Disclaimer: Me? Own them? *bursts out laughing*
Author's notes: This is Bridget/Aldo goodness, and why the Hell is there only one other story written about them? Why? Seriously, I was expecting more than one other person to ship this pairing. World, I am disappointed in you!
Sitting on the metal table in the veterinary clinic, listening as the dogs were whipped to barking excitement by the smell of her blood, Bridget Von Hammersmark made a decision: she absolutely, completely, and utterly hated Lt. Aldo Raine.
Her work with the resistance had never gotten her injured before. Her job was seduction, soothing the feelings of the Nazis when suspicious situations arose, escorting members of the covert, anti-Hitler resistance through areas bristling with uniforms and guns. And, if Fate had been kind, it would have been like that in La Louisiane. But it hadn't been, and she'd gotten shot.
It was a pain unlike that of anything she'd felt before, more intense and more focused than any other hurt she'd ever previously suffered. And when Aldo the Apache had dug his finger into the wound, pressing the bullet up against her tibia, she'd wanted to scream. She nearly had.
She'd hated him because he hadn't hesitated to hurt her, because he'd done so without any sign of remorse, because he was so damn blithe about torturing her to make sure that she was honest. His atrocious American accent would have had her clawing at the walls if she'd had just a little less self control. Aldo Raine was, in short, the very antithesis of every romantic hero that she had ever encountered, in both fiction and reality. She was expecting something else. She wanted anything else. But the Apache was never going to change. Not for anybody, and definitely not for a German actress that he seemed to despise with every fiber of his being.
Oh, yes, she could see that Aldo the Apache was disgusted by her. She knew it. He hated the brilliant red lipstick she wore, her dress, her shoes, he hated her beauty and her wealth and the fact that Bridget had never suffered as he had suffered to bring the Nazis down. She was less than him. And Bridget could see that it galled him, to bathe and trim his hair and wear that white smoking jacket that she had selected. Such a thing was a blow to his pride, which made the blonde woman want to smirk. But underneath the actress and socialite Bridget was a very intelligent woman, and she did no such thing. It was her victory over him, small and petty though it was, and Von Hammersmark was very careful not to show how much she enjoyed it.
That was perhaps why Aldo treated her with such courtesy on the way to the party—treating her not as a commander that he didn't particularly like (and in the theater, that was her temporary but de facto role) but as an equal. And, for some reason, Bridget valued that. It was a measure of respect from a man she hated, but it was earned because she had consented to going along with their hare-brained scheme and done her share of the work involved—finding a car, getting the tuxedos ready, making sure that Omar knew at least a few words of Italian to use on any German that attempted conversation with him, treating the Basterds as respected equals as they all prepared for the biggest deception of their entire lives. The respect Bridget got in return felt good. Better than the flattering words she received from her fans, better than the praise from the men that desired her.
And, as if to prove true all the stereotypes concerning mercurial actresses, Bridget Von Hammesmark stopped hating Lt. Aldo Raine.
"Are we ready?" Bridget asked once their vehicle had stopped.
"Yeah," Donny said, flicking his unfinished cigarette out the open window. "Ready as anything." The Bear Jew stepped out of the car, which was parked several streets away from Le Gamaar thanks to the number of people attending Stolz der Nation. Aldo stepped out of the car next, followed by the actress.
In her sparkling black dress Bridget Von Hammersmark appeared as a Teutonic goddess, as a Germanic Aphrodite. It was her business to be beautiful, but now she was stunning, and she could feel Donny and Aldo looking at her for a moment in a way that many men had looked at Bridget before. It was nothing new for the actress and she had grown quite used to it after her first year in the film-making business. But what was different, what made Bridget's stomach churn slightly and her step falter a bit, was the way Aldo's gaze flicked up from her one shoe and brazenly raked over her face like he was more interested in that than anything else. Like he had seen a dozen girls with bodies that were more interesting, but he found her face more appealing than anything else.
It made Bridget turn away from him, embarrassed.
They walked in silence. When the trio reached the theater Bridget stumbled slightly, unused to switching from street to tiled floors when wearing a cast on one leg and a high-heeled shoe on the other. Aldo caught her arm, let her weight sway back onto her feet as she steadied herself. His hand seemed ten times warmer than her skin.
Bridget resisted the urge to shiver. Maybe, maybe when Hitler was dead and the war had ended, she would see if she could make Aldo look at her face that way again. But for now, there was business to attend to.
Like it? Hate it? Want to hire Donny Donowitz to beat my head in with his baseball bat? Please tell me. Honestly, I've never written anything like this before, and I want to know what people think. Showing the transition between hatred and respect was very difficult, and I'm not sure if I entirely justified it *taps chin and scowls at keyboard in reflection.*