Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, the hentai-infested nutcase does. Sue me not.
Author's Thanks: To my beta, Cait-hime-sama-dono, for her lovely work and constant support. Thanks to Ironical Kai for giving me one last shove to get me to finally write this fic.
A Night Out
The hall was dark.
Not the kind of ominous darkness that would always alert Walter that his sight might be blocked by something and he must remove it.
Not the kind of darkness of a dark place he just stepped into, a place where something evil he must fight could be lurking, sniffing the air for his scent, awaiting him to make the wrong move so it can pounce Walter. Not that kind of dark.
It was not the kind of cold, dry, intense darkness of the blackout nights in the Hellsing manor as everyone sat by the closest window, awaiting lights in the sky so they can could vaguely guess which part of the aloof remote London landscape would flare up in orange, yellow and scarlet.
But why was he still thinking about the blackouts and things that lurk in the dark, searching for his scent? It's been seven years already; it's all over. Right?
No, this darkness had nothing to do with any of those things. This darkness was different, in a good way.
This darkness soaked up the softness of the seat beneath him and the thick, dark brown wood of the railing at his knees. Back when there were blackouts and things in the dark his knees would never have reached the railing and his feet wouldn't reach the thick carpet under his feet.
The darkness gathered into it the thick carpet too, with all its intricate designs of mustard yellow and dark lavender, so worn out from all the feet that have stepped on it the only place Walter could see its original design was by crouching to look under the seat where hardly any one ever treaded on the rug.
The darkness also held in it the infinite softness of the dim, plum colored velvet curtain which cascaded from the stage's high arched roof to its smooth bottom like a waterfall, almost touching the parquet, but missing it only by a few centimeters; enough to leave room for the bright crème tassels sewn at its rim in small up-side-down arches, like the roof's ceiling.
As he thought of that lush curtain, Walter couldn't help but cringe at the thought of whatever poor soul who needs to take the curtain down and wash it, then tend to it to see that it's not torn up anywhere or wrinkled.
Walter knows how painstaking it is to mend torn velvet because Dame Hellsing loved velvet blouses and dresses and small tears appeared at her clothes' wrists once every month or so.
So now he's not thinking like the Angel of Death; he's thinking like the Hellsing butler and that's just as bad because he's not either of them right now.
Right now he's out on a fun night in a gentlemen's club with Sir Arthur Hellsing, who is his boss, but managed to look above it and be kind enough to invite Walter to this night out, at his expense.
The darkness didn't only have a texture; it had a scent too. It smelled like men's cologne and men's hair wax and cigars. God, the room was so full of cigar smoke Walter wondered if, when the lights finally come on, they'd even be able to see the performance through all the smoke.
They had to; Arthur's seats were so close to the stage, the smoke would have to be fog to keep them from watching the show properly.
Then again, Arthur was right next to him and was smoking like a train engine, so they just might have difficulties during the show.
The darkness held sounds as well; small polite coughs and the sound of fabric against fabric as the men in the hall moved around in their seats. No one was rude enough to speak, even in hushed voices, not even those who wandered into the hall at the very last minute and were still fumbling for their seats with the ushers at their aid.
Walter heard Arthur's sterling silver flask's cap unscrew, then the liquid hitting the top of the bottle ever so gently. He heard Arthur as he took a few healthy gulps and then heard the whiskey hit the thin metal bottom with a little less gentleness than the first time. The cap was screwed shut and Arthur's glove brushed against the tweed of his pants as he slipped the flask in.
Then came the sigh; that tiny, irritated and disappointed sigh which, within its small breath of air pushed out of one's mouth, managed to say, "There you go drinking yourself blind like a pig again. You're bringing great dishonor on yourself, Arthur, you always have, and I'm beginning to have just about enough of it!"
The sigh came every time Arthur drank, whether he was in his study, in his office, in the garden, on the parade ground looking at the soldiers, out in the field during a drill or in a small hidden gentlemen's club where an unknown show (unknown to Walter, Arthur knew very well what was on or his eyes wouldn't twinkle so knowingly while inviting Walter to see it with him) was playing.
The sigh was always there; as long as Sir Islands was there when Arthur drank. Sir Islands was always there, no matter how many times Arthur would take a piss at him or irritate him until the smaller man was red in the face from screaming.
Sir Islands was screaming for probably half the time he spent with Arthur. The other half was divided into two quarters; one of calming down and trying to start a new conversation with Arthur and another, which always came after how Arthur responded to the attempt to start a new conversation, during which Islands would be slowly reaching the level of anger that got him screaming at Arthur. It was an endless cycle, like the seasons.
Why Sir Islands still bothered to come and visit Arthur at all, Walter didn't know; the man was a constant ball of anger and edgy nerves from the moment he entered the manor's gate until he exited it and Arthur was the direct cause of that.
This evening Islands would not go back to his manor; they'd be back from the show too late for him to make the journey back to Dorset. After the show's done the three men are to head back to the Hellsing estate and sleep there.
Walter, for once, won't be doing the driving for this night out. For too long, Arthur said, Walter stayed in the car to wait in boredom outside the nightclubs and brothels his master was driven to and for too long Walter stayed out of the fun.
This night was different because this night was Walter's twenty-first birthday and he was now officially a real man.
As a real man, Arthur thought Walter aught to go where real men go; the Cabaret Satin. "Satin, like the sheets," Arthur explained as he nudged Walter's ribs in the smooth, black, old but ever faithful Mark VI.
Islands rolled his eyes and would have glued his nose to the window if he thought it was a decent thing for a man of his status to do. Which he didn't. Instead he tried to talk to Walter, a very short conversation because Arthur budged into it and twisted it around to something dirty and the cycle of seasons began again.
Walter didn't mind at all; Islands had a very annoying, sniveling tone to his voice which was always too hidden in his normal speech to be obvious enough to complain about. Also, he'd always talk to Walter while tilting his head backwards a bit, as if looking at the man through his nose would make Walter see him as the superior man a "Sir" like him should be.
Walter didn't mind the conversation changing direction away from him because he loved listening to Islands and Arthur bicker like newlyweds.
Arthur might have his small witty remarks from time to time and unimaginable techniques to make everything he and others say sound like something completely different, but he was slow to react and would mostly throw out a vulgar statement as reply for a witty comeback.
Sir Islands, with all his snobbish act and ego greater than a Prima Donna's, would shoot sharp comments and comebacks to whatever Arthur'd snarl at him. That is, until he got angry enough to lose control and started screaming at Arthur.
Walter hoped Islands wouldn't start screaming now because the Mark VI was small and Island's voice would always reach a near feminine high octave when screaming, which was very unpleasant when trapped in small spaces.
He leaned back and listened to Arthur slowly sounding more and more like some laborer at the docks and Islands sounding more and more like a flustered lady of great importance.
Music crept into the hall and the darkness emptied of everything it'd held so far. Soft curling clarinets and a bumbling tuba, wailing violin in the back and some rattling South American instrument to suggest a stream; something was off key. It carried on like this as the lights were softly turned on around the stage and the curtain was revealed, closed.
In an instant a piano key was pressed and order was restored; every instrument fell into beat, bobbing up and down the sound scale, faltering, flittering and finally sinking low as if to honor the returning piano.
When the piano began playing again the curtains were drawn and the figure hiding behind them was lit at once by a single torch. A single torch was all that was needed; every man in the hall immediately narrowed his focus on the woman standing in the middle of the stage. Nothing else entered their attention.
The woman had black hair combed so smoothly it looked like her skin suddenly turned radiant black from her forehead back. To the right of her slightly sharp yet full face, her hair was packed neatly, from the top of her scalp down to the middle of the back of her neck. From where he was sitting, Walter could only see the curve of her black hairs and not the design in which her locks were gathered.
Hanging on her left ear was a large earring, so packed with large glittering diamonds in every color the rocks come in it was almost tacky.
She was tall, so tall her legs seemed endless. And if they weren't really endless then they were made to seem endless because the sash in her dress must have reached her navel, it was that long.
The sash, for now, was the only feature in the singer's glittering purple dress which allowed her viewers a look at her smooth, faintly tanned skin.
For now, because the soft fur shawl around her shoulders was soon to be removed by her gentle, black satin gloved hand, so her audience could feast their eyes on the smooth skin on her chest and the curves of her breasts.
Speaking of breasts, Walter never saw a woman who dared to go on stage with them so barely covered.
A black necklace of small stones pooled down from the tight collar around her neck, sideways almost to her armpits and then downwards to the very spot where her breasts' softness met one another. Though the jewel covered some piece of her skin, Walter feared it did not cover enough.
What the jewel didn't reach, the violet fabric managed to cover, though it only hid the peaks of the lady's bust from view.
No one else in the crowd complained much, Walter found this out as he cast uneasy gazes around the hall. Every man sat on the edge of his seat, often leaning on the railing, smoking or drinking from their flasks. All eyes were pinned on the singer, all lips completely still aside from wrapping around the cigarettes and cigars and all were paying complete attention to the singer. They were all dressed in their best frock coats or tuxedo jackets, all had white brazier underneath and a white napkin folded and peeking out of their jacket's front pocket.
To Walter, they seemed like bolts produced by the same machine; so much they were alike.
He turned his eyes from the rest of the audience to the men he came with. Arthur was so different from these men that he stuck out like a sore thumb. He was always like that, Walter learned a long time ago, and too proud of it for his own good.
While every gentleman with the title of 'Sir' and above would at least make sure he steps out of his home with a clean jacket, an ironed pair of pants, a properly folded napkin in his pocket, a properly starched collar and lapels and gloves that aren't worn out too much, Arthur couldn't give a damn about such things. What he took better notice of was that he had a proper coat on and a scarf against the freezing London winter. That and Walter by his side to hold his umbrella; the rest was folly.
Walter recalled once, during a particularly snappy winter as Arthur and Islands tried to go fox hunting (with Arthur packing too much firepower and Islands making too much fuss about the sniffing dogs' health in the cold), the sight of his master edging his horse close to Island's so he could better the scarf around the other Sir's neck.
Something in the completely focused expression on Arthur's face and the way Island's eyes scanned the other man's face through his glasses told Walter it was a special moment between them.
So, while the hall was filled with properly dressed, properly perfumed and shaved gentlemen of great estate, assets and designations, Arthur was practically spread all over his seat, looking like a storm blew him there.
He sat with legs wide open (as much as he could with Islands and Walter at his sides), one hand fiddling with the cigar and the other mulling the hairs at his temple until his fingers and the hair wax made his hairs stick out in odd angles.
This stubborn way of keeping his looks and behavior as unmannered as possible cost Arthur socially. Dame Hellsing always tried throwing balls and parties, but always found she had very few people who accepted her invitations; her husband was a natural repellant of anyone who wished to keep his good name.
As if to be the complete and utter opposite of the man, Islands sat on Arthur's side with his back straight as a pencil, his chest thrust forward in some ridiculous show of pride (his lower jaw doing the same), his legs stuck together strictly and his palms on his knees like an obedient school boy. His eyes, behind the thick lenses of his glasses, were half lidded with slight boredom and contempt as they stared blankly at the singer.
Walter wondered if Islands thought his icy blue gaze was supposed to be picked up by the singer and act as a reminder of her indecency. Islands' slightly pouting, pinkish lips were shut tight, their corners bent downwards.
Walter sighed.
He was so busy looking around the hall to see how the people around him reacted to notice the singer's song.
It was lovely, nothing less than that, but nothing more. Her voice was low and soft, velvety to match the curtains drawn to her sides. It spilled out from between her thick lips, painted a most bold hue of deep red and then, like gas, it rose to the air and coiled there towards the audience, curling around the men's ears until each could hear the singer as if those luscious lips were right by their ears. Some men shuddered.
As magical as her voice might be, the singer's song was simple and foolish; a meaningless, semi-gloomy love song. Walter tried listening to its lyrics and gave up as he realized the song was not the show's main issue.
The music picked up and the singer, warmed up by the faster beat, began swaying ever so gently with each tone the clarinet gave off. Soon the music played fast enough to move the singer, like a marionette, faster and faster so she was practically doing the hula minus the hay skirt.
Then she turned her body around ever so gently, like some stream of twinkling purple fluid, until her back was to the men.
A great sigh came from the boxes around Walter's. The singer's dress lacked fabric not only around her chest but all across her back. The dress clung by some mysterious force to the woman's ribs but besides that the fabric only appeared much lower, almost at the girl's plump behind. From the black band of her necklace and all the way down to the two dimples above her pelvis, the singer was completely exposed.
She had a mole right in the middle of her back, right by the thin and flexible chain of pearls her spine bulged out gently.
Walter had a sense that many men in the hall wished to be that very mole at the moment.
Islands pretended the stage's lighting was interesting, with that ever uncaring glaze over his blue orbs.
Arthur was slowly developing that nefarious grin of his which would make Walter think of something very savage and very hungry.
The music soared high, reaching a climax so fast and sharp the singer had no chance of dancing to its pace. Suddenly it fell silent, with nothing but gentle bells in the background; all focus was to be shifted to the singer and nothing else.
She brought her long thin finger to her lips, black satin enhancing the crimson of her lips, as if to share a secret with her audience. The line she sang then, sweetly, quickly, was banal and unimportant and it did not last long in the minds of the men in the hall.
It didn't last long because the next moment the music flared up again and the singer, like an ecstatic, foolish child, threw her arms in the air while unclasping something in her dress.
The glittering garment came down to the smooth wooden floor with a sudden rush of amethyst twinkles and the lady was left bare. Well, almost bare; a thin triangle of the tiniest version of women's underpants Walter ever cast his eyes on covered the singer's private parts.
It was only for a fragment of a second that the girl stayed on the stage in her uncovered condition; she skipped lightly off the stage almost the moment the dress finished its pooling to the floor. All that remained was the physical memory of her skin made ruminant by the footlights, burned on everyone's retinas like an image of the sun after it's been stared at.
In everyone's minds there was a ghost of a breathtaking naked beauty standing on the stage, smiling brightly with her hands up and her back arched forward.
The ghost was enough; this wasn't the sort of club where the singer would stay on the stage in her condition. The men in the audience were not the sort to stay and ogle at a woman in that condition for more than the fragment of heaven they were given.
Islands hissed a hushed, "Oh!"
The song was over, and with it the whole show. Walter realized this as he noticed the well dressed, rosy cheeked ushers in well starched suits (must stop thinking like a butler on your night off, what's wrong with you, Angel of Death?) appeared by each floor's door and stood by it as stiff as Royal Guard soldiers.
No one else in the hall seemed to mind because everyone else in the hall stood up at once to clap their white gloved hands as madly as they could. Walter never saw a group of respectable high society men behave like hormone pumped schoolboys.
There was only clapping at first, loud enough to make Walter cringe, but then someone hooted. The hoot came from Walter's left, which meant that Arthur drank enough to lose a great deal of whatever inhibition he had, if he had such things.
Some of the men turned their eyes, softly frowning, some glared to Arthur, but Walter's lord didn't mind at all. In fact, he clapped only harder, stopping only when he plucked his cigar out of his mouth to send a long shrilling whistle at the singer. When he was done with the whistling he roared a few, "Good sport, lassie, excellent performance!" and he was shouting so loud that the rest of the crowd stopped clapping and stared at Arthur before realizing how rude staring is and turned to ignore the Sir.
Arthur only stopped when he noticed Islands had left his side. The other man had stormed off in a huff, with such speed that the tails of his long jacket flapped and slapped the exit's doorframe.
"Aw, that's not nice." Arthur sighed, fixed his cigar between his teeth and walked off in pursuit of his companion.
Sensing a show far more interesting than what he just witnessed was about to be played outside the hall, Walter hurried after his master.
He found Arthur chasing Islands down the red rug covered stairs leading from the hall to the lobby of the theater. Both men moved as fast as they could, which gave Arthur an advantage on Islands, with his better fitness and less stifling outfit.
Walter hastened down the stairs after the two and past them, towards the car. For the moment he wished to at least act as an obedient servant or Islands would feel too surrounded by outrageous, out of control men and would become too enraged to be any fun.
Passing the two standing at the coat check, Walter noted Arthur held Islands by the elbow and was trying to talk to him quietly.
The night outside was cold but refreshing. The air, though choked with exhaust smoke and the faint smell of the reeking Thames, was still better than the smoky hall which had made Walter's head spin by now.
Walter knocked on the Mark VI's front window to wake the sleepy driver (who probably spent his time getting a drink in the nearby pub, if this part of London has pubs at all) into attention.
Then he straightened his jacket and dusted off whatever small snowflakes which landed on his shoulders and stood by the passengers' door as stiffly as he could.
He waited for Arthur and Islands to finish playing out their scene inside the club and go out to the car to carry the show on in the street.
One thing Walter learned when he became a butler of the Hellsing family was that he needs to be patient.
He needs to calm any expectations of any bodyguard work and ease himself into the lenient role of a simple servant.
Walter trained himself once, when the war was over, to stay sharp and ready for whatever might attack his master, but had given that up a year ago when he realized he was becoming too edgy and fretting for a youth his age.
Calm, he learned, and confidence in his abilities are the best weapons.
Once he leaped into battle, just roaring for the enemy to come and get him. Now the enemy was rebuked, punished, rehabilitated and was behaving like a good little nation. No point in still being on your toes when you've got no one to leap on, right?
Besides, if he's calm and controlled when facing the enemy (whatever enemy it is this time) with his sureness of his abilities to lean on whenever doubt gnawed at him, the enemy would realize he must be calm for a reason and would start fretting itself.
Still arguing, still chasing one another, still frowning from one side and half begging from the other; Walter's master and his friend came out of the great fancy exit. Arthur was still reaching for Islands' elbow and was still missing due to the smaller man's evasions, Islands was nearing that level of anger which was most amusing.
"Bloody hell, why are you so angry? You knew what kind of show it was, I warned you in advance, didn't I? And still you're huffing and puffing like it was your mother on that stage."
Islands was reaching for the car door (which intrigued Walter) before stopping and glaring at the servant to open the door for him.
Azure rage flashed before the rim of its glasses hit the streetlights and flashed as well, the rage was turned to Arthur, "I'll tell you why I'm angry; you humiliated me in there! And in public no less."
"Humiliated you! How! What did I do? Cheer the poor girl? She must have risked that pretty behind of hers freezing off when she dropped her dress like that; the girl deserves her credit." The scarf lazily cast across Arthur's shoulders dropped backwards and down to the dirty, snowy pavement as the man spread his arms sideways, shrugging innocently.
"That's what I'm talking about. We already know it's not a real, proper show, you don't have to cheer and hoot like some hooligan to make it even clearer."
"I was only reacting the way everyone aught to if they didn't have their Sirs and bank reports stuck up their arses."
"Oh, the way you talk, Arthur, you aught to go and work on the docks; you'd fit in there perfectly."
"I'd have a good time there, too, better than what I get here."
Islands reached his boiling point. Not the kind of boiling point he'd reach indoors where no one else but Arthur and maybe Walter would be watching, the boiling point he'd reach in public.
Indoors he'd stand up and scream and throw things around (oh, all the beautiful tea sets poor Dame Hellsing lost because of her husband's temperamental friend), here he just stood and shook in rage.
His eyes would become two cobalt dots behind the large glasses, his hair would become dislodged by the agitated shaking from keeping all those screams inside him and his cheeks would flare up so badly his ears and neck would turn dark red.
Arthur smiled that old nefarious grin Walter would see on his face when a particularly beautiful 'working lady' would come into his study, and reached out to cup the side of Islands' face.
"I love the way you look when you're angry."
Islands slapped Arthur's hand and nearly missed (he was never good at any form of hitting anything with anything, which made cricket matches against Arthur a damn funny spectacle).
He turned around sharply, standing on tip toes to bring himself eye to eye with Walter, "Get me a cab, boy. Now!"
"You can't be serious, Islands, where would you go!"
"Back home."
"No, no, not on this cold night, not so late."
"I'll sleep in the car."
"Sleep in the car! Are you joking! You can't sleep properly unless you have a thick mattress with the finest sheets on it. Christ, you couldn't even sleep properly in the dorms because the bed frame was too rough, and that was after we put two mattress above it."
Islands whipped himself back to face Arthur, "You will seize this talk of the dorms right now, Arthur. Get me a cab already, boy, what kind of a servant do you think you are?"
"He's a butler, not a slave, not a cabby and he's on a night off." Arthur was no longer humorous; he was seriously angry, "Get in the car already, Walter, sit like a proper passenger. You're not taking any orders from this pompous git tonight."
Walter was in a tough spot. He'd love to obey Arthur, but for some reason he couldn't make himself disobey Islands.
It took him a while to realize that they were arguing over him like parents over a child.
"No! Not after that last remark about me. I'm going to get a cab and I'm going…."
"Enough!"
Even the driver jerked in his seat at the sound of Arthur's shout. Both Walter and Islands stood in the softly snowing night air, slightly shaking with fear.
When Sir Arthur Firebrook Wingate Hellsing looks at you the way he did that moment and screams an order at you, you do what he says.
The crowded passengers' seat was silent, with a thin tone of bitterness as the Mark VI made its way through London's winding streets towards Hellsing estate.
Trying to break the silence in any way possible, Walter leaned towards the driver, "Please stop by a hospital for a moment, Nigel, I'll pop in there and be back in a jiffy."
"What's that for, Walter?"
Walter answered hastily, across his shoulder, "Blood rations, sir…"
Islands rolled his eyes and made that small disappointed sigh of his, "Still keeping that monster are you, Arthur?"
"We're not feeding him anymore, Walter, I issued that order almost a year ago. Have you been giving him blood since then?"
Walter's blood froze. Somehow, when your boss catches you doing something wrong the world seems to freeze and your mind empties of any thoughts until all you can see is the simple details your eyes lay on. That moment, Walter noticed the way the streetlights the Mark VI drove past reflected in smoothly flowing dots on the rims of Islands' glasses.
"Uh…I-I…thought keeping him on his toes from time to time c-can't do any harm….?"
Arthur fixed his gaze powerfully on his butlers' for a long while, not moving a single muscle in his face or body to indicate the thoughts that ran behind his sharp, ever plotting orbs.
Finally, much to Walter's relief, Arthur leaned back and folded his arms on his chest, "Stop by St. Mary's, Nigel."
The look Arthur gave Walter right before the man exited the car and as he got back, all through the drive back to the manor unnerved Walter a great deal.
Arthur knew, but what of it? Is his master really in any position to tell him that what he is doing is wrong? No. Not while the third man was in the car.
Walter sighed, leaned his head on the window and felt the cruel frost bite at his temple. He closed his eyes and tried not to listen to Islands bickering with Arthur about whatever it was now.
He didn't like Islands anymore. Not after that remark about keeping the 'monster'. Damn arrogant prick, who does he think he is anyway!
The slap to his thigh snapped Walter out of his daze about twenty minutes before they arrived at the manor.
"So, Walter my boy, how did you like your birthday present night off?"
Walter rubbed at his eyes and blinked for a while. "Uh…it was grand, sir, thank you very much. I had a splendid time."
"I know you did, I know you did." Arthur was elbowing his ribs again, "Enjoyed that singer, didn't you. Oh, she had great, lovely knockers on her, eh boy? Eh?(1)"
"Leave the poor boy alone, Arthur, you're making him uncomfortable."
"Oh, he's uncomfortable alright, and I'll tell you exactly where he's uncomfortable, eh Walter, eh?" More jabs to his ribs and Walter began to ache.
"You sound like someone's randy uncle, stop it."
"Sound like someone's randy uncle? I am someone's…well…not uncle, but definitely randy!" The Mark VI's small cell exploded with Arthur's booming exhilarated laughter.
Islands rubbed at his forehead, "Oh, the humility…"
A smile tugged at the corners of Walter's lips. Fine, so maybe Islands isn't so bad after all. If anything, then at least he's good for a laugh.
"My apologies, Prima Donna, I didn't mean to offend you with my depraved banter!"
"Do not call me a Prima Donna, ever again, and do not ever try to label that verbal diarrhea of yours as any type of banter!"
"Ooo, direct hit! I need a medic… Or a nurse…"
"Do not start talking about nurses, Arthur. Just shut your mouth for once, I beg of you!"
"Beg?..."
Walter closed his eyes again and resumed his rest before the night's future adventures.
(End)
(1) "nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more, say no more!" this is where the author cracked, our sincere apologies.