Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Servant's Night Off ❯ That First Drink ( Chapter 1 )

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

Uhh, I’m on a roll, aren’t I? I’m not sure the point of this fic. I think it’s rather humorous. So a priest, a vampire, and an English butler go into a bar and…well, OK, no vampire right now and no punch line either. This is some (again) OOC fun with Walter and Anderson. There simply are not enough Walter or Anderson-centric fics.

Hellsing does not belong to me…though I wish certain male character’s bodies did. I suppose I will have to make due with their souls.

Arucard: I have no soul.
Walter: Me neither.
Anderson: Back ye fiend from Hell!
Me: Umm…I love you?

Servant’s Night Off

Arucard had always described these types of nights as magnificent; the kind that made him want to drink blood. The crimson hue of the sky coupled with the sinister thickness of the air, all beneath the heatless light of the moon made for an atmosphere worthy of a No Life King.
Walter didn’t care for them much. There was far too much tension mingled in the air. He lived with tension, dealt with it on a daily basis. He did not need to inhale it now. The combined factor of the actual stillness of the evening enhanced the unnatural feel of the night.
Walter Cumm Ddolneazz had been ordered to take an evening respite. That expressly included leaving the vicinity of the Hellsing manor so that he could not “sneak” around to do his “busy work.” Of course Walter would never be so base as to “sneak,” he would merely wander around till he found a task to alleviate his boredom. But Sir Integra knew him too well. Sure, he’d scoffed and told her simply because he did not harm anything when he was experiencing anxiety, did not mean he had some repressed emotions that threatened his mental health. Integra denied the implication and instead cut to the quick; he was getting old- he needed a break, he deserved a break. Whether he liked it or not. She’d gone as far as personally escorting him off of the premises.
The butler sighed, almost sorrowfully. He’d taught her too well. She was far too perceptive and strong for him to contest her will. Walter adjusted his monocle as he strode through the park.
Really, it was a waste to send him out here. He was old. What kind of pleasures could he take in the night? His days of idleness and pleasure seeking were long gone. As the twenty-four hour Hellsing handyman, he did not have much time for a swinging social life. And he was far too miffed at his short notice vacation to focus on seducing a woman that night. He was the jack-of-all-trades, handy-not-quite-dandy Shinigami of Hellsing- how could Sir Integra simply order him off to play? The slight left Walter’s ego a bit injured and in a moment up weakness, he wondered if it were possible that he had slipped up in one of his usually impeccable actions.
…Impossible.
Walter continued sulking as he passed by bums and rutting couples. Being an English butler, Walter managed to sulk with dignity- a rare gift.
He’d brought his wires of course. The silver microfilament flashed in his fingers as he drew them out of his pockets.
Someone was following him.
In spite of himself, Walter smiled as he felt the adrenaline building in his limbs. Sir Integra had once asked him if he missed being on the field. Yes, without a doubt, he missed the rush of battle and all of its distinctive perks.
“Your money or your life, old man.”
The words of his assailant took a moment to digest. If Walter hadn’t been reminded of his dangerous predicament, by the jab of a gun to his spine, he would have laughed out loud. Ridiculous. Simply, positively, ridiculous. He’d expected a vampire or a ghoul, but no, this ignorant, ill bred, fool was attempting to mug him.
“…Is that so?” Walter prepared to slice the offender into slivers of raw meat.
“Have you no shame you Protestant pig?” a deeper voice growled with outrage. Walter raised a brow as he heard a sharp crack followed by a groan and a thud. That voice was far too familiar and far too Scottish for Walter’s comfort. He slowly turned, wires prepared, to face the hulking frame of Paladin Alexander Anderson.
Anderson immediately recognized the man from the museum. Hellsing’s personal butler if he remembered correctly.
“What a coincidence, Father Anderson; I must thank you for my untimely rescue.” Walter’s tone was smooth and polished, but Anderson detected a rough edge barely penetrating the composure of the Englishman’s words, yet dangerously present all the same.
“If I’d known it was you, I would’ve left you to your own procedures,” Anderson claimed rather sheepishly.
Walter smiled predatorily. “No, I thank you for your kindness. It’s not often that people involve themselves in the dilemmas of others, especially at great personal risk.”
Anderson snorted.
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re back in London, Father Anderson. Not seeking a skirmish with a pair of vampires, are you?”
“I destroy evil where I find it,” Anderson answered simply, his dark coat billowing in a dry wind.
“A worthy creed,” Walter commented, lowering his fingers.
Anderson shrugged and made the sign of the cross. “We are on a mission from God.”
Walter chuckled dryly. “Yes, yes we are. Tell me Father Anderson, is there any prime hunting in London?”
The priest concealed his surprise at the question. “No, not really. Hellsing seems to have everything under control, “ he admitted begrudgingly.
“Hmm.” Walter smiled smugly. “Then you have little else to do besides save silly old men from robbers?”
Anderson’s jaw twitched.
“Well then, why don’t you join me for a drink, Father Anderson? I can pick up the tab with the money you’ve saved me,” Walter invited, not a little teasingly.
Anderson looked at his amazingly intact watch and scanned the surrounding area for any undead activity: nothing.
“I don’t see why not; we’d be improving organizational relations,” Anderson grinned, baring his teeth.
Walter refrained from telling Anderson that not killing Hellsing agents would improve diplomatic dealings far better than the two of them sharing beer. It required much self-control.
The pair traveled on foot toward a pub of Walter’s acquaintance. It was uncomfortably silent at first, but as Anderson periodically checked Walter’s amused expression, he relaxed a little. The priest followed him into the establishment, wary enough to search for treachery and happy enough to find none.
“What would you like?” Walter inquired as he reached the counter.
“A beer.”
Walter ordered a beer and a glass of merlot before finding a table placed snugly in the corner, ensuring some privacy.
“Aren’t you the household butler?” Anderson asked as he sipped his drink.
“I am.”
“Then what are you doing wandering London at night?”
“I was temporarily evicted for a forced holiday.” Walter tasted his wine with approval.
“…Not bad for English beer.”
“It’s imported,” Walter answered mildly.
“That explains it,” muttered Anderson.
Walter favored him with a wry look. “I suppose you wonder why I’ve invited you drink with me.”
The two men stared at each other as Anderson tried to read Walter’s intent. No luck. They did make an odd pair: a proper English butler and a scruffy Scottish priest.
“To talk, maybe warn me against hurting your fellow heretics,” Anderson’s tone was easygoing though, lacking the usual homicidal zeal.
“Very astute,” Walter flashed his teeth in a not quite so proper manner.
“The vampires are my sworn enemies…” Anderson groped for a title.
“Walter, you may call me Walter, Father Anderson.”
“…The vampires, FREAKs, etc. are our sworn enemies, as Division XIII and Hellsing. It doesn’t escape my notice that the employment of two vampires on Hellsing’s staff is somewhat hypocritical.”
“It is true that “search and destroy” has ever been Hellsing’s motto. However, we are not…mindless killers.” Walter paused for effect, the intensity of his gaze focused upon Anderson. “The reason for our actions is to protect mankind. If a said vampire does not engage in activities that prove dangerous to humans, we merely keep it under surveillance. FREAKs are eliminated on sight, but old-fashioned vampires possess the gift of free will. There are exceptions to the case.”
“…Very human, Walter, but has it occurred to you that these are dæmons, minions of Hell itself? Products of black magic that answer only to Satan?!” Anderson pounded the table, attracting attention from other customers.
“Perhaps, but there is no need to sacrifice innocent men on a cornered vampire. I have encountered some, who, despite their bloodthirsty nature, prefer a life of solitude with little interaction with humans. A rather ascetic dæmon, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Treachery,” was all Anderson growled, flashing a glimpse of one of his holy masonry trowels. “Why does Hellsing feel it necessary to recruit vampires to do their dirty work? Those fiends could turn on them at any moment.”
Walter took a drink before responding. “The same reason that the Vatican approves the placement of regenerators.” Anderson narrowed his eyes. “The average human has no chance against supernatural beings. Other nations hire dhampirs, tribal councils have their shamans, Buddhist employ monks of the esoteric arts, and so forth. It gives us the edge we need to survive.”
Anderson snorted again, but could not rationally argue against it. There was a chance that the alcohol had mellowed his mind.
“Besides, Sir Integra isn’t so foolish as to utilize what she cannot control. Arucard may be a wildcard, but the Hellsings have held him in their power for quite some time. If anyone loses the reins on Arucard, it will not be her.”
“And it is assumed because the other, Seras Victoria, his thrall, that she must also bend to the will of the Hellsings?”
“That, and her nature is a bit more, shall we say, gentler than ours. She clings to her shreds of humanity rather than embrace the darker path of a Nosferatu.”
Anderson chugged his beer to prevent very un-priest-like words from escaping his mouth. “Are you trying to convince me of Hellsing’s righteousness?”
“…I need not try to convince a templar of anything, Father Anderson. You asked me questions, and I answered them.”
Anderson relaxed a little.
“Would you like more beer?” Walter asked, eyeing their empty glasses.
Anderson found himself indeed wanting more. “Yes, please.”
Walter went to retrieve more beverages.
The priest found himself slightly bewildered at the actions of the butler. Walter smiled quite congenially as he handed Anderson his frothing mug.
“There seems to be one major issue left to discuss,” Walter said pleasantly.
Anderson opened his mouth to inquire, but suddenly found himself immobile-wrapped in a net of silvery thread.
“Don’t move, Father,” Walter ordered quietly. “I’d prefer not to decapitate you in this pub.”
Anderson clenched his teeth at being caught off guard so easily. “Perfidious heretic…”
Walter smiled thinly. “I recall a recent incident where you violated a treaty and attacked Hellsing knights. Now, to be honest, my primary concern is not the safety of the foot soldiers, but rather the well-being of Sir Integra.” He spoke quickly and firmly, a dangerous slight shining in his eyes. “Therefore you must understand that I was most displeased to learn of your assault on her person. Thought I’d prefer you leave them be, the issue of the vampires is quite understandable and ever excusable so long as you do no permanent damage. In threatening the safety of Sire Integra, Father Anderson, you crossed a line. I will not tolerate any malice directed toward her person; do you understand me?” Walter paused, his words clipped and dangerous. “I have not served the Hellsings and watched over Sir Integra for all twenty-three years of her life simply to see her slain by some rampaging Vatican dog-do you understand me, Father Anderson? You may be a regenerator, but I can shred you and destroy your remains with no hope of restoration if you ever cause her any harm; do I make myself clear, Father Alexander Anderson?”
Anderson gazed up at the butler, partially curious, partially impressed with the force behind Walter’s words. He was not called Shinigami for naught, he supposed. Strangely, Anderson was not the least bit upset by this Englishman threatening his mortality. Oh, he believed Walter was more than capable of discerning a weakness and capitalizing upon it, but there was a certain temperate dignity that defined Walter, and Anderson respected it. The message was simple, and went in synchronization with Father Maxwell’s orders: No harm should come to Sir Integra Wingates Hellsing by the hand of Paladin Alexander Anderson.
“I have little interest in harming your precious Sir Integra,” Anderson began. “But if I should ever encounter her again, I believe I can control my rage enough to ensure her safety.”
Walter studied him for a moment, wondering if it would not be simpler to just tear the paladin apart and take care of the remains. No, he could not move like he used to and it was getting late. Father Anderson seemed sincere enough. Walter recalled his wires without leaving a scratch on Anderson.
“That is most satisfactory, Father Anderson. You have eased an old man’s heart. I thank you.”
Anderson raised his beer with charming nonchalance. “No, thank you.”
“I really should be getting home.”
“Someone needs to feed the pets, eh?”
Both men laughed.
“Something like that, but I’ve truly enjoyed the pleasure of your company. Will you be in London much longer?”
“A few days more, perhaps.”
“Ah, well, if I have a spare moment, I’ll have to look you up. Of course you cannot come to the mansion, but this is as good a place as any. Besides, I have a few questions of my own,” Walter ended pleasantly as he stood.
“…Yes, I found tonight’s discussion enlightening. We should indulge again.”
The men basked in a moment of uncharacteristic mutual admiration before Walter politely turned to go. He responsibly paid the bill and left Anderson to his own devices.
Undoubtedly, he reflected. Sir Integra had ordered him to take a relaxing evening. Two glasses of wine and another guarantee of her safety made him very mellow indeed. Who would have thought he could have had such an agreeable time with a Scottish and Catholic sod? Yes, and despite his lady’s commands, it had still been a rather productive evening.


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