"My apologies." Just that. Mostly because it's hard to argue with someone that adamant. He can just keep his disagreement to himself. If Alucard wants to think him handsome, who is he to argue. He lets it rest..
"I'll use the key wisely. I won't intrude too much." Just now and then, when he needs this. Or when he thinks Alucard needs to be reminded there's a human that gives a damn about him.
His shoulders stiffen. "I see." He's already precariously over the tub as it is. And it's a nice suit. The nicest he owns. He'd hate it to be ruined. Still, the dread is there and he reminds himself that this is the man that put people up on spikes, a few too many scars won't bother him, right?
"All right then." He'll slip his wrist from that grasp to stand and work his way out of the rest of his suit. It takes a lot of doing and more so once he's to the proper white undershirt. He doesn't look at Alucard, just stubbornly strips down, layer after layer until he's standing before the man in nothing but his tattoos and his scars, under the mottled purple bruises of the camp. The tattoos are small, speaking of his service in the Royal Marines as well as the SAS, but the olderst scars tell the story of a man tortured. Fresher ones tell the same story, only months or so old. This had been the reason behind his unending fight in the Fort.
The worst, however, looks far too much like Rip's. Stabbed through the chest and out the other side. He should be dead.
He forces himself to finally look at Alucard, chin set in that purely British fashion. He steps forward boldly until he's seated on the edge of the tub again. "Still room in there for one more?"
no subject
"I'll use the key wisely. I won't intrude too much." Just now and then, when he needs this. Or when he thinks Alucard needs to be reminded there's a human that gives a damn about him.
His shoulders stiffen. "I see." He's already precariously over the tub as it is. And it's a nice suit. The nicest he owns. He'd hate it to be ruined. Still, the dread is there and he reminds himself that this is the man that put people up on spikes, a few too many scars won't bother him, right?
"All right then." He'll slip his wrist from that grasp to stand and work his way out of the rest of his suit. It takes a lot of doing and more so once he's to the proper white undershirt. He doesn't look at Alucard, just stubbornly strips down, layer after layer until he's standing before the man in nothing but his tattoos and his scars, under the mottled purple bruises of the camp. The tattoos are small, speaking of his service in the Royal Marines as well as the SAS, but the olderst scars tell the story of a man tortured. Fresher ones tell the same story, only months or so old. This had been the reason behind his unending fight in the Fort.
The worst, however, looks far too much like Rip's. Stabbed through the chest and out the other side. He should be dead.
He forces himself to finally look at Alucard, chin set in that purely British fashion. He steps forward boldly until he's seated on the edge of the tub again. "Still room in there for one more?"