A/N: Written because I'm an old fashioned romantic. The title is a bit eccentric – I kept thinking about communal plots and gardener's gloves. Inspiration? Listening to Led Zepplin while looking at Solid&Etc. fanart. Go figure.
The Garden
He comes back to her in such a way she is unsure whether her tired mind is playing tricks on her person. The top two buttons of her shirt undone, the collar hands wide and loose around her neck as she watches with a strange hesitation – the man who stumbles on his knees on the peppered carpet of soot and decay over the rueful remains of a once proud London.
"Integra?"
Suddenly she is standing in front of him, bottom lip parted at the torn state of his pale and dirtied knees. The death of a monster and the return of a man, he remains kneeling stooped before her worrying form as he consolidates the familiar charred surroundings against the nothingness of his earlier demise.
White flesh, waxen to perfection, strikes discord in Hellsing's direction with the openness of his facial expression. Or what is left to be seen. A green cloth, almost gray, covers the upper section of his face. It is full of relief and so fragile – if she blew gently on his brow Integra is sure all the atoms of his newly regenerated form would scatter.
"You are blind," she says; licks her lips out of necessity to lighten the weight of surprise and curves her back just so. Waves of platinum blonde hair part on either side of her grimy cheeks; Alucard moves closer and tilts his forehead upwards so the tip of his dark hair tickles her chin. In a cascade of intimate protection against the exhaustion from battle, the maiden places a hand on his shoulder.
He reaches up with one hand – she is surprised to find he is still wearing gloves, plain white gloves – and in a gesture of everything that might be, Alucard touches her cheek. Integra breathes through her nose, thankful he is returned, and thinks of home.