The ballroom was truly a sight to behold. Stepping into it was like stepping from Earth into a small slice of Heaven. Completely white and gold, it had the illusion of being much larger than it really was. And now, decorated for Christmas, it was even more beautiful.
The ceiling was a very large fresco of a sky, with pale white clouds populated by angels, doves, and rays of sunlight. It had been painted in an expert's hand during the days of Van Helsing, and it was meticulously refurbished every year by a company based in Norway that specialized in such things. The floor was white tile etched in a golden color, forming large swirls and flourishes that seamlessly met across the dancing floor.
Mirrors stretched from floor to ceiling on the walls, also etched in gold and surrounded by pearly-white paneling. Between the mirrors, large sconces made to hold either electric light or candlelight were hung, gilded in gold and silver. There was a platformed area for an orchestra, cut off from the main floor by a gilded banister with rails fashioned from the Baroque period. They matched the fashion of the rafter beams, adding a sense of unity to the entire room.
To all this, a part of the dancing floor had been reserved for a dining area. Cook, with the soldiers' help, had taken a long oaken dining table from the canteen and placed it long-ways in the room. To make the table match she had outfitted it with a long white tablecloth, and candelabra were placed at intervals in the center. Each chair also had a white covering and each place was set with crystal and the finest china in the manor.
Each sconce had a decorative strand of ivy wrapped up in its ornate base, and white and gold poinsettias were weaved in with the bright green leaves. The centerpieces on the dining table were white and gold poinsettias too, lined with holly berries and ivy around the base of the crystal vases. The large chandeliers suspended from the ceiling also had been laced with holly, making a small border above their crystalline lights.
The normal velvet blue couches, supplied for guests to recline on, had been taken out of the ballroom. In their stead, golden settees with pale silken cushions had been brought. They were much more ornate, and fit the Christmas theme better. The entire room looked as though it came from a 1800s manor house, or an ancient castle fantasy come to life. It was beyond stunning, and the only thing missing were the guests.
When Anderson first stepped foot inside of it, he didn't know what to make of it all. It was far fancier than he was used to. Not that he didn't like it; it was very picturesque. He walked slowly to the middle of the room, gazing around at the décor with a sense of puzzled awe. He'd never really seen anything like it. The Vatican had its own style of ornamentation, and this… wasn't it. And he had never imagined such things like this existed as a child. Back then, a townhouse in the village with two floors and an indoor lavatory was the poshest thing he could think of.
He quietly watched the orchestra, which had arrived only an hour or so ago. They were setting up their instruments, tuning them while the conductor ran around helping everyone get their things together. Walter came in through a side door, dressed up in a very fine suit himself. He made his way over to Anderson and looked him over once before nodding in approval.
"Well, it's finally good to see all our hard work paying off," he said happily, glancing at the orchestra before looking around the decorated ballroom. "I'm glad it was able to warm up in here," he added conversationally. "Usually we keep large rooms like this shut off and they get so drafty. It's not a big deal in the summer, when we can open those." He motioned towards the French doors on the other side of the ballroom, which were shut up and covered in a filmy curtain to divert the winter air from coming in.
"Aye," he replied vaguely, resisting the urge to scratch his head. That stupid gel was getting on his nerves already. Next time, he'd just stand up so that the little woman couldn't reach his hair and he'd just comb it through one good time. It might look better this way, but he was always going to choose comfort over style.
"Well, I think I'll go and check in on Cook before I head to the front doors." Walter turned and left, heading for the kitchens. His job during the first part of the night would be to greet the guests and take their coats, with the help of the soldiers he'd "recruited" to lend a hand. As the head servant in the household, he took this job very seriously. He paused, turning back to address Anderson again.
"Sir Integra should be in here in a moment. She'll be the one to insist on any last minute changes before the guests begin to arrive." Walter looked thoughtful. "Have you seen her yet?" Anderson shook his head wordlessly and Walter flashed him an astute grin. "I think you'll find her very changed. She hardly dresses up so. It's rather refreshing, actually." And with those cryptic words, he was gone.
Anderson watched him leave, the corners of his mouth turning down the slightest bit. He turned back and looked at his reflection in one of the wall mirrors. A very large man stared back at him, looking out of place in a suit and tie, with neat hair in an empty ballroom. He looked very changed, too.
He chuckled, rubbing his chin. So they both had to dress up in what could only be called a disguise. This suit wasn't him, and a dress wasn't her. But for social pressure, they'd bend and consent to it. Something about it seemed off; it seemed unnatural. It wasn't their natures to be deceptive. But in order to be considered "proper", they had to deceive.
Rapid footfalls alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone anymore and he straightened his tie again with a grim feeling of resignation. The closer this event came, the more his stomach churned. He wasn't uneasy, but he was… apprehensive, was the closest term. He kept picturing all the things that could go wrong with this, and what it would mean. Not for him directly, but for Integra. And he knew that he would never hear the end of it if something happened that he could have prevented.
Someone turned the corner and entered the ballroom and made their way towards the orchestra, toying with their hairstyle. He didn't even recognize Integra until she looked up and he saw her face, and the distinguishing glasses. She stopped, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, as if he hadn't sat across from her at breakfast just that morning.
He realized now that his tie was supposed to match her dress, with the silver and blue stripes. Her dress was the same shade of blue, bright and with silver edges, a whirling design running up the waist to the bust line and over the wide shoulder strap that held the fabric up on her torso. It was—there was a word for it, but he couldn't recall the name of it—it was like a toga, a… a Grecian style, that was it.
It flowed around her, fashionable and yet plain enough that it fit her. Her hair was a simple chignon that had silver ribbons weaved into it, and her earrings were diamond and barely hung off her ears. The tailor's assistant had given her a fragile look with the makeup, almost like a china doll or a Roman statue. Pale silver highlights on her eyes and even her lipstick was a lighter shade, although it did darken her lips enough to be noticeable. She wasn't wearing any gloves, and the only jewelry beside her earrings was her wedding ring.
His first thought was that he didn't know what to think. If he'd thought his mind was warring over what to do beforehand, he was very mistaken. That was a friendly sparring compared to the firefight between his emotions now. He was split in three ways, at the very least. Part of him wanted to throw his jacket over her shoulders and tell her that it was indecent to be walking around showing that much of her body, even if it was covered. Another part was nudging him to stop staring and tell her that she looked nice. The third part—well, that part was telling him to drag her upstairs and do things that would make them both sore and late to their own party; things that a priest most definitely shouldn't know how to do.
He settled with clearing his throat and nodding to her before looking away, his hands clasped behind his back. He hoped that he looked like he was happy with her dress and very interested in the décor. In reality, he was doing everything possible to hold himself back. He felt her eyes on him and warranted that she was waiting on him to say something, so he wracked his mind for anything that didn't involve her and him and the bedroom wall.
"The butler said tha' this room gets drafty." Wait, what? Of all the things he could have said; he bit the inside of his cheek and suppressed a sigh. "But—it's warm in here now." That was probably because his entire upper body felt like it was on fire.
"Yes, it's… warm." Her voice was strained, and he looked over without thinking to see that she looked nearly frantic. He turned around fully, his uneasiness washing out under a wave of concern. She was really taking this gala to heart. "I'll have Walter turn down the heat. If Lady Katherine gets too—"
"If she gets too hot, let her go outside," he replied in his best "calming down" voice, wavering a moment before patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. "Dinnae worry about this Lady Katherine." She shook her head, her fingers tapping the side of her thigh. He recognized the pattern—she wanted to go and smoke. "Have a cigar," he said firmly, wondering how he got in a position to tell his own wife it was alright to go and ruin her lung. "You have time."
"No, she'll call me out on the smell," Integra growled bitterly. "I told her I would consider cutting back on the tobacco." He arched one brow imperiously.
"But her husband knows ye smoke," he said quietly.
"What Sir Penwood chooses to tell his wife is not my issue," Integra replied curtly. "Besides, you don't know her; you have no idea how she can wear you down." He watched her, and when he didn't reply she looked up at him.
"What hold does this woman have on ye? Why her, of all the people in the world…" he broke off, trying to see the answer in her expression. "Ye dinnae even hesitate to argue with me about everything under the sun," he held up a hand as she raised her voice to protest, "but this woman—ye'll hide an addiction from her, dress up for her, and what all."
"It's not like that," she hissed, her eyes narrowing. "It's—it's… " she stopped, shaking her head firmly. "I don't have to explain anything to you." Her fingers tapped her thigh harder; her eyes were cold steel.
"No, ye don't," he growled back. "But it'd be easier for me if ye did."
"Easier for you," she scoffed, looking away.
"Aye!" His voice echoed in the ballroom and the conductor stopped, turning around to see what was going on. The orchestra peered over their instruments, eyes gazing curiously at them. He breathed deeply and caught her arm as she turned to leave, trying to stay calm. "How can I understand if ye never say anything on it?"
"I don't care about you understanding, or not understanding," she snapped, trying to yank her arm away from him. "I can deal with you tomorrow! Tonight, I have to deal with them!"
"The Penwoods?" She gave her arm a mighty tug, tripping over the train of her dress and nearly falling.
"No!" she shrieked, and the orchestra stopped again. She gave them such an evil glare that the conductor started in alarm and turned back to his ensemble, giving them anxious, furtive glances out of the corner of his eye. "Lady Katherine, and Sir Irons, and all the others who've ran my life from the time I became heiress!" He stared at her, watching her still try to loosen his iron hold.
"I don't understand—" he began, but she cut him off before he could finish his thought.
"I don't expect you to understand! How could you understand?! You have no idea what it's like to have every move you make scrutinized and stripped apart, to have no say for yourself, to have to live every day with the thought that if you even breathe the wrong way, you'll be booted out because you're not fit enough, all because you're female!" She took a deep breath, finally shocking him enough that he let go and she rubbed her arm, stumbling back a step. Her anger and frustration bubbled up and she couldn't hold it in.
"And if that's not enough, you have a nosy old aristocrat breathing down your back, declaring that you should wear dresses and god-awful corsets, and do your hair every week and get your toenails painted red; and even if you have an army that you have to fight to make them respect you, it's not enough! It's never enough for her, and—it makes me hate her sometimes!" She shouted. "That's what it is! How can you understand that?"
Anderson was quiet, staring over her head with a strange expression before looking back at her with a mix of sympathy and warmth that made her feel bad for shouting at him, even while she felt good for yelling in his face. A tiny part of her knew that he was only trying to make it as easy as possible for them both to coexist together, but she really didn't care. He didn't comprehend her actions, and she knew he never would, fully.
Someone cleared his throat behind her and she turned to see the worst possible thing—of course, this gala hadn't even started, and was already far from being a success in her books. She straightened up, staring straight ahead at the couple standing across from her: the sweating, portly man who was mopping his brow and inching away from his wife very slowly, as if she were a bombshell that hadn't detonated, and a woman about her own height and twice her girth in a beautiful lilac dress, gloved hand clenching a fan and hazel eyes glaring haughtily into her own as her face turned a dark scarlet.
"So," she said at length. "This is what she calls gratitude." Sir Penwood looked between his wife and his coworker, who seemed unsure whether to face up to the woman she just claimed to hate, or hide behind her husband. Paladin Anderson's expression bordered dread, presumably at what was clearly about to happen between the two women.
"Lady Katherine," Integra started as civilly as she could muster. The woman snapped her fan shut, bringing it down in one hand the way the nuns at the orphanage did with their "discipline" rulers before brandishing it at the younger noble.
"Don't deny you've said it!" she yelled, waving her fan about, feathers flying. "I heard every word! I was standing right here! Don't deny it; you weren't lying!"
"I wasn't," Integra agreed, her tone icy and even. "I meant every word I said." Anderson wasn't sure if this was 100% true, but he wasn't stepping into the tiger's den now. He was too busy trying to figure out a way to salvage this situation.
"After all I've done for you," she snarled in reply. "After all I've sacrificed for you; I've treated you like my own daughter—"
"All the more reason to thank God my father raised me," Integra cut in, her own face a mask of unbridled anger. Lady Kathrine gasped audibly, hurt evident across her features. "I'd never have been a good leader if you'd raised me. You're too focused on materialistic gain to care about the important things."
"I-important things?!" Lady Katherine screeched. "That's only unimportant to you! Looking presentable and acting a lady is very important in this world, young lady!"
"That's the kind of person you want me to be?" Integra shouted back, looking rather affronted. "What would looking and acting like a lady possibly do for me? Will it make me more commanding person?"
"It would make you a better person!" the woman exploded, causing her husband to literally jump in the air as she threw her fan on the ground. "A kinder person, a gentler person! Not what I see before me!"
"Pray tell, what do you see before you? I've done everything you asked me to." The older woman's shoulders squared and she stepped forward threateningly, thought Integra stood her ground.
"I should have known you'd manage to mess this up for me," Lady Katherine spat, her voice low as she advanced. "Stubborn, impudent, cheeky, difficult, willful-minded, with a complete lack of respect for your elders, bringing your family disgrace with your mannerisms and your temper! Your father would be shocked to see you behaving this way to me, Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing! You are acting like a spoiled brat!"
Silence reigned. The conductor and orchestra had booked it a while back, scurrying out of the room with the muttered excuses while the elder noblewoman rattled off her list. Sir Penwood was gasping for breath, his hands raised imploringly, kerchief still in hand. Walter had appeared in the doorway, but on seeing what was going on he'd gone back into the shadows, watching nervously. He, like the other nobleman, didn't dare step over to get a word in edgewise.
Anderson felt a rush of anger towards the woman. How dare anyone yell at his wife like that! This woman claimed to be of a graceful lineage, of acting the part of a lady, but here she was getting just as loud and temperamental! He didn't care much for hypocrites, and only his complete lack of aristocratic background and inner fortitude that life in the priesthood gave him stopped him from dragging Integra out of the line of fire and giving this loudmouthed Lady a good talking-to.
"Is that all you have to say to me?" Integra was the one to break the silence, her voice a mere whisper. He saw her hands shaking at her sides and knew that she was near her breaking point. She was going to fly at the woman, or… a lesser woman would burst into tears in front of everyone, but he knew that she wouldn't. Not where all could see.
"No, it's not," Lady Katherine replied shortly, her ample chest heaving. "But it's all you can handle at the moment." She stared at her fan before turning away. "It's too hot in here," she said loudly, her voice cracking. "I'm going out to take in the air." Her last words ended on a sob and she quickly walked out the way she'd come in.
"Kitty," Sir Penwood said weakly, raising a hand and making as if to follow her before faltering, bending down to pick up the fan and staring at it with a sad expression. Anderson felt a breeze beside him and turned to see that Integra had left as well, the edge of her dress turning the corner as she went into the mansion. He looked back at Sir Penwood, who was eyeing him with a mixture of disdain and confusion.
"Well." He swallowed hard, grimacing. "Could it have gone worse?" Sir Penwood rubbed his temple with one hand and wiped the sweat off his mustache.
"I shouldn't be surprised," he said at last. "They were long overdue for one of these rows. I told her that we shouldn't have arrived so early, but… well, what's done is done."
"Aye," Anderson agreed thoughtfully. "What should be done?" Walter appeared at the door, his feathers ruffled.
"Lady Katherine has retired to the gardens, Sir Penwood." He looked gravely over his shoulder. "As for Sir Integra, I'm not sure where she's ran off to. Oh dear…" He tore off one glove and began to wring it in his hands, looking put-upon and tired. "I'm afraid this evening is nearly over before it started." The three men stood in silence, before Walter turned away. "I believe I'll go inform Alucard and Miss Seras of the situation," he announced; as if the vampires needed to know, or even cared.
"I'll go find Kitty," Sir Penwood volunteered, giving Anderson a baleful glance. "You can deal with her." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the manor's interior, looking hopeful that the paladin might be shot in a fit of rage or something before wandering out into the night, his jacket slung over his shoulder as sweat continued to bead on his forehead.
Anderson stood alone, thinking hard on where she might have gone. He walked slowly up the stairs, his hands in his pockets as he started with her office, suppressing a groan. He half-heartedly thought that it might have been better to find another mission, this time one in a place far away.
It was summer right now in the Southern Hemisphere. Antarctica might be nice.
"Poor Sir Integra," Seras murmured sympathetically, casting a scorching glare at Alucard, who was sitting in his chair and beside himself with wild laughter. She had heard the muffled yelling from upstairs, and had hurried to her master's chambers to hear the news (when he was in a good mood, his bond with Sir Integra was a good grapevine to spy through and he'd tell her the happenings upstairs).
He'd let her in and she saw none of his earlier… strange behavior. However, as she'd told him about what she'd heard, she'd noticed that his eyes had hardly strayed from her no matter where in the room she'd moved.
However, before he could tell her what was going on Walter had come hurrying in with news that the gala, although a full hour away from officially starting, might not be happening at all! Sir Integra had lost her temper and gotten into a tiff with the mysterious Lady Katherine, who had been the louder, more pronounced voice that Seras had heard from her position in the upper basement.
"So her ladyship's feelings were hurt, and then her pride was hurt, and now they've both gone and said far too much." Walter was clearly very worried, and kept glancing to the ceiling as though he could hear them still. Alucard was no help at all, finding the situation sidesplittingly funny, so Seras felt that it fell to her to help him.
"Don't worry, Walter," she said, wrapping him in a comforting hug. She came at him from the side and her arms overlapped around his thin waist, squeezing him as gently as she could while she laid her head on his chest and heard the quickening thu-doon, thu-doon of his heart against her ear. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of hearing a heartbeat up close, sniffing the dust-and-herb smell of his good suit and cozying up to his warmth.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, but at the same time he shivered and she reluctantly pulled away, knowing that her lack of body heat made her feel very cold to humans and didn't help with the chilled basement air all around them already. She opened her eyes and tucked a stray curl back behind her ear. Alucard had stopped laughing; instead he was staring at them with an expression she couldn't place. It wasn't anger; it was almost… envious. She stared blankly at him and he looked away, tilting his head.
"She's shooting something," he said, a trace of glee still in his voice. "Or someone." Walter frowned reproachfully and murmured about the vampire's "complete lack of tact". Seras shook her head, wondering why the butler had thought better of her master. He didn't care if Sir Integra was unhappy. It didn't affect him adversely, so it was beyond his notice—save the humor that it induced.
"Are you going to go and find her, Walter?" Seras still kept an air of calm, but inside her mind she was becoming concerned herself. "I mean, all these guests will arrive soon, and they can't be there without their host." Walter shook his head.
"Paladin Anderson has gone to collect her, I believe," he responded. At the sound of the name, Seras paled slightly, and Alucard snarled and ran a hand over his face, his other fist crashing against the arm of the chair. Walter wondered if the two vampires would ever get used to having a vampire hunter living over their heads. Seras maybe, but not Alucard. He and Anderson went as well together as a werewolf and a silver bullet.
"I-I hope it's not him she's shooting," Seras joked, trying to smile and keep a cheerful tone. Alucard snorted and her smile faltered, glancing quickly at him for some sort of confirmation. He shrugged and she hugged herself, rocking on her heels. Walter smiled at her, grateful that she was trying to diffuse the situation, even if it wasn't working.
"I just thought I'd keep you posted. Would you like some more to drink while we wait?" They both shook their head and with an uncertain bow Walter left. Seras watched him leave, absently tugging at her extensions. Alucard didn't move from his chair, but he laced his fingers and rested his head on them musingly.
"Do you think it'll be alright?" Seras asked, walking back around to stand beside his chair. "Do you think they'll go on with the gala?"
"Oh, they'll go on with it," he replied slowly. "But what happens afterwards will be… interesting, to say the least." Seras bit her finger as she considered what he might mean. Finally she crossed her arms with a huff and he patted his thigh invitingly. She looked for a better option, but found none.
"No tricks," she warned and settled herself on the edge of his lap, her skirts billowing up around her. He kept his fingers laced and they sat in silence, waiting patiently for whatever would unfold.
Sir Penwood was in deep, deep trouble. Not for anything he'd done more or less, but because his wife and the Round Table's only female Knight were once again at odds. It was hard to keep them in the same room as it was, but even he had been shocked at what had happened in the ornate ballroom.
They'd let themselves into the room, and had happened upon the lady of the house and her disastrous choice of a husband in the middle of a marital spat. That in itself wouldn't have been bad, if she hadn't been ranting about his wife, and plainly said "it makes me hate her sometimes".
Penwood knew that Sir Integra hadn't meant it; at least, not the way his Kitty had taken it. She'd only meant the same thing that everyone who knew the woman—yes, even himself—had thought to themselves at some point or another. His wife had certain tendencies to be annoying and overbearing; and when dealing with them, those tendencies caused feelings of overwhelming frustration and near resentment that often did feel like at that moment, you hated her. Of course, the feeling soon passed and no one truly hated Katherine Penwood. They just hated her pigheaded nature.
Walking in the twilight, he found his wife not too far from the main gates, kicking at frosted shrubbery and crying her heart out. He observed her for a few moments, making sure that her current state wouldn't be in position to cause any bodily harm to his person. She'd punched him before, hard enough to floor him at times. It wasn't the most fun a man could have, and he didn't want to deal with a black eye right now on top of everything else.
Finally he crunched through the snow and wrapped her in a tight embrace before she could protest; feeling how the cold air on her bare shoulders had already left an impact. She struggled wildly before realizing who had "caught" her and then she was burying her face in his neck, her body racked with sobs.
"There now, my darling, my love," he murmured, patting her back and stroking her hair. "Don't get yourself all worked up; it'll be alright, you'll see." He knew from experience that he had to calm her down before she would see reason. She had gotten too overemotional and now she'd gone and made herself weepy. It reminded him of those stressful months during her pregnancy, when she'd fly off the handle and dissolve into tears at least once a week.
"She hates me!" she wailed, her voice thankfully muffled by the coat still slung across his shoulder. He laid his chin on her head, rocking her in a soothing motion while trying to actually hold them both up at once—a feat he was surprised to find was still easy for him, even in his older age.
"She doesn't hate you, and you both know it," he contradicted gently. "She's only mad, and you are too. You've hurt each other's feelings." He pulled her off of him, grabbing his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders, tucking her arms under the sides like he used to do for her when they went to plays and assemblies during their courtship-filled youth. She sniffled and he grabbed his sweaty handkerchief by mistake, offering it to her.
"That's disgusting, Shelby," she murmured and he stuffed it back into his trouser pocket with a blush before pulling out the clean one on the other side. She accepted it and dotted the corners of her eyelids before blowing her nose as daintily as she could. "Am I really that awful to her?" she asked hesitantly, giving him a doe-eyed expression.
"I think—" he started, wringing his hands, "I think life is very stressful for her, sometimes. Perhaps even more stressful than it would have been if she were a boy. There's no denying that there's a glass-ceiling, and she's managed to put herself in a position that is awkward for the men who still believe that women have no place in politics."
"But am I too hard on her?"
"No, I don't think that's it," he answered sincerely. "I think that perhaps she doesn't understand that you do care about her, no matter what she wears." Lady Katherine looked astonished.
"She does understand!" she replied, shocked. "She should know that I love her as dearly as if she were my own daughter! It doesn't matter that she walks around like a colonel in her own home, as long as she acts ladylike around others! I don't care what she does at home at all."
"Yes, you do," he protested weakly. "Or at least, you make it seem as though you care a great deal."
"Do I?" she inquired dubiously. "I don't think I do."
"Well, we'll speak more on it later, Kitty dear." He patted her hand and she wrapped herself around him once more, kissing the underside of his jaw. He suddenly felt quite warm despite the snow and found himself smiling like a fool, happy that it was just the two of them outside so that no one else could see. "Now, now," he sputtered as she moved up towards his ear, tickling his neck. "We're not at home, you know. Save it!" he yelped, rubbing his jaw and pushing her off of him.
"My dearest," she sniffed, wiping the last of her tears away. "Always making me feel better." She hiccupped. "But," she continued, looking back at the manor, "I'm not finished with her yet. I won't say anything tonight…." she trailed off, her frown becoming more pronounced. "What a disrespectful thing she is sometimes."
"Yes, she most certainly is," Sir Penwood agreed. "Come now, let's go back. You'll catch cold in this snow, unless you come inside and warm up." He led her back in the direction of the manor, his wife uncharacteristically quiet. He basked in the moment. But, like all things, it met its end as they neared the front doors, lights spilling out and making the snow glitter.
"That man she was with. The tall blonde. Is that—?" Sir Penwood coughed loudly, his mustache bristling.
"That's her husband," he all but snarled. "A verifiable brute. He cost me a fortune, paying off those debts!" Lady Penwood lapsed back into thoughtful silence, which made her husband wonder. It wasn't often that she thought hard enough about things that she didn't speak while thinking about them. Finally she gave a solemn nod.
"Yes, that's the only type of man I could ever see her with. And you said she chose poorly, Shelby. Pish-posh!" She waved her gloved hand, upsetting the coat on her shoulders. "I think he's a fine man."
"Fine?! Fine!?" Sir Penwood sputtered. "You haven't said a single word to him! You have no idea of his character to call him fine!"
"Where is he now?" she asked as he helped her up the stairs and through the front door. Walter met them and asked if they'd like to warm up in the kitchen while waiting for Sir Integra and they agreed.
"He's gone off to find her, I presume," Sir Penwood replied as he tucked her arm more firmly around his, following the butler to the kitchen. Lady Penwood smiled and nodded again.
"See? There you go." He didn't have the heart to argue with her, so he sighed and let her be. It earned him another quick kiss before she let go of him to stand next to the fire and talk to Walter about "old times", and he couldn't find it within himself to complain too much as he sat at a table and sagged into the chair, trying to relax his tense shoulder muscles.
After all, it could always be worse.
Bangbangbang!
As fast as her pistol would reload, she shot the target. It didn't matter that she was in a gown and the noise-cancelling earphones didn't fit quiet as well on her head with her hairstyle in the way. It only mattered that she was angry beyond belief, and this was the next best thing to shooting the good lady herself.
The target was ripped to shreds by her expert aim, the head and stomach being torn apart and leaving behind only a paper torso fluttering to the ground. Even as satisfying as it was, it wasn't enough for her and she ripped off the earphones angrily, slamming them on the counter in front of her and the gun beside it. She wanted to run her hands through her bangs, but they were tucked up in her hair at the moment and she felt helpless, her hands unable to do anything.
"Feel better?" She spun around, shocked, and saw Anderson sitting on the stairs. He stood up when she noticed him and stepped into the room proper, his hands behind his back.
"No," she snapped, stomping over to the ammo closet and grabbing more bullets. "I don't." He took the box from her and sat it beside the gun, tugging her over to the stairs and making her sit down. She tried to stand back up, but he pushed her back and then sat beside her. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring silently at the felled paper target as she fumed beside him, her agitation increasing with each minute he made her stay.
"I think I understand a wee bit now; why ye strive so hard for this woman. She can be downright hurtful, I see." Integra sniffed, wiping the edge of her mouth. This stupid lip gloss, or lipstick or whatever it was—it drove her to distraction, and with her present state she wanted to march upstairs and just wash it all off.
"I'm not hurt," she scowled. "She can think whatever she wants about me. I don't care; I never cared for anyone's good opinion. I do what I have to in order to protect my men and my country. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Ye do care," he argued, voice soft. "Otherwise ye wouldnae have tears."
"I didn't cry!" she shouted contemptuously, glaring daggers at him. He was silent, but reached out and barely rubbed the edge of her face gently with his thumb, his glove cool against her skin. It came back tinged with black and she stared at it in confusion. Then she realized that her mascara was smudged, and rubbed the edge of her eye with her own fingers, trying to wipe it away correctly.
Alright, so maybe she had blinked back a few tears, but it was only because the noblewoman's words and made her utterly furious! They had stung, and they were all completely unfounded! After all she did to try and bend to Lady Katherine's demands in order to keep the peace, after all she did for Hellsing and her countrymen, and then to be shouted at and degraded like her work was nothing? It had been too much to bear!
She stopped the futile rubbing and sat miserably on the step, wanting nothing more than to just crawl into bed and hide her face in her pillows for the next thousand years. She felt frustrated; she had never really cared about Lady Katherine's approval. It was just easier to try and keep the woman off her back. But how could she do that, and still keep her authority at the Round Table? She couldn't seem to find a way to do both; it was either one or the other. And each seemed to be equally important in its own right.
He removed her glasses and began to wipe under her eyes for her, staining his gloves with streaks of black as his fingers drifted over her face. She closed her eyes as he worked, holding still as the lump that had been stuck in her throat slowly loosened and worked its way back down. She had the sudden urge to bury herself in his arms and tell him to go and scare away all her guests so that she didn't have to deal with them.
But that was unrealistic, and instead she let him put her glasses back on once he was done and graced him with a small appreciative smile, thought her expression still showed how upset she was. They sat in silence for a few long moments, just staring at each other, before he looked upstairs.
"I think ye'll have to go back soon. It cannae be long before the others start comin' in."
"Do I have to?" she asked, rubbing her temples with a suppressed groan.
"I believe at some point, it will be necessary," he joked, standing up and offering her his hand. "Come on." She paused, looking uncertain. "Come on." He jerked his head. "If she starts to yell at ye again, just leave it to me." She let him pull her up at that, glaring at him.
"I wouldn't dare. She'd try to find an ally in you, and if she started using you to get to me, I'd have to have you both killed."