This is my first fic so please read and review. I welcome comments and critiques. Disclaimer: I do not own the Inglorious Basterds or the rights to the movie. I'm simply a fan. Thank you!

Aldo Raine surveyed the wooded area with a slight frown and a tilt of his eyebrow. Winters were hard. Added on top was the fact they had no family, no home, and had to be on constant lokout…well, it was fucked up no matter which way you sliced it. The wind kicked up and nudged him out of his trance, reminding him he had come out here to pee and he should probably hurry up.

Currently, he and the Basterds were huddled down in a dilapidated stone house. More of a shack, really. When they surveyed the area it looked like it have been some sort of farm, an ancient one, but the woods had reclaimed all but the six foot high walls. They were far enough away from any town or village and decided to bed down here at least through Christmas and the New Year. The original roof and door were long gone and with some stolen tools, the Basterds constructed a rough roof and door and covered the single window. Surprisingly, even with most of them having no building experience, it was quite sound.

Aldo could see Kagan and Omar making their rounds through the trees. One could never be too careful. Besides, with all of them and their provisions, the shack was an extremely tight fit. The fresh gust of wind brought the smell of snow and Aldo quickly finished his business and pushed open the rough door of the shed.

"Close the fucking door," Donny said. The Basterds had dug a small fire pit in the middle of the dirt floor and had arranged their bedrolls around it. Even Stiglitz, who normally would sleep separate from the others, was huddled around the fire, next to Wicki with Utivich on his other side. Aldo's roll was in between Wicki and Donny and after propping the door shut with Donny's bat, he slid back into his spot and held his hands out to the tiny fire. Donny handed him a bottle of whiskey they had been passing around for the last hour. He took a nip, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bottle to Wicki.

It was Christmas Day and pointedly they were trying not to talk about families, but an occasional silence would slip in. Kagan and Omar were relieved by Hirschberg and Zimmerman. The whiskey continued to circle as they shared stories and talked about meaningless things. The conversation drifted towards women, as it often does with men who've had a little too much to drink. Donny started regaling them with a story that involved him, a rather loose woman, and the bleachers at a Red Sox game. The others started to one-up each other until the tales grew to fantastic to believe.

One person contributed nothing to the conversation: Hugo Stiglitz. Sometimes there would be a slight chuckle, but he didn't offer any stories. He only seemed to be a part of the group when they were killing Nazis. He seemed to come alive: he would taunt, laugh and joke with them. But once it was all said and done, he retreated into himself. Even Wicki, who was more of the reserved one in the group, had a few stories to tell.

"So, what about you, Stiglitz? I know you've probably had tons of women. They all love the strong, silent type," Donny said. The others tensed. They were all wary of Stiglitz and pointedly avoided getting to close. Utivich seemed very nervous to be sitting next to him and was trying to be as far away as possible. Donny, however, didn't care. He would clap the German on the shoulder after a particularly good round of Nazi killing, always tried to include him in the conversation. He'd even try to get the man riled up. Stiglitz never really responded and didn't get enraged at the tries, but it never stopped Donny.

Stiglitz had the whiskey bottle and took a deep gulp. "I only had one woman."

The shock that went through the group was so evident Aldo could taste it in the back of his throat. They stared open-mouthed at Stiglitz.

"Was she nice?" Donny asked, thrown for a loop. He hadn't expected him to respond. "Ah, that was probably a stupid question. I'm sure she was, huh?"

"She was my wife."

Stiglitz could not have surprised them more if he announced he was from the moon or Franklin-fucking-Roosevelt at that point. Aldo reached over and snatched the whiskey from Omar and took a gulp and handed it directly to Stiglitz. The thought of Stiglitz having a wife being…well, being as psychotic as he was, was a hard thing to imagine.

"Where was she from?" Wicki asked.

"Prussia. Her mother was Austrian, like you. Her father, Prussian. She was born in Konigsberg."

There was a very long and very uncomfortable silence. Everyone wanted to know about this woman but they didn't want to push him. Also, he spoke of her in the past tense. And that was never a good thing. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a creased photograph and shifted his knife. When they rescued him from that prison, he had been insistent on getting his effects: particularly his knife and a pouch that would hang from a belt. He hesitated, sighed and then passed the picture to Wicki. Wicki looked at it and then passed it along.

The black and white photograph depicted a woman, perhaps seventeen years old, with dark hair and large dark eyes. She was fashionably dressed and sitting at a table laden with food. Her smile was wide and even in the picture: genuine. And she was beautiful. Donny let out a low whistle when he saw. When the picture came back into Stiglitz's hands, he tucked it back into his pocket. Taking another gulp of whiskey and with night approaching the tiny shack he started to talk.