Bridget gaped down at the man in the bed before her, smiling at her as if he hadn't a care in the world. It was a wide, toothy smile, dangerously close to being a mocking smile yet his eyes held not an ounce of spite. Even though his strange behavior was mesmerizing, her eyes were drawn downwards. Under his sheet there was motion, culminated by his revealing a hand, its fist closed tightly, knuckles white. He left it lay there over the cover, not bothering to unclench his fist or raise his hand to his face.

"Just so you know, I made that phone call for my own health," Bridget said with a sneer, not bothering to hide the conversation behind a veil of German.

"You look just fine to me," he remarked, playing along, grinning widely as he lifted his chin to survey her face. "Not even a scratch on you. I assume the baby is fine as well."

"How dare you ask about something you care nothing about," she hissed. "You tried to kill my unborn chi—"

"Our unborn child," he corrected with a little matter-of-fact grin.

"You have no claim to it and never will."

He was not shaken, his smile never wavering as he lie in the bed, his fist still clenched, though her eyes were on his face.

"—and yet, you used it as a bargaining chip for me to spare your life," he remarked, his teeth glistening in the dim light. "You were very clear in telling me that it is my child."

"You were supposed to spare me my life!" she exclaimed. "But you—"

"I did just that," he replied easily without a hint of remorse. In fact, there was amusement in his tone. "How could I spare you your life if I hadn't tried to take it first?"

"Fuck you," she spat. "You raped me—and then tried to kill me. You're an inhuman monster." All the while, her voice increased in volume, her face becoming a darker red.

Now he looked a bit irritated.

"If you insist on speaking English, you can use any manner of crude language you wish with me," he said, his eyes full of life, "but as we are in a hospital, I invite you to be quieter in expressing those sentiments."

Bridget felt her vision shaking, adrenaline pumping through her veins, threatening to make her grab the nearest heavy item and pummel him with it until he stopped smiling. Her anger was getting the better of her. She almost wanted to leave the room and confess all that Landa was and all that he had done to the attending nurse. She had to remind herself again and again in a kind of internal chant that his identification had to be destroyed first.

Landa took this moment of indecision on Bridget's part as another opportunity to speak, though it seemed to be harder for him to do so.

"The rape, as you refer to it, didn't happen. You were just as aroused as I was and every word you said spelled it out: you. wanted. me."

"Burn in hell," she growled.

A big smile spread across his face and he slowly moved his other hand to the top of the sheet.

"Good girl," he muttered through gritted teeth, cheeks rosy red and eyes twinkling. He blinked quickly several times, and Bridget noticed a new glassiness to his eyes. Was he crying? She glanced down at his closed fist, which was holding the sheets with an ironclad grip.

"Is your leg hurting now?" she snarled. "I hope the pain makes you want to kill yourself."

"It's been hurting since the moment I came to," he muttered, his tone lacking any amusement. "I guess I hide it quite well, because it is almost unbearable." He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes, his teeth set. She watched him swallow and then he opened his eyes and continued speaking. "It's not as bad, however, as the day I recei—let's just say it's not the worst pain I've felt."

"The day you received the scar?" Bridget shot back. "I hope you go bald and that that scar is just as prominent on the day you die as it is now."

"Balding is a rather gradual process," he replied, his smile unmoving. "Are you telling me that despite my being irredeemable, I'll have the opportunity to live to a ripe old age?"

"Not if I can help it."

"What's that you say?" he smiled. "I'm confused, because I thought you just told me you wanted me to—"

"You'll see," she hissed through clenched teeth.

Her words sent a little chill up his spine, but he remained unperturbed on the surface. Even though she was a women, she was decidedly mobile and he was not.

"I'll see what?" he asked her. "That sounds an awful lot like a threat, but then again, I can't be certain."

She could see several beads of sweat glistening along his hairline, the muscles of his forehead twisted and mangled as he winced from the pain that he could no longer hide.

"You'll see," she repeated.

Hans Landa wanted very badly to continue this conversation with Bridget von Hammersmark, but it was becoming more and more difficult to speak. It was as if the pain was doubling each time he took a breath, and he longed for a nurse to enter the room and administer morphine. Though the drug would dull his senses, it was preferable to the agonizing pain he was in at the moment. Agonizing pain all because of that bitch Bridget, shooting him after he worked so diligently to revive her. He had done something he'd never done before: attempting to undo one of his actions. And this was how he was repaid. He'd certainly not make that mistake again.

And not only did she cause him this unbearable pain, but also now she had the audacity to threaten him! What was she going to do to him? She did not have the sheer strength to overpower him, and she didn't have any kind of weapon to do the job. What could she be scheming? Well, whatever it was, it wasn't going to work. He closed his eyes in the quiet darkness, Bridget having fallen eerily silent, feeling the warmth of a stubborn tear spilling out of the corner of his eye. He was in far too much pain to even attempt to lift his hand to wipe the offending object away.

The pins in his femur made it impossible to roll over or even lay on his side as was his customary way of sleeping. How had he miscalculated Bridget von Hammersmark so badly? Hans Landa was an expert at reading and manipulating people—yes, he was the Jew Hunter and a Nazi of high standing—but now all he had left were his skills and it seemed that those were now failing him.

"Gehen sie schlafen, Fraulein," Landa muttered, in too much pain to realized he'd reverted back to German. He shut his eyes, gritting his teeth as he carefully considered calling in the nurse for a morphine drip.