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I do not own Hellsing.

Trigger warning: this chapter contains nonconsensual content.

Amelia absent-mindedly combed her fingers through her wet hair as she stood under the shower head, watching the steam disappear above the cubicle walls. Her fingers and toes had pruned some time ago, but she hadn't found the will to leave the comfort of the warm water just yet. Her conversation with Doc had occupied her thoughts for the remainder of the day, bringing up new questions that she was afraid to have answered, and adding more importance—and urgency—to her need for an escape plan.

What does progress mean to Millennium? The Captain made is sound like they're all planning to die, but what does that look like? How? How do they die? A sudden ache gripped her chest in spite of the soothing heat. How do you kill monsters? She contemplated the likelihood of someone giving her honest responses to any of these questions and scowled. What about the Captain? If I can convince him that information will help keep me alive… It will keep me alive, now and after all of this is over.

It had been over a week since she last saw the Captain. The second day after their agreement was arranged, she had seen him in the lab with Doc. The physician spoke in a hushed tone, both men crowded at his desk, and when she tried to slip into the restroom, Doc told her to go back to her room and shut the door. Too startled to protest, she had made a hasty retreat.

Their secretive dialogues stirred up unease that was only strengthened by the growing fear that her actions and intentions would be thrown into the light. Information was a weapon, and the Captain had more than enough to use against her if he so chose. Yet nothing happened.

The next day, her silent watchman was gone. She thought it might be like the weeks past: a couple days' absence and then a return without explanation—not that she ever expected one. Most likely he had time off, she figured, but that logic sounded silly in her head, as it would imply Millennium's bosses were humane, considerate.

As the days added up and stretched beyond a week, she felt a new fear arise. What if he didn't return? Who would be there to keep her alive in the end?

Amelia twisted the dial and the water shut off. He'll come back. He must.

Night crept in slowly, savoring her dread before pushing her off the ledge into a nightmare laden sleep, in which she was chased by a pack of dogs snapping and growling at her heels in a downpour, her limbs sinking deeper and deeper into a rising river of muddy debris.

When she woke to her heart racing in her chest, the cushion of heavy blankets and pillows pressing around her, she knew that the dream was not over.

Grey sunlight rolled in through the room's single, arched window, illuminating the wall beside the ornate headboard towering above her but leaving the rest of the room in shadow. A tall, stone ceiling stretched upwards into nowhere, and the walls, equally cold and undecorated, gave the space a tomb-like air, old and quiet. The bed was not her own, was not particularly comfortable, the sheets and blankets a little too coarse and rug-like for her liking, though the pillow she hugged to her side was very squishy. It didn't matter, she supposed, since she had no intention of staying here.

She slid her knees up under the covers, bare feet sinking into the mattress. I'm too vulnerable here. Turning her head towards the open window, she shut her eyes and listened to the breeze. If only the light would shift directly over the bed, lay atop her as heavily as the blankets. I would like that.

She cracked her eyelids open and shifted her arms and legs. The meagre stroke of sunlight lay higher along the wall than she remembered, and the blankets and a couple of the bed's pillows had been rearranged. Sleep had taken her unaware.

Stretching her arms above her, she arched her back off the bed, groaning, before settling back down. So much for discomfort. Her gaze swept over the bedchamber again, devoid of furnishings or personalization, and this time, a darkness stirred in the shadow of the alcove just off to the side of the room's sturdy-looking door, startling her to full attention. She kicked the blankets away and snatched a pillow up to hold defensively in front of her chest, one hand grasping for the edge of the mattress to stop her from toppling over it.

"You were tired, Harker, and so I let you sleep."

How long has he been standing there? She did not recall noticing his company earlier, but was that because she had been truly alone or because exhaustion dulled her awareness?

"We both know that I could have done as I pleased while you were unconscious, but that has never been my intention." Alucard stepped out from the recess, the colors of his clothing ensemble muted by the shade, strangely untouched by the glow of the sun. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that she had never seen before, but removed it upon revealing himself and tucked it close to his hip in a gesture that seemed old-fashioned, high-class.

For a moment she returned to the memory of his shadows, his presence, seeping into her and then pouring out, uncontrollable. The fear. "Leave me alone, Alucard." She remembered how she felt hearing Doc use her name—her real name—and borrowed his move, throwing what strength she could behind the command.

That brought the vampire to attention. Perhaps it was the tone of voice, or the way she demanded rather than asked. Rose-red eyes bore into her and his head twitched sideways in distaste, the movement almost imperceptible from her distance.

Her legs trembled beneath her, ready to leap out of bed the instant he gave any inclination of closing the distance between them. She had every intention of using her pillow as a projectile if needed, no matter how futile and childish it seemed.

Alucard took a step backwards, lips twisting to conceal a snarl. It was frightening to watch a man's face contort in such a way, imagine what thoughts and emotions raged behind it; but it also offered her a small dose of self-confidence.

"Go away—" she sucked in a breath, cutting off what was almost a poorly-timed drop of the word 'please,' "and forget about me. Forget about all of this. I want you to leave me alone."

"No." Loud and sharp, his dissent punched the air like a boxing bell. She dropped her armload in her haste to scramble off the bed, refusing to turn her back on him as if the motion might prompt him to attack. "You do not get to decide when this ends, girl, for it is my domain that you return to, my power that you use for yourself. It ends with me."

The last time they met, she had asked for his help—practically begged for it. And while he had certainly responded to her request, by no means did his actions help her. No, instead he'd revealed their connection to her captors—getting her injured as a result; left her to deal with the stress of keeping more secrets and tracking more lies; and forced her to put her life, her future, in the hands of her abductor. Now, as she watched him fume over her direction, she thought to herself that she should have listened to her instincts. This was never going to work.

"Then end it. Why don't you end it? Always, you are so quick to anger: when I do not understand, when I'm scared, when I say something wrong, or something you don't like. I can see that you're unhappy with me… I don't… I don't know what to do about that. I don't know if I can do anything about it. But I think we should go separate ways rather than force these interactions because they're not helping anyone. Isn't that what you would prefer, too?" As arguments went, Amelia thought hers sounded quite rational. By some miracle, she had maintained a relatively even tone and avoided stuttering. However, all of that nervous energy seemed to have dispersed to the rest of her body, giving the impression that she was shivering from cold.

"I cannot just sever ties with you." Alucard spat, ignoring her reference to his temper. "It is beyond my control. And I have my orders. Regardless of what you want, or what I want, this is the way it must be."

Orders? It was the first time she had heard mention of an assignment, although she remembered him saying he served someone once before. The thought of asking him for further explanation crossed her mind, but the shadows were growing darker around them—his doing, no doubt—and his dismissal of her concerns coupled with his hellish expression made her hesitate. On instinct, she inched backwards, closer to the light of the window and the opening it offered her.

"You know that will do you no good," he warned, volume fading as if smothered by the deepening shades of grey and black. In the next few seconds, she lost sight of him in the haze.

"You don't know what I'm doing," she whispered back. Her shoulders bumped the wall, and she fought the urge to cram herself into the corner. Beside her, the window looked over a view of pale mist and nothing more—no landscape, no indication of how far down a desperate jump might take her. Not even the bright, white face of the sun.

"Stop running from me, Harker, I've lost patience for this game. It's time to sort this out." The disembodied voice was eerily quiet and rough as granite, barely restrained.

The encroaching shadows did not spill into the essence of daylight, which reached farther than her arm could stretch in front of her; but that did not mean she was safe. All around she sensed movement: something large, monstrous, hidden by the smoky blackness. There was a continuous skittering sound, faint yet multitudinous, like the brush of spindly branches across the rough floor.

Can I die here? She remembered wondering the same thing some time ago, but had yet to find an answer. Right now, she didn't want to know. Her chest rose and fell in a staccato pattern, and in between two beats, she heard herself utter a small whimper, the menace of an older power incomprehensible to her young mind sending the base instinct of self-preservation to the forefront. She squeezed her eyes shut and discovered that she was afraid to open them again, dreading what she might see.

"That's enough," she quavered, hiding in the comfort of the mottled dark behind her eyelids. A high-pitched drone dialing louder in her ears gradually threatened to drown out the incessant scratching. "I said that's enough!" Shaking her head side to side, she relied on the solid stone against her back to remain upright, her knuckles scraping the textured surface as her hands balled into fists. Internally, she felt the threads snapping, her composure breaking free of its confines.

I've been trying to sort this mess out from day one! I only wanted to talk, or be left alone, or get help! How can that be so difficult? Why does he make it so difficult? I'm not doing this wrong, I'm not! It's his fault! It's all. His. Fault. Without touching her face, she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and she sucked in a deep breath and opened her eyes, glaring wide-eyed into the void.

"What is wrong with you?! You're the one playing games! Why can't you act like a normal person? I run because you make me want to run away! That's how you make everyone feel! You're awful! You don't care about me or anyone else—you just do what you want to do because all you care about is you and what you want! I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you! You don't sort things out, you make things worse! What is wrong with you? What do you want from me?!"

An invisible weight crashed down upon her after her shouts were absorbed in an ominous stillness, and a bolt of adrenaline coursed through her limbs to combat a perceived state of danger. Her blood, initially red-hot, ran cold. Survival instincts threw her at the window and she lunged, her arms bracing against the frame as her knees and shins battered the wall on their journey upwards. Momentum tilted her upper half out the window when her knees hit the ledge, and she pushed off with her arms, unperturbed by the vast nothingness before her. It gaped like emptiness, like the obscured mouth of a bottomless well lie waiting below her. You woke up at the sensation of falling, right?

Fear of the unknown was nothing compared to what she felt for the thing behind her, incensed by her outburst, unfurling itself to strike. MONSTER. She had never felt so sure of anything.

A vice-like grip closed around her ankle and a limb hooked around her waist before gravity could unbalance her further over the edge. Ungentle fingers wrapped around her other leg, and she felt a tug on her gown, another limb snaked over her shoulder, crossing her chest. It took less than a second for her impromptu escape to come to a frightful, whiplashing end, her entire body jerking backwards through the window and into the room. The back of her head knocked painfully against the frame on the return, stunning her long enough that she offered no resistance until she hit the floor some distance from her makeshift exit, the impact snapping her out of the daze.

Strong hands—far too many for one man—constricted her, pushed her down to the floor and trapped her there, even as she threw herself about, winded from her collision with the ground but kicking and punching with every ounce of strength in her body like a woman possessed. Mind stripped of all thoughts, she grappled with the mass of shadowy limbs in the dark, one of them shifting briefly in her vision, a humanoid yet unnatural silhouette with too many joints. No words were exchanged, just uneven gasps of breath and exertive grunts, and once, a low growl from somewhere above.

Amelia envisioned her own shadows, cutting and tearing and stabbing in the dark, and then quite suddenly she was pinned on her back, unable to move at all. Long fingers gripped her jaw and shoved her cheek against the stone floor, twisting her head sharply. Her unblinking eyes absorbed the sight of the light outside dimming, as if the hidden sun, suspended on a solitary string, was cut loose and plummeted towards whatever horizon existed beyond the fog. Grey rushed into dusky blue and the temperature chilled.

There came a puff of air on her throat an instant before she felt the piercing sting of fangs puncture the skin, the assault so swift that a scream had not even built in her chest before they were fully lodged in. She attempted to buck and let out a strangled sob when it did little more than push her body further into her hand-made restraints, muscles and tendons burning from the strain.

This isn't what I wanted. Like a stone dropped into calm waters, the thought broke the panicked silence that had flooded her mind, sinking deep as its turbulence reached the farthest corners. No, I don't want this! It has to stop. Make it stop. Make him stop. Stopstopstopstopstopstopstop—

"Stop," she croaked, shock dulling the pain of his bite. The jaws gripping her neck tightened, and she felt a surge rise up from within, at first just a tickle of something foreign, a suspicion of sensation. In a matter of seconds, it was cresting over her, and then it thundered down upon her like a tidal wave, submerging her from head to feet.

Her muscles, once wound tight in protest, lost their tension, and her heartbeat eased its rabbit-fast pace. Either her body was too heavy or too weak to lift itself from the floor; she couldn't single out which was truth. Running through her was a satisfying ache that pulled like a full-body stretch after a long nap, begging for prolongment. Her thoughts circled around the feeling, drawn to it but unable to steer. The breath from her lungs took shape into a soft moan, a light, indecent noise that she had never heard herself make before. Warmth rippled out from her neck, traces of pain making her shudder even as the edges of her mind grew fuzzy with the heightened sensation of pleasure.

For a second, she forgot that she wasn't alone. The fact didn't bother her.

Another sting had her sucking in a sharp breath, letting it out shakily. Through the stab of teeth, she felt the slow swipe of a tongue over damaged skin, and her exhales turned heavy, breathy. A hand fisted the material of her gown, bunching the collar and dragging it away from the base of her throat.

Alucard. It was the first thought in…time. One of her hands moved of its own volition, unimpeded, searching for the vampire beside her. A few strands of long hair glided between her fingers before she felt a solidness against her palm. She curled her fingers tightly, clutching at the shoulder beneath the wrinkle of fabric, neither bringing her aggressor closer nor pushing him away.

Her head emptied again.

Deep in her chest her heart beat strong enough to hear, a loud, steady rhythm that throbbed up her cervical spine and pulsed lower, between her hips. Clenching her thighs, she longed to preserve the foreign tempo, sustain its hold over her. The hand on her jaw flexed, but her brain did not register any discomfort from the action. Every touch on her skin was cool, yet a heat tingled inside her veins, nice and cozy and somehow not enough.

She wanted to burn.

A second shudder worked through her, stronger than the first and stealing her breath. The fangs in her neck withdrew—nothing more than a release of pressure—leaving a trickle of heat on her throat. Cold lips brushed against the spot, wet and sticky.

Alucard breathed something that sounded like both a weary sigh and a groan of annoyance, and then his tongue followed the warm trail curving along her neck in a slow and intimate lick. Goosebumps broke out over her skin and she sank against the floor, almost certain she would fall through it. Shifting away from her neck, his nose nudged the ridge of her ear.

"Sleep," the vampire hushed, his hand slipping away from her face. He didn't sound like himself. "Go to sleep."

Thoughts dragging, Amelia brought her arms in close, wedging them between her body and his, and tucked her legs, seeking the source of the warmth lingering inside her. But she felt only loss, the cold body beside her leeching away her body heat. She curled her chin towards her chest, her eyelids fluttering, audible breaths evening out.

"Sleep." A low voice rumbled against her neck as the last embers flickered out beneath her skin, her heart drumming a softer, slower beat. Tired above all else, for reasons she could not fully comprehend, she felt no guilt in obeying the instruction.

The next time she closed her eyes, she did not have the motivation to open them again.

Alucard stared at the young woman lying curled against his leg, watching the loose fabric over her chest move with each shallow inhale, long exhale. She hadn't stirred for several minutes now, deep in the territory of sleep despite the rough floor beneath her.

His gaze traveled higher, snagging on her gently furrowed brow and downturned mouth, the shadows beneath her lower eyelids. She looked smaller. Ill. No worse than when he removed her from the abbey ruins hours ago, but gaunter and paler than the last time he saw her here, haunted by fatigue.

Blood is life.

He hadn't intended to drink from her; that was never part of the plan. Up until he felt her spill hot and thick into his mouth, he didn't think it was even possible. Then again, a lot of impossible, unnatural occurrences were leaving a mark on the world these days. And not believing in something was different than not considering it.

It had been days since his last contact with Amelia Harker, the unfilled time leaving him alone to ruminate on the bitter memories of her reluctance to trust in him, his inability to snatch her from her kidnappers, and Integra's blistering lecture. When he finally found her in his recesses, unconscious, he was sorely tempted to rouse her through whatever means necessary, no matter how harsh. Yet he roped in his impatience and laid her in a proper place to rest, deciding to set things straight by questioning her, as ordered.

But it seemed that she had reservations again. Again. He had a job to do, and she would rather take a step away so she could waste time second-guessing her choices, only to come slinking back a few days later. He hated that part of her. The indecisiveness and noncommittal. The doubt. The cowardice.

And then she lost her temper at him. On a different occasion, he speculated that he would have enjoyed seeing her show him something new. The way her face appeared to crack as she screamed, her voice so loud that her questions could barely be heard beyond the fury; he thought she had broken herself.

Her words convinced him otherwise.

And that was the final nail.

He had determined there could be no more retreat, no matter how she resisted, if any progress was to be made. During their previous encounters he had been so accommodating, letting her lead, being agonizingly patient when he needed to push her forwards. He hated it. It was his turn to take charge; show her, since his undeath, why all roads led to him, how he was always at the core.

She struggled hard against his shadows, and in his mind, he heard the same words leaving her mouth on repeat: end, separate, leave, alone. He hated her. He hated Amelia Harker.

And then he knew how to get information without dealing with the clutter or inefficiency, a method more enlightening than a question-and-answer session or a lengthy conversation, in which afterwards, he could walk away and leave her alone, perhaps for weeks. He'd be giving her what she wanted, what she requested.

With those thoughts driving him, he'd gone for her throat.

When she woke, she would not know what he had taken from her—more than blood, and perhaps just as valuable: every second of her existence, every memory, every secret. Turned through like pages in a book. He watched them without a blink of regret, scanning for the answers he needed for his report, for rescue and coordination efforts, reconnaissance, and once he found them, going after what he personally wanted. Because drinking Amelia Harker's blood would not have been the shock that it was if he hadn't also tasted her.

At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, trying to draw comparisons for inexplicable reasons. But he'd watched the syringe empty into the young woman's arm, experienced the memory of burning pain, bleeding life, and healing, and recalled the comments of the mad doctor. There could be no denying what his senses had picked up before the influx of memories swayed him. Although weakened by its mixture with the dominant flavor, her taste persisted. He could even smell her.

It was enough to send him tearing through the rest of the girl's memories, searching for a glimpse of the only person whose bond with him had ever been broken.

He didn't care if she was young or old, if she was pretty or ugly. He just wanted to see her. To know what happened afterwards. If his influence over her persisted, in any small way.

He needed to see her face, because he couldn't remember what she looked like. Her eyes. Her hair. Her nose. Her ears. Her mouth. He could summon images in his mind of pieces of her—tears in her eyes, the tilt of her chin, her eyebrows shooting high in surprise—but couldn't fit them all together. It was wrong.

Surely it was Van Hellsing's doing—both his difficulty picturing her and their division. But the Professor likely hadn't accounted for an encounter with her descendants, and only a fool refused an opportunity as great as this.

Pushing deeper into Amelia's earlier memories, he had continued his hunt, aware that he was running out of material. Family gatherings, holidays, and birthdays blurred together, turned spotty with age. Jonathan Harker was there, decrepit and sad. John Seward made an appearance.

And then nothing.

He never saw Mina. Not even in a photograph. Her name went unmentioned in hushed gossip, in the smile and warm recount of fond memories. She was simply gone.

Alucard gathered the sleeping woman into his arms and carried her to the bed, setting her down on top of the blankets. He didn't bother adjusting the dress bunched high around her thighs or stretched out over her collar bone. It didn't matter if she was uncomfortable without a pillow supporting her head. That uneasy expression of hers would brighten once she realized she was going to get what she wanted for a while: distance.

He remained by the bedside, staring at the one person he believed he despised most in the world. The taste of her was still on his lips, a dark smear, dry and itchy, just below the left corner of his mouth. His tongue sat sealed behind his locked jaw, the temptation to partake in one last surrender restrained but not killed.

He sunk down to his knees, feeling oddly detached from himself, as if his mind had fled and some other consciousness had moved in to take its place. Leaning towards the young woman, his hands closed tightly around the blanket beneath her, his knuckles accidentally swiping against her leg.

She didn't stir.

Slowly, he lowered his head, his forehead coming to rest beside her hip, cushioned by the strewn fabric of her skirt. A place where men, not monsters, belonged. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, his lips twitching open.

He hated her. So much.