"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.
"Pull the other one." It's a soft, near inaudible grumble. He's well aware he's not a babyfaced brunette anymore. He's been through it and had a rather rough go. He knows he looks older than he is. He's not even 50 yet. It's not the years, it's the milage, and he wears every single mile. So Alucard doesn't have to boost his ego. He's well aware of what looks back at him in the mirror.
Then louder, "I hope you mean the key and not the filly frock. Because if I come in to that waiting for me, I'll mix your reds with your whites, so help me I will."
The touch against his neck is cool. He gives a curt nod. "See that you do, Sir." He won't sit by and allow a friend to starve.
He quickly gathers the clothing to pointedly fold them. The lack marks just reminds him of how many he has. He was just going to give the man his privacy but the hand stops him. Softly, he lays his folded bundle on the floor so he can step towards the tub, a soft look on his face.
"Fair warning, last time I bathed a person was nearly fifteen years ago. You're a might bigger than a toddler." It doesn't mean he's not going to do his best. So, he'll sit carefully on the edge of the tub and reach over Alucard for shampoo. This close it's impossible to hide how exhausted he is or how much he likely needs this more than Alucard does. "I'll need me other hand back, mate."
Yeah, well, Alucard can hear it because he's a goddamn vampire, so he gives Alfred a sharp look. "Don't tell me who to be attracted to, Alfred. I'll think you're hot if I please." Alucard likes that about him, likes that life has left a mark on him. It's how he is, and that's not going to change. Humans are beautiful and fascinating and nothing can alter that thought in his mind.
"I do mean the key, though," he says with a smile. "I prefer suits." Well, that's one way to parse it.
But now he's thinking about Alfred's neck under his hand, and the way his skin feels. He pushes that away though, watching him react to the wordless request of his hand on his wrist--and get it wrong.
"That's not what I want," he explains, leaning up toward him from his position in the bath. "This is a big tub, and there's no point in being in it alone." He smiles, a little wry, and looks at him with hooded eyes. "So either strip down and join me, or I'll pull you in here in your clothes and the whole thing will be messier than it needs to be."
"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?"
"Mm." Alucard is satisfied then, that he's allowed to do as he pleases when it comes to finding Alfred attractive, because he was going to anyway.
"I trust you," he says, and is surprised to find that he really does. It's... been a long time since Walter's betrayal, and it feels a little like he's betraying the good memories he clutches to, but perhaps it's time to move on. It's for the best, isn't it?
Alucard watches Alfred undress benignly: he's aware of tells in humans, is aware that the stiffness of his shoulders was discomfort, but Alucard isn't making him do it, he doesn't think, so he doesn't feel too bad.
The feeling he gets isn't pity or anything close to it as he takes in each scar and mark but it's something warmer tugging at his consciousness, and he's aware he should probably say something but he doesn't, not until Alfred is close enough for him to touch. Which he does, leaning up in the bath to hold onto his wrist again, surging up pointedly to kiss him from a lack of anything good to say.
He doesn't force it, doesn't press into it, but then sits back and gives his wrist a gentle pull. "I should look just like that," he says softly, "but I sold my soul to the devil."
He doesn't know what he's waiting for. Rejection perhaps. Revoltion. Pity? Questions. There's usually questions. He's shoring himself mentally up for any of these options when Alucard decides to pick the option he hadn't known existed.
The kiss is so warm and fleeting. He's certain he goes a little red in the face from it. He's been completed thrown for a loop, finally unsettled by the vampire, all from a kiss.
When his mind starts to work again, he feels a bubble of relief. "I doubt you were ever short or British." He's trying to find a good position to get into the tub that's not too awkward. "And I don't think the devil can fix that." He holds no judgement on Alucard's choice. In Iran, the devil hadn't helped him. God hasn't either. He'd has to do it himself.
"Wouldn't want him to, neither. Well the British part at least. Wouldn't mind a few extra inches." And to keep it from being innuendo, "so I can dust the top of the cupboards without a stool."
The water is perfect when he finally settles in, facing Alucard and once more reaching for the shampoo. He's dead set on washing the vampire. As he does, he softly adds, "In case you're wondering, not a one of them that did it lived. Got me and me mate out and I think they've still got a bounty on me, two decades later. And the only thing I ever told them was a recipe for haggus."
Well, it's definitely none of those things, and it's certainly a lazy kiss from the vampire king himself. It's cute, really, that it catches him off-guard, and alucard settles back with a faint smile.
"No, I've always been about this tall. Taller, in my actual form. Little over seven feet." Of course he is. "And Romanian." Like the Dracula thing didn't give that away. "The devil gave me a lot of things, but none of them were worth it in the end." He's a little flippant about that, but it's a coping method, so it's fine.
It definitely could have been innuendo if he'd left it, but Alucard still arches an eyebrow. "Well, it is nice to be able to change my height to suit situations."
Alfred is still on about that, huh? Alucard carefully dips himself under the water for a moment, making sure his hair is all wet, then pops back up to look at him, nodding. "Revenge always felt good, to me. Taking back what was taken away by taking their lives." He's not about to judge Alfred for killing the people that tortured him, after all.
There's a scowl on his face a moment. In that moment it looks like Alfred is going to judge Alucard. It looks like he might actually be hurt by the idea that he's not seen this man's 'real form'. That Alucard doesn't trust him enough. But then, that scowl still on his face, he reaches up to tug a dark lock of hair. "Of course you are. Save some of that height for the rest of us, you lanky git."
From the tug he shifts up to start massaging the shampoo into Alucard's scalp. He's like a dog with a bone. Once he focused on something, he'll do it. He wants to do this. He wants to because it keeps him focus on the here and now. He doesn't have to think about the then. About the returning nightmares. About the fact that of Bruce ever learns what he did at the Fort, his boy would never forgive him.
"Because of that deal, you got to meet your Integra." He points it out quietly. "Still...I do pity you a bit, Alucard." He leans in more. Presses his lips just softly against those soft lips. "You'll never be able to eat me garlic chicken."
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"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.
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Then louder, "I hope you mean the key and not the filly frock. Because if I come in to that waiting for me, I'll mix your reds with your whites, so help me I will."
The touch against his neck is cool. He gives a curt nod. "See that you do, Sir." He won't sit by and allow a friend to starve.
He quickly gathers the clothing to pointedly fold them. The lack marks just reminds him of how many he has. He was just going to give the man his privacy but the hand stops him. Softly, he lays his folded bundle on the floor so he can step towards the tub, a soft look on his face.
"Fair warning, last time I bathed a person was nearly fifteen years ago. You're a might bigger than a toddler." It doesn't mean he's not going to do his best. So, he'll sit carefully on the edge of the tub and reach over Alucard for shampoo. This close it's impossible to hide how exhausted he is or how much he likely needs this more than Alucard does. "I'll need me other hand back, mate."
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"I do mean the key, though," he says with a smile. "I prefer suits." Well, that's one way to parse it.
But now he's thinking about Alfred's neck under his hand, and the way his skin feels. He pushes that away though, watching him react to the wordless request of his hand on his wrist--and get it wrong.
"That's not what I want," he explains, leaning up toward him from his position in the bath. "This is a big tub, and there's no point in being in it alone." He smiles, a little wry, and looks at him with hooded eyes. "So either strip down and join me, or I'll pull you in here in your clothes and the whole thing will be messier than it needs to be."
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"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?"
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"I trust you," he says, and is surprised to find that he really does. It's... been a long time since Walter's betrayal, and it feels a little like he's betraying the good memories he clutches to, but perhaps it's time to move on. It's for the best, isn't it?
Alucard watches Alfred undress benignly: he's aware of tells in humans, is aware that the stiffness of his shoulders was discomfort, but Alucard isn't making him do it, he doesn't think, so he doesn't feel too bad.
The feeling he gets isn't pity or anything close to it as he takes in each scar and mark but it's something warmer tugging at his consciousness, and he's aware he should probably say something but he doesn't, not until Alfred is close enough for him to touch. Which he does, leaning up in the bath to hold onto his wrist again, surging up pointedly to kiss him from a lack of anything good to say.
He doesn't force it, doesn't press into it, but then sits back and gives his wrist a gentle pull. "I should look just like that," he says softly, "but I sold my soul to the devil."
Wry. He, uh, did, but still.
"Get in here, you could use some relaxation."
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The kiss is so warm and fleeting. He's certain he goes a little red in the face from it. He's been completed thrown for a loop, finally unsettled by the vampire, all from a kiss.
When his mind starts to work again, he feels a bubble of relief. "I doubt you were ever short or British." He's trying to find a good position to get into the tub that's not too awkward. "And I don't think the devil can fix that." He holds no judgement on Alucard's choice. In Iran, the devil hadn't helped him. God hasn't either. He'd has to do it himself.
"Wouldn't want him to, neither. Well the British part at least. Wouldn't mind a few extra inches." And to keep it from being innuendo, "so I can dust the top of the cupboards without a stool."
The water is perfect when he finally settles in, facing Alucard and once more reaching for the shampoo. He's dead set on washing the vampire. As he does, he softly adds, "In case you're wondering, not a one of them that did it lived. Got me and me mate out and I think they've still got a bounty on me, two decades later. And the only thing I ever told them was a recipe for haggus."
no subject
"No, I've always been about this tall. Taller, in my actual form. Little over seven feet." Of course he is. "And Romanian." Like the Dracula thing didn't give that away. "The devil gave me a lot of things, but none of them were worth it in the end." He's a little flippant about that, but it's a coping method, so it's fine.
It definitely could have been innuendo if he'd left it, but Alucard still arches an eyebrow. "Well, it is nice to be able to change my height to suit situations."
Alfred is still on about that, huh? Alucard carefully dips himself under the water for a moment, making sure his hair is all wet, then pops back up to look at him, nodding. "Revenge always felt good, to me. Taking back what was taken away by taking their lives." He's not about to judge Alfred for killing the people that tortured him, after all.
no subject
From the tug he shifts up to start massaging the shampoo into Alucard's scalp. He's like a dog with a bone. Once he focused on something, he'll do it. He wants to do this. He wants to because it keeps him focus on the here and now. He doesn't have to think about the then. About the returning nightmares. About the fact that of Bruce ever learns what he did at the Fort, his boy would never forgive him.
"Because of that deal, you got to meet your Integra." He points it out quietly. "Still...I do pity you a bit, Alucard." He leans in more. Presses his lips just softly against those soft lips. "You'll never be able to eat me garlic chicken."