Title: Birds of a Feather
Pairing: Alucard/Alexander
Note: I still really don't own, and I don't expect this to change in the near future (or ever really). Also, really kinda short and wistful.
He stood just off the Church's front lawn, the toes of his boots just against the sacred ground. Close enough that he could feel the tingle of pain in his feet, itching and crawling its way up his body. His eyes fixated upon the glowing window. He could see the tall, powerful form moving back and forth, just a silhouette. He felt his lips curl just barely.
The Judas Priest. His Paladin.
Even now, with sacred ground supposedly separating them, he could feel the strong beat of the other's heart, feel his burning heat, smell that intoxicating scent of metal and blood and incense. He purred low in his throat.
There was something about the Paladin, though he supposed that monster called to monster.
A small trill ran through him. The Judas Priest always filled him with something. He felt the sharp grin cut its way across his mouth. The damned Catholic bastard. Some days, he couldn't figure out what the feeling was. Other days? It was crystal clear as if he was seeing it with his third eye.
He watched as Anderson leant out the window, grabbing the shutters, and disappearing back from view. As always, it was that time of night when the Paladin retired to his dreams of slaughter and righteousness, and he made the slow trip home.
Turning, he watched his shadow stretch out before him. Slowly, he strode along the lane, lost in his thoughts.
When was the last time he had felt so alive as when with the Paladin? 600 years ago? Some fleeting moment between then and now?
His boot toe found a free pebble, and he kicked it before him.
Or was this sensation of being as close to alive as a monster such as him could something only invoked by the Judas Priest?
Just seeing the Paladin made his stomach churn, made his pupils dilate in a crazed way. It filled him with a frenzy, the nearly undeniable urge to rip at Anderson, be it clothes or flesh.
And sometimes, he was pretty sure he saw it in the Priest's gaze too, in those crazed green eyes that reflected a broken person. The need to hold each other, seek comfort from another being just the same.
But then those blessed blades would pierce his skin, and bullets would riddle Anderson full of holes. The metal was hot to the touch, a comfort in a war-torn world. A sense of comfort to him.
He stopped in the middle of the tree lined lane and glanced back over his shoulder, staring up into the bright glow of the moon. He glanced back toward the Church and wondered if Anderson was asleep yet. And if so, if he was in the Paladin's dreams. He smirked again before starting back down the road.
He was a long way from home, and he wouldn't want Integra to worry, but he considered it a nightly constitutional. His version of mentally tucking the Paladin away safe in bed. Or perhaps he was waiting for the night when Anderson would finally see him in the shadows, lurking just beyond the holy ground.