A/N: My sense of humor may not be universal, but I had a damn good time writing this.
Also, I refer to Vlad the Impaler as a dictator in this. Whether he actually was one or not, I'm not entirely sure, but I'd be willing to argue it.
"Boredom Calls"
Alucard was looming in the doorway, as was his way, coat nearly scraping against the floor, back straight, chin turned up, and boredom in place.
Today was dragging.
He almost missed Walter. But not quite.
He did find himself missing Pip, however, as the Frenchman always had something snide and amusing to voice, something interesting to say, and Alucard found that he felt quite alone in that regard as of late. Integra, now old and wrinkled and more beautiful than she had ever been, was crass and rude and boring in her old age. She was exhausted by her meetings, but her obligations to even more boring documents and reports than Alucard could ever remember having when he was human had her working diligently to release her control over the Hellsing organization and her family's heritage of it. It was a long task. Alucard hadn't the patience for it. And Seras…was Seras. She was never terribly interesting.
Alucard wished that he had been the one to eat Pip. Then he'd at least have someone to talk to.
And Anderson wasn't even around to fight. Given that Alucard had killed him some thirty years ago, he was quite happy and content with this, but still…the entertainment value of the things and beings around him had fallen short since that damnable war.
Damn.
Sighing woefully, Alucard decided that he would have to commission some new guns. Soon. He missed them dearly.
And the organization's standard weapons were so distasteful!
As if he wasn't still scoffing at every policeman he saw in England. The fools hadn't even the right to arm themselves properly.
Suddenly, he felt rather grateful that he wasn't the one running this country. But oh, to be a dictator again, even one of England. Boring, boring England. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to kill, England had certainly become far less appealing than it had been thirty years ago, when a massive war was in the air and the nation was dead and London burned.
He missed that fat little Major.
And maybe he missed Walter, too. And Pip. And certainly the Judas Priest.
Where were all the males he had left behind? Had he really killed most of them? Huh. Maybe he was prejudice. Did he kill a woman during that war?
…There was Rip. And she had been fun. And she had moaned, which was always a plus, and Alucard wished that he could feast on more live victims; he quite liked the moaning.
Did he remember cackling after that? He couldn't tell.
Alucard, realizing the wayward train of his thoughts, was suddenly very, very depressed. His extreme boredom had him reminiscing. Even as far back as his being a dictator!
Oh, dictatorship, how sweet. England would be much more interesting if he were in charge. Of that, he was sure. No, positive. He was burning with the desire to make it his now. Should he train the pitiful country first, or should he skip the fundamentals and start deciding who to attack?
He had his eye on Germany.
Releasing a tense sigh, Alucard sunk into the shadows, shivering a little in anticipation as he snuck his way through the house (half of which had been rebuilt or reconstructed after the battle), and quickly slid to stalk Integra, hoping and praying and begging that she would be naked. Or something. Anything interesting.
He found her reading aloud to herself.
"We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out."
Robert Frost. Revelation. How tediously boring.
Alucard slipped away. But not fast enough, apparently.
"Tell Seras that she'll be dining with me," Integra called evenly.
With a rueful twist of his mouth, Alucard stepped into sight. He gave a bow, reciting, "Yes, my master," before waiting for his dismissal. He hoped it would come soon. He could just feel the dust settling over Integra's graying head. How long before she sparked to life?
"Hn," she grumped after a minute of reading silently. "Have you ever read Two Tramps in Mud Time?" she asked.
"I've never felt Robert Frost to be worthy of my time," he answered.
She turned to look at him, studying him for a moment. Rolling her ancient eyes, she threw the book at him, barking, "Read it!"
He caught it against his chest and frowned down at it. "Yes, master."
He hoped he hadn't sounded as disappointed and melancholy as he felt.
It was a book of Robert Frost's poems, complete with a running commentary. He tucked it into his jacket without a thought to reading it. He had already done so, mostly; he was familiar with Frost's work, despite an altogether unwavering dislike for it.
Taking his leave - through the door, no less - he hoped fervently that Seras was better equipped to entertain him.
As a last resort, he could always start dismembering her. It would give him a chance to watch her survival instincts kick in. He had heard that it was quite the spectacle. Maybe that was just what he needed.
What a pick-me-up it was sure to be.
An hour later, Alucard was sucking at a particularly painful little injury.
She had bit him.
And it fucking hurt.
Maybe if he hadn't been the one to sire her, her teeth wouldn't be so sharp, or their poison so excruciating, or her strength so magnificent. Now, the strength had been fine. He had enjoyed that. But then she bit him.
He glanced at her, catching her giving him a remarkably hateful glare, rubbing her jaw, which he had no doubt broken.
Served her right.
He ran his tongue back over the bite holes marring the flesh of his right wrist and, somehow, his thumb. Maybe he should bite her back, just so she didn't heal before he did.
"You shouldn't hurt people for no reason," he heard her chastise.
That jaw definitely wasn't still broken.
Damn it all.
"And dogs shouldn't bite back," he growled.
She sniffed, snipping, "Then don't pick fights!"
"You fight like a girl," he told her. And he added, just to clarify, "Dirty."
Seras took a deep breath, with which he was sure would have been used to yell at him more, but instead she released it in a heavy sigh before standing up, straightening herself (and managing to slightly improve her appearance), and walking away.
Alucard bit back a indignant squeak. He was no child to be tossed aside! She would have to be taught a lesson. Preferably a painful one. Just as soon as his hand stopped throbbing.
Well, at least he was entertained.
Or that's what he told himself.
But he still missed Walter. Because Walter would have his gun.
And he wanted his gun.
"I'll cap her when I get a new one," he promised himself.
And it had better be more beautifully deadly and perfect than his beloved Jackal. Or someone was most certainly losing a leg.
Written on 11/5/2011