Eyes stood in the doorway, glowing a murderous red, black hair floating and shifting above it, the silver gleam of the oversized gun in a white glove below, and it was...terrifying. He didn't want to FIGHT the vampire, and that horribly threatening aura pushed him right into PREY and every instinct screamed to run, to hide, to escape. So, he did something he never, ever thought he'd do to a vampire. He apologized.
"I'm sorry." And he truly was. It was easier to say than he'd expected. A moment of silence from the deadly apparation by the door, and then the eyes narrowed, and a gleaming black boot took a step into the dim light of the room, followed by a second. Alucard stood, staring at him, the eyes still glowing but not so enraged, the white face visible as a pale silver, and, well, at least the vampire wasn't snarling at him.
"I...was...misinformed and unwilling to admit I was wrong, too eager to fight to think." Folding the book closed, he set it back on the table with a hand that trembled. Damn adrenaline. "And...I...my behavior was unacceptable. Your home is damaged and I've intruded, I've angered you, and...I have learned, finally, that the problem did not lie with Hellsing." A slight smile, a resigned sort of smirk, pulled his lips for a moment as he continued to stare down at the book. "You are still an undead bastard, that hasn't changed, but my mistake was in the stupid, insistent belief that you were nothing more than that. I...have questions. A lot of them. And I understand that you are under no obligation to answer them. I have invaded your privacy, at the least. Forced myself in where I was not wanted and had no right to be. I...pride is a sin, and I was blinded by it, pride and wrath." He paused, not sure where to go from there, and the sound of the vampire taking a few heavy, solid steps into the room pulled his eyes up.
The vampire walked into the room, tightly coiled violence and the promise of death, watching him closely for a few more breaths. Then? Alexander would never, ever have believed it...but...the gun disappeared into the long red coat, the eyes slowly settled to their more normal, deadly, steady red, and Alucard simply watched him for a few moments more before speaking.
"A son of Abraham, apologizing. Wonders never cease, do they?" And no sarcasm, either, no underlying bite. Alucard meant that? And it confirmed the last little doubts he'd had.
"Aye. Took me quite some time, too, didn't it?" Alexander moved to pick back up the book he'd placed on the table, extending it out to the vampire, a bit hesitant but becoming more confident as the vampire seemed ready to listen rather than attack. "I did take a bit of time today trying to make up for what I've done. Consider it a bribe, if you would...but...I found some books I thought you might like." Bemused, the vampire reached out to take the book, red eyes glancing down at the cover before widening in nearly concealed surprise.
"Poe, even?" A gloved finger traced down the spine of the book. "The Mask of the Red Death is a favorite. And this...I would consider it a suitable bribe."
-v-v-
Alucard blinked. It was indeed! An old book, with the scent of aged paper and the heavy solid spine of a text meant to last for ages. He'd borrowed the few Poe books the library held off and on over the years, but it was always BORROWING them. They weren't grudged to him, but they weren't HIS, either. Even the art books from Arthur, purported to be a gift, were expected to be in the library, the paints and supplies in the art room, available for the use of anyone else. Other than the guns and a few incidentals over the years, he hadn't really had anything that was truly "his" until Integra had gifted him with all the art supplies he could want with the understanding that they were, indeed, HIS, and off-limits to anyone else. Well, he had his coffin, but it wasn't given to him, he was merely "allowed" to keep it and access it. Abraham had made that quite clear.
And, it had been a shock, enraging, to see Anderson there, in HIS room, looking so, so much like Abraham. And then he'd apologized and shown that the man was in no way Abraham, despite his mind constantly trying to tell him that this WAS Abraham, see how he smelled, how he moved, the tone of voice? And then, finally...Anderson had handed him a BOOK?
Abraham would never even have considered that the vampire wanted to read. Would never have cared if he had learned this, would absolutely, certainly, undoubtedly NEVER have taken the time to find him an appropriate text that he would ENJOY (or thought that such a thing existed!) and gift it to him! It was...dizzying. And there was another book? Bemused, he reached out to take this, too, from Abraham's - no, ANDERSON'S - hand.
Yes. And on a great general in Great War, too. Small text, condensed and rich in thought, not a simple book for a simple mind or entertainment, but a book meant for serious thought and serious study. And no flimsy paperback, this, but dense and solid and quality book, too. This...why? Why all this?
-v-v-
He'd just wanted to speak with the vampire, hoped his apology would soothe it enough to get an answer or two...he hadn't meant to stun it. Those white-clothed fingers ran over the embossed covers and down the spine, flipped through the book, slowly reached out to accept the second book, opened it up, and stopped and stared unseeing at a single page as the seconds ticked by. He'd thought that the vampire would like the books, perhaps they'd take the edge of the anger, but he hadn't even begun to expect how stunned Alucard was. It was almost unnerving, how silent the creature was, the dazed look he had.
"I also found these." Alexander indicated the guns, both leaning against the chair. "These are Lee Enfields. I don't know if they work, but they were too fine to leave to decay in the elements, and I thought you might appreciate them." He didn't miss the vampire's arm moving the clasp the books tightly to his chest, and then a few silent steps and he stared down at the guns. A finger reached out to trace carefully across the end of the barrel, swooping slowly around it and coming to rest on the rifle sight.
"You thought right." Far quieter than such a powerful vampire should ever sound. Detached, distracted, the red eyes simply stared unblinking at the guns, and Anderson wondered what thoughts were going through the mind behind him. A week ago he'd have said the vampire was thinking about the carnage they'd cause, but now? He didn't even want to hazard a guess.
"I...I'm sorry about your brushes. I am no artist but I can tell that they were damaged, and that was due to my interruption. These...I don't know if they are what you would use, but, they seemed like good brushes." He slid the box off the the table, the quiet rasp the only sound as he then held it out to the vampire. Alucard stared for a moment, then tucked the books under an arm, reaching out to take the box and flip it open. Anderson didn't miss the suddenly avaricious look that flickered across the previously emotionless face. A brush was lifted, inspected, and then the vampire turned towards him.
"I will be back. Please make yourself comfortable." And then he vanished, sinking through the floor, hand reaching out to snag both the guns and pull them down with him. Alexander watched him go, felt the air of "vampire" vanish, and his knees nearly buckled with relief. Thankfully, the chair was nearby, and he sat in it with his head leaning back, taking the time to put together what had happened and how he had NOT been attacked, or shouted at, or threatened, or...anything at all.
-v-v-
Alucard curled into his throne, keening slightly to himself, and shaking. It wasn't Abraham who had done this, but it FELT like Abraham, and his emotions were in turmoil. The paladin had not only accepted that he might have more interests than blood and death...but had deduced what those were, and supported them, approved, provided him with items to pursue those interests. What had happened to make Abraham finally see that he was more than a tool? He WAS more than a simply mindless tool, he WAS, and to have that sudden verification was just...shattering...in a pleasant but entirely overwhelming way.
Relief, that was...relief. He was feeling relief. Acknowledgment. Worth. Value. The little dreams he'd had, of being recognized by the first human he'd ever respected as something more than a simple, loathesome killing machine, the belief he'd begun to incorporate into his own self-image as it went on and on and on and the only person whose respect he craved had nothing but disgust for him...they were fulfilled. Nearly a century after the death of Master, and not by Master, but by someone who was so similar, another human who'd won his respect and shown himself worthy, but...it had happened. And he'd never expected it, never realized how fundamentally it would shake him, not known how badly it had hurt before, not really, until it was gone.
And so he shook with emotions, a century of bottled-up self-loathing and despair and the bottle had SHATTERED and they were spilling everywhere. And so he curled up, in the place where he felt safe, sheltered, secure, and gave quiet voice to the emotions that were tearing apart what he thought he was, and helping create a new view of himself. At least he'd gotten out of earshot first, was not embarrassing himself in front of the paladin! He'd managed to keep his voice steady as he made his departure, but not a moment too soon, or he'd not have been able to speak. He really, really wanted his Master, but one was long dead and the other was injured and wouldn't understand though she'd come closest of all.
Time passed, and the shudders eased, and his shoulders relaxed, and his fingers loosened their grip on his knees. The guns...those lovely, elegant, simple, and oh-so-effective weapons, one of the finest examples of their kind, he needed to see them, to hold them. They were as he remembered, made solidly, indestructible to the clumsiest of recruits and useful to the most talented, and thus used almost unchanged for half a century by the British. Oh, there were finer guns, guns more elegant and complex and accurate and powerful, but this...this was a gun that was exactly as it was meant to be. No more, no less, refined and perfected and respected. Nothing ostentatious about them, nothing overbuilt or over-designed, like a simple unembellished broadsword with perfect balance and a wickedly sharp blade. He'd likely never fire them, but he didn't need to do so to appreciate them. He'd fired a thousand of them before, along on the shooting range or grabbing one off the battlefield in WW2 for a bit of nostalgic fun. Fingers skimmed across the barrel, coiled around the grip, rested briefly on the trigger, and a slow smile of delight spread itself across his face, relaxation from the familiar touch of gunmetal and wood slowly permeating him.
These deserved a place of honor, they were HIS, more so than even his great handguns. Not given to him as a tool to use, no expectations, just...a gift. No purpose but his own enjoyment. For now, they'd rest safe atop the bookshelf, out of any risk of damage, and he'd find a suitable case to show them off later.
The books, too. What an unexpected gift. It was reasonble to think he might appreciate a gun, but books? Even vampiric eyes would struggle to make out the text in a pitch-black room and fingers could not detect words like they could each graceful and powerful curve and edge of a gun. With a candle flickering on the candleabrum, he paused, thought...and lit them all up in an excess of light and warm and extravagance that he didn't require but definitely needed.
He was far too rattled to appreciate the Pershing text, but a few minutes of Nevermore and a wander through the tinntabulation of the Bells, a casual stroll through the mournful and lilting Lenore, and he was more settled. A shelf was cleared and the two books placed on with a final touch and a soft smile. He'd grown so accustomed to having nothing, it had been a tremendous shock to have the art supplies and the art room declared HIS from Integra, and that was nothing but the slightest tremor compared to the earthquake of having his greatest rival hand him, HIM, carefully-selected books, guns that were there just for appreciation, and the brushes!
Time to look at the greatest bounty of all. The brushes... from the tiniest brush to make nearly-invisble lines to a rich thick plume, all of them so soft and so carefully pointed and so absolutely perfect. He'd longed for brushes like this, but while Integra did her best, even she didn't see the use in such exquisite brushes just to create paintings that no one else saw. He had an abundance of items, nothing cheap or low-quality, but this? This was the artistic equivalent of the finest of aged wines. He'd never been given the like of sour wine or flat beer, but Integra had assumed that the quality of brushes an art student might use were all that he wanted. And he'd appreciated them, he truly did...but...these were positively decadent, and he couldn't resist swiping one across his lips to feel that fine, soft, intensely rich plume on the delicate skin. Oh, he had DREAMS for these, and spent time with his eyes closed, picturing the thin precise lines and rich blended arcs of color that these could create!
Perhaps he could even finish his rose with them? He'd given up on it, thinking the painting ruined, but...no one saw the back, and that's where the grime was. The front had dried enough that the dust could be delicately brushed away, and he could finish the painting whose image he held in his mind. That final bit of frustration eased, and he found himself melted into his cathedra. He'd picked the chair for the joy of sacrilege initially...but had found it to be perfecty cushioned and proportioned and he had long since merely appreciated it for the appearance and comfort...and now, he really needed that support and pleasant, restful embrace. He was nearly ready to go back and face the paladin, his emotions settled, but it had left him exhausted in a way that few things did, and for now, he would rest.
-v-v-
Anderson sat in the chair, looking at the innocuous bit of floor the vampire had disappeared through, and waited. And waited. And waited. And then, hunger making itself known, he went to the kitchen to thaw and cook something. Alucard had said to "make himself comfortable" and for now, that meant a hot meal.
-v-v-
I've got this story and a few others on AO3 as well as fanfiction. If you like this, a review is appreciated and if you want more writing, I hope you find and enjoy the others too!