Chapter Text
The wind howled like a living thing, clawing at the rock and pine of the Alps, erasing tracks as fast as men could make them. Snow came sideways, hard as birdshot. Lieutenant Aldo Raine leaned into it, jaw set, eyes narrowed beneath his helmet, every breath burning his lungs.
He’d been told there was a Nazi hideout up here—some tucked-away den of rats clinging to the bones of the mountains. Command had said it clean and simple, like the Alps were a map you could fold. Aldo knew better. Mountains didn’t care about orders.
The avalanche came without ceremony. Just a deep, thunderous crack, like the earth snapping its knuckles, and then the world decided to move.
White swallowed everything.
When Aldo clawed his way back to consciousness, the storm had quieted into a low, constant roar. Snow lay heavy over his legs and chest, packed tight. He spat ice from his mouth and worked his knife free, hacking himself out inch by inch. By the time he stood, the sky was a solid wall of gray, and the Basterds were gone.
“Goddammit,” Aldo muttered, voice eaten by the wind.
He shouted names—Donny, Hugo, Omar, Novak—but the mountain gave him nothing back. No gunshots, no voices. Just snow and silence.
Aldo moved.
From afar, Aldo Raine spotted movement against the whiteout—an ugly blot of black and brown struggling where nothing ought to move at all.
He stopped, squinting through the curtain of snow.
A man. Alone. Staggering.
Aldo huffed a breath that fogged his scarf. Of course. Of course the Nazis would dress like they were marching down some Paris boulevard instead of God’s frozen land. The idiot was wrapped in leather—long coat, polished boots—clothes made for intimidation, not survival.
“Leather,” Aldo muttered to nobody. “Really.”
The man took three more steps before the mountain decided it had seen enough. His foot slipped, legs went out from under him, and he hit the snow with the grace of a felled tree. No attempt to rise. Just a limp sprawl swallowed halfway by drifting white.
Aldo waited a moment, rifle steady, expecting a trick. Nothing moved except the storm.
He approached cautiously, boots crunching, every sense tight. Up close, the man looked worse—face pale, lips blue, curls stiff with ice. Snow crusted his lashes. The coat, once expensive, was stiff as cardboard.
Aldo nudged him with the toe of his boot.
No response.
He crouched, reached down, and brushed snow away from the man’s face.
And froze.
“Well I’ll be goddamned,” Aldo whispered.
Hans Landa.
The Jew Hunter himself, laid out in the Alps like a discarded mannequin, unconscious and half-frozen, that smug smile wiped clean by the cold. Without the voice, without the posture, without his words, Landa looked small. Human. Fragile in a way Aldo had never imagined.
Aldo straightened slowly, staring down at him.
The mountain wind screamed over the ridge, as if laughing.
“Funny world,” Aldo said, voice low. “I come lookin’ for a Nazi hideout, and instead I find the biggest rat of ’em all passed out in the snow like a drunk.”
He crouched again, gripping Landa’s collar, hauling him just enough to confirm he was breathing. Barely, but breathing.
Aldo’s mouth twisted into a grin that had no humor in it.
“You don’t even know how lucky you are right now,” he said. “Or maybe how unlucky.”
The blizzard pressed in tighter, erasing the path behind him.
Hans was cold as ice.
Aldo felt it the moment his fist tightened in the man’s collar—no resistance, no tension, just dead weight and brittle fabric. Landa weighed less than Aldo expected, all bones and expensive arrogance, and Aldo found a grim satisfaction in that.
“Figures,” he muttered, bracing his boots and hauling. “All mouth, no meat.”
He dragged him unceremoniously across the snow, Landa’s heels carving crooked lines behind them, his head lolling with each jolt. If the man woke up with a concussion, Aldo would call it a mercy. The wind punished them both, but Aldo leaned into it, jaw locked, shoulders burning.
There was a cabin not far—he remembered it from the briefing, some half-forgotten climbers’ shelter clinging to the mountainside like a tick. He’d clocked it earlier through the storm, just a darker shape against the white. At the time, it hadn’t mattered. Now it was the difference between freezing and breathing.
And more importantly, between a dead Nazi and a valuable one.
Aldo didn’t like that part.
Every instinct in him screamed to carve a message into Landa’s forehead and leave him for the mountain. But orders were orders, and this one came from suits who liked their enemies alive, talking, bargaining. Hans Landa was worth more breathing than bleeding—at least to the United States government.
Didn’t mean Aldo had to be gentle.
By the time he reached the cabin, his arms were shaking and his fingers numb. He kicked the door open, dragged Landa inside, and slammed it shut against the storm. The silence hit hard, broken only by Aldo’s breathing and the faint crackle of a dying stove.
The place smelled of old wood, damp wool, and abandonment.
Aldo dumped Landa on the floor like a sack of grain. The colonel didn’t stir.
“Don’t get comfy,” Aldo said, crouching beside him.
He checked Landa quickly—no obvious breaks, pulse weak but steady. Hypothermia, sure as sin. Aldo stripped the leather coat off him with rough efficiency, tossing it aside like garbage. Useless thing. He wrapped Landa in a spare blanket from the wall, not out of kindness, but necessity.
Aldo looked down at the body before him, sprawled across the blankets, shivering in the weak glow of the fire. Even unconscious, Hans Landa was… peculiar. Lean, faintly muscled, but delicate. Not weak, not completely without strength, but every line of him screamed that he had never been tested in the real field. No scars, no bruises, no calluses, no signs of the kind of hard living Aldo knew all too well. The bastard had spent his life plotting and calculating, scheming and ordering—but never digging trenches, never crawling through mud, never taking a bullet or a beating that left anything more than a bruise hidden under tailored clothing.
Aldo’s gaze drifted lower. The hands, delicate, long-fingered, almost manicured in appearance, were pale against the firelight. The wrists were narrow, the veins faint, the knuckles smooth. There was no toughness to them, no signs of labor or strain. They were hands meant for writing reports, signing papers, drawing plans—not grabbing rifles, climbing mountains, or dragging men through snow.
He let his eyes linger on the legs. Lean, graceful, lacking the corded strength he expected in someone with the title “Colonel.” There was muscle, yes, but faint, reserved. Everything about them suggested someone who had spent most of their life walking along polished floors, not stomping through fields or over frozen peaks. Even the feet struck him—small, narrow, pale, delicate. Almost fragile. Compared to his own, callused and broad, capable of stomping and running for hours, Landa’s feet looked like they might crack under the weight of snow or the mountain itself.
Aldo’s lips twitched in a mixture of disbelief and dark amusement. The whole man seemed… out of place in this world of cold, mud, blood, and gunpowder. Too neat. Too refined. Too controlled. Everything about him seemed deliberately cultivated to appear formidable while actually being fragile.
Even the chest, rising and falling beneath the blankets with ragged, shivering breaths, was narrow and faintly muscled, as if he had trained enough to look healthy but not enough to truly endure. There were no jagged scars from fights, no marks of past encounters with the brutality of life. No evidence of work, suffering, or survival—nothing that could have prepared him for the freezing Alps, tied and vulnerable, dependent on someone else for warmth.
Aldo shook his head slowly. “Goddamn,” he muttered under his breath, half to himself. “You’re… you’re delicate as a goddamn porcelain doll, Colonel. Every inch of you. All that fancy talk and scheming… and this is what it comes down to.”
He crouched lower, inspecting the arms again, the faint curve of the shoulders, the narrow waist. The bastard had been built for planning, for observation, for intimidation through mind and manners—not for survival, not for strength, not for blood and snow and fire.
And yet… there was something unsettling about him. Something that made Aldo’s gut tighten despite the disgust, despite the amusement. The mind behind that body was sharp, precise, dangerous. The body might be fragile, but the man’s wits had already killed, manipulated, and terrorized more than Aldo cared to count. The combination of delicacy and cunning was almost worse than brute strength—it made the bastard unpredictable.
Aldo leaned back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. He studied the sleeping, shivering form, noting the slight twitch of the fingers, the faint rise of the chest, the way the pale lashes rested against the frost-pricked cheeks. Too dainty, too neat, too refined—but deadly, nonetheless.
“Goddamn… you’re somethin’ else, Landa,” he muttered quietly, shaking his head. “Too clean, too soft… but sharp enough to make me wanna kill you fifty times over already.”
For a long moment, Aldo simply watched, a mixture of dark amusement, grudging respect, and irritation twisting in his gut.
“You die on me,” Aldo told him, voice flat, “and I swear I’ll be mad about it.”
He secured Landa’s wrists with cord, tight enough to cut circulation if he struggled. Then the ankles. He leaned back on his heels, studying him.
Unconscious, stripped of power, tied up on a cabin floor.
Didn’t look like the devil now.
Outside, the blizzard raged on, sealing them in together. Aldo fed the stove, the fire coughing back to life, and took up position near the door, rifle across his knees.
He didn’t trust the quiet. Didn’t trust the man on the floor.
But as he watched Landa’s chest rise and fall, shallow and uneven, Aldo allowed himself one thin, dangerous smile.
“Alive,” he said softly. “That’s the deal.”
The mountain could keep the rest.
Hans Landa belonged to him now.
When the cabin finally held its heat—when the cold stopped gnawing quite so hard at Aldo’s fingers—he shrugged his pack off and dug inside. Rations. Hard, dry, ugly things that tasted like cardboard and regret. He didn’t care. Warmth mattered more than comfort out here.
He filled a dented tin cup with snow, set it near the stove, and waited. Watched it melt. Watched the fire. Watched Hans Landa, still out cold on the floor like something the storm had spit up and forgotten.
“Never figured I’d be playin’ nursemaid,” Aldo muttered.
He tore open a packet and dumped the contents into the cup once the water steamed. The tea was bland—barely tea at all, just faintly brown water with ideas above its station. But it was warm. That was what counted.
Aldo crouched beside Landa, the heat already starting to pull color back into the man’s face. He set the cup down, grabbed Landa by the jaw, and gave him a rough shake.
“Hey,” Aldo said. “Colonel. Wake up.”
No response.
Aldo sighed, then slapped him—hard enough to sting, not hard enough to knock him out again.
Landa gasped.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, pupils blown wide as panic tried to catch up with reality. His breath came shallow and sharp, like the cold was still inside him.
“Easy,” Aldo said, voice falsely calm. “You ain’t dyin’ today.”
Recognition crept in slow. Landa’s gaze slid to Aldo’s face, then to the rifle, then to the rope biting into his wrists. Even half-frozen and fogged with hypothermia, the man’s mind was working.
“Well,” Landa rasped, lips cracked, voice hoarse, “this is… unfortunate.”
Aldo snorted. “Drink.”
He lifted the cup to Landa’s mouth without ceremony. Landa hesitated, eyes flicking up in suspicion.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Aldo said. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be decoratin’ the snowbank.”
He tipped the cup. Warm liquid spilled over Landa’s lip before he finally swallowed, coughing weakly. Aldo steadied him, grip firm, making damn sure he drank.
“That’s it,” Aldo said. “Slow. I ain’t wastin’ tea on you.”
Landa drank a little more, shuddering as the heat hit his system. Color bled back into his cheeks. His breathing evened out, just a touch.
When Aldo pulled the cup away, Landa sagged back against the floorboards, exhausted.
“You saved my life,” Landa said softly.
Aldo’s expression didn’t change. “No,” he said. “I preserved a government asset.”
Landa smiled faintly, the ghost of his old arrogance trying to claw its way back. Aldo noticed—and leaned in close enough that Landa could smell the smoke and sweat on him.
“Don’t mistake this for mercy,” Aldo said. “You’re warm ’cause I need you talkin’. Soon as I don’t, we’re gonna have a very different conversation.”
The smile faltered.
“Are my clothes dry yet?” he asked carefully, voice almost hesitant, betraying the discomfort he clearly felt being so exposed. He shifted slightly under the blankets, tugging them closer around his body.
Aldo’s eyes narrowed, dark and sharp. He didn’t smile, didn’t soften. He simply leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch, letting Hans squirm under the scrutiny. “Your clothes?” he said finally, voice low and rough, a growl under the words. “No, Colonel. They ain’t dry. And frankly, I don’t give a damn if they are.
Hans’ lips pressed together, fingers clutching the blanket tighter, and he let out a faint, controlled breath. “I… see,” he said, though his tone was tinged with discomfort, frustration, and a tiny shred of vulnerability he’d never show in front of anyone else.
Aldo snorted, leaning against the wall with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Relax, princess!” he said, voice low and teasing, the grin widening. “I did not take a peek at anything, okay?”
Hans froze, eyes narrowing instantly. His lips pressed into a tight line, a flush creeping into his cheeks—not from the cold, but from sheer indignation. “I… I hardly see how that is relevant,” he said, trying to sound composed, but the faint stammer in his voice betrayed him.
“Oh, it’s relevant, alright,” Aldo said, chuckling darkly, letting the words hang in the air. He tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Relevant ‘cause you’re sittin’ there lookin’ all scandalized and uncomfortable, and I’m havin’ myself a laugh watchin’ it.”
Hans’ jaw tightened. “I am… not uncomfortable,” he said quickly, tone sharp, defensive. “Merely… adjusting… to circumstances. Circumstances beyond my control.”
Aldo laughed low, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. ‘Circumstances beyond your control.’ You? Out here, shiverin’ in a blanket like a little snow bunny? That’s rich, Colonel. Goddamn rich.”
Hans’ lips twitched, either in frustration or some faint attempt at a smirk. “Lieutenant, I am quite… capable of maintaining composure under… duress.”
“Composure, huh?” Aldo leaned in closer, voice dropping to a teasing growl. “Well, you’re killin’ me with how composed you’re actin’, Colonel. I almost feel bad… almost.” He shook his head, smirking. “But not really.”
Hans’ eyes flicked away, glancing at the fire, at the blankets, anywhere but at Aldo. His fingers fidgeted, tugging the blanket tighter, betraying every ounce of his carefully maintained dignity.
Hans’ mouth opened as if to argue, then closed again. The flush on his cheeks deepened. He was too proud to admit it outright—but the truth was clear: he hated being this exposed, this dependent, this human in front of Aldo.
Aldo grinned, dark and slow. “ You keep that tight little jaw of yours, and I’ll keep callin’ you princess. Sound fair?”
Hans’ eyes flicked to him, sharp and wary, but he said nothing. The faintest twitch at the corner of his lips suggested he might be slightly amused—or maybe just annoyed—but Aldo didn’t care which.
“Good,” Aldo said finally, leaning back against the wall. “Now quit squirming, or I’ll start wondering if you’re ticklish too.”
Hans’ eyes narrowed again, but this time the flush on his cheeks betrayed him more than words ever could.
Later on, when the fire had burned down to a steady glow and the wind outside had settled into a low, constant howl, Hans finally spoke again.
“Lieutenant,” he said, stiffly polite, eyes flicking toward the pile of clothing near the hearth. “I believe I have warmed sufficiently. I would like… my clothes back.”
Aldo didn’t even look up at first. He was busy poking at the fire with a stick, jaw set, expression unimpressed. Then he snorted and finally turned his head just enough to glare over his shoulder.
“Not dry yet, idiot!” he snapped. “You put those on now, you’ll freeze your skinny ass solid in ten minutes.”
Hans bristled immediately. “I am perfectly capable of judging my own—”
“Oh, bullshit,” Aldo cut in, rolling his eyes hard. “You couldn’t judge your way outta a paper bag right now. You were moments from turnin’ into a Nazi popsicle when I dragged you in here.”
Hans’ lips pressed together, irritation flashing across his face. “I do not appreciate being spoken to like a child.”
Aldo laughed, sharp and humorless. “Then stop actin’ like one.” He jerked his chin toward the blankets. “You stay put. You stay warm. That’s not a suggestion.”
Hans shifted uncomfortably, clearly hating every second of it. “You realize,” he said, voice tight, “that this situation is… deeply undignified.”
Aldo raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I realize it just fine. That’s kinda the point.” He smirked. “Funny thing is, Colonel, dignity don’t mean a damn thing when you’re hypothermic. Body don’t care how important you think you are.”
Hans opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. His shoulders slumped just a fraction, the fight leaking out of him as another shiver ran through his body.
“…Very well,” he said stiffly. “But I expect my clothing returned the moment it is safe enough to wear!.”
Aldo leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, grin slow and smug. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll get your fancy pants back when they won’t kill you. Till then—” he gestured lazily at the blankets “—princess stays bundled.”
Hans shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “If you call me that again—”
“What?” Aldo interrupted, amused. “Princess?”
Hans’ jaw tightened. “…Lieutenant.”
Aldo chuckled low in his throat. “Relax. You’re alive. You’re warm. And you ain’t dead in the snow. Far as I’m concerned, that’s a damn good day.”
Hans looked away, cheeks faintly flushed, fingers gripping the blanket once more. He didn’t argue again.
And Aldo, watching him out of the corner of his eye, shook his head slightly—still irritated, still wary, but quietly satisfied knowing the smug bastard wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
❄︎
Hans sat up slightly, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, eyes flicking to the pile of clothing. Even in his weakened, shivering state, he radiated that infuriating air of superiority.
“Lieutenant,” he began, voice calm but sharp, “if you are intent on drying my clothes—” he waved a hand at the heap near the fire “—might I suggest a slightly more efficient method?”
Aldo’s eyebrows shot up. “Efficient method?” he repeated, voice low and suspicious.
“Yes,” Hans said, tilting his head like a professor about to lecture a particularly slow student. “The garments are currently folded and piled rather haphazardly. If one were to arrange them along slightly different angles, the heat from the fire would circulate more evenly, and drying would occur more quickly.”
Aldo froze, blinked once, then blinked again. “…You’re… tellin’ me how to dry your clothes?”
Hans’ lips quirked faintly. “Precisely. And one should also be mindful of the fabric. The cotton and leather, if exposed too directly to the fire, may shrink or stiffen.
Aldo let out a long, slow whistle, shaking his head. “Goddamn it… you’re incredible. You’re shivering in my blankets, tied up like a sack of potatoes, and now you’re lecturing me on fabric?”
Hans’ eyes gleamed faintly, smugness creeping back despite the shivers. “I merely offer guidance to ensure optimal outcomes. One must attend to details, Lieutenant. Otherwise, even survival becomes… sloppy.”
Aldo muttered under his breath, pacing once in the small cabin. “Sloppy… my ass. You’re lucky I’m even thinking about keepin’ your clothes near the fire. Lucky.” He crouched down, reaching for the pile, shaking his head. “Goddamn it… I swear, Colonel, you make me wanna strangle you… and laugh at the same damn time.”
Hans leaned back slightly, still wrapped in the blankets, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I am… glad to provide amusement,” he said innocently
Hans’ smirk widened ever so slightly, a tiny victory in the middle of frost and fire. Aldo shook his head, muttering curses under his breath as he arranged the garments more carefully along the edges of the fire, muttering darkly, “Goddamn… I don’t know whether to shoot you or applaud you.”
The cabin fell into a tense, awkward silence after that, broken only by the crackle of the fire—and Aldo’s muttered curses at the smug little Nazi still wrapped in his blankets.
About two hours later, the cabin was quiet except for the crackle of the fire. The pile of clothing that had been haphazard and wrinkled now sat neatly along the hearth, warm and dry.
Hans cleared his throat, voice careful, controlled. “Lieutenant—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Aldo snapped. In one swift motion, he grabbed the pile of clothes and threw them onto Hans like a sack of bricks. The blankets and heat did little to soften the impact.
Hans yelped, startled, and toppled back, clothing draped across him in a messy heap. “!…” He sputtered, struggling to right himself beneath the weight, hands fumbling with the layers.
Aldo leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dark with amusement and frustration. “There. Your goddamn clothes, Colonel.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “You’ve asked me about these fifteen times already! Fifteen! I’m about ready to tie ’em to your feet and drag you out into the snow if you ask me once more.”
Hans blinked, trying to regain composure as he pushed and pulled the clothing into some semblance of order. His cheeks were flushed, part embarrassment, part indignation. “I… I was merely—”
“Merely what?” Aldo interrupted sharply, smirking now, pacing a little in the cabin. “Merely askin’ if your fancy little pants were dry? Merely checkin’ your coat fifteen damn times?” He shook his head. “Goddamn it, Colonel… you’re killin’ me.”
Hans’ hands froze mid-adjustment, fingers clutching at the layers. “Lieutenant…” he said carefully, almost pleading. “…I—”
“I don’t wanna hear it, princess.” Aldo snapped, his grin darkening with amusement. “You’re warm. You’re dry. You got everything you asked for, now shut up and stay put before I lose what’s left of my patience.”
Hans’ lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flicking to Aldo, a mixture of irritation, embarrassment, and that faint glimmer of defiance that refused to die. He muttered something under his breath, but Aldo didn’t care
Hans just stared at Aldo, pale fingers clutching at the blankets, eyes wide and calculating. The faintest tremor ran through him—not from cold this time, but from sheer stubbornness.
Aldo groaned, rubbing his face with a gloved hand. “What now???” he barked, exasperation dripping from every word. “Why the hell aren’t you dressin’ up already? Clothes are dry, blankets are warm, fire’s cracklin’… what’s the hold-up?”
Hans’ lips pressed into a thin line. He shifted slightly under the blankets, curling away, clearly uncomfortable being exposed yet unwilling to give Aldo the satisfaction of rushing. “…I would require some privacy,” he said, voice measured, each word deliberate, as though he were issuing orders rather than begging.
Aldo’s eyes narrowed, disbelief spreading across his face. “Privacy?!” He threw his hands up, pacing a small circle in the cabin. “Colonel! Your ‘privacy’ ends about fifteen feet past this cabin door! You’re sittin’ here like a damn fancy pansy, shivering under my blankets, and now you want privacy to put on your pants?!”
Hans’ gaze didn’t waver. “…I am not accustomed to dressing in the presence of… others. It is… most irregular.”
Aldo let out a long, slow sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Goddamn it… only you, Colonel, could turn bein’ alive, warm, and clothed into a social etiquette problem.”
Hans’ lips twitched faintly, as if proud of his own reasoning despite the obvious absurdity. “I would appreciate discretion, Lieutenant. It is a matter of… decorum.”
Aldo shook his head, muttering curses under his breath, half in disbelief, half in dark amusement. “Decor… what now? Listen here, princess... Privacy can suck it.”
He crouched near Hans’ ankles, the ropes finally within reach. With a sharp tug of the knife, he cut through the cord, letting the bindings fall away with a soft snap onto the floor.
Hans’ eyes flicked down at his freed ankles and then up at Aldo, jaw tight, cheeks flushed, every line of his body stiff with discomfort. The faintest tremor ran through his palms as he lifted the first leg of his trousers, his fingers brushing awkwardly over the fabric.
Aldo leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, smirking darkly. “Go on, princess,” he said, voice low and teasing. “I’m watchin’. Don’t drop ’em now, you hear?”
Hans’ lips pressed together in a thin line, clearly fighting every instinct to spin, fidget, or protest. He shifted slightly, curling the blankets tighter around his torso as if the meager fabric could shield him from Aldo’s gaze. “…This… is… highly… undignified,” he muttered, words clipped, almost stammering.
Aldo snorted, shaking his head slowly. “Yeah? You think I don’t know that? You’re shivering, and now you’re starin’ at me like I’m the problem. Goddamn, Colonel… you really are somethin’ else.”
Hans avoided Aldo’s eyes, focusing instead on the slow, deliberate motion of pulling his trousers up. His hands trembled faintly—part cold, part embarrassment—fingers brushing awkwardly against the waistband, trying to get them on without fumbling.
Aldo chuckled low and darkly, muttering to himself, shaking his head. “Goddamn… you’re ridiculous. Never met a Nazi so full of pride and shame at the same time.”
Hans finally looked up, face flushed, eyes sharp despite the shame, and muttered, “…I am not… ridiculous.”
“Sure, sure,” Aldo said, smirking. “Keep tellin’ yourself that while I watch you put on the rest of your crap.”
And for a long moment, the cabin was filled only with the soft crackle of the fire and the quiet shuffle of Hans struggling to reclaim a little dignity under Aldo’s unrelenting gaze.
Hans had just managed to tug his trousers up, still shivering, fingers trembling faintly as he fumbled with the waistband. The blankets clung around his shoulders, but the flush in his cheeks betrayed more than cold—it was embarrassment, fatigue, and the lingering effects of hypothermia all mixed together.
Aldo’s eyes narrowed immediately. He stepped forward, sharp and decisive. “Easy there. You’re… still a little wobbly.”
Hans stiffened, brushing off the comment as if he were entirely composed. “…I am perfectly… capable,” he said, voice clipped, though the slight catch in his breath betrayed him.
Aldo snorted, crouching slightly in front of him. “ You almost fell over puttin’ on your pants, Colonel. That’s not capable. That’s barely alive.” He leaned closer, voice lowering into a growl. “And if you pass out, you ain’t gonna get another chance to be all dignified and smug, understand?”
Hans’ pale eyes flicked up at him, irritation and embarrassment warring with the truth he couldn’t quite deny. “…I… assure you, Lieutenant…”
“Assure me all you want,” Aldo interrupted, shaking his head. He moved behind Hans, guiding him gently but firmly onto the cushions, pulling the blankets tighter around the trembling body. “Sit. Stay still. You’re too weak right now, and I’m not gonna let you freeze on me.”
Hans stiffened under the touch, a faint shiver running down his spine. “…This is highly… irregular,” he muttered, voice quiet. His hands fidgeted in the blankets, a tremor in his fingers betraying his pride and discomfort.
Aldo grunted, smirking slightly, muttering, “Goddamn… you’re like a porcelain doll. All pride, all arrogance, and yet so damn fragile when it matters.” He reached for the thermos of tea he’d prepared earlier, pouring a careful amount into a small cup. He held it toward Hans.
“Drink,” Aldo said simply. “Slow. Don’t make me pour it down your throat.”
Hans hesitated, jaw tight, pride warring with survival. His hands hovered over the cup, trembling slightly as he took it from Aldo, finally sipping carefully. The warmth spread through him, and he closed his eyes briefly, a small, almost imperceptible shiver of relief passing through his body.
Aldo watched him, leaning back against the wall, darkly amused. “See? Warm. Alive. Still got your fancy little ego intact… mostly. But if you don’t cooperate for a bit, that ego might freeze off before your toes catch up.”
Hans blinked, the faint flush in his cheeks deepening, lips pressed together. He didn’t reply, just sipped the tea, rigid but slowly relaxing under the blankets.
Aldo muttered to himself, shaking his head, a dark grin tugging at his lips. “Goddamn… you’re ridiculous, Colonel. I’ve dragged Nazis through worse, but you? You’re the first one I’ve had to warm like a sick kitten—and somehow, I think you enjoy makin’ it this difficult.”
Hans’ gaze flicked up, sharp and calculating, but there was no bite in it—just faint embarrassment, shivering, and the reluctant acknowledgment that he was entirely at Aldo’s mercy.
Aldo let out a low chuckle. “Relax... You’re not dead. Yet. But don’t test me, or I’ll make sure the next cup of tea isn’t so… polite.”
Hans’ lips twitched—half in defiance, half in acknowledgment of the truth.
❄︎