Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Servant's Night Off ❯ That Nasty Little Interval of Sobriety AKA Life ( Chapter 4 )

[ P - Pre-Teen ]

Umm, yea. I'm a lazy slacker. But thank you for all the reviews. The spellcheck one was quite entertaining. Surreptitious, but admirable, nonetheless. And I do know something about Millennium, damnit! Just not enough to write about it...Umm, as for the OOC comment...did you read chapter 3? It's definitely OOC madness. Madness, yes, that is what this is.
Umm, I didn't originally intend for it to be this silly, however, it turned out this way. One day I will edit it and dampen the severe change in style, but yea...not today. Short chapter, rather mindless. I'm still trying to figure out what Walter does in his spare time. He's just too cool to vacuum, dust, mop, scrub...all that stuff I have to do. He has to do it better, faster, and all that. Yet, you think Integra would hire some maids too. I have no idea what I'm babbling about...
I think I know where this is going. Well, besides straight to Hell. I hope to finish it soon. Thank you for humoring me.

Disclaimer: Hellsing does not belong to me. This is what would happen if it did. Be glad that there is a God and He doesn't want me controlling vampires, international secret agencies, and whatnot.

Servant's Night Off

In the event of an emergency, Walter would have been screwed. Luckily, the recent trend of unusual serenity was sticking, and after he had exorcised that accursed Hellspawn, usually Arucard, from his room, he went back to bed. Hangovers were such a...such a...Walter searched his vocabulary for an appropriate metaphor.
Hangovers were such a bitch. He twitched a bit at this vulgarity. Perhaps he really was too old for this kind of nonsense.

Integra was slightly concerned about her butler. The fact he'd come home drunk was a little surprising. The fact his car was beaten up was even more surprising. In light of all this, the police reports of some sort of vehicular madness coinciding with Walter's approximated time of arrival, were not surprising.
Simple enough.
Fortunately, there were no concrete links between Walter and the damage of public property. So Integra tossed the papers into the circular file. It really wasn't her concern.

Arucard returned to his coffin, feeling rather pleased with himself. It had been an eon since he had managed to elicit such a delightful reaction from Walter. There was some spunk left in the old man after all. Arucard grinned and pulled his hat over his eyes. He wouldn't mind joining the old codger for a drink.

Anderson awoke in a rather dazed mood. He did not get hangovers, however he did manage to get himself into trouble while in a state of inebriation. Waking up in a dank alley, reeking of pepper spray and covered with kitty cats was an excellent example. Anderson groaned as he came to, a little stiff from the strange position he'd fallen asleep in. Two orange fluffy flea-bitten felines were nestled against his chest.
He sneezed.
The furballs purred loudly. Anderson yawned and stretched, toppling a series of garbage cans. The cats both startled and leapt up hissing. Neither one was declawed. Anderson yowled as they dug their talons into his flesh.
"Bloody beastly little bastards!"
Hearing his shriek of anguish they returned to their former contented state and rubbed against his s he flailed. Anderson finally pried them off of him, along with bloody chunks of himself. He tossed both of them out of the alley. Scowling, he picked himself up and sniffed.
He was positively rank. And something smelled...strong.
Anderson vaguely recalled a panicking woman.
"Ma'am, I assure you I am..."
"Aaaiiiiiiiiieeeeeeee!!!!"
And a burst of Anderson-trying-to-claw-his-bloody-eyeballs-out ensued.
He nodded blearily and decided to go back to the hotel for a shower.

Walter dreaded facing Sir Integra. Especially after last night. He'd never hear the end of this. Not till he died. Hell, not with all these "mistakes of the past" being dragged to the surface. The only one around who knew of his former activities was Arucard. And it was far too much to hope that that shrewd son of a bitch could forget. Maybe he could be sealed in the basement again...Walter wondered. He, himself, had been rather comfortable for those twenty years.
He sighed wistfully as he readied Sir Integra's afternoon tea. Those were the days...
Integra raised a brow as she heard Walter knock. He must have had one Hell of a time last night. She put down her pen, straightened her glasses, and prepared to grill him.
"Come in," she called sweetly.
Walter wheeled in the tea tray, covered with platters of cakes and cookies. He'd thrown in extra snacks in hopes they would distract Integra from asking too many questions.
"Good afternoon, Sir Integra. I trust your day has been agreeable." Walter poured the tea, avoiding her gaze.
"Good afternoon, Walter. How was your evening?" She asked, somewhat sadistically.
"Good. Wonderful. I had an excellent time." He hoped that he was not visibly sweating. He ardently longed to be somewhere else.
"I see." She smiled knowingly, and took her tea. "Your car seems to be in a state of disrepair. I'll have some of the men take care of it."
Walter flinched.
"Yes, there really are some careless drivers on the road. Irresponsible drunks and such." Integra's grin widened.
"Kids today," he responded dryly.
"Yes, big kids. Next time you go out, why don't you take a companion, as a precaution? Someone like Arucard. I'm sure he would delight in such a raucous affair."
Integra dismissed him as she picked up her paper. A blurb on the side read, "Catholic Priest Attempts Assault on Woman." She shook her head. What the bloody Hell was wrong with those people?

Anderson succeeded in dragging himself out of the shower, only after he'd run out of hot water. Infernal English and their tepid lifestyles. He changed into clean robes and debated on whether or not he should ever leave Rome again.
Well, there were not many vampires in Rome. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He was not going to develop agoraphobia. It was time for breakfast...err, lunch...err, food.
As he stepped out into the glaring sunlight, two orange blurs dashed by him. He turned to see two very familiar ginger cats sitting in his room.
He'd heard all the stories of cats and witchcraft, but he had never believed them. Reaching for his knives he muttered a few prayers. One of the cute little bastards began to purr, and to his chagrin, Anderson realized that they were not Hellbent cuddle-bugs of the supernatural.
God must be punishing him. That was the only solution. Anderson fingered the rosary in his pocket. Penance was not supposed to be pleasant. Penance was not supposed to be pleasant. Penance was...flagellation would be so much more convenient. He quickly halted that tangent of thought.
Some people might like penance.
He glowered menacingly at the two animals on his borrowed bed. "Out. Get out!" They looked up at him sleepily and yawned, before settling back down in the unmade blankets.
He was no St. Frances, but he decided it would be easier to deal with them after breakfast...lunch...food.

Arucard loomed over Walter like some famished ghoul awaiting a crunchable meal. He was a profoundly effective memento mori; exactly not what the butler needed at the moment.
"So, care to share the gory details?" Arucard asked gleefully.
Walter dusted in silence.
"You can tell me, Shinigami; I'll tell you how many humans I've chomped since Sir Integra came to power."
"Twenty-four."
Arucard paused to tally the quantity. "You're right," he chuckled. "Could never put one passed a Shinigami, eh?"
Walter gritted his teeth and ran the ostrich feathers over the delicate porcelain.
"Why do you bother with that- you did it yesterday."
The Englishman paused. Ever since Sir Integra had hired that slew of tittering maids, he had fewer duties of any importance. He supposed that she thought she was doing him a favor. He sighed and decided to ignore her undead pet. With a dramatic flick of the wrist, he eradicated a swarm of imaginary dust bunnies.
Arucard grinned, playful malevolence oozing from his pores.
Two could play that game.

For the rest of the day, Arucard trailed closely behind Walter. Hugging his shadow, darkening his doorstep, reading over his shoulder... The butler bore it with considerable fortitude. That is to say, he only decapitated Arucard, once. The reason for that being, cleaning up the gore was a very involved process, and mopping up the guts while their owner loitered next to one, daintily sipping a packet of blood was, well...far too bizarre.

Seras had heard her master laughing wildly within the mansion. She jumped into action, snagging her Halconnen and equipped for any sort of paranormal assault that might have decided to rear its ugly head. Instead, she found him with Walter, the enduring butler cleaning up some sort of gore. She elected to retreat rather than even bothering with those itching questions like, "What the fuck is going on?!" Those always led to trouble. The status quo was something she simply pushed from her mind.
Ice cream sounded good.

Anderson hunched over, crowding his little booth at some bloody English diner. He scowled grimly at the menu, wondering if eating some of the fare would be against his religion. It really was not trustworthy. He chose flapjacks, bacon, and eggs; hoping against reality that they would be safer. Not as wise as cold cereal, but who wanted something cold for breakfast?
The waitress, an amazingly pointy woman with an incredibly irritable voice, showed up, looking very displeased at his presence.
"Ready to order yet?" She chewed her gum loudly, smacking her lips together. Anderson stiffened.
"Yes, I'd like your breakfast...lunch..."
"It's brunch," she said curtly.
"Yes," Anderson cracked his neck and began speaking again. "I'd like an order of flapjacks, bacon, eggs, and if you would bring me that coffee I asked for twenty minutes ago..."
"Fine," she snapped. She flounced off, in the ungraceful fashion that most commoners possessed, leaving Anderson to contemplate the reason why he was the only customer.

45 minutes later...

Anderson eyed the platter in front of him. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, all accounted for. All doused and wallowing in a thick puddle of grease. He forced himself to raise his hands and thank the Almighty Lord for his...bounty. Cutting himself some food, he reflected on his past. He'd had a good life, hadn't he? He painstakingly raised the fork to his mouth and pushed in a morsel.
Well, it wasn't awful.
It wasn't like mum's, but it wasn't bad. He wondered, absently, how his regenerative abilities would react to a heart attack, or if his arteries would unclog themselves.
"Life is utterly absurd," he reflected after dripping his pancakes in a little more grease.
He's right, you know.

Umm...not my best, but I needed to establish a few possibilities before going on to additional...lunacy.