For many of the various Special Operations members housed within the Vatican City, it was rather off-putting that the distance from their residences to their offices was such a long trip. The offices had been built in order, so for the men and women working for John, it was about a ten minute hike from their houses and apartment complexes to their office. But when you got to Sections X and XI, it was at least an hour's walk. By the time you reached Section XIII, it was silly to think that you could walk from your house and get to work on time.
Thankfully, when you worked for Special Operations they gave you an endless metro card. So instead of walking, three quarters of S.O. members (Section V and onward) took the underground to work. The metro was often filled with weary workers dressed in matching colors and heading to their offices, hoping to finish the day's work quickly and get a chance at leaving before dark.
The offices themselves were nothing special—it was true that they were as ornate and elaborately decorated as the neighboring tourist attractions, but they held nothing of value for anyone other than those that worked there. Most were two-storied buildings, but a few, like Iscariot's, were three.
The bottom foyer of the Iscariot offices was the usual office setting: receptionist's desk, bathrooms, information, and meeting rooms branching down the long hallways. The second floor was filled from wall to wall with cubicles, one for each lesser agent with a few saved for foreign representatives that needed to finish up work while they waited on their other duties in the City. The third floor was the floor for individual offices. Maxwell, Anderson, and a few other select members had their offices here, needing more space for their heavier workloads than a cubicle could provide.
As Anderson led the way to the offices and they reached the second floor, all four members of the Himalayan recovery team breathed a collective sigh of relief. Most agents, even higher level ones like Anderson, spent so much of their time catching up on work in the offices that it often felt more like home than their own bedrooms did.
Most of the agents present and not abroad were gathered around an ancient copier. Its guts were laid out on the stained brown carpeting and a woman from Andrew was bent over them, hand on her chin and tool belt laid out beside her.
"Is the copier broken again?" Oliver complained, shaking his head. Siobhan sighed and an agent named Carrie turned around and waved at them.
"Yes, regrettably, and the Bishop's not being compassionate about it at all. "I need twelve hundred of these on my desk by tomorrow evening!" she growled, mimicking Maxwell's commanding sneer. "I told him up front that unless he gets the copier fixed, he'd be lucky to see twelve."
"Oliver!" Another agent, this one male, called from across the room where he was leaning his rolling chair back as far as it could go. "Your lady-love from Luke left you an email!" he jeered. The woman from Andrew glared at him, as well as the other female agents in the room.
"At least he has one," Heinkel called back, her face set in a deep scowl. The man's friends in the next cubicle "oohed" and began to laugh as he peppered them with balled up memo pad pages. At the sound of her voice, Yumiko barely peered over her cubicle, looking at them all warily before raising up and motioning her best friend over with her hands, her eyes large and frightened. The scowl morphed into a concerned frown and Heinkel weaved around the cubicle walls to reach the young woman's workspace, disappearing from view.
Siobhan dipped her head in farewell to Anderson before bypassing the crowd and sitting down neatly at her own cubicle, pulling up her desktop and opening a report template. She began to type out her initial report, clearly ready to send it in and head to her home. Anderson couldn't blame her; no one got more than four hours of sleep at a time in the Himalayas and while they'd been trained to run on less, it wasn't any easier to stay awake once they were safe and sound. The only thing in his mind was the bed at Hellsing, soft and with an abundance of pillows.
He punched the elevator button and got inside, leaving the bedlam behind for the quieter space of his office. He reached the third floor and nearly collided with Maxwell, who was trying to get in just as fast as he was trying to get out. As it was they both stopped short, Maxwell's reading glasses sliding sideways on his face. He shifted the large stack of papers and adjusted the glasses back into their proper position.
"You're back," he sighed in relief. "I need that report as soon as you can, Father Anderson. I don't think I can hold off those pesky Johns much longer."
"They'll get my report when they get it," Anderson replied bluntly. "They can wait. I've had to wait on them enough o'r the years." He paused. "The photocopier downstairs is broken again." Maxwell grunted unsympathetically, shifting the papers in his hand.
"I alerted the Andrews. They should have sent someone," he answered. Anderson cut him off from the elevator.
"They really need a brand new one. Tha' thing's been taken apart and stuffed back together I dunno how many times now." Maxwell's eyes narrowed as he tried to sidestep Anderson again.
"Yes, well, you explain that to the Accounting Offices. I'm sure they'd love to lend you the money for a new one," he sneered. "Now if you'll excuse me, His Holiness is expecting me." Anderson glowered at him a second more hitting the down button and stepping out of the elevator. Maxwell stepped inside and stared straight ahead haughtily until the metal closed and the elevator whirred. He shook his head and went into his office, shutting the door behind him and collapsing in his desk chair, head in his hands.
"Lord, give me patience with tha' man, and the strength to stop myself from decking him one good time and breakin' his nose." he prayed, before fiddling with his mouse and beginning his own report. His eyes were heavy and he wished it was noon, when his secretary would come in and bring him some coffee. She only worked half-days on the weekends, and until she came in he'd have to fend for himself. He hoped it wouldn't take that long, though, and he'd be out by the time she came in to finish her own stack of work. He glanced at the clock—9:05 am.
He let his glasses slide down his nose and stared at the blinking screen, typing away.
"Bishop Maxwell…." The Pope leaned forward wearily in his throne, resting his hands on his knees. "We must stop this unnecessary bloodshed. My people make such a great sacrifice for the Lord as it is, living away from their homelands. They shouldn't have to fear attacks such as these."
"Your Holiness," Maxwell murmured reverently, bowing on one knee and eyes respectfully downcast. "Tell me your orders, and I shall carry them out to their fullest intent. I am your humble servant." The Pope nodded.
"I want you to double communications with all outposts. Twice a week should be plenty. Also, send teams out to the most high-risk areas to do thorough border checks once a month. Any concerns should be dealt with at that moment, and the paperwork can be filed later. I'll meet with the other heads of Special Operations and have a plan drawn out. I know I can trust your full support."
"Yes," Maxwell ducked his head even lower in agreement. "I'll begin immediately." Secretly, he had no idea how he would carry out these orders. They were spread thin as it was, with not enough agents to go around for all the missions that landed on his desk. But he had a job to do—he had to obey the Pope and do his best. They'd just have to finish their work quicker, and sacrifice some of their time to the cause. He stayed still a moment, wondering if it was time yet to leave. But the Pope continued.
"Also, Maxwell, I have heard news from Europe, as well as the Dalai Lama in Asia. All reports are telling me that vampires are converging at an alarming rate. Across the world, they are gathering for something, but no one knows what. Do you know about this?"
"Yes, Your Holiness. We have not acted yet, only because they haven't given us a reason to act. They aren't massacring humans, and they aren't causing trouble among the villages and towns. We have no cause to attack them and cause an attack in return on ourselves. Our enemies have also seen fit to leave them be, for reasons of their own I'm sure." The Pope nodded again.
"Yes, I've heard that the Hellsing Organization is ignoring them, for the most part. This sets me more at ease…." He looked musingly at his hands, folded now in his lap. "I believe if they were going to be a nuisance, Hellsing would have already tried to invade upon our lands and take them out. They've never hesitated to do it before in years past."
"I agree," Maxwell responded. The Pope sighed.
"I'm sorry to always be putting such burdens on you. But please; keep an eye on them. If Hellsing makes a move, then we should be ready. In the past, history documents that while we are not on the best terms, we have many of the same enemies. If they strike Hellsing, who is to say they will not strike us next?"
"I understand, Your Holiness," Maxwell answered, standing up. "I will take care of it all. Do not concern yourself with such paltry matters anymore; they will all be handled." The Pope smiled, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
"I'm happy that I can count on you, Bishop."
"No one's forgotten the Berlin incident. 1996?"
"There is no way we owe that much money." Heinkel crossed her arms, looking rather imposing as she faced off against the Accounting Office's twins. "Das ist unbegründet!"Leonardo's mouth became a thin line and he worked his jaw, his brother stepping forward to fill in.
"Well, that in itself wouldn't be much, if it weren't for your outstanding debt," he said helpfully. "You must remember; you're still making payments for damages and psychological fees from that time in Palestine…."
"But that was years ago!" Yumiko countered, still cowering behind Heinkel and peering over her shoulder. "Surely, surely we've paid that off by now!" The twins shared a look.
"You would have, if you'd made every payment on time. But when you add your delayed payments, with interest and late fees, and then on top of that your other, more recent debts—"
"Interest?!" Heinkel roared at the same time Yumiko squeaked out "Late fees!?" Both girls looked at each other before turning to the identical men standing before them, blocking them into Yumiko's cubicle so that there was no chance to escape. "That's not fair!" they cried together.
"Life's not fair," the twins retorted in sync, stepping closer. The elevator dinged and opened to reveal Anderson, a finished report in his hands and bags under his eyes. He glanced at them without really seeing them, headed towards the drop-box in the corner of the room near the stairwell.
"Father Anderson!" both girls called, banking on their old mentor to get them out of this mess. "Tell these rats that they can't tack interest onto a legalized lump-sum payment!" Heinkel fussed. Anderson dropped the report into the box carefully, making sure it wouldn't fall back out before turning back to them with a yawn.
"Take it up with their heads at the Accounting office," he suggested. "Or, if it's that important, give it to Maxwell to take care of." Heinkel and Yumiko both grimaced.
"He's still sort of… angry with us," the nun admitted, wringing her hands. "Over July's budget… and those Indonesian monasteries…." She lowered her head, tears in her eyes. "Oh Heinkel, we can't get that sort of money!" she whispered in her friend's ear.
"Well, we can always discuss refinancing," Lorenzo said gently, offering the sniffling girl a handkerchief from his pocket. "There's no need to cry about it." He patted her on the shoulder, and Heinkel moved in to block him off.
"Don't you touch her," she growled. "I've had just about enough of you people." Her voice was rising steadily, causing heads to pop up over cubicle walls all over the room at the prospect of a fight. Siobhan caught Anderson's gaze as she peered around the edge of her cubicle and rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the faceoff before disappearing again. Lorenzo backed away, hiding behind his older brother, and Leonardo bristled, his brown eyes cold over the rims of his dark glasses.
"It is incredibly frustrating," he agreed, clearly saying the same thing about her. His brother grabbed his arm, pulling him back slightly as Heinkel's hands balled into fists. Anderson stepped between them, thinking to himself that he was much too tired to deal with such childish antics at the moment.
"Just come back tomorrow when Maxwell is here, and all four of ye walk up and discuss it with him," he ordered firmly, pointing upstairs. "There's no need to be fightin' in here; it's a God-ordained building, office or no," he reminded them, and Heinkel and Yumiko both backed off as much as they could in the crowded cubicle with a mumbled "Sorry, Father." He turned to the twins, the two women glancing around his large frame.
"Come back tomorrow," he repeated more gently, and they nodded together.
"Alright," Lorenzo said, still trying to maintain a cheery tone. "We'll—"
"We'll take the stairwell down," Leonardo finished icily. "Good day, Miss Wolfe, Miss Takagi." They turned and walked off calmly, although Lorenzo was whispering in his brother's ear with a rare look of irritation. Leonardo shook his head and his brother snapped something, his voice barely gaining an octave before they disappeared behind the door to the stairwell.
Anderson sighed before turning to the two women, looking at them the same way a father would look at two misbehaving daughters.
"Heinkel Wolfe, ye have to learn how to control yer temper." The cross-dressing nun looked at the far wall of the cubicle obstinately, her jaw set and a blush creeping across her cheeks. "It won't do for a member of Iscariot to be more hot-headed than their leader. And likewise," he continued, addressing Yumiko. "Don' cry every time things look bleak. You've got to have faith that it'll work out." He wasn't usually so harsh with them in public, but he was tired and honestly was beyond caring. They were just an obstacle keeping him from his bed.
"Yes, Father," they replied softly, looking thoroughly chastised. He glared around the office and over half the peering heads ducked back down, afraid of getting a scolding of their own from the man who'd raised them.
"I'm goin' home," he announced, and turned to leave without another word. The office was quiet enough to hear a pin drop until the technician from Andrew stood up and announced "I've got it fixed!", which was followed by a mad rush to the barely functioning copier.
"Good heavens!" Anderson turned quickly, surprised to hear a voice, and saw the butler standing with his hand over his heart beside the closet where he'd been putting away Integra's clean suits. "You gave me a fright!" he chuckled as papers burned up in the air, shaking his head. "I must be getting slower in my old age; those sorts of things used to never startle me," he murmured more to himself, finishing his task before closing the closet door.
"I 'pologize," Anderson said sleepily, wishing that the butler would hurry up and get out so that he could roll over and get some shuteye. He was still on India time at the moment, and then having to move between Vatican time and England time; his mind was such a jumble of numbers that he had no idea how long he'd been awake. He peeled off his boots and gloves with a sigh, putting the boots by the foot of the bed and throwing the gloves onto the bed itself.
"Oh, it's quite alright," Walter dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Shall I let Sir Integra know you've returned? She's in the middle of a fitting right now, but I think she'd use any excuse to get away from that tailor. They've been arguing off and on all day," he said with a measure of amusement, a small smile on his face.
"If you wanna," he answered indifferently, standing up long enough to remove the cassock and his cross, draping them over the side of the bed as well and then lying down and closing his eyes, hands resting on his stomach. "She'll find out sooner or later," he added in a half-whisper, already dropping off. Walter watched him for a moment before walking out of the room, shutting the door softly so as not to make any unnecessary noise.
He went to the laundry room first, finishing all of his ironing and then separating his clothing from Seras', putting the former aside and then sneaking to the basement to stick hers into her drawers. Pausing, he listened for any sound; the room was so silent it could have been unoccupied if not for the closed coffin-bed in the corner. He smiled and went to lay a hand on it, but as always something inside made him stop before his hand touched the wood. He often wondered why he felt that way; but Seras was nearly as protective of her coffin as Alucard was of his, and he imagined it must be some self-preservation telling him to not touch it.
Then he put his own clothing away, stopping to look at the pictures that filled the many frames above his bed. It felt to him that the older he got, the more sentimental he became, and the pictures meant more to him that ever before. He laughed at one taken of him—he must have been 25 or so, because Gabriella was with him, her flour-stained apron messing his black clothing as she hugged him and smiled for the camera.
Then there was another, tinier one taken with a Polaroid of some sort—most likely by Sir Arthur. The younger Walter was smiling, although he seemed confused as he held Integra, who looked six months old at the most. She was watching him with a look of infantile wonder, her hand reaching for his long hair. He remembered that she had a certain fascination with his hair, always pulling it and touching it with her fat little fingers. Back then, he had no idea what to do with a baby. It was almost laughable.
Another one, one that not even Sir Integra knew that he had, was one that he'd found when cleaning out Arthur's room after his death. It wasn't like him to pocket things for himself, but when he'd looked at the picture, he couldn't help but want to keep it. It was the perfect representation of how he'd always remember Arthur Hellsing—not frail and bedridden but alive and hale, his eyes twinkling and clothing filled out with the muscles of a healthy man.
He held Integra on his knee, who at this point must have been only three or four. Walter wasn't sure who had taken the picture or even where they were, but he knew that it wasn't Hellsing. Arthur was telling his small daughter something that was making her laugh, her hands over her mouth as she giggled. It was a nice picture of the way things used to be, and while Walter knew he should have probably given it to Integra he had been selfish. He'd wanted that memory all to himself.
"You really did love her," he told the Arthur in the photograph, smiling wistfully. "I wonder what you'd say if you could see her now; she's certainly changed since then." He sighed and left his room, going up to the second floor wing of guest bedrooms. Opening one, he saw the child-now-woman nearly at her wit's end as she stood on a stool, the tailor moving quickly around her with pins hanging out of his mouth.
"Walter!" He couldn't help but laugh at the way her hair had been piled haphazardly on her head to keep it out of the tailor's way, looking like a tangled rat's nest. The dress that hung loosely off her was gorgeous, although the tailor had told him the last time he was here that once he was done, it would be all the more beautiful.
"It'll have silver on it," he swore up and down. Right now, he was swearing up and down for a completely different reason. Every time he tried to stick a pin in the silken fabric, it either came loose from the dress or accidentally stuck Integra. The woman was on the verge of kicking him for poking her one too many times, and he was on the verge of pushing her off her stool for shouting at him.
"So, Lewis, how does it come along?" he asked pleasantly and the man's head popped around his living mannequin's waist, three straight pins dangling between his lips. He'd foregone the scarf today and was wearing a navy blue turtleneck and those tight pants of his, although his black boots had been left at the door. His assistant was meandering around the room with jewelry and accessories, making up her own mind about the "trimmings" of the heiress's gala outfit.
"Tragically," he replied melodramatically as he began taking the pins out of his mouth, his expression baleful as he scrutinized the dress. "I simply cannot get this bust line right." Integra crossed her arms over her chest and frowned.
"You should worry about getting this hem right; I refuse to be tripping all night over my own train." Lewis pursed his lips and shook his head, running a hand through his meticulously gelled locks.
"Valerie, I need motivation!" he called, and the young woman's head jerked up with a sympathetic look.
"Remember those pictures of diseased lungs," she said kindly. "And besides, you've been without a cigarette for three months now."
"Don't remind me," Lewis snarled under his breath as he narrowed his eyes, sticking a pin in the waistline and succeeding only in bunching the fabric. "Dammit!" he howled.
"Perhaps it's time for a small break?" Walter suggested. "I know that Cook has some cake fresh out of the oven in the kitchens, and we have both tea and coffee." Valerie raised her eyes to her boss, dropping the silver chain she was holding. Lewis sucked in a breath through his teeth.
"I don't know," he said with a small frown. "I've been holding back so I can eat more at Mother's house for Christmas when I head back home…." Valerie rolled her eyes and he clapped his hands. "Oh, what the hell! One piece isn't going to ruin these hips. Come on, Val, let's get this dress onto the stand; I need to indulge myself today."
Walter closed the door and waited outside while they undressed their client. A few minutes later, the two tailors came out arm in arm, talking about some corset display at a fashion show. Integra followed behind, running her hands through her hair in a desperate attempt to get it lying flat after being up for so long. She wore a plain shirt and pants, not bothering with the rest of her suit since they'd be coming right back. Walter grabbed her arm and pulled her aside while the other two went down the stairs in search of the kitchen.
"I thought you might like to know; Paladin Anderson has arrived just now."
"Here!? Where?" she asked, surprised.
"Your bedroom, ma'am. He seemed rather exhausted; this mission must have taken a lot out of him." She looked at the stairs, where the voices of her tailors could still be heard echoing in the foyer, and then bit the inside of her cheek as she glanced in the direction of her bedroom.
"I should go and check on him," she said finally. Walter gave a small nod and pushed her lightly in the direction she chose before heading down to point the strange fashionistas in the direction of pound cake and honeyed tea.
She quickly headed to her bedroom and stepped inside, closing the door with a sigh. She was already past her breaking point dealing with these tailors, who had measured her at least two other times before bringing her the prototype dress and stuffing her in it, throwing her hair every which way and making her stand in all sorts of uncomfortable positions. No one should have to suffer so much for beauty.
Resting her head against the cool wood of the door, she regained her poise and turned around, walking over to the bed. She tilted her head sideways, staring at the sleeping giant sprawled out on the blanket. He'd forgotten to take off his glasses, and now they were bent sideways and hanging off the edge of his nose with the way he was laying.
She reached down to remove them, but the second her fingers brushed his cheek he was awake. It didn't surprise her; Walter did that too—apparently it was a life-preserving side effect from the military, to be awake and asleep at a moment's notice.
"Hello, welcome back," she greeted him quietly. He grunted in reply and ran a hand over his face, stopping when he reached his glasses. He growled and pulled them off, squinting and carefully bending the frames back into shape before folding them and tossing them onto the end table.
"Thought ye were with the tailor or somethin'," he murmured drowsily, his eyes closing again now that the imagined threat had passed. Integra sat down on the edge of the bed.
"We're taking a… breather, I suppose," she explained. "It's more tedious than we had thought it would be." He barely nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. She sat for a moment, basking in the near-silence of the room, broken only by his slow, even breathing. It was comforting, after hours on end listening to the highly overdramatic tailor and the chittering, high-pitched tone of his assistant.
Standing up, she gathered his things off the bed and put them in neater order. His gloves went beside his glasses on the table, the cross on the vanity where nothing would bother it, and she hung the long cassock behind the bathroom door on the empty hook that once held her father's dressing gown. She left his boots where they were, for lack of a better place to put them. Looking back at the quiet figure, she supposed that he had fallen back asleep and was considering when she might need to head back to the guest room when he spoke.
"C'mere." She walked over and sat on the bed again, watching him. "We had to starve them out," he said. She frowned, trying to decide what he meant.
"Who?" she finally inquired. He opened one eye, staring at her before motioning for her to come closer. She leaned forward obligingly.
"The vampires. They're moving, aren't they?" She paused, wondering if that was the answer to her question, or if he'd changed subjects. Even further, how had he known that they had been tracking the growing migration of vampires to and from Europe? He had been isolated for over a month; who had told him? He tugged at her shirt and before she knew it she was lying down beside him, curling into the warmth he provided.
"How did you know?" He grinned, but kept his eyes closed.
"I know things. I get this feelin', on the back of me neck. Crawling skin and all tha' good stuff. It's kept me alive—I know to trust it. And the more time goes by, the more I'm feelin' it." She rested her head on one arm, thinking solemnly.
"They aren't doing anything. That's what I'm worried about. What are they gathering for?"
"Somethin's comin'; simple as tha'. But not for a while yet, I think." She frowned, letting him wrap an arm around her and breathing in the scent off his clothing. He smelled like something strange, spicy almost. It was the aroma of a foreign place. But above that was the smell of smoke.
"You smell like you've stood in a fire," she said uncomfortably, her nose wrinkling. It wasn't like a fireplace—it smelled like moldy wood and things that shouldn't be caught up in fires.
"Aye," he answered. "We had to set fire to the priory. The vampires had went and ruined it with their blood n' battles. Didn't want nothin' left, and it was easier to tell the rest of the missionaries that their fellow brothers and sisters died in a fiery blaze, rather than letting them know that God-damned beasts tore them apart while their hearts were still a'beatin."
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, not really sure if she meant sorry for the loss of life, or sorry that their work had to be burned down in the end. "For that," she finished, letting him make of it what he would. He nodded, but didn't say any more. She lay there another moment, wishing that she didn't have to go back out there and face Lewis and his exaggerated displays of frustration. But it couldn't be helped, and she reluctantly pushed his arm off of her waist.
"I have to go back and let them try to finish," she said unenthusiastically. "And you have to try and get some sleep." He opened his eyes at that and smiled wearily at her.
"Aye, that I do." He yawned. "I brought ye something, though. I'll find it later. Call it a late birthday gift."
"Very late," she agreed, and he snorted before rolling over onto his back. She stood and straightened her shirt before leaving, holding the doorknob until it was closed so that it wouldn't make a loud noise. Walking back to the guest bedroom, she couldn't help but think that she felt just a little bit happier.
Seras smiled as she stepped into the foyer and was greeted with the familiar red and green decorations. She'd helped Walter put them up last week, spending December 1st working her hardest on making sure the boughs of holly on all the stair railings were uniform. But that wasn't all; they had wreaths on the doors, a giant Christmas tree in the main ballroom, Cook's kitchen was decorated like a gingerbread house, and the best part: she'd snuck mistletoe into the archway between the soldier's supply closet and the main hall.
That in itself wouldn't have been very funny if the men hadn't been so adamant in their refusals. She was beside herself with laughter every time two unsuspecting souls met under the fateful sprig and awkwardly refused the other, trying not to be offending while still retaining their "manhood". Of course, even funnier moments arose when one of the poor men happened upon Walter coming out of the supply.
Even Alucard—who usually didn't care for such childish pranks—found this a very amusing thing to watch. He thought it was even funnier when Stevenson, who was a rather brash fellow as it was, met Penn under the archway and slung his arm around the man, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek and merely laughing when the man threatened to shoot him in his embarrassment.
"Come off it, mate!" he had crowed with delight as the divorced captain grew redder than the holly berries scattered throughout the halls. "It's Christmas!"
Of course, once the soldiers knew it was there they kept trying to coerce Seras into going underneath it. She steadfastly refused, finding excuses to get out of going to where the men's "trap" awaited. She only kissed two people: Stevenson, who thought it was his god-sworn duty to make sure Seras had at least one kiss a year; and Walter, who'd blushed and said something along the lines of "Well, that warms the old heart". And it wasn't a real kiss, just a little peck on the nose that was more friendly than anything else.
So she hadn't thought anything else about it until she was walking out of the supply closet with a fresh pack of ammunition for her police pistol and was cornered by her master. She'd looked up at him in confusion, wondering why he was grinning so sinisterly, and then caught sight of the twig hanging merrily above the archway, barely scraping the side of his hat. She paled and looked away, coughing politely.
"Ah…erm, move, please," she had choked out, and he'd slowly shaken his head.
"Aren't there rules to this, Police Girl?" he sneered, and she felt her cheeks burn as he stared at her. "We don't want you to be an old maid, do we?" She paused for a beat, but grinned a moment later.
"Well… if we're obeying the rules, you can only kiss me on the cheek," she replied curtly, meeting his gaze with her own challenging one. Ever since the end of their punishment, they had been locked in a struggle of sorts. But sometime over the last month, Seras could have sworn that the fighting had turned into an offhand sort of flirting. Not enough to call out, but they both knew what was going on and she wasn't sure if she liked it or not. It didn't help that she already cared so deeply about him—simple things like flirting weren't lost on her, even if he only meant it in jest.
"Very well," he replied cryptically, and she cautiously turned her head, offering her cheek while still keeping him in her view. She didn't like the way this sounded; he was up to something. Any other time, he would have teased her for acting "innocent".
He bent down, and a moment later she felt his lips press firmly against her cheekbone. She thought for a fleeting moment he was actually going to behave himself, but before she could react he moved on her cheek and she felt his sharp teeth nip her earlobe. She froze, muscles tensed, and he chuckled darkly in her ear before moving away.
Damn it all, she grumbled, I let him get the best of me again! She was reminded of her own words, so long ago: Vampires were masters of the seductive arts. She felt discouraged for a moment, but only a moment. Then she smiled to herself cunningly. But then again, I am a vampire.
"Wait, Master!" He paused in the doorway and turned, and she saw a flash of astonishment in his eyes before his glasses hid them from her. "Isn't it my turn?" He hesitated for a fraction of a second (in Alucard terms, a good while) before stepping back over to her. Her smile didn't falter, but her brain was turning over ideas as fast as it could go, discarding each one. What could she do that would make him unwillingly break his calm exterior?
He lowered his cheek and as she stared at the smooth skin, the answer came to her like it had been there all along. She tucked some hair behind her ear out of the way and stood on her tiptoes to reach him, mentally praying that she wasn't getting herself in too deep. Of course, she took that chance every time she responded to his subtle, bewildering advances. Some small part of her enjoyed the danger of it.
Holding a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, she kissed him just as modestly as he kissed her, her mouth brushing his cheek softly. Then she steeled herself and her hand went to his neck. Her mouth opened and she licked the side of his face achingly slow, although in real life it must have only been a second or two. She wasn't sure why he seemed to enjoy that so much, but he'd used his slimy tongue on her countless times and he liked it, strangely enough.
The room spun and she bit back a gasp as she was slammed against the far wall. It suddenly popped into her mind that it would be awful for a soldier to wander down here right now—she'd be mortified. She forgot about that when she felt Alucard's hands gripping her waist tightly; she was sure that he was leaving bruises that would take a few hours to fade away, as she heard her bones protesting under the strength of his fingers.
"Police Girl!" he snarled threateningly, his face inches from hers. His glasses had slid down his nose and she was caught in the full force of his glare, eyes flaming with mingled fury and desire. She had to fight to hide her triumphant grin—she wasn't used to being the one with the power, and each time she "won" over him it made her feel undefeatable. She managed an even smile, her arms wrapping around his neck as she shook her head slightly, fluffing her hair and getting it out of the way.
He dipped his head, his nose against her throat, sniffing deeply. She pressed herself to him even as his glasses poked her skin unpleasantly, knowing full well that she was playing with a very, very dangerous fire. Not that she cared, anyway. No, she was beyond that. If he wanted to flirt and play around, he was going to know full well what sort of trouble he was getting himself into.
His hands wandered north, feeling her through her uniform and she couldn't help but wriggle against him, her hands tangling in his short hair and tugging. He whispered something against her skin, but she couldn't make it out.. His mind was clear to her as hers was to him, and she marveled at the singularity of his masculine thoughts, so unlike her broad-scoping feminine brain was used to; her name in his mind, the way his body catalogued the feeling of her underneath his fingers, the intense desire for her, and the way she felt his need for her to pull his hair harder, to bite him and lick him and mark him all over with her scent…
He scraped his teeth across her jugular and she bit her lip, letting a small moan escape while keeping an ear out for any soldiers traipsing down to the supply closet. The way she felt him everywhere on her was maddening, both inside her mind and outside her body, as if he truly owned every facet of her being. And she had half a sense that he wanted to feel the same way in return; as if he was curious to know what it felt like to be so caught up by someone that you forgot yourself.
Her teeth caught her lip accidently as he shifted her roughly against him, and she swore as she tasted blood on her tongue. He froze and she felt his mind hone in on the blood before he blocked her out and she couldn't feel him anymore. He lifted his face from her neck and she saw his eyes focused on her mouth, flitting up for a split-second to meet hers before returning to her lips. She licked up the pooling blood, her tongue darting out lightning-fast and he moved in to kiss her, looking nearly frantic for a taste.
She counted the seconds and before his lips touched hers she punched him in between the ribs, feeling at least two crack and break beneath her fist. He grunted in pain and his hands came out to catch himself as he slumped against the wall, clearly not suspecting that she would do such a thing. She ducked out from under him, panting and wiping her lip as she watched him turn around slowly, his hand on his ribs as he prodded them.
The shadows on the room jumped towards her own shadow, but he stopped in time and they hovered near its form, quivering with anticipation. His glasses were askew and she could see the anger in his eyes, as well as something undefinable— uncertainty? She wiped her mouth once more for good measure before nodding at him with a sullen frown.
"I told you," she hissed at him. "Kissing on the cheek only." He was livid, she could tell, but something in her told her that it was the right thing to do; she had to stop him before he got too far and took too much. It was the more instinctive, gut-feeling part of her and she listened to it without fail, even when her brain was screaming at her that kissing him would have been wonderful, delightful, awe-inspiring fun.
"You're lucky my master has given me orders," he snapped, looking more like a rabid dog than he did a man. "Otherwise I'd throw you against the wall and have my way with you." This was news to Seras; Sir Integra had given him orders? What orders? The way he was speaking, she was sure it had to be something along the lines of "You can't rape the Police Girl".
"You can try," she invited haughtily, still high on her own power over him, or what little she thought she had. "But there are worse things that can happen to you other than a few broken ribs." She grinned savagely at him. "Come on and try it. I'm sure it will be fun. I've never ripped a man's genitals off before." She didn't usually act this way; it surprised her. It must have been from his mind invading hers a few moments before.
She was sure that he would take her bait, but to her surprise he gave her a smug grin, his eyes smoldering.
"Seras," he breathed, and she could almost taste the lust in his tone. "You need to be careful," he warned her, backing into the wall. "Otherwise…." Suddenly his phantom hands were on her, one on her chin pushing her back and the other on her breast.
I might have to play rough with you, just to show you what you're asking for. The voice in her head was scathing, but it had an undertone that promised whatever he was planning, he'd find very entertaining. She didn't fight his touch, leaning into it instead.
You never know; I just might like my men rough, she purred back, and he laughed in her ear before vanishing completely, leaving her alone in the supply closet. She shook back her hair, a tremble working its way through her body for the first time.
Before they were separated, she would have never dared to talk to him that way, much less act so… wantonly. But something inside her had changed. Was it because she was getting more in tune with her vampiric side? Or was it because she was finally acknowledging her true feelings for her master? She licked her lips and swallowed, the taste of her blood still heavy in her mouth. She caught sight of her rumpled appearance in the side of a metal shield on the wall.
What's happening to me? What am I getting myself into?
Afterword: A few of the things—well, a lot of the things, actually, in the first part come straight out of Crossfire. Section III John, in that world at least, is in charge of cover-ups and media leaks. Very important when you work for the Vatican, I suppose. Also, the incidents in Palestine and Berlin are from Crossfire as well; they're the first two missions that Heinkel and Yumie go on.
I supposed that the Iscariot office would be one of those places where everyone had cubicles, since they all have their own workload that needs to be taken care of. I'm sure they'd get along, right? I mean, divinely oriented or no, they're still humans and would take the chance to tease their coworkers. As for Andrew—I'm just going on the apostles' names and making up what they would do as I go along.
Also, funny, completely coincidental fact—when I was looking up the proper way to spell Takagi, I found out that Yumie's English VA is named Siobhan. That's ironic! I chose Siobhan's name from one of my original works; I had no idea there was an actual Siobhan tie to Hellsing! (OwO)
Also (also), there are rules for mistletoe. I had no idea. I knew that you were supposed to kiss someone or else you'd never get a chance to marry, but apparently you also can only kiss the girl on the cheek if you're doing it properly, and then you take off one of the berries. Go fig.