"So do I." Alucard well knows that, letting your job define you and keeps you from remembering the things you don't want to. It's a mode of coping that he understands, and while he wishes it weren't necessary he won't question it either.

"I like your looks," is all Alucard says to that, loftily, because he does. Then: "I'll have one made. You're always welcome." It's strange to have a space he's able to grant like that, over a hundred years have passed since he could, but he likes having that freedom now.

Alfred is offering him blood, again, and Alucard moves close to him--he's sober this time, cognizant of what's happening, and for a moment Alucard's hand just brushes the side of his neck, borderline affectionate. "I'll remember that."

They're in close proximity then when Alfred stands, and Alucard grins and rolls his eyes, shifting a step away to shuck off his clothing shamelessly. "Yes sir." In contrast to most fighters, Alucard is completely bare of scars, to the point of strangeness. But it's his healing that does it, after all, so perhaps it makes sense.

The tub is large, and as Alucard sinks into it appreciatively, he contemplates a moment as he reaches out with a damp hand to catch at Alfred's wrist, looking up at him. He doesn't say anything yet, just holds on to him.