The forests of occupied France were colder in the fall of 1941 than Aldo Raine remembered. He pulled his coat tighter against the chill, boots crunching through the fallen leaves as he scanned the misty treeline. The Basterds huddled nearby, their breath visible in the cold air, all of them restless and eager for action as they waited for word from their newest—though least expected—recruit.

Colonel Hans Landa. The Jew Hunter himself.

Only months earlier, Aldo had wanted his scalp more than any other Nazi officer's. But things in war had a way of twisting—of turning foes into allies, and sometimes into something far deeper than either could have anticipated.

It had begun with betrayal. Hans Landa, cunning and smiling as ever, had approached the Basterds under cover of night, hands raised in mock surrender, his words dripping in that honeyed, mocking tone that made Aldo's skin crawl even now. He claimed he was done with the Reich, that the endless charade of loyalty no longer amused him.

"I realized, Herr Raine," he had said that first night by the campfire, his eyes gleaming amber in the flickering firelight, "that I am far too clever a man to tie my fate to buffoons. The Reich is a sinking ship, and I do not fancy drowning alongside brutes in jackboots."

The Basterds had wanted to slit his throat then and there. Donny had to be physically restrained from charging the former SS officer. But Aldo, ever the gambler, saw something in Landa's eyes—a spark not of cowardice, but of hunger. Hunger to destroy the very empire he had once served with such enthusiasm.

Over weeks, trust grew, slowly, begrudgingly. Landa proved his worth ten times over, sliding into German headquarters with his impeccable charm and perfect uniform, returning with maps, names, and codes that would have taken the Basterds months to acquire. He guided them through ambushes, turned Gestapo traps into slaughterhouses for the SS. Every plan was stitched together by his clever tongue and Aldo's ruthless blade.

And somewhere in those nights of plotting, of quiet whispers over stolen bottles of French wine, something shifted between them.

Aldo had never thought much of love, certainly not in the middle of war. But Hans was impossible to ignore—the way he smiled genuinely at Aldo's crass jokes, the way he leaned in close when explaining a particularly complex stratagem, the way his fingers brushed Aldo's arm just a moment too long after passing a canteen.

One night, after a mission that left three Nazi officers dead in a ditch with swastikas carved into their foreheads, they lingered apart from the others. Hans lit a cigarette with a gold lighter, offering one to Aldo, who shook his head and spat into the dirt.

"You're somethin' else, Hans," Aldo muttered, watching the ex-SS officer with narrowed eyes that still held traces of suspicion. "Never thought I'd see the day I'd be workin' with a man like you."

Hans smiled thinly around his cigarette, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Life is full of ironies, Aldo. But I must confess..." His voice softened, stripped of its usual sharpness and theatricality. "Of all the roles I've played in this terrible drama, this is the one I enjoy most. Not deceiving you. Fighting beside you."

Aldo chuckled low in his throat, scratching his jaw where a week's growth of beard itched. "You're a dangerous son of a bitch. But hell if I ain't glad you're on my side."

Hans tilted his head slightly, smoke swirling around his elegant features. "More than on your side, I hope."

That was the beginning.

By the next dawn, they were no longer just allies. They were lovers—bound by blood, by danger, by the strange, inexplicable comfort they found in one another's company amid the chaos of war. The Basterds didn't like it at first, muttering about fraternizing with the enemy, but respect for Aldo and Landa's undeniable effectiveness shut their mouths quickly enough. Hans and Aldo worked like two halves of the same mind, each anticipating the other's moves before they were made.

Now, as Aldo waited in the woods, he heard the soft crunch of expensive leather boots against the leaf-strewn ground. Hans appeared from the mist, immaculate as always despite the squalor of war, his cap tucked under one arm, his tailored coat flecked with the mud of some German garrison he had just infiltrated.

Aldo allowed a small smirk to tug at his lips. "Well, look who finally decided to show. You bring us a present, sweetheart?"

Hans smiled that sly, wolfish smile that he reserved only for Aldo now—a smile that never reached his eyes with anyone else. "But of course. The Oberst in Clermont has remarkably loose lips after a bottle of cognac. And I know exactly which train tomorrow is carrying the munitions you'd very much like to blow to smithereens."

He handed Aldo a folded map, but Aldo barely glanced at it. Instead, he grabbed Hans by the collar of his uniform, pulling him roughly into a fierce kiss that tasted of cigarette smoke and something sweet—probably stolen chocolate.

The world around them was smoke and ash and death, but in that moment, with Hans's body pressed against his, Aldo felt like there was something worth fighting for beyond scalps and vengeance.

When they parted, Hans was still smiling, his eyes dark with desire. "My darling Aldo," he whispered, his gloved thumb brushing Aldo's cheek, "we are going to kill so many Nazis together."

Aldo chuckled, tucking the map into his coat. "Damn right we are."

And with that, the Basterds had their next mission.