A/N: I'm so grateful for all your reviews and messages so far, thank you! It's so interesting to hear your different takes on whether this is something that G & M would allow to happen. I hope you enjoy this next update.

CHAPTER FOUR: THE BRISTOL

"Get up."

"Whaa..?"

"I said get up. You're better than this."

The booted foot nudged Georg's ribs again and he groaned in protest, rolling over onto his other side to escape the unwanted disturbance. His head was pulsing and his mouth tasted like cement - the last thing he wanted to do was try and peel his eyelids open to the harsh daylight.

"Ohhh no you don't!" The intruder chorused, locking two hands around his upper arm and pulling him back over again. Growling like a petulant teenager, Georg made to swat the unwelcome hands away - but the intruder persisted in their mission to rouse him from the comfort of unconsciousness.

"Come on!" His visitor prodded, shaking him roughly, "up!"

Cracking one eye open just a sliver - mainly to see who it was that dared to disturb his pity party - it took Georg a long while to focus. Once his vision finally cleared, he was greeted by the sight of one extremely disgruntled Maximilian Detweiler.

"I've been trying to rouse you for fifteen minutes!"

Massaging his temples and grumbling unintelligibly, Georg attempted to sit up, "why are you here?"

"Well good morning to you too!" Max retorted, thoroughly affronted, "Believe me, I'd much rather be back in Vienna, gossiping gaily and soaking myself in champagne," he took pause before revealing the real reason for his presence, "Maria sent me."

A snarl of disapproval.

"She's worried about you," Max defended, "We all are. She thought you might be, you know, living in squalor..."

Georg watched as his friend looked around the hotel room, taking in the dirty clothes strewn across the furniture, the cigar butts stubbed out on the ashy table top, the empty liquor bottles rolling around on the floor - and the resident himself, sprawled half-dressed and half-awake on the opulent sofa. The bed in the adjacent room had apparently remained untouched.

"Thank God she was wrong," Max remarked sardonically, turning back to his friend with an eyebrow raised.

"It's been a difficult week."

"Two," Max corrected, "its been two weeks that you've been moping about feeling sorry for yourself. Now I know your wife left you and you were kind enough to give her and the children the run of the villa and your heart is breaking and how could she do this to you, et cetera et cetera," he waved his hand impatiently for emphasis, "but it's time to snap out of it!"

Grunting unenthusiastically, Georg hauled himself up from the sofa and swayed a little on the spot, his head spinning.

"Bloody cognac," he muttered, steadying himself against the arm of the furniture.

"Is there any liquor left in Salzburg?" Max asked with a hint of amusement, "how much did you have?"

"Nowhere near enough," was Georg's gruff reply as he squinted around the room for a mirror. Spotting one above the mantel, he studied his reflection, barely recognising the man staring back at him. Hair in disarray, rumpled shirt hanging open, bleary-eyed and stubble-jawed. He hadn't woken up in this bad a state since... but he couldn't think about that. Not now.

While he busied himself with stumbling to the bathroom and splashing water on his face, Max took the time to look around again, his nose wrinkled in distaste. He normally loved the way rich people lived, but Georg had managed to turn one of the Bristol's finest suites into an exact replica of their naval academy accommodation. The place was a dive!

Turning full circle, his eyes fell on the sofa again, this time noticing some bits of paper lying amidst the nest that Georg had fashioned. Curiosity piqued, he moved closer and discovered that one was a photograph, and the other a letter. The black and white picture was a recent one of Maria playing on the lawn with the children, her head thrown back and her eyes sparkling with laughter, clearly unaware of the camera focusing on her. It was the letter however - faded a little at the edges and written in a feminine scrawl - that caught his attention.

Dear Captain, Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Brigitta, Kurt, Marta and Gretl

It pains me to leave you so abruptly but I feel I absolutely must. I believe my errand through God was to bring you closer together as a family but I've come to realise that you've already achieved this yourselves through hope and sheer force of will - and for that I am so overjoyed. I know now the time has come for me to return to the abbey. I miss my life there too much and I hope you can forgive me.

Captain, I want to thank you eternally for your kindness, your patience, and for welcoming me into your home.

I will treasure the memories always.

God bless you all,

Fraulein Maria

So this was the mysterious letter Georg had received on that fateful day, the day Fraulein Maria - as she'd been so affectionately known back then - had fled the villa. No wonder his friend had been so agitated during the week that had followed. Scanning the contents over again, he noticed a couple of the words on the page were sporadically smudged with dried splotches. Something told him they weren't the result of spilled cognac...

"Having a good snoop?"

Max's head shot up to find his friend in the bathroom doorway, eyes narrowed to slits as he towelled his stubbled jaw dry.

"Maria would've come herself, you know," the impresario waved the letter in the air unapologetically, "but she didn't think you'd want her to."

"And she'd be absolutely right!"

"Why don't you come back to the villa?" Max suggested, "It's certainly big enough for the both of you, at least until you can figure out a better arrangement-"

"For as long as my own wife won't have me, I certainly will not be going home," Georg snapped with finality.

Pitying him somewhat, Max attempted a different tactic, "The children miss you."

"And I them!" was the terse reply as Georg snatched his rumpled trousers from underneath the coffee table and wrestled himself into them angrily, not bothering to do up the buttons.

"Maria mentioned that you dropped by to see them last week."

Georg shot his friend a warning look by way of response. It was true that he'd managed to pull himself together long enough to pay the children a visit a few days prior, avoiding their plethora of questions and claiming that it was his work that was keeping him away. It had been painfully obvious that the older children didn't believe him, casting each other furtive glances the more feeble his excuses became.

"Do you plan on visiting them again?" Max needled.

Georg said nothing, running a weary hand over his jaw. Of course he was going to visit them again - he really did miss them terribly. The thought of seeing his estranged wife however, left his stomach churning. Luckily - but perhaps also devastatingly - Maria had made herself scarce while he'd been at the villa. And neither had he sought her out. It was too soon, too raw - this fresh sting of betrayal.

Donning a brave face in front of his brood, he'd made sure to spend quality time with each and every one of them during his visit. His wife had been right about one thing - he had neglected them of late and, though he might be a broken shell of a man in his most private moments, he wasn't going to make the same mistakes he'd made in the months following Agathe's passing. This time around, he would at least wait until his return to the hotel room before drinking himself into oblivion once again.

"They know what's going on Georg," the impresario sighed, "I pried the bottle out of your hands seven years ago for the sake of those children and I'm more than prepared to do it again now. You need to pull yourself together."

"And I will. I just need a little bit of time."

"Well be quick about it!" Max insisted, "because there's another reason for my visit today."

"Oh?"

"John's been in touch while you've been missing in action..."

Georg raised an eyebrow in mock fascination, "Well, haven't you been a busy bee!"

Despite the heavy sarcasm, Max looked rather pleased with himself, rocking back and forth on his heels triumphantly, "I admit I haven't been this busy since trying to snatch that marvellous string quartet away from Sacha Petrie! Honestly Georg, if there's one thing I hate, it's a thief."

"What does John want now?" Georg sighed, flinging himself into the nearest armchair and rubbing the tension from behind his eyes.

"Well, with you being..." the impresario cast another unimpressed look around the room, "...indisposed, he wants me to keep tabs on a man who's caught their interest."

Typical, Georg thought, with a roll of his eyes. It was just like John to find the next available tool at his disposal as soon as his first option no longer met his requirements. The man hadn't extended a single condolence in the last two weeks, hadn't once enquired after his son-in-law's well-being or his impending divorce. No - as far as John Whitehead was concerned, as long as his grandchildren were safe, Georg's family affairs were of little consequence. And now he'd convinced Max Detweiler to perform his dirty deeds instead.

"Well do enlighten me," he pushed, "What's this vermin's name?"

"Landa," Max revealed, "Colonel Hans Landa. Pretty high up in Hitler's SS, apparently."

Georg gave a bored shrug, picking lint off his trouser leg, "never heard of him."

"Very pally with Zeller and the like," the impresario bristled with distaste, "Austrian born. In the area doing business with some of the Austrian National Socialist Party. Raising their profile, you know," he gave a flippant wave of his hand, "But of course, one doesn't simply waltz into the SS with no prior credentials - and yet the Brits know very little of his background. They want eyes on him."

"And why would you offer to do that?" Georg sneered, "I thought you had no political convictions, remember?"

"Well, aside from the fact that John didn't really given me much choice," Max grumbled, "it turns out this Landa is hosting a very high profile soirée at the Goldener in two weeks' time - and I never could resist a good party! Anyone who's anyone is going to be there. And if I'm lucky, the town's next generation of talent will be right under my nose!"

Georg shook his head in disgust, "Another glaringly obvious attempt by the Nazis to get Salzburg's elite on side."

"The Anschluss is coming Georg," his friend replied gravely, "whether we like it or not."

"So everybody keeps telling me!" Was the icy retort.

"We need to at least pretend to get on with these people," Max insisted, "It could be dangerous if you oppose them too openly."

With another roll of his eyes, Georg snorted, "spare me!"

Having heard enough, he flopped forwards in his seat and snatched up the half-empty bottle of Cognac atop the coffee table, managing to bring it halfway to his lips before the impresario smacked it firmly out of his fist. The impact sent the bottle careering across the carpet, liquid seeping into the expensive fabric, leaving Georg's empty hand frozen mid-air. Max could've heard a pin drop in the long silence that followed, his friend's venomous eyes shifting painfully slowly from the spillage on the floor, up to meet his face.

"That was my last bottle," Georg gritted dangerously, looking very much as though he wanted to wring Max's neck.

"It's for your own good!"

"I'm afraid I beg to differ!"

Giving an exasperated huff, Max threw his hands up in the air before anchoring them to his hips and clucking like a disapproving mother hen.

"For how long are you going to mope about like this?"

"For as long as it takes!" Georg snipped.

"You're no better than a petulant teenager!"

"Oh do give over,"Georg whined, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I thought you of all people would at least give me a break!"

"Yes, well," Max retorted smugly, "just think of this little intervention as payback, if it makes you feel any better!"

"Payback?" Georg scowled, "For what?"

"For not allowing those darling children of yours to sing in the Salzburg Folk Festival!"

Despite himself, Georg burst out laughing.

"It's been two years Max," he wiped a mirthful tear from his eye, "isn't it time you got over it?"

"Well why don't you call me in two years' time and tell me if you've gotten over this," Max whinged childishly, gesturing to the spilled cognac on the floor. He kept a straight face for all of two seconds before he joined his friend in laughter - the infectious sound filling every corner of the stifling room. In truth, it was good to simply see the man smile again, to see that he was still capable of feeling anything besides anger and resentment.

"I will snap out of it, Max," Georg insisted seriously, once their laughter had ebbed, "I won't make the same mistakes I made seven years ago. I just need-"

"I know," Max interrupted solemnly, squeezing his friend's shoulder, "I know, Georg. Time. You need time."

An easy silence fell between them then, both of them lost to their own thoughts.

"Max?" Georg chorused some moments later, breaking the pensive quietude, "can I give you a solid piece of advice?"

"What might that be?"

"Don't ever get married."

A bark of laughter.

"I'm afraid you're twice too late for that, Georg my friend!" the impresario chuckled in good humour, twirling his moustache between thumb and forefinger, "but that's a tale for another day!"

"Well in that case, perhaps it'll be third time lucky for the both of us!"

A/N: As I'm sure a lot of you know, Hans Landa is a Quentin Tarantino character from his absolutely brilliant film, Inglorious Basterds. I'm a huge fan of Austrian actor Christoph Waltz, who plays the character of Landa superbly and has won several awards for his portrayal. Apart from the introduction of Landa, this fic won't crossover with Inglorious Basterds in any way. I own none of the characters (though I do wish I owned both Christopher Plummer and Christoph Waltz!)

As always your thoughts on my updates mean the world, so thank you again.