A Punishment for a Traitourous German Actress

BY : CrystalRose
Category: G through L > Inglourious Basterds
Dragon prints: 5387
Disclaimer: I do not own Inglourious Basterds, nor am I making any money from writing this fanfic.

A/N: If Quentin Tarantino can use his movie to warp real history, I can use my fanfic to warp movie history.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein mentioned, nor am I getting any monetary benefit from writing this.

“After you,” the smiling S.S. Colonel said, opening the door to the cinema’s office as she limped past him into the small room. As she moved into the room, heel clicking on the floor, he turned the lock and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Please sit down, Fraulein Hammersmark,” he remarked merrily, indicating a chair for her that had been positioned catty-corner to the door of the cinema’s office.

As she sat down he carefully removed her white fox wrap from around her bared shoulders, draping the item over a coat tree. A little tug on the coat tree, and the fluffy fur blocked access to the doorknob. She heard the squeak on the floor of the coat tree and felt a sense of impending doom. Terrified was not a strong enough word to describe how she was now feeling in front of Colonel Hans Landa.

It was then, that the door was locked behind her that he pulled over a chair, sitting down directly across from her, their knees almost touching. She regarded him carefully, her head cocked to one side, pale blue eyes narrowed with a mixture of fear and suspicion.

Such a shame for such a ruthless, cruel man to be so amiable—so attractive, even, she mused, being careful not to change her facial expression in any way, lest she give herself away. To even think about the appearance of this man at a time like this was merely a mechanism of keeping her mind off of the underlying terror that threatened to overcome her at the thought of a private questioning from the infamous detective. During her musings, he retained uninterrupted eye contact with her, his dark eyes boring into her own, as if they were trekking through the innermost sanctums of her soul. Of course, Landa was only amiable in order to extract information in the civilest way possible, which meant that he could refrain from using any bit of physical force. Somehow he knew when someone had something to hide. It was his forte, his specialty, reading people. And Bridget Von Hammersmark always had things to hide.

Each time she would encounter Hans Landa, though she always smiled politely and exchanged friendly words, just the sight of him, the manner in which he regarded her, unnerved her immensely. He would lean in towards her ear, as if ready to hear her confess to him every secret she had ever kept. She knew from her experience with fans of all types that he did not simply find her attractive and thus was merely eating up her every word in the name of infatuation—rather, he seemed to enjoy causing her discomfort, for as she would attempt to get away, his smile would only increase in size and magnitude.

And what a smile it was: a crooked smirk across boyishly plump lips that he occasionally expanded into a toothy megawatt grin. Either look was enough to cause a woman to swoon—had it not been for the underlying blackness in his heart, an inner evil that he hid under a guise of cordiality, only to let it emerge when the resolve of his victim had been sufficiently worn down.

All the years she’d known him, she could sense his hidden sinister core whenever he’d approach, no matter how warm and inviting he’d appear to be. Perhaps that’s why it always seemed that he suspected her, feeding off of her discomfort, her fear of discovery. Granted, even the smallest of secrets she kept inside her, secrets so inane to even be unworthy of divulging, felt like iron spikes driving into her temples the moment he’d cross the floor.

Normally in social situations, she could hide this innate fear of Hans Landa. Now, however, she was alone with him in a small room, a room he most likely had locked behind them. She shifted uncomfortably on her chair as she diverted her eyes from his intense stare, attempting to position her injured leg in a more feminine fashion. Though she was no longer looking at him, she could feel his gaze burning into her cheek, her neck, down the length of her body until it finally settled on her injured leg. She had blatantly lied to him about the injury, an injury that would certainly lead to some very difficult questions to answer.

“Let me see your foot.”

She blinked indignantly as she looked back at his face, her thoughts interrupted by his command.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked innocently, looking about her as if waiting for others to agree with her on the peculiarity of the request.

Flashing a naughty grin, his eyes laughing at her, he patted his left leg, indicating that her undamaged right foot was to rest there.

Her eyes, wide and frightened, locked with his, then averted their gaze only to return to their previous position. She inhaled a breath, hearing her heartbeat pounding in her chest until it seemed deafening. She was certain he could hear it, especially as she watched his eyes narrow oh-so-slightly.

“Put your foot in my lap,” he repeated, the questioning sound of his previous request replaced with a matter-of-fact assertion and just a dab of impatience. She lifted her eyes to his own, feeling the chill of his cold gaze as his smile faded. A wave of discomfort swept over her, as she watched his smile predictably began to return.

“Colonel, you embarrass me,” she muttered, her uneasiness obvious. She looked at him. He was no longer smiling, looking extremely impatient and somewhat annoyed at her failure to acquiesce to his request.

“I assure you, Fraulein, my intention is not to flirt,” he replied, his eyes dead serious.

As she considered his request, her eyes darting nervously side-to-side, he allowed for the crookedness of his smile to be swept into a full-out close-mouthed grin of mischief, of intrigue. At the renewed sight of him, her eyebrows lifted in trepidation.

He nodded, flashing her a look of complete confidence, a look that seemed to indicate, ‘I know all about you. I know exactly what you’re hiding and now I’m going to slowly drain your resolve until you crumble right here in front of me and confess to everything.’ His eyes, locked on hers, teased her as his crooked smile revealed his certainty, his triumph over her. She gave him a look of suspicion, but he wasn’t having any of it. The wide smile on his closed mouth never wavered as he lifted his left arm, pointing his index finger indistinctly and then invading her mind with his teasing dark eyes as he pointed his finger downwards, lowering it onto his knee. When she finally remembered to take a breath, she saw that his smile had faded.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her right leg up, letting it rest on his thigh. The warmth of his body against her ankle was alarming—it was impossible for her to consider him to be human—rather, some kind of menacing presence that reminded her of her mortality.

With utmost care, Landa proceeded to unbuckle her sparkling heels. She stared at him as he worked his thick masculine fingers on the intricacies of the footwear’s straps, smoothly slipping the shoe off of her foot with a smile. She almost felt an inexplicable bout of giddy laughter bubbling up at the thought of him then proceeding to give her a foot massage, but that certainly was not a possibility at the moment. Rather, her breath caught in her throat as if her neck had been caught in a snare.

“Now, would you please reach into my right coat pocket and take out what you find?”

Again his silky request had shaken her out of her thoughts, and she flashed him a quizzical expression. He merely nodded, face graver than before.

Hesitantly, she twisted her upper body to reach into the pocket of his black leather overcoat. As she lowered her hands into the recesses of the pocket, she felt nothing, but then suddenly she could feel a hard rounded object surprisingly large in size. As she ran her fingers down the roundness of the item, she felt the curve of a heel. Her fingers tentatively wrapped around the object as she finally recalled what this item was—her own shoe, a shoe she had inadvertently left in the tavern after the shootout.

As she lifted the shoe by its heel from the deep pocket, she could see that it certainly was her shoe, a brown and cream leather pump she had purchased in Paris several months ago. The contents of her stomach, hot and acrid, rose in her throat and she swallowed hastily, trying her best not to break down in front of this vile, smiling monster.

He eagerly took the shoe from her and proceeded to slip it onto her bare foot with eagerness, much like a demented Cinderella story—the prince the executioner and Cinderella the accused. She could feel iron bars closing around her, feeling them approaching from all angles, ready to squeeze the life out of her.

As her foot was slipped into the footwear, which fit perfectly, she couldn’t help but let out a sigh of defeat. As she did so, she attempted to read his eyes but the darkness of them was impenetrable at the moment.

He looked up at her, and, obviously satisfied with his work, clapped his hands together. “What is that American expression—” he said, having switched to English in an instant, “if the shoe fits, you must wear it?”

She paused, looking for an exit. He had figured out that she had been at the tavern, that her Italian companions were imposters, but exactly how much did he know? Would he try to extract information from her or was he satisfied?

“What now, Colonel?” she heard herself say, as she crossed her arms in an attempt to look unfazed. She glanced at Landa now, who looked positively murderous.

This is not the end, folks. So, what did you think?

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