forgive betrayal in war, even enjoy it sometimes. But a man who had traded blood for comfort? That man deserved something else entirely.
Aldo’s boots thudded against the ferry deck as it docked. He stepped off without hesitation, duffel swinging. Gravel crunched underfoot, gulls screamed, the air smelled faintly of brine and pine.
And then he saw him.
Hans Landa stood at the top of the steps like he’d been carved there: hair a little longer now, swept to the side, the famous scar just barely hidden like a secret he enjoyed keeping. He wore a tailored coat and the biggest smile Aldo had seen since some idiot sergeant had found out about V-E Day early.
Hans raised his arm and waved, enthusiastic as a kid seeing a parade.
“Lieutenant Raine!” he called, voice bright and happy and absolutely unforgivable.
He imagined dynamite under foundations, imagined headlines, imagined finally cutting the string that tied the word HERO to the wrong goddamn man.
He inhaled, slow, through his nose.
“Orders,” he muttered. “Always the damn orders.”
He approached slowly.
Hans practically bounced down the steps to meet him. “You have heard, yes? We are partners! A case most fascinating—very dangerous men, very foolish plans. Ah, the intellectual pleasure of pursuit—”
“Shut up,” Aldo said, because the words came out before he could pretty them.
Hans blinked once, then smiled again, not offended in the least. “Of course. Briefing first, pleasantries later.”
Aldo walked past him without shaking his hand. Entering the mansion. Every marble surface said: this is what you get when you betray the right people at the right time.
“You look… irritated,” Hans observed lightly, following him inside.
“I look exactly like a man who just found out he’s gotta work with you,” Aldo said.
Hans tilted his head, hair slipping a little, scar glinting through. “Then I am flattered you hide it so poorly. That’s most appreciated, it shows you care—!.”
Aldo snorted, shaking his head. “Care? Goddammit, Landa, I don’t care. I wanna punch you in the throat and burn this whole damn house to the ground, that’s what I care about.”
Hans didn’t flinch. He only smiled a little wider, tilting his head in that infuriatingly serene way. “Ah… understandable,” he said softly. “Although I might have offered you a drink to… soothe your nerves. I must apologize for not preparing that before your arrival.”
Aldo stopped mid-step, jaw tightening. “Soothe my nerves? You—you don’t get to soothe anything, you… you polished son of a—” He caught himself, muttering under his breath ..
Hans’s hands rose slightly, palms open, as if warding off a storm. “Lieutenant, I assure you, no offense is taken. One cannot truly enjoy work without proper hydration, now can one?”
Aldo gritted his teeth, glaring at the man like he was a particularly smug stain on the floor. “Hydration, my ass. You look like you’re about to throw a damn tea party in the middle of a murder investigation!”
Hans chuckled softly, stepping aside as Aldo approached the table. “Well, I do try to maintain a pleasant atmosphere. But, of course, the work itself must take precedence.”
Hans moved to the sideboard, poured two glasses of something amber-hued, and set them neatly on the table. “Here,” he said, “a modest concession to endurance. Consider it… a tactical necessity.”
Aldo picked up the glass, stared at it like it had personally offended him, and set it back down. “Tactical necessity... I don’t drink with monsters.”
Hans’s lips curved in amusement. “I would hardly consider myself one—at least not in this context. But suit yourself.”
They turned back to the papers. Maps, photographs, and coordinates sprawled across the table, a web of old ambitions and fresh danger. Aldo reached for a photograph, slammed it down next to the map, and muttered, “Alright… let’s see what kind of trouble we’re dealin’ with.”
Hans leaned closer, hair slipping across the scar, and traced a line from one location to another. “Ah, yes. Here, the meeting point. And over here… the supply chain.”
Aldo snorted. “Supply chain? Christ, Landa, you make murder sound like a goddamn accounting problem.”
Hans only smiled faintly, perfectly calm. “Organization is key, Lieutenant. We cannot run a proper investigation otherwise.”
Aldo gritted his teeth and leaned over the maps, trying to focus on the red-circled locations and the scribbled coordinates. He tried, God help him, but his eyes kept wandering — inevitably, inexorably — to Hans.
His hair brushed slightly over the scar. His posture immaculate. His hands…
Aldo’s jaw practically locked.
He did his nails.
Faint, subtle, sheer polish catching the light as Hans tapped a photograph, tracing the edge of a building with a delicate finger. Aldo’s hands twitched at the table. He wanted to shove them into the glass, spill ink on the maps, anything to punish the audacity of a man who had waded through blood and now sat in a mansion doing detective work with manicured nails.
Aldo froze for a heartbeat, then slammed the chair back so hard it scraped against the floor. He stood, towering over the table, chest heaving, eyes locked on Hans’s immaculate hands.
“Jesus Christ, Landa… what the hell is that?” he barked, voice low and furious. “You actually… you did your nails? You—fucking—fag!”
Hans blinked once. Then, as always, he smiled — faint, unshakable, calm as a marble statue.
“Ah?” he said softly, tilting his head. “Well… it’s quite practical, really. I find my nails breaking easily, and—"
Aldo stared, jaw tight. Every muscle in him screamed. He wanted to punch, burn, throw, strangle — all at once. The absurdity, the arrogance, the effortless polish — it was too much.
Hans’s fingers flexed lightly over a map, the sheen catching the lamplight. “You see? Functional. Efficient. And… aesthetically pleasing, perhaps. But mostly functional.”
Aldo shouted, “FUNCTIONAL, MY ASS” He spun around, pacing a few steps, kicking the edge of a rug. “You’re sittin’ here, wearin’ that goddamn smile, fingernails polished, livin’ in a mansion, and you… you actually enjoy it! After everything!”
Aldo lunged, grabbing Hans by the collar and hauling him off the ground. His heels lifted almost immediately. Light. Far lighter than Aldo expected.
He shoved the carefully brushed hair aside, and the scar, the jagged swastika he had carved into the man’s forehead, caught the lamplight.
For a heartbeat, Aldo’s eyes locked on it, and in that instant, something flickered in Hans. A fraction of hesitation, a shadow of fear, the same look he’d worn in the forest back then, when Aldo had carved that mark.
It was quick, fleeting, almost imperceptible. But Aldo saw it. The mask cracked. Posture wavered. That infuriatingly polished calm threatened to falter.
Aldo’s grip loosened just slightly, letting Hans settle back onto the floor. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. The look on Hans’s face said enough: for one split second, the man who had haunted France had been human, just like everyone else.
Hans smoothed his hair back over the scar, lips twitching in that faint, practiced smile. “Remarkable strength, Lieutenant,” he said, voice light, almost teasing, but carrying the tiniest edge of… caution.
Aldo didn’t answer. He only leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You think that little mask of yours can hide everything?
Hans’s calm returned, though just barely, and he gestured toward the papers. “We have work to do. Danger doesn’t wait for… emotional clarity.”
Aldo snorted, bitter. “Emotional clarity, right. The only thing I’m clear on is that I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you—and I could throw you across this damn table.”
Hans’s lips twitched into a thin smile, acknowledging the threat without blinking. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise, Lieutenant. Your… directness is quite… invigorating.”
Aldo slammed a hand down on the table, rattling maps and photographs. “Enough talk. Let’s see what kind of bastards we’re dealing with.”
Hans leaned over the table, fingers brushing the maps with careful precision, nails catching the lamplight. “Yes. Let’s begin. Coordination, timing, escape routes… everything matters.”
Aldo muttered under his breath, low enough that Hans might not catch it. “Everything matters… except the fact you sit there like a goddamn prince in the middle of a battlefield.”
Hans glanced at him, only the faintest raise of an eyebrow. “Comfort is… practical. You might find it useful someday, Lieutenant.”
Aldo’s jaw tightened, and he muttered again, just as sharp: “ You are the last man who gets to enjoy life.”
The hours dragged on. Maps, photographs, coordinates, scribbled notes — the paper towers grew taller, the ink smudged in places where Aldo’s fingers had clenched too hard. He muttered curses under his breath, snatched pens across the table, and jabbed at locations with a restless energy that Hans matched with unnerving calm.
Somewhere between the third map and the eighth photograph, Hans excused himself.
“I’ll prepare something for us,” he said lightly, standing and stretching. “A small refreshment. We’ve been at this quite some time.”
Aldo didn’t even glance up. “If it’s another damn cup of tea, keep it.”
Moments later, Hans returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray that looked like it had been sculpted by a museum curator instead of someone trying to feed two exhausted men. Cheeses cut into perfect triangles, grapes and wild berries arranged like gemstones, slices of salami and prosciutto fanned out in meticulous patterns, olives glistening, crackers stacked with geometric precision, honey and jam in tiny porcelain bowls, little slices of bread lined like a parade.
Aldo stopped mid-scribble, froze, and stared. His nose wrinkled.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “What… what is this? A damn art exhibit?”
Hans set the tray down gently. “Charcuterie, Lieutenant. A modest selection. Practical for sustained energy and—”
Aldo waved a hand as if swatting flies. “Practical? It looks like it belongs in a museum, not on a table where men are tryna find a bunch of sons of bitches plotting a comeback. I swear, I’d rather eat gunpowder and moldy rations than touch that shit.”
Hans only smiled, unfazed, lifting a grape delicately with a tweezer-like pinch. “You might find the contrast… enlightening.”
Aldo leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath, glaring at the tray like it had personally insulted him. "Bullshit..."
Hans hummed softly, arranging a tiny slice of bread with jam as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Aldo could feel his blood pressure climbing. He wanted—God help him—to sweep the tray off the table, stomp on the cheese, crush the berries under his boot, throw that whole damn art piece into the fireplace.
Instead, he gritted his teeth, muttered a few more curses, and returned to the maps, refusing to give the display any more of his attention.
But every time he glanced up, there it was: Hans, smiling faintly, delicately arranging a slice of prosciutto on a cracker, tiny grapes balanced like jewels, eating as if the whole world were nothing but a carefully curated display.
Aldo’s jaw tightened. He jabbed a finger at the map without looking. “Am I interrupting your tea party, princess?”
Hans looked up, just the faintest flicker of surprise before his polite smile returned. “Mhm? Oh, do excuse me. I need a little sustenance in order to be efficient. I could eat in the kitchen if you’d like!”
Aldo gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, refusing to glance at the tray again. But no matter how he tried, he kept catching sight of Hans, delicately lifting a grape, brushing a slice of prosciutto into perfect alignment, occasionally pausing to dab a speck of jam onto a cracker as if it were a priceless artifact.
Hans chuckled faintly, that smooth, musical sound that set Aldo’s nerves on fire. “Perhaps,” he said softly, tilting his head in that maddeningly polite way, “this menu is not matching your palate! Would you prefer something else? Mhm?”
Aldo slammed a fist on the table, rattling maps and photographs. “Prefer something else? Goddammit, Landa, I don’t want something else! I want not this fancy-ass nonsense sitting in front of me while we’re supposed to be hunting assholes who want to bring the Third Reich back from the dead!”
Hans raised a perfectly arched brow, the faintest quiver in his posture betraying nothing. “Ah… I see. Perhaps… a simpler selection would suffice? Very well. I can accommodate.”
Aldo snorted, muttering under his breath: “Accommodate… he fuckin’ accommodates. What a damn miracle worker. Next thing you know, he’ll be serving tea with the goddamn Hitler’s ghost.”
He turned back to the maps, spreading his arms across photographs and scribbled notes, muttering curses like gunfire under his breath. He imagined flinging the whole tray across the room, smashing honey bowls, crushing berries underfoot.
Aldo muttered a string of curses under his breath and slammed his pen down on the table, marking coordinates roughly with a flick of his wrist. He could hear Hans chewing softly, precise, deliberate, the sound infuriatingly pleasant. Every bite seemed to mock him. Every polished movement reminded him of the scar, the mask, the calm that should have crumbled decades ago.
“You know,” Aldo finally growled, leaning forward, voice low and dangerous, “I’m not here to watch you nibble like some damn aristocrat while sons of bitches plot a comeback. So either you focus on this case—or I’ll shove that tray so far up your ass you’ll be tasting grapes in your nightmares.”
Hans paused mid-bite, lips twitching, and for a fraction of a second, Aldo thought he saw a flicker—just a flicker—of hesitation, the tiniest crack in the facade. Then the polished smile returned, cool as ever.
“My, my,” Hans said, brushing a crumb from the table, voice light as a feather, almost teasing. “You have such… vigor, Lieutenant. Truly, it is… remarkable. But perhaps a bit of sustenance would aid your… focus?”
Aldo’s hands clenched at the edges of the table, white-knuckled. "I’ll focus just fine if you’d stop acting like this whole goddamn mansion is some kind of safe harbor and start acting like a detective!”
Hans suddenly stopped mid-motion, eyes widening just a touch — that theatrical, almost childlike spark lighting up his expression.
Aldo groaned internally.
Here it came.
Hans set down his wineglass with a soft click. “Oh… oh, I know!” he said, delight blooming across his face. “I know what you’d like to eat!”
He clapped his hands together once, as though he’d solved world hunger, and turned on his heel toward the kitchen.
“Christ almighty…” Aldo muttered.
Hans was already halfway down the hall, humming, steps light, almost bouncing. The mansion swallowed him up — polished floors, tall doors, echoing corridors — like it had been waiting for this exact brand of insanity.
Aldo stared after him a second, then dragged a hand down his face.
He couldn’t do this anymore.
Maps and photographs blurred. Coordinates and faces meant to spell out danger and urgency sat under his hands like dead paper. And meanwhile, here he was, stuck on a damn island in a palace with him — the most infuriating son of a bitch who had ever breathed, who somehow came out of war with manicured nails and a wine cellar.
Aldo leaned back in the chair, jaw clenched, eyes closing for half a second.
He’d carved that scar into the man’s head.
He had watched him bleed in the dirt.
And now Hans Landa was in his own kitchen, humming, because he had just gotten a “glorious idea” about dinner.
Aldo let out a long breath through his nose.
“Can’t do this,” he muttered. “Can’t fuckin’ do this… man’s a walking nightmare in loafers.”
From the kitchen came the sound of cabinets opening, plates shifting, glass clinking. Hans whistled softly — a happy little tune, like someone preparing a picnic instead of planning to hunt down the remnants of a regime.
Aldo stared down at the maps, then at his hands.
He was so tired.
So goddamn tired.
And then, Aldo’s nose flared as the aroma hit him full force. Greasy meat, sizzling onions, the faint sweet smell of caramelizing vegetables, and the unmistakable scent of frying potatoes. His stomach betrayed him with a growl — loud, accusatory, and thoroughly inconvenient.
He stepped closer, peering into the kitchen, and froze.
Hans Landa. In an apron. Rolling up his sleeves. Flipping meat in a pan with delicate precision. Slicing onions, letting them brown just so. Buns lined on the counter. French fries crisping to golden perfection.
Aldo opened his mouth… then shut it again.
A hamburger. From scratch. Entirely for him.
Not a frozen patty. Not some reheated convenience. Hans had made it all himself, every step deliberate, every movement calm and efficient.
And he hummed.
A light, airy tune that sounded almost cheerful as he moved around the kitchen with surgical efficiency. Flipped the patty. Sprinkled the onions. Melted the cheese. Toasted the buns. Arranged the fries. A simple, domestic symphony performed by a man who had once terrified Europe.
Aldo leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight. His fists clenched at his sides. He had nothing to say.
Nothing.
It was… absurd. Insulting. Infuriating. And yet, the smell of it made his stomach growl again, betraying him in a way that made his hands curl into fists almost automatically.
“Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rough.
Hans glanced over his shoulder, catching Aldo’s expression, and smiled faintly, entirely unbothered. “Ah, Lieutenant. I hope the aroma is… encouraging. One must maintain energy, you see, to work efficiently. Efficiency is best supported by proper nutrition.”
Aldo snorted, muttering through gritted teeth. “Proper nutrition? You’ve got to be kidding me..."
Hans hummed another measure of his song, completely ignoring Aldo’s sarcasm, flipping the burger with exacting precision, lifting the onions with tweezers as if performing surgery. Every movement was smooth, calm, almost infuriatingly pleasant.
Aldo’s gaze flicked to the burger. He couldn’t stop himself. It looked perfect. The bun toasted just so, meat seared, onions golden, fries arranged like they’d been planned for a menu photo.
He stared at the burger like it was some kind of trap laid out in the open.
Hans set the plate down in front of him with a little flourish, hands folding behind his back as he tilted his head and watched.
He was waiting.
Like a schoolteacher waiting for a recitation. Like a snake waiting to see if the mouse understood its situation.
Aldo didn’t move.
“You want me to eat that?” he finally said, voice low and sharp. “How the hell am I supposed to trust you haven’t dumped it in rat poison, huh?”
His eyes didn’t leave Hans’ face. He wasn’t really asking about the burger. He was asking about everything. About the war. About the maps. About every damn thing that had led them to this room and this ridiculous domestic nightmare.
Hans blinked once, then smiled — small, polite, almost wounded by the accusation.
“Well,” he said lightly, raising one finger as though lecturing, “I respect food.”
He tapped the counter gently, precise as always.
“I would not waste it.”
He shrugged with exaggerated mildness.
“So…”
He nudged the plate a fraction of an inch closer to Aldo.
Aldo stared at him. Then at the burger. Then back at him.
“You ‘respect food’ ” Aldo repeated flatly. “That’s your argument. That’s… that’s your big moral line? You won’t kill me because it will offend your cooking?”
Hans chuckled faintly, shoulders shaking once.
“Everyone must stand for something, Lieutenant.”
Silence stretched between them.
Aldo’s jaw tightened. He could feel the heat rising in his face. Anger, yes — the old familiar anger that came every time Hans opened his mouth — but also something he refused to name: exhaustion, hunger, the utter insanity of this whole situation.
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.
Hans leaned forward just a little, eyes bright, watching him with that unbearable expectant calm.
“Verdict?” he asked softly. “Or must the defendant go cold before judgment is rendered?”
Aldo glared at the plate like it had personally insulted him. His stomach growled again. Loud. Betraying. Hans’ smile widened just a fraction.
Aldo pointed at him sharply. “Don’t. Say. A word.”
Hans pressed his lips together obediently, though his eyes were laughing. Aldo hesitated for one more heartbeat. Then he picked up the burger.
The bite came almost in spite of himself.
Grease. Salt. Soft bread. Perfectly cooked meat. It was infuriating how good it was. How precise. How exactly right.
Aldo chewed slowly, glaring at Hans the entire time — not breaking eye contact once.
And then… something happened.
He had eaten a lot of burgers in his life. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. But this… this was the best. Juicy, savory, the onions just right, the fries crisp and salty, the cheese melting in perfect harmony. It shouldn’t have been this good. It shouldn’t have come from him.
Aldo broke eye contact. Just for a fraction. He closed his eyes longer than he wanted to, allowing himself a private, silent moment of indulgence. A low hum escaped his throat. Quiet, almost involuntary.
Jesus.
It was the best.
When he opened his eyes, Hans was watching him, smile faint, tilted head, that calm, infuriating expression like he had expected nothing less all along.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Hans said softly, almost conversational, leaning slightly on the counter.
Aldo swallowed, mouth full, glaring through the last bite like it was some personal affront. He muttered, mouth full. “This is… this is criminal how good this is.”
Hans only tilted his head further, faint smile deepening, eyes sparkling with amusement. "I aim to please, Lieutenant."
Aldo paused mid-chew.
He looked at Hans again, really looked — at the faint polish on his nails, the carefully combed hair falling just enough to almost hide the scar, the relaxed hands folded over the counter like he didn’t have a care in the world.
The words slipped out before he could dress them up:
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
For a brief second Hans seemed almost… delighted. Not surprised — delighted. His brows lifted a fraction, a glimmer of mischief flickering through his eyes.
“Exactly what I said,” he replied lightly. “When one performs a task, one should perform it well. Cooking, investigating…” His gaze flicked up, meeting Aldo’s with precision. “Partnership.”
That last word hung there, heavier than it should have been.
Aldo’s frown deepened. His stomach twisted, not from the food.
“Sounds like you’re flirtin’,” he said flatly. Not joking. Not smiling. Just stating.
Hans didn’t deny it.
He didn’t confirm it either.
Instead he smiled that infuriating little smile — the one that always suggested he was standing three moves further down the board, and said mildly, almost sweetly:
“Sometimes, Lieutenant, you hear what you wish to hear.”
Aldo stared at him. For one heartbeat, the room felt too warm.
Then he scoffed sharply, pushing the plate away as if the burger itself had betrayed him.
“Yeah, well, what I wish is that you’d stop smilin’ like a cat that found a mouse nest.”
Hans merely folded his hands behind his back, posture perfect again, mask firmly in place.
Aldo looked at him, he didn’t know whether Hans was flirting.
He only knew one thing: Whatever Hans was doing, he was too good at it.
And Aldo Raine hated that most of all.
After that hearty burger and fries, the fight bled out of him in ways he didn’t like admitting. Warm food, a warm house, and the hour pressing in around them — it all had weight.
There was no way in hell he wanted to go back to the maps. His eyelids felt heavier than he’d allow anyone to notice. Working could wait. Tomorrow sounded just fine.
He pushed back his chair and stood, stretching his shoulders.
“Think we’ll take it from here in the mornin’,” he said. “I’ll catch the ferry back and—”
Hans looked genuinely apologetic — or as close to it as that face could get.
“Ah. I am afraid the last ferry ride was about two hours ago,” he said lightly. “You seem to find yourself stranded on the island until the break of day.”
It took a second for that to sink in.
Aldo stared at him.
Then the urge hit — not a punch, not really. More like the overwhelming desire to slap that polite smile right off his face. Not out of rage this time, but out of sheer, exasperated disbelief.
“You’re kiddin’,” Aldo said.
Hans spread his hands slightly. “I assure you, Lieutenant, I do not joke about transportation timetables.”
Aldo cursed under his breath. Not the furious kind — the tired kind. The of course this is happening kind.
He ran a hand down his face. Full belly, warm room, the distant sound of wind pushing at the windows. His body was already deciding for him.
Hans continued, tone maddeningly pleasant:
“However, you need not worry. The guest rooms are always prepared. Fresh linens, hot water, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Aldo muttered. “Let me guess. Practical.”
Hans’ smile brightened a fraction. “Exactly.”
Aldo looked at him, seriously considering whether a light slap might reset the universe. But the post-burger contentment dulled the edge of the impulse. His hands stayed at his sides.
“Fine,” he sighed. “One night. I’m not here to socialize. No more talkin’. No more fancy food. I sleep, then we work.”
Hans gave a tiny, almost courtly nod.
“But of course. Follow me.”
As they walked down the long hallway — carpets soft, paintings smug, floor too polished — Aldo felt that twist in his chest again. Not anger. Not quite peace either. Something uncomfortable between.
He hated that the bed would probably be perfect, the sheets looked expensive, that he was tired. Most of all, he hated that the man who should’ve been rotting in a cell was the one saying, gently:
“Tomorrow will be… productive.”
Aldo paused at the doorway, glancing back at Hans.
For one fleeting second he imagined grabbing him, shaking him, shouting every word he’d never said since the war.
Instead, he just muttered, low and rough: “Don’t get used to me bein’ here.”
Hans inclined his head, smile soft, eyes unreadable.
“I already have, I’m afraid.”
Hans gave him a robe afterward — big enough to actually fit him. Of course he had one. Of course he’d planned for “guests.” Of course, everything in this house anticipated exactly what might be needed.
Aldo took a long, almost scalding shower. Steam, heat, the thrum of water on sore muscles. For the first time in days, the knots in his shoulders loosened. He hated how good that felt, too.
He stepped out of the bathroom still damp and naked, figuring there was nobody in the room, figuring it didn’t matter. He’d spent half his life in barracks, trenches, mud and blood and men shoulder-to-shoulder. Modesty wasn’t exactly in his nature.
He wasn’t expecting the door to open.
Hans entered with a folded blanket in his arms.
They both froze.
It was the first time in years Aldo Raine felt embarrassed to be seen by another man naked.
Something about the thick carpet, the perfume of expensive soap still on his skin, the absurdly soft bed, and Hans Landa standing there with a blanket like some fussy innkeeper made it different. More exposed than any battlefield.
Hans actually reacted.
He averted his eyes at once, posture breaking for the barest instant.
“Oh—Mein Gott!” His voice came out small and startled. “Do excuse me—ah! I just thought you might like a thicker blanket for the night… uhm—”
He turned his head fully away, looking at the wall, ears going just a little pink. His usual feline poise slipped; words tangled for once.
Aldo just stood there, motionless for a heartbeat, water still dripping from his shoulders. His face burned before he could stop it.
He grabbed the robe and pulled it on fast, tying the belt a little tighter than necessary.
“Christ almighty,” he muttered, more to himself than Hans. “Door knockin’ ain’t illegal in this house, is it?”
Hans, still facing away, cleared his throat softly. His voice, when it came, was careful. Less silk, more human.
“My apologies, Lieutenant. I… did not anticipate your, ah… current state.”
Aldo snorted. “Yeah, well, neither did I.”
Silence stretched a moment. Not hostile. Not comfortable either. Something raw in between.
Hans held out the blanket without turning his gaze back. “Shall I… leave this here?”
Aldo took it from him, fingers brushing his just for a second
“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “That’ll do.”
Hans finally risked a glance — brief, respectful, nothing lingering — and gave a quick, genuinely flustered nod.
“Then… good night, Lieutenant.”
He left faster than he’d entered, closing the door gently behind him.
Aldo stood in the quiet room, robe tied tight, heart drumming harder than a man who’d only taken a shower had any business feeling.
He stared at the closed door for a long second.
Landa embarrassed. Him embarrassed.
Everything suddenly felt far more dangerous than guns or scars or swastikas.
From behind the closed door came Hans’ voice, slightly muffled, a little too quick, like he was talking to fill space.
“Ah—there is a second burger in the fridge! I figured… figured you might get hungry again during the night… and some more of the charcuterie… and I have fruits… and—”
Aldo let his head fall back with a quiet groan.
“Jesus… okay, okay. Thanks! Good night.”
There was a brief silence, then Hans’ softer reply:
“Gute Nacht, Lieutenant.”
His footsteps faded down the hall.
Aldo sat there a moment longer, robe belt knotted tight, blanket in his lap, staring at nothing. The quiet pressed in. The distant ocean wind rattled the windowpanes. Somewhere below, a refrigerator hummed with the knowledge that yes, there was another burger.
He didn’t know what irritated him more: that Hans Landa was alive, comfortable,
or that he thought, correctly, that he might get hungry later.
He lay back eventually, staring at the ceiling, the room smelling of soap and wood polish and something faintly sweet.
This house was dangerous in a way battlefields weren’t. It softened you. It fed you. It made you tired.
Aldo closed his eyes, telling himself:
Just until morning. Just the case. Just work.
Down the hall, in another room, Hans Landa probably folded his clothes just so and slept like a cat.
Aldo rolled onto his side, scowled into the pillow, and muttered one last thing before sleep dragged him under:
“…damn Nazi makes a hell of a burger.”