Author's Notes: This is just a way to clear out the attic of pestering plot bunnies. Please enjoy. :3

Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, London or France. (Bah!)

I remember when I first met Pip Bernadette.

I was settling in with my foster parents in a small summer home in France, when I decided to sneak out and find kids my own age. It wasn't because I wanted to make friends and play, far from it; I wanted to find out who was the top dog around here so I could challenge him to a fight and stake my claim in this territory. I already knew ahead of time that they wouldn't be pleased with a foreigner in their midst; years of being passed from orphanage to orphanage taught me that.

'And what better way to earn immediate acceptance,' I thought, 'if not tolerance, than with respect? And what better way to earn respect than with my fists?'

I found a kid sitting alone in an otherwise empty play-ground, obviously a boy. He was crying. My first impression was: 'What a wuss.'

He must have heard me approaching, because he suddenly gasped and whirled around to look at me.

My second impression was 'What a handsome boy.' His hair was red as copper, his eyes green as emerald, and his skin pale as alabaster. He was very tall, my head barely made it to his shoulders when I stood on tip-toe, and he was very well-built for one his age. He must have been at least twelve, and I only eight. He was a very handsome boy.

I blushed at the unexpected thought. 'Get a grip on yourself Seras,' I thought savagely, 'It's only a boy.'

I scowled openly, so he couldn't guess what I was thinking, and said, "What's the matter with you? You're a boy, ain't ya? Boys aren't supposed to cry."

He stared at me for a moment, wide eyed and wide mouthed, when he suddenly said "Oh!" and started wiping the tears from his eyes with the backs of his hands.

My heart fluttered at the endearing action, like seeing a puppy suddenly remember its bone was missing, but my scowl outwardly deepened. 'What a wuss,' I thought again.

When he finished he looked at me again, smiling sheepishly, blushing slightly. But I didn't care about all that; I had bigger fish to fry. "Where are all the kids?" I demanded.

He stared at me a moment, his eyebrows knitted together.

"Are you stupid?" I said loudly and clearly: "Where are the other kids? Can't you hear me? Or are you just retarded somehow?"

His eyebrows all but joined into a unibrow, he scowled, and shook his head slowly. "Je ne vous comprends pas."

'Oh great,' I thought. 'He doesn't speak English.'

In retrospect this was incredibly unfair since I was in France, and kids in France generally speak French and not English. But as a child that was new to existence, I felt that the world should be what I pre-conceived it to be in my own mind; and in my mind French children spoke English.

I wasn't about to give an inch. "Parlez-vous anglais ?"

He scowled slightly. He had just told me that. "Non."

I shook my head furiously, and put a hand on my chest. "English!"

He shook his head furiously in reply, and said "Et alors? Je suis Français."

"English," I repeated forcefully, emphasizing the word so he knew I meant business.

He shook his head, and put a hand on his own well-toned chest. "Français.."

I pretended like I didn't understand though. "Where are the kids?" I repeated.

He looked truly frustrated now, and shook his head stubbornly. "Je ne vous comprends pas!"

"Kids," I repeated, and walked up to him so my forehead was inches from his chin. "Kids," I repeated more forcefully, emphasizing the word.

"Keeds?" He said, backing away slightly.

"Kids," I said again, frustrated, and tried to help him out by pointing between him and me. "Kids."

He seemed to understand finally, and pointed to me. "Keeds?"

I nodded emphatically. "Kids," I said again, smiling.

His face relaxed into a big smile that melted my heart, and he held out his hand. "Keeds. Enchanté."

'What the--?!' I thought angrily, 'This dumb sap thinks that's who I am!'

"My name's not 'Kids' you idiot!" I yelled, causing him to start and jerk away from me fearfully. "My name is Seras Victoria and I'm looking for the kids. Do you understand that? Mon nom est Seras Victoria!"

Suddenly he understood, and he looked at me with a kind of astonished wonder. Though he was still a little fearful ('good,' I thought) he seemed more confident about approaching me. He took a step forward, pointed to me, and said hesitantly. "Seras… Victoire?"

I nodded, put a hand on my own chest and said "Seras Victoria" for good measure.

He had a heck of a time repeating it. "Seras… Victoire?"

I shook my head emphatically, scowling. "Seras Victoria."

"Victoire?"

"Victori-a!"

"Victoir-e?"

"Victori-a!"

"Victoir-e?"

"Forget it!" I yelled, holding up a hand in front of his face to silence him. I then put my hand back on my own chest and said again "Seras Victoria!" and pointed to him with a quizzical brow.

He stared for a moment ('why is he always staring?' I thought angrily) when he finally understood what I was asking. He blinked disbelievingly, like he couldn't believe that anyone would ask him something about himself, and said meekly, "Pip Bernadette."

'What a stupid name,' I thought; though I liked the way it sounded. "Pip… Vernadead?"

His blush deepened ('what is with this guy?!' I thought), but he shook his head politely. "Pip Bernadette."

"Vernadead?"

"Bernadette."

"Vernadead?"

"Bernadette."

"Vernadead?"

"Ber-na-dette."

"Ver-na-dead."

He shook his head pityingly, yet smiled bemusedly. He looked like he thought my struggling to pronounce his name was cute, while I had thought his struggling to understand mine was irritating. I was surprised and ashamed that he was still so nice and genial when I had been so mean and rotten to him. This embarrassed me, which only made me more irritable, and I scowled, blushed, and looked away.

When I looked back at him he was still smiling that insufferable, genial smile, which made me all the more flustered.

To hide it I stepped up to him and held out my hand forcefully. "Pip Vernadead," I all but yelled.

At first he started back, then seeing I wouldn't do any harm he blinked, and shook his head. "Non. Seras Victoire."

I scoffed, and rolled my eyes. 'The French really don't have any manners,' and grabbed his hand. I shook it as hard as I could, because I wanted to hurt him, to get even with him for being so nice and making me regret being rude to him, but it didn't seem to faze him a bit. He had very hard, calloused hands for one his age. He was a very strong, handsome boy for one his age. I was very embarrassed by the sudden thought.

By the end we were both blushing, and neither of us could make eye contact with the other. He was such a handsome boy, and there was something about touching his skin directly that affected me profoundly, that made my heart feel like it was blossoming like a rose within my chest. It embarrassed, and even frightened me, so I couldn't bring myself to look at him. 'I don't know what his excuse is,' I thought bitterly.

An awkward silence fell over us both, until I remembered what started this dead-end conversation in the first place. Finally I got up the nerve to say again, "I'm looking for the kids," but I was in no mood for fighting anymore.

Pip didn't understand me any more this time than the first dozen times, though, and shrugged his shoulders.

'At least he's not a shaking git,' I thought, but that didn't help matters.

I wanted to give him a break, but I forgot what the French word for 'kids' was.

I tried one last time. "Kids," I said, but he still didn't understand.

I decided to try a different dialect. "Kinder," I said in German, and that struck a chord in him.

He looked as if a light bulb went on in his head. He looked at me, amazed, "Kinder," he said, as if he understood.

I nodded emphatically. "Kinder."

He smiled broadly. "Ja!"

"Oui!"

"Si!"

"Merci!"

"Welcome!"

We laughed together over our Babel. We didn't know enough of each other's language to communicate effectively, but throwing in a few others made things easier, if not happier. I couldn't remember laughing as happily as I did that moment.

Suddenly an old man's voice yelled from the distance, "Pip!" and yelled something in angry rapid French that I couldn't understand.

Suddenly I noticed that it was twilight, and all the street lights were starting to come on. How did I miss it?

"Mon papi," he said apologetically. His earlier smile was gone, and he looked very sad now. ('Pitiful,' I thought). He tried to explain what was happening in French, throwing in a few German words so I'd understand.

I wasn't stupid. I knew what was going on. It was getting dark and his dad was calling him in.*

I felt a pang of jealousy toward this boy for having his parents when I didn't. He would get to go home to his family while I had to go to my ruddy foster parents. I didn't want to go home, I wanted to stay and keep bullying this boy; and now knowing that he had his family made me want to beat his brains in and run away.

This was of course very unfair of me since most kids generally have their families, and for me to expect differently from him was very unrealistic. I wasn't aware of it at the time, though I suppose in retrospect I had detected the lost look in his eyes, and thought that made him my kindred spirit, and that includes family matters. I was profoundly disappointed, and that made me angry (I was very angry in those days).

He tried to say something earnestly to me in French, when I suddenly snapped, "Will you just shut up?! God, you're so annoying! I'm tired of talking to you, just go home to your precious family and leave me alone!"

I could feel, rather than see, the hurt look on his face as I ran away from him, and could feel his sad eyes pouring onto my back as I bolted from sight. 'Well… good!' I thought savagely, 'Now he knows how it feels to be alone!' yet I could feel the same melancholy in my heart.

It would be years before that little miscommunication would be cleared up, but for the mean time I thought I would never see him again, and did not realize that he had been asking, before I yelled at him, if he would ever see me again.

I reached the front of my foster parents' vacation house by dark, panting and sweaty. I didn't want to go inside, but I knew the sooner I did the better. If I waited too long then they would really notice that I'd been gone, and I didn't want that. I wanted to go as unnoticed as possible, if that was possible.

Only one thought passed though my mind as I reached for the door handle. 'I hope Lena's home.'

*Either my French-English dictionary is lying or "Papi" means "Grandpa" or "Granddad."