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Despite what most of the Allied propaganda said, Hans Landa did not consider himself a cruel barbarian on the prowl for Jewish babies to skewer on his bayonet. Rather, he imagined himself a cultured man who was simply too devoted to his work, and if there were Jewish babies to be skewered—well, it was all in the line of duty.
After all, Hans had an untarnished record to uphold of not only succeeding but also surpassing expectations in every endeavor he had ever undertaken. Knowing how useful it would be for him to learn other languages, he had thrown himself into studying as many of the European ones as he could, perfecting his accent and vocabulary while simultaneously rising through the ranks of the military. When Japan had become a German ally, he had even begun working on learning its language, although more out of curiosity and a need for perfection than true practicality. Hans knew he was too good at his job to be deported to the Pacific theater. If such a thing were to happen, it would be later, when Europe was firmly in the Fuhrer's hands. That was a long way coming, Hans knew, even with the German armies' quickness and efficiency. Plenty of time, he thought, to learn all of the Kanji necessary to enjoy the local literature, should it come to that.
Later, when he had been placed in charge of hunting down the remaining Jewish families hiding in occupied France, he had meticulously gone through every record his predecessors had left behind. Taking notes on their notes, drawing webs of possible connections, Hans had worked swiftly but carefully to determine the best hiding spots in his assigned region. Then he had gone, always personally, to every possible nook and cranny. For, while the Germany army was indeed imposing and powerful, there were some things best achieved without using force. Hans enjoyed being able to display a greater flexibility than most other German officers could. He possessed a cultured side, a charismatic side, a side that could joke and charm in French and English while simultaneously calling for the deaths of a whole family hiding underneath the floorboards, and he was proud of it. As he had told Monsieur LaPadite, he treasured all the names he earned, no matter how monstrous. After all, the type of reputation didn't matter as much as the size of it, and Hans had a considerable reputation. One he had worked very hard to maintain.
This reputation was one he had hoped to continue as a chief security officer, and he had been successful until the Basterds had come into the picture. Suddenly, coming face to face with American audacity, Hans knew with an unshakeable certainty that the Fuhrer wasn't going to win. Perhaps Lieutenant Aldo Raine hadn't formed the best of plans, being so obviously untrained in both the Italian language and general cinematic critique, but he had been bold enough to carry through with it anyway. Later, when Hans woke from his pain-induced swoon to find himself a prisoner of the loud, vulgar American—the swastika carved onto his head still bleeding big, fat droplets onto his pristine uniform—he learned that the plan really had succeeded, without a hitch. That was when he knew, despite the many mistakes that had happened along the way, that he had made the right decision. Japan had never been a possibility after all.
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Arriving in America, Hans quickly became enamored of the culture. Washington DC was a bustling city full of sharp dressed politicians who hated his guts on principle. The American president, who Hans had the great pleasure of meeting a few days into his captivity, was a sharp-witted, well-educated, and fearless man whose disability seemed nothing more than a trick to get others to underestimate him. He was wholly unfazed by Hans' complaints about their broken deal. In fact, he seemed rather pleased by Raine's ingenuity. Hans, trying hard to maintain his expression of disbelief and disapproval, couldn't help but secretly approve. If a politician's job was to be dishonest in the defense of their constituents, Roosevelt was a star example. Hans could appreciate those so attached to their jobs. Hans could also appreciate the open dishonesty and overriding sense of practicality, so he didn't think any less of the president when he discovered that a Lieutenant Aldo Raine had been assigned to watch over him while the Allies finished up in Europe.
To be honest, the living wasn't so bad. Aldo was loud and constantly associating with other men who were loud, and together, they filled the house with raucous retellings of their best exploits and drunken singing. A minor annoyance. While Hans had developed a certain amount of OCD over the past few years--as careful counting made it easier for him to meet his quotas--it was not a trait he was reluctant to give up. Besides, Lt. Aldo Raine was nothing if not an interesting character.
To many Germans, he had been nothing more than an American bogeyman. Rude, violent, and eager for the blood of those he called 'NATzees,' Aldo had perfectly embodied what many of the soldiers had feared most. Yet living with him gave Hans a different impression. Perhaps he was simply free to view Aldo from an Allied perspective, in which he was a hero riding into danger to stand up for what his country loved most. Hans could certainly see that beneath all of the bluster and unpolished charm, Aldo had a strong sense of duty himself. If his sense of duty was more romanticized than Hans', it did nothing to impede the man's effectiveness. Aldo, like Hans, never did anything halfway. When he had decided to do something, he focused his complete attention upon it, and nothing got in the way. Hans approved of such a trait, so similar to his own obsession with success, but recognized that in Aldo, it was slightly different.
At the heart of it all, Aldo was a noble man. When he had formed the Basterds, infiltrating Germany with eight Jewish-American soldiers he had trained himself, Aldo had known that justice was on his side. There existed in the American a strong sense of right and wrong which had nothing to do with the minor moralities of others—Aldo had enjoyed his Bear Jew's displays of strength as much as all the others had—which Hans could not claim existed within himself. After all, if he had believed so fully in the Fuhrer's plans, he would not have betrayed him as he had.
This sense of nobility was the main cause for Hans' growing admiration of the lieutenant. However, as the days passed and they became more talkative—Hans always excited to practice his language skills no matter the situation or the conversation partner and Aldo having nothing to do until he found his next mission to run into with guns a-blazing—it slowly became clear it was not the only cause. Nor was the result only a growing admiration.
The first time Hans hit on Aldo, he wasn't quite sure the other even knew what Hans' words actually meant. If Hans had been naïve to trust the lieutenant, Aldo was naïve in that, if it didn't involve large guns and compromising positions, he was generally clueless as to how to act. After all, Hans was almost completely sure that Aldo hadn't caught on to just who Hermann had been and how close they had been before he had died.
So Hans was patient. He continued his light flirting, studied Japanese while Aldo was busy drinking, and when the American got just drunk enough to start rambling about the poor American soldiers left in the Philippines, Hans would occasionally take advantage of the situation and lick his way all over the man's bare chest.
That was another thing they had in common. They both knew when being straightforward was the best option. If Aldo had more opportunities to be blunt than Hans, well, that didn't mean he was necessarily better at it.
The first time Hans had done it, settling himself closer to Aldo on the seat than he perhaps would have if the man had been sober before cheerfully unbuttoning his shirt, the American had simply given him a look. The same look, in fact, that he had had on his face when trying to bluff his way through a movie premiere as an Italian critic, as though sheer confidence alone could make up for utter ignorance. Hans was not so unkind as to ignore the fact that it had worked—with other people. The ex-Nazi officer had seen through it then, and he saw through it now. Aldo was a mix of confusion and the closest to insecurity that he could imagine the other being, but there was a spark of something else in those eyes, so when Hans had finished marking a trail south, stopping just a bit below the man's waistband, he gave the other a light kiss of reassurance on the lips. A careful first kiss because Landa still wasn't entirely sure of Aldo's reception of him. Whether it was to stem the other man's potential sexual insecurities or merely tell the other that this did not necessarily have to mean anything emotionally, Hans kept carefully vague.
Eventually, it became quite clear that if Lt. Aldo Raine could survive the Third Reich, he was definitely not going to be felled by some possible complications about his sexual identity. In fact, Hans thought, happily trapped in a compromising position with the lieutenant and receiving the full extent of the other man's expertise with such situations, sexual crises might never have even been a consideration. Ah, the many ways Aldo continued to amaze him, Hans thought, before biting sharply into the American's shoulder.
"Hey!" Aldo complained, "Now I know you Nazis were into some weird shit—not that bitin's a bad thing necessarily—but if you think you're going to pull some of that Ernst Rohm shit wit' me—"
"Sorry," Hans apologized with all the false sincerity he had taught himself in the military, using his most cheerful and melodic voice. "I'm afraid I've developed a minor habit when it comes to inflicting pain." Aldo snorted, holding himself far away enough from Hans that the German couldn't help but take a moment to appreciate the finely distinguished teeth marks left from the bite.
They were still there the next morning, hidden in the huge, purple bruise on Aldo's shoulder that was too obvious not to spot with Aldo walking around with his shirt off. Hans viewed it with a sense of fondness. Finally, he had made a mark on Aldo as obvious as the one the American had left on him. It was almost affectionate, in a very twisted, Ernst Rohm way. Hans could practically feel his heart warming.
His guardian appeared to be accounting for things around the house, walking aimlessly around, picking up and putting down various objects. Hans imagined the man making a list in his head. A list that probably had something to do with the next great mission he would embark on, Hans concluded as he caught a glimpse of Aldo's service arm before the other put it back in its not-so-secret hiding spot. It was a shame, Hans thought, that the American was looking to leave so soon after their acquaintance had reached new depths. He had thought they had been rather impressive depths. In fact, he had hoped to explore them a bit more. Yet, Aldo seemed restless now, and Hans could see that admirably noble spirit dragging his captor away again. He guessed that a prison now lay in his future. It wouldn't be so bad considering the European affair was very swiftly coming to an end with the death of so many high ranking Nazi officers, but still. Hans had felt a connection with the Aldo he had gotten to know in their short time as housemates. He had felt affection, and considering his inability to do anything without surpassing all boundaries, Hans thought that if Aldo had given him enough time, it could have been an incredibly intense and devoted passion.
As it was, the encounter had seemed too short.
Or so he thought. "Right. Now, you've been studying that Japanese, haven't cha?" Hans' ears perked up at the mention of his studies. He hadn't even realized Aldo had been paying attention, but of course the American had. It was part of his duty as a guardian.
"I have. I believe I've learned enough to make a wonderful casual conversationalist," Hans told him excitedly, his voice as energized as when Aldo had taught him the English phrase 'Bingo.'
"Good. You're comin' wit' me. We'll figure out how to explain this to the president later," Aldo said, managing to sound authoritative even when naked.
Hans, for his part, felt fairly confused. How had sex led to going anywhere, and why was the American president involved? "Pardon me," he began, his finger held up in minor protest, "where are we going?"
"Japan. Philippines. Whichever country needs a good asswhupping. I'm gettin' bored here, and I know you are too," Aldo drawled in his very special way.
Suddenly, it made sense. Hans' eyes widened in surprise.
"Bingo," Aldo said, the satisfaction in his affirmation only adding to the shock Hans felt at the thought that Aldo would even consider bringing him along.
Still, it was something, he thought. It was a chance for him to stay close to the American and let his own determination and need for success work. Looking up at the Basterd who had made so many of his countrymen's lives hell; who had haunted the nightmares of German children for months, and probably would for decades to come; who had carved a swastika into his forehead so that he would never forget who he had been, Hans thought that maybe Aldo was thinking the same way. Maybe they were surprisingly well made for each other after all.
"Bingo!" Hans repeated, with considerably more enthusiasm. It looked like he was going to make it to Japan after all.