A/N: I - I don't know. Ninety-eight percent of this is what came out directly from my pen. It's half poetry, half drabble. (Oh god.) Something in me is trying to say "There's more meaning! There's more meaning to this!" but the large part of my cranium is saying pfft. (and I happen to agree with that half.)
M A K E R
"I want to take my time, I want to know you're mine.
(Bryan Adams, 'Inside Out')
xxx
He hovers over her - corporeal, solid - over Arthur's daughter. She is an only child; eight years old, with long locks of gold-platinum hair and soft hands.
Her mouth opens, her lips parted as she breathes and makes small noises in her afternoon sleep. Alucard waves his right hand over her face, back and forth, testing if his presence interferes with her dreaming. It doesn't.
He smiles in amusement. Of course not. She hasn't met him yet, she doesn't know he exists.
And he likes it that way - this small moment of her world that is untouched by his seal-bound glove. (Hush, Arthur's daughter is dreaming) That is what little girls do, this is how they behave. He reminds himself that he is looking at a child, a human child -
(a large part of him swells up with a feeling, an emotion that he won't, that he can't name)
And he wishes to see that same peaceful face on his - no, on their daughter.
A/N: WHUT.