She walked toward him. Her long, flowing blonde curls swayed with each step she took. She was the only human and only creature, living or dead, he respected and held in the highest of honor. Her steps were proud and sure. They were still powerful, even after all this time. Alucard could smell her across the room. He singled out her specific scent; old cigars, a subtle yet elegant floral perfume, and blood. The smell of her blood was the sweetest in the entire room.
"Master?" He hissed when she had reached him.
"How dare you interrupt my conversation like that!" she said angrily. Her clenched hand shook.
He ignored her menacing tone and stance.
"May I have this dance?" he held out a black gloved hand for her to take.
Integra's features softened, "You…" Her arms dropped to her sides and she looked at his outstretched hand. This wasn't like him. He had never asked her to dance before, but then again there weren't many opportunities. She gingerly took his hand and he walked her to the middle of the dance floor.
She didn't know he could dance, but that would be silly, him being so old, of course he probably learned somewhere. He placed one hand on her waist and took the other in his own. His hands were as strong and hard as stone, hers felt weak and delicate in his grasp. He led. They moved slow, turning to the music. It had been so many years since she had danced, although it came back to her easily. In fact, it seemed that she was dancing not all out of her own accord. She half wondered if he was doing something within her to help her along. She never learned how to dance like this before. She could have tried to stop him, but something about it was ethereal and magical. The moves were complex; they felt old, very old.
They turned to the music.
"This is beautiful Alucard, what is it?" she asked.
"Tchaikovsky. Sérénade mélancolique."
They were quiet for a few more minutes. Looking around she noticed people cleared the floor where they were dancing. Onlookers gave space for them and they watched silently. Integra was lost in thought when he spoke again, just above a whisper, just loud enough for her to hear, "Moscow, 1876. I was there the first time it was played. An awfully bitterly cold January day, if I remember correctly."
She looked up at his face, his eyes were closed. For a second he seemed almost human, less menacing; his features subtlety changed with the movements he made. She wondered when the last time he had done such a human thing, and had such a human experience.