Velvet Waltz [An Inglourious Basterds fic]

A Weekend in the Country

Soaking in the clawfoot tub of Landa's country house, up to her ears in steamy water, Sylvia felt rejuvenated, glamorous, a little sexy, and extremely guilty.

Who was she to enjoy bath salts when her people suffered all across Europe? When the rest of France made do on starvation rations? When her fellow operatives, who had been through so much already, must be so worried about her??

Sylvia and Alain were as close to "best friends" as you could be without knowing each other's birth names. They had trained together in London, completed their first low-level reconnaissance mission together, and had a system for keeping in touch when meeting in person was too risky: there was a dead drop in a brick wall near both of their cover workplaces. Sylvia would leave a toffee wrapper, and Alain a gum wrapper, to say, "I'm alive, I'm still in Paris, and I'm okay enough to buy (or steal) sweets." For the first time since entering the field, she had no means to drop a wrapper.

But then again...even if she could leave a wrapper right now, was she really 'okay'?

The strains of German polka floated up through the floorboards, from Landa's living room radio. Her training had prepared her for many things, but somehow she missed the part about intimate dinners with the SS officer tasked with wiping your own people from the map.

After several deep breaths, Sylvia pulled the plug.

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She kept him waiting for nearly 15 minutes. She heard his fingers drumming impatiently as she finally descended the stairs.

The drumming stopped at once. She had found a simple blue housedress in her room closet, much too small for her and unbuttoned quite a ways down to accommodate her bust. She had to hike the skirt to comfortably sit down.

Hans stared at her for several minutes, then broke the silence. "I see you've been exploring."

"I'm not putting that prison gown back on."

"Understandable. Give me your measurements, and I'll have some new things made for you."

Marta, Landa's cook and housekeeper, burst in at that moment with the first course, a green salad. She avoided Sylvia's eyes entirely and swished back out as quickly as she came. Sylvia suddenly grasped how many former conquests must've sat in that chair before her.

Her stomach roiling, she stabbed at the salad.

"Is your room to your satisfaction?" Hans ventured.

She stared resolutely downward. "Yes."

Truth was, out of uniform, she suddenly understood. She had always figured the rumors were exaggerations. How could one middle-aged (albeit rather powerful) officer have bedded half the stars of German cinema, multiple princesses, heiresses, and radio stars? But with the Nazi insignia stripped away, he was devilishly handsome, and damn, did he know it.

"I'm told that bed is quite comfortable. Never slept in it myself. I took the room with a study, you see, I have so much paperwork to keep up with, I must bring it home sometimes," he chuckled.

Sylvia did not.

Marta swept through once again, replacing the first course with the main, wienerschnitzel with potatoes.

When Marta had left again, he leaned over the table conspiratorially. "It's veal, not pork."

Sylvia finally flicked her eyes upward. "How thoughtful of you."