Rhinitis Acuta Catarrhalis
(Or, why Enrico Maxwell hates England.)

He really disliked England.

In fact, he would go so far as to say that he hated the country.

It wasn't just because of the fact that it was mostly inhabited by Protestant heretics, and it wasn't just because of Integra Hellsing and her ridiculous little knitting party she dared to call an Organization. It wasn't because of the bland food, the bland scenery, or the bland people. While these things certainly did contribute to the way he felt about England, there was one factor that to him, made it an especially horrible place to be.

It was the weather.

Every single time the Vatican had sent him to England for any reason, it would rain. It would rain, and rain and rain some more. On one occasion, Anderson had joked merrily about the fact that it must be God pissing on the entire country. Enrico only saw the humor in the Paladin's statement but for a day, and no longer. They'd been in and out of taxis, getting caught in the downpour whenever not shielded by a car or bus or subway, and the Bishop had already had his fill of water for a lifetime. At one point, Enrico and Alexander had been standing on a corner trying to hail a cab, and one very inconsiderate driver had carelessly ran a red light, splashing stagnant, muddy water all over both their robes. Anderson didn't seem to take it to heart, but Enrico let loose quite an eloquent string of curses in a very creative combination of both Latin and Italian.

He hated England.

After a full day of going from Church to Church collecting reports and information from the various Iscariot members planted there, he'd had about all the rain he could stand. During the last taxi ride back to their hotel, it began. First, it was just a sniffle, nothing serious. Enrico had hoped that it was just due to the cold weather – he hadn't had time to adjust to it properly, he told himself. Gradually though, it got worse and progressed into a sneeze, and not just any sneeze. It was the kind that started as a tingle in his sinuses and slowly made its way down, resulting in a big, disgusting mucous-y mess. Enrico was not pleased. Though predictable, he had prayed that maybe just this once, the Lord would allow him to step foot onto Protestant land without coming down with a cold.

By the time they'd reached the hotel, shivers had set in, and he felt as though he'd turned to ice. When the taxi had come to a stop, he briefly considered just lying down in the back seat to avoid the rain.

"Maxwell."

No response.

"Oi, Maxwell, we're here."

Still, nothing. Anderson lifted an eyebrow at the smaller man, and nudged him, hoping to get his attention. He didn't look well.

"Oh." That was all the Bishop could manage.

With a heavy sigh, Anderson rolled his eyes and got out of the cab first, unfolding a large black umbrella to shield himself from the relentless downpour. The rain was still coming down in buckets, and it did not seem as though it would let up any time soon. He made his way around the back of the car and opened Maxwell's door, gingerly offering the other man a hand. Maxwell looked up at his subordinate, executing his best 'misery' face.

"Come on then, ye great big actor. Let's get inside, already."

Reluctantly, Maxwell took Anderson's hand and let the larger man heft him out of the car.

"I hate this damned weather."

"I know ye do. Let's not spend any more time out 'ere in it then, aye?"

Maxwell did not respond. He allowed Anderson to escort him from the cab and into the hotel, doing his best to ignore the peculiar looks the pair garnered. It was difficult for him to stay on his feet, or even keep his wits about him with this cold settling in. He did fine on his own from the lobby to the elevator, but when the large metallic doors shut, the exasperated Bishop slumped against Anderson and clung to his arm for support.

"I pray that God drowns this wretched country so that we never have to come back here."

Anderson chuckled. "Seems that the Lord's well on 'is way to doin' just that, don'ye think?"

"He could have waited until we got back to Rome." The retort was punctuated by a rather loud, wet snort.

Anderson shrugged. "Well, at least it does'nae rain indoors. Be thankful fer that much."

The Paladin reached around Enrico's back, placing his hand protectively on the Bishop's shoulder in an attempt to keep him from slipping entirely down to the floor. He knew Enrico obviously wasn't feeling well, but his colleague certainly had a penchant for the dramatic, no matter the situation. Whatever Enrico could do to bring attention to himself or his causes, he would do without a second thought. It had been that way for as far as Anderson could remember, and it didn't seem like it would be changing any time soon.

The elevator ride was painfully long, and with each and every passing floor, Anderson made an attempt at straightening out the other man in the event that anyone else decided to join them in the car. It was an embarrassing prospect; the Paladin did not want to even begin to imagine the looks on people's faces if they were to be made witness to Enrico's theatrics. Not because of how ridiculously he was behaving, but because Anderson didn't quite fancy the idea of being clung to by another man in public view.

Thankfully, floor after floor held no surprise guests.

"You just had tae get th' Penthouse suite, din'ye?" Anderson groused quietly, still holding tight to Maxwell's shoulder.

"Yes, Anderson, I had to get the Penthouse. Hotels have very thin walls, you know."

Again, the Paladin rolled his eyes.

Thankfully by that point, the elevator had come to a full stop at the very top floor. Alexander held on tight to his colleague and guided him over to the door, all the while fishing around in his cassock for the room key. With some difficulty he found it, and managed to slip it into the lock while balancing Enrico on his left side.

"Alright, alright, ye can stop with yer performance, Enrico."

The larger man managed to crack the door open, all the while doing his best to steady Maxwell on his arm.

The two of them entered the room together, Maxwell making little attempt at assisting Anderson. He might as well have not even been on his feet at all, the way the Paladin dragged him along. It would have been comical to any outside spectator, but Anderson had quickly grown tired of the smaller man's stagecraft, and had given up on supporting him, opting to pick him up entirely instead. As Maxwell's feet left the ground, he let out a yelp of surprise, elbowing Anderson in the chest as he did so.

"What – Put me down this instant!"

"Are ye actually gonna walk, or do ye expect me tae drag yer carcass over tae the bed?"

Maxwell narrowed his eyes at his subordinate, clearly unimpressed. He said nothing in response, and instead turned his head away, much like an overgrown child. He crossed his arms over his chest, and gave another very attractive snort in a disgusting attempt to clear his sinuses. Anderson sighed heavily, and made his way through the foyer of the room. He'd known behavior like this to surface in the children at his orphanage, but not in grown men. He supposed Maxwell would have to be the exception.

The penthouse was exceptionally large, encompassing the entire top floor of the building. It was decorated in high Victorian fashion; white, cream and Prussian blue fabrics with gleaming gold embellishments made the space seem more fitting for a French nobleman and his courtesans than a pair of Vatican servants. Anderson sighed at the opulence of it all, and did his best to ignore it. He eventually made his way into the bedchamber with Enrico in tow, and then abruptly dropped the smaller man on to the bed without any reverence. He could feel Maxwell's scathing glare hitting him, but he ignored it dutifully, turning away to remove his cassock, draping it carefully over the back of a chair.

"Don'ye give me that look, Maxwell." He warned. "Yer not dyin'."

The Bishop was silent for a few moments, considering his subordinate's words. True, he wasn't dying, but he wanted attention, damn it, and he was going to get it one way or another. Awkwardly, Maxwell shuffled and tried prying his shoes off using his feet, without untying them first. It wasn't going particularly well, and he'd made more scuffs than progress. He whined pathetically, then flopped back down on the bed. He decided he'd start with something easier; namely, his gloves.

He got them off without any real effort, and instead of putting them in his pocket as he usually did, he flung them against the wall, each one sailing past Anderson's shoulder. The larger man sighed again and picked them up, then turned to face Maxwell.

"Really?" He questioned, deadpan. "What on earth is wrong with ye today?"

"I hate England. I hate rain. I hate" – sniiiiif – "Being sick, and being in this bloody country."

"Only a few more days an' we'll be on our way back tae Rome. Ye'll be fine."

"Not if this weather doesn't kill me first." Maxwell groused, going back to prying his shoes off without the use of his hands.

"Och, will ye stop wi' that already?" In one swift motion, Anderson grabbed hold of Enrico's ankle, and set the man's foot on his knee. He went to work untying the laces, eventually slipping the loafer off of his foot. Anderson held the shoe up, giving his colleague a rather unimpressed look, as if to say 'now that wasn't so hard, was it?'

Maxwell only lifted his other foot up in response, his expression still sour.

Alexander didn't fight it. He sighed yet again, and went to work removing the other shoe without protest. He knew how Enrico could get, and the last thing he needed after a long day of being rained on was to be yelled at. The other shoe came off without any trouble, and Enrico sighed in relief. Anderson slipped the shoes under the bed skirt, making a mental note that he'd put them there.

"Ye'd best get out o' those wet clothes, Enrico." Anderson stopped himself there, making sure to amend his statement – "An' don't expect me tae take 'em off for ye. A man's got tae have limits."

Enrico 'tsk'ed and rolled his violet eyes at the Paladin. What an absurd notion.

"An' dry that mane 'o yer's, too. Yer gettin' the pillows wet."

"Well," the Bishop began, his tone hot – "Go get a towel for me, then."

Anderson gave the silver-haired man a look of complete disbelief, before realizing that Maxwell wasn't about to back down in his demands. Instead, he simply shook his head at Enrico before walking away, muttering a prayer under his breath.

"Lord, grant me forbearance, grant me empathy…"

The Paladin skulked through the penthouse, trying to figure which direction the restroom was in. He'd already gone back towards the foyer, and had seen nothing other than the baby grand piano in the sitting room, surrounded by some of the plushest looking furniture he'd ever seen. As he made his way out of the sitting room, he found himself in another section of the penthouse that looked as if its function was that of an office. There was a writing desk, a computer, a few well-groomed topiaries and a multi-line phone situated on an end table next to a couch. No towels in there.

Anderson continued his trek, doing his damnedest to locate the restroom. He'd found his way to the balcony and the kitchen, as well as the parlor. Eventually, his searching paid off, as he rounded one of the last corners in the penthouse, finding himself in a dimly-lit room. Quickly, he flicked the light on, watching as the 'candles' in the wall sconces flickered to life, revealing all the workings of a restroom. With a little more searching, he'd found a stack of towels and grabbed them. He wanted to get back to the bedroom while the layout of the penthouse was still fresh in his mind. As he walked back to his colleague, one thing began to make itself obvious to him, and he wondered if maybe he'd been missing something.

"Enrico, there's only one –"

Before he could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by a rather loud snore. While Anderson had gone off on his towel-hunt, Maxwell had managed to crawl under the covers of the bed, and fall asleep.

"…There's only one bed." Anderson deadpanned as he tossed the towels onto the chest of drawers, considerably less than amused. He reasoned with himself that he should have expected this much. After knowing Enrico for as long as he had, the other man's selfishness was not a new development. For a man of God, he certainly was self-centered. Anderson heaved yet another sigh and reached for his cassock, pulling it back on.

It was dark; that much was certain. The haunting fluorescent gray glow of the city outside pushed its way past the organza draperies, illuminating the room in an unnatural way. Maxwell groaned quietly to himself, bringing his hand up to rub at his eyes. He was still tired, and had absolutely no idea what time it was. That was one of the worst parts of having a cold – it would cause you to sleep for hours on end, and then still not provide you with any rest after you woke up. The Bishop lay there for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. He realized that he hadn't changed before he passed out earlier – he was still clothed in his slacks and dress shirt, and feeling rather uncomfortable in them.

The icy chill he'd had earlier had at some point done a complete 180, and he had broken out in an unpleasant, sticky sweat. With a slightly more audible groan, he managed to push himself upwards into a sitting position, noticing through the darkness that he was alone in the room. Again, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to work the sleep out of them. He tried breathing through his nose, only to find he was congested, and that served only to irritate him even more. Enrico heaved another of his world famous sighs and slowly, painstakingly reached out to turn the bedroom light on.

After the initial shock to his eyes, they adjusted, and he looked around to find that he was indeed alone, save for one thing.

On the night table next to his bed, sat a bottle of what looked like cough syrup with a note stuck to it. He squinted at it, trying to read the words, but failed. Enrico reached out, grabbed it, and pulled the post-it note off. It was Anderson's unmistakable sloppy cursive.

'Rico –

Take some of this when you get up. Read dosing instructions first, please. I'm sleeping the parlor if you need help.

Alex'

Maxwell rolled his eyes at himself, and crumpled the note. Did the Paladin really think he was that helpless that he needed to be told how to take medicine? He looked down with a displeased glare at the bottle of cough syrup, grimacing as the cheerful purple smiley faces on the label looked up at him. It was grape. Of course! Leave it to Anderson to get the least palatable flavor offered, he thought to himself. No surprise there. Reluctantly, he twisted the cap open and tossed it aside without care, taking a few swigs, not bothering to read the instructions as Alexander's note had very specifically asked him to do.

Enrico shuddered as the vile liquid made its way down his throat. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the disgustingly sweet and medicinal aftertaste it left on his tongue, but it persisted. He made an attempt at getting rid of it again by scraping his tongue on his teeth, and that too failed. Eventually, he deduced that the only option was a glass of water, and that would require him to get out of bed. The exhausted Bishop managed to coerce his muscles to work in a somewhat coordinated fashion, at least enough to let him stand.

It took Enrico more than a moment to get his bearings. His head swam as a sudden rush of vertigo overtook him, forcing his knees to buckle under his weight. Weakened, he leaned against the wall, waiting for it to subside while trying to suppress the urge to gag on the still lingering flavor of grape cough syrup. This dizzy spell combined with the sickening taste of medicine in his mouth was enough to make him falter more than once, but he was able to compose himself enough to at least reach the threshold of the bedroom.

Irritated, tired, unhappy and a slew of other emotions, Enrico groped blindly at the wall in an attempt to find the light switch for the parlor. When he finally found it, the wall sconces flickered to life, filling the room with a soft orange glow.

Directly opposite of Maxwell laid Anderson, sprawled out awkwardly on a sofa that was at least two feet too short to accommodate all of his height. One leg was slung lazily over the edge along with an arm, the other leg propped up on the armrest of the furniture. The Paladin was now without his glasses, and a rumpled sheet barely covered him. He slept soundly with the odd snore now and then, completely unaware of his Superior staring him down with fiery intensity.

Damned regenerators and their inability to get sick.

Enrico cleared his throat loudly, hoping to get Anderson's attention. He paused as the Paladin grunted and shifted, waiting to see if that had done the trick. After a few moments without a definitive response, Alexander went straight back to his blissful slumber, still completely oblivious.

"Anderson." Maxwell's voice hitched. Still no reply.

"Anderson!"

"Eh-What!'"

Thump – Thud!

"Augh, bloody… fuckin' shite…!"

The Bishop stood there, watching with mild amusement as Anderson attempted to compose himself. He'd fallen off of the couch in shock, and had bumped the back of his head on the edge of the coffee table in the process. He sat there on the floor, rubbing his scalp gingerly, trying to discern whether he'd actually heard his name or not. After scanning the room through mal-adjusted, bleary eyes, he saw Enrico's silhouette standing in the threshold of the bedroom.

"Rico? Eh, what are ye – "

"Water."

Anderson blinked twice, his head tilting a bit. "…Sorry?"

Enrico narrowed his eyes, becoming even more irate. "Acqua. De 'leau. Wasser. I want water. I drank that… medicine. It's revolting."

Anderson raised an eyebrow at the smaller man. "Ye drank it? I don' think it's meant tae taste – "

"Alexander." The Bishop's tone grew stern, and violet eyes flashed at his subordinate.

Defeated, the Paladin sighed and collected himself from the floor, revealing that he'd been sleeping in nothing but a white undershirt and a pair of light-blue boxer shorts, coupled with white socks.

"Go on back tae bed. I'll be there in a moment." With his back turned, he waved dismissively at Maxwell, and shuffled off in the direction of the restroom.

Sufficiently satisfied with this development, Maxwell managed to crawl back into the bedroom, and sat himself on the edge of the mattress. He brought his hand up and pulled it over his face in exhaustion, letting a slight groan escape his lips. He decided that while he was waiting for Anderson, he might as well get out of the clothes he'd been wearing all day. Hopefully that would allow him to sleep a bit more peacefully.

The shirt was the first thing to go, and he tossed it carelessly towards the chest of drawers, watching as it missed its mark completely and landed on the floor. Instead of picking it up, he went to work on his slacks, shimmying out of them in an almost comical way. Once he'd rid himself of them, Enrico pried his socks off one by one, again leaving them on the floor with the rest of his discarded clothing.

Now adequately less clothed, he pulled back the covers with whatever strength he had left and nestled himself into where he'd been laying before. However, he was less than enthused to find that since he'd been gone, the comforter and mattress had lost all of the body heat he'd lent to it. Now without the buffer of his slacks and shirt, he shivered against the cool fabric, rubbing his feet together to hopefully evoke some kind of warmth. He groaned in annoyance when the friction did little to alleviate the frigid sensation.

After a few more uncomfortable moments of struggling with the temperature of his bed, Enrico gave up and lay there, waiting for his subordinate to return. With each passing second, he grew more and more impatient, wondering how difficult it could be to acquire a glass of water. Sure, Anderson was more than adept at fighting undead filth and purifying unclean souls, but apparently some domestic tasks such as getting a drink were simply too much to ask of him.

Enrico tossed and turned, finally letting his fists fall against the soft covers with a less than intimidating sound.

"Anders-"

"I'm right here, ye big whiny git." Alex's tone was less than enthusiastic. He did not particularly appreciate being woken in the middle of a dead sleep to play nursemaid to a full grown man. Children were another matter entirely, however.

"Here's yer water."

The Paladin thrust the glass out at Enrico without any compassion, and when the silver-haired man had accepted it, he turned around, determined to get back to sleep. Maxwell downed the water greedily, polishing it off in a matter of seconds.

"I'm goin' back tae bed. You should try an' do the same."

"…Wait."

Enrico's request came quickly, accented by a higher trill than normal. Alexander turned around, his expression less than pleased. If it had been anyone else in that bed, he'd have run them through twice over with his blades by now. There were only a handful of things Anderson could not abide – interrupting a man's sleep was one of those things, and he was quickly reaching his limit with the smaller man.

"What, Enrico?" The question was less considerate and more aggravated, and it was punctuated with an irritated sigh.

"You… should sleep in here." Enrico said, very matter-of-factly.

Anderson paused, waiting for the Bishop to finish his sentence. He was sure a request like that must at least have a reason to it, or an explanation of some kind.

"Aaaand…? Ye'll sleep in the parlor, or…? " He didn't quite understand.

"No fool, I'll sleep in here as well. I'm cold." He blanched, momentarily. "The… bed. The bed is cold." Enrico patted the comforter for emphasis.

Anderson wrung his hand over his face, letting out a groan in exasperation. If it had been anyone else…

He stood there for a moment, assessing the situation. It certainly would be better than sleeping on that cramped sofa; that was for sure. At the very least, he'd wake up feeling refreshed tomorrow morning, and that was imperative, regardless of whether or not they had any job to do the next day. Quickly, Alexander glanced back to the rather uninviting sofa, and then back to Enrico, situated in the very center of the luxurious bed. The man barely took up a third of it, and it certainly did look a lot more comfortable…

"Ugh…" Anderson groused, turning around to collect his belongings from the other room. "Fine, fine."

The rest of the night had continued on without incident until somewhere in the range of two in the morning. Enrico had been in a dead sleep, thankful that the opiates in the cough syrup had put him out somewhat quickly after Anderson had lumbered into bed with him. It was an awkward position for the two of them; there was no doubt about that. For the first half hour or so, Enrico had wondered if asking Anderson to share his bed hadn't been the best of ideas. He envied the regenerator. Not ten minutes after climbing under the covers, he'd conked out completely, and Enrico was left to lie there uneasily, shifting his position over and over again.

Once he'd managed to fall asleep, all had gone relatively well. There'd been no sleep talking, no kicking, no pushing, teeth grinding or blanket-stealing. Unfortunately, there was one thing that Maxwell hadn't counted on, and he desperately wished that he'd remembered it before asking the Paladin to be his bedmate.

Alexander Anderson was a cuddler.

After two hours and some odd minutes of glorious, uninterrupted sleep, Enrico was jostled awake by the sensation of something heavy weighing down on him, and up against his backside. His eyes widened uselessly in the dark room, and he began to sweat as the situation dawned on him. In his slumber, Anderson had turned over and slung both a leg and arm over Enrico, effectively pulling the smaller man into a sort of awkward sleeping bear-hug. This was less than ideal.

For a while, Maxwell wiggled fruitlessly against the larger man. He didn't want to wake Anderson and alert him of their rather… compromising position. Enrico had his pride to think of, after all. So instead of simply pushing the Paladin aside and telling him to move, the Bishop struggled and writhed and stretched to no avail, each movement causing Alexander to pull him even closer. His determination not lost, Maxwell continued to try and fidget his way out of the larger man's embrace.

Everything seemed to be going swimmingly – He'd nearly gotten out of the Priest's grasp when without warning, Alexander reeled him right back in around the waist and snuggled him.

Enrico bristled.

Anderson was very obviously unconscious of his ministrations, and Maxwell could not hold anything against him for that fact alone. The problem was that Anderson was completely and impossibly unaware of all of it, and he happened to be significantly stronger than Enrico. No amount of wriggling or writhing was going to get him out of this position, and slowly, he began to accept it.

Enrico laid there, brows furrowed in frustration as the larger man clung to him as if he were some kind of human teddy bear. It was embarrassing. He hadn't been this physically close to anyone at all since –

The Bishop paused, his thoughts coming to a halt. It was curious how in such a small amount of time, he'd suddenly gone from being aggravated, uncomfortable and extremely sleepy to nostalgic. When it hit him how long ago it had actually been since he'd been embraced – held, or hugged, even, the smaller man let out an exasperated sigh. The familiarity of the situation had let loose the floodgates, and a tide of memories came rushing back to him; memories of his youth.

When he'd been a child, he'd clung to Anderson's side almost nonstop. He couldn't remember a time when he'd gone without having the Priest's constant companionship, his unwavering support and unshakeable faith. No matter the situation, Enrico remembered how accommodating Alexander had been, how he'd never turned him away or chastised him. Even now – even after all of those years, that one fact had not seemed to change.

Knock knock.

"Father… let me in?"

The young boy's delicate voice lilted through the heavy oaken doors, and made its way directly to Anderson's ears. He'd been asleep for no longer than ten minutes, but Enrico seemed to have the ability to rouse him out of even the deepest slumber if the child had so desired. The Priest rubbed at his eyes, working the sleep out of them slowly, and then with a yawn, he responded.

"Door's always open, Rico."

The creaking hinges whined in vain as the small, silver-haired boy pushed the door open. He stood there in the threshold, violet eyes wide and moist with tears.

Anderson had propped himself up in bed, looking on at the youth with a sort of exasperated affection. It had been the fourth time this week he'd done this.

"Bad dreams again, I reckon?"

"Yes."

"Ye really must stop eating before bed. Come here, child."

Hurried footsteps made their way across the hard wood floor, and the mattress squeaked loudly as Anderson relinquished his own comfort for the flustered boy. He removed himself from the bed, and helped the young Enrico Maxwell up into it, pulling the warm covers over him, tucking him in tightly.

"Father, I'm scared."

"An' just what are ye scared of, then?"

"Dreams – nightmares. Bad ones."

Anderson chuckled warmly, letting one of his large hands come down over the boy's head, gingerly brushing hair out of his face. Enrico was a curious child. Loud, boisterous and bossy when with the other children – but if one was to get him alone, he was as fragile and vulnerable as a kitten. The Priest couldn't help but pity him.

Gently, he spoke to the youth:

"Rico – Now I lay me down to sleep – " He spoke quietly. "I pray the Lord, my soul to…" He trailed off, waiting for the child to finish the line.

"…I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

"And if I die before I wake – "

"I pray the Lord my soul to take."

"If I should live for other days – "

"I pray the Lord – " A yawn. "To guide my ways."

"Amen."

Enrico lay there, facing away from his subordinate, suddenly feeling a slight pang of guilt hit him in his chest. He had a niggling little feeling that harboring any embarrassment towards this situation was pointless. It wasn't fair of him to push away the only person who'd ever shown him any real support in his life, even if Anderson wasn't aware of being pushed away. Suddenly all too aware of his selfishness, he furrowed his brows at himself and heaved one of his trademark dramatic sighs. He'd forgotten what it was to show a bit of altruism.

He shimmied in place and managed to turn himself around so that he was facing the larger man, and he looked on at his Teacher's sleeping face. He wasn't a particularly graceful man; that was for certain. His jaw hung slack, and he snorted now and then, mumbling nonsense words along with the rest of his unusual sounds. Enrico couldn't help but crack a bit of a smile. This was the man who had made him feel so safe and secure when he'd been a child? This was the strong, fearless, monster-under-your-bed slaying Alexander Anderson? It was rather amusing to think that at one point in his life, Enrico had looked up to him as a shining example of what he wanted to be when he took up the cloth. Though he didn't often think of Anderson in that way anymore, part of him still felt that unmistakable admiration and it brought back a certain level of comfort to have his teacher still care for him so deeply.

"Alex." The Paladin's name came as nothing more than a whisper. Anderson didn't supply so much as a grunt in response.

Enrico nudged the larger man's chest with his hand, gently rocking him. "Alexander."

A sigh. "Wha' now, Enrico? M'not getting' ye any more water. There's a restroom…" He brought an arm up, waving it about vaguely in the direction of the parlor, before letting it fall lazily to his side. "…Somewhere… in tha' direction." The larger man's distinctive brogue was colored with sleep and annoyance.

"You are up?"

Anderson grumbled. "Well, I am now."

"Good."

There was a brief pause, and Anderson shifted, bringing his hand up and letting it quickly fall back down against the covers in an unseen display of touchiness.

"Good is'nae the word I'd use. What d'ye want, lad? It's O'Dark thirty an' we've got to be up in a few hours."

"I just wanted to tell you something."

"Well? Get on with it already."

Enrico heaved a sigh, and decided that perhaps putting his pride behind him for a moment wouldn't hurt. He knew full well what a royal arse pain he'd been all day long, and he was grateful to Anderson for putting up with him for as long as he had. It took the patience of a Saint to tolerate Maxwell's constant griping about nothing, and though he would never admit his own flaws, he knew quite well how quickly his mannerisms could grate on the nerves of others.

"Grazie. For… well, today."

Anderson was silent for a moment, and then through the darkness, his hand found Enrico's forehead, just as it had so many years ago. He brushed a few stray strands of hair out of the smaller man's face, and topped it off with an affectionate pat.

"Naturalmente." The Paladin's perpetual Scottish bur accented the Italian word curiously, and Enrico had to chuckle at it.

"Now, please, fer the love o' God, Enrico… go tae sleep."

A/N: This is a pairing I haven't done in quite some time. I'm not sure you could really call it a pairing – it's more like a sappy fluffy fatherly love type thing, but anyway, it was a lot of fun to write. Not many people can believably portray Anderson as a Fatherly figure, and he most certainly is – I think that crazed, zealous vampire-killer only comes out when it has to. He's a nice guy, really ;_; at least I think so. I tried making this credible.

Also, I was listening to a lot of really opulent classic music while I was writing this. Not sure if that comes through in the wording or not. I dunno, it's 3 AM right now.

Oh, also if it wasn't obvious, the scene in italics was a flashback, kinda. :3