Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, Alucard, or Anderson. I did this out of enjoyment, nothing else. Promise. No profit here.

Pre-Author's Note: This is for the theme 'Between Dream and Reality'. So, that's why it's abstract.

Painless Suicide

The moon floats in the sky, gently shivering, like the slow sway of an autumn leaf. It's as if the Earthly wind is brushing over it, twisting the fragile silver, the chill of the arctic winter permeating the ethereal glow. The stars are flickering like candles, churning with life, and Anderson can almost feel the burning heat of them on his flesh, scalding him. The pain is there, he can feel it, but it is the only thing he can feel. His skin, his flesh, his body is completely numb, lost in some deep realm of sleep he does not understand.

He feels his hand move almost of its own accord, the numbness of his body fading only for the briefest of moments. His fingertip brushes against one of those stars, the light of it blinking like a golden firefly. Pain instantly erupts in his hand, up his arm, an acidic burn tearing through his veins.

Where am I?

The soundless question sends a shudder through the cosmos of the void, and Anderson recoils. The stars blink at him like thousands of eyes, staring at him from the inky blackness. It's almost as if they're watching him, seeing him in ways he has never been seen. Anderson averts his gaze, trying to close his eyes and sink into a blissful darkness, but he cannot remember how.

He can't remember how to stop a dream.

Tell me…

A soundless plea, a desperate prayer, but the stars remain silent. He can feel them on him, pressing against his soul like embers. He wants to cry out, to struggle, to scream, but the fear feels so distant. He reaches deep inside himself for that fear, tries to grasp onto it, but it seems just out of his reach. It's nothing but a vaguest fog of memories, sensations he can barely recall.

Anderson knows he cannot feel anymore. There's no emotion, no understanding of the pain digging into his body. He remembers, though; remembers what emotion feels like, knows that he should be screaming, crying, begging God for an end to this pain.

I don't understand. Why am I here?

The tremulous moon before him flickers and dies in the blink of an eye, the black shadows enveloping the silver glow. Anderson watches with rapt attention, trying to see through the inky blackness of nothingness. He tries to find some sign of life, some sign of reality within the void.

The stars disappear soon after the moon, vanishing like candles in a cold gust of wind. The burning sensation against his skin instantly stops, replaced by a vague numbness.

It's breathtakingly lonely, a dark place where he cannot feel, nor see, nor hear. There is simply nothing but the darkness, a suffocating blanket of it that crushes against his soul. There are no senses left to tell him where he is, just a distant stir of emotion he cannot quite reach. There are memories he cannot grasp, names he cannot remember.

Anderson voicelessly cries out, praying silently to God that his voice will come back to him, but the vacuum around him simply pulls his words away. The darkness smothers them before the sounds can reach his ears. Anderson tries to coil his body, tries to feel his own form, but he cannot seem to move. It's as if he's trying desperately to protect a body he no longer seems to possess.

Time passes without distinction, and he tries to make his mind determine how long it has been, but there is nothing but an empty space where the memory should be. Trying to recall time in the void quickly proves to be a fruitless effort. What does time mean in a place like this? And indeed, Anderson knows there is no meaning for such a thing here.

'This is what you wanted, isn't it, Paladin?'

A sound, a voice drifts out from the darkness. Anderson instantly tries to seek it out, to recall the meanings behind those words. He feels a pierce of hope run through him. A part of him wonders why it hurts so much to feel hope, but it's unimportant. He quickly banishes the feeling, concentrating instead on listening to the faint whispers coming from the shadows.

'Isn't that right, Paladin?'

Anderson's reply is tentative, voiceless, and he isn't sure if the creature hears it. Paladin? Is that my name?

There is a single light in the darkness, and Anderson feels joyful at the sight, joyful that he knows that the color is red. In an instant, he realizes he can remember colors, beyond the empty black of this void. The crimson glow in the darkness is an eye, he realizes.

An inhuman eye that's so familiar, so familiar…

'You wanted to stop feeling. To become nothing but a weapon.'

Anderson wants to deny the accusation, but whatever voice he possesses breaks like shattered glass, lost again to the void universe around him. There's something inside him that refuses to let him dispute the creature's words.

Anderson tries to reach out to the almost soothingly glow of the crimson eye, but his body seems frozen, seems utterly trapped in place. There's a vice he cannot see surrounding him, something that refuses to let him feel.

'You did this, Anderson.'

Pain tears through Anderson, the first real sensation, the first sensation that seems truly corporeal. It's not a blinding pain, it's the utter opposite, a white flash of light. It overtakes his vision, newfound vision flinching, trying to escape the agony.

Anderson tries to breathe into nonexistent lungs, tries to calm the fear that suddenly bombards his foggy mind, tearing him apart in some way he doesn't understand, a soul deep torture.

'You destroyed your humanity.'

Humanity?

Anderson struggles to remember this word, struggles to understand what it means. He knows what humans are, knows it somehow, even if he can no longer remember who they are. Anderson knows he isn't one of them, not really. He hasn't been quite human for a long time. He never really connected to their kind, never quite understood them.

'Are you satisfied?'

The answer is obvious, but Anderson tries to speak anyway, tries to deny accountability for whatever sins this creature is blaming him for. Still, nothing comes out, just a pang of sensation before the sound of his voice is swallowed into the darkness.

The shadows are devouring the lies he knows he's trying to create. He's desperately trying to fight that voice, that creature, a reflexive desire to prove him wrong.

The red irises are gazing at him from the shadows, like a predator. Distantly, Anderson knows the creature fangs, knows they're hidden somewhere in the cloak of shadows. He simply knows it; those fangs are the weapons of this creature, the very definition of this beast's identity.

'Do you want to relive your sin, Anderson? Do you actually want to remember?' There's a laugh in the dark, an unkind laugh, cold. 'I can see inside you, Anderson. You're begging me, aren't you? Trying to talk with lungs, even when you're not even breathing.' The creature gives another cruel laugh. 'You might as well have torn your lungs from your own chest.'

Struggling, Anderson stares at the crimson eye. A second eye flickers into view, a slanted mark in the void, almost a rip in the perfect blackness of it. There's a white crescent in the darkness, the pale grin of a Cheshire cat. A fanged smile.

What did I do?

The creature's grin fades, eyes narrowing into faint slits. Anderson feels a curious mixture of relief and fear at this, knowing the creature heard the attempt at communication, knowing he was not completely mute. But if this creature could hear that, could understand him…

Was it the Angel of Death? The Grim Reaper?

'And what makes you think you deserve to know your sins?' the voice growls. The shadows around the creature stir and shift, the faintest, most indistinguishable line of his body visible in the soft red glow. An almost human form, just like any other, yet still vastly different from any other human.

Two gloved hands reach out in the darkness, long fingers splayed out gently, seeking.

The first touch to Anderson's cheek is a painful shock, but he lacks the will or ability to pull away. The white finger traces down his jaw in the dark, almost sculpting his body back into existence, the fingers drawing his corporeal form back from the abyss. Anderson can feel the very faint tingle as his body begins to regain sensation, the tips of his fingers twitching restively; they're the only part of him he can move.

'You'll remember, Anderson,' murmurs the creature quietly.

The tingling sensation of the creature's fingers against his skin finally lessens into a gentle warmth, a comfortable feeling. Anderson tilts his head into the feather light caress. It's barely a shift, but the motion seems like the greatest of feats. His body is still paralyzed, frozen in a weightless cold. Even his lungs are still refusing to work, refusing to draw in a breath.

The crimson eyes stare at him from the dark, a thoughtful, almost placid expression in the creature's gaze. It's still not a kind gaze, and it sends a cold feeling down Anderson's spine. It's an icy stab against his heart every time those eyes meet his.

'Listen,' says the creature firmly.

Anderson speaks soundlessly, but the words still reach the creature. Its red eyes flicker to his fully. I am listening, says Anderson simply.

The creature scoffs, head tilting. Black shreds of blackness fall over the eyes, a serration of light falling over the crimson glow. It only takes Anderson a brief moment to realize hair fell in front of the creature's face, hair as black as the void itself. The long strands of it sway weightlessly, unheeded in the darkness.

Like water…

'You aren't listening,' drawls the creature, hand gently resting on Anderson's throat. 'Stop listening to me. Listen out there.'

Anderson isn't sure why the order seems reasonable, doesn't understand where out there is, but he listens anyway, brows furrowed in concentration.

Nothing happens at first, but before he can protest to the creature that there is nothing at all to hear, there's a violent shift in the universe. The blissful void is brutally cut away, and the stars are back, burning into his flesh like daggers. Anderson tries to scream out as the pain jerks through him, but his paralyzed body refuses to even shudder at the intense agony ripping through him. There's a burning heat in his veins, eating at him from the inside out like an acid.

'Listen,' whispers the creature again.

Desperate to finish his task, Anderson does so, straining his senses, trying to hear something over the pain. There's the faintest murmur, a vague sound. It's so far away Anderson can't find it, can't grasp hold of it. He tries to interpret it, tries to hear the vibrations of sound that seem to shiver against his body.

What is that?

The creature's hand soothes against Anderson's chest, but it does nothing to lessen the agonizing pain. The two sensations seem to intermingle, like a simultaneous caress of both dream and reality. The creature's fingers, the burning pain… they don't effect one another in the least. The pain does not lessen the pleasure, nor the pleasure lessen the pain.

'They're voices,' says the creature, voice staying carefully soft, not wishing to interrupt Anderson's concentration. 'Can you hear what they're saying?'

Anderson listens again, but there is still only a vague hum of sound from another world. The creature is right; they are undoubtedly voices, but there is no way Anderson can understand them. His ears feel smothered by something; it's the same sensation against his lungs, his body. Nothing he do seems to permeate his muted senses.

Nay, answers Anderson finally, body and mind aching with exhaustion. It's distorted.

The creature sighs, an impatient sound, but his voice does not betray his irritation. 'Then look,' says the creature. 'Open your eyes and look, Anderson. And tell me what you see.'

Anderson doesn't argue this time, just accepts the creature's words. He doesn't have the stamina to debate it anyway.

Desperately, Anderson tries to open his eyes, to see the other world, that other place he is trapped inside. The second reality that the creature speaks of is certainly there, just on the tip of Anderson's consciousness. It's as intangible and elusive as a fading dream.

His body feels suddenly heavy, descending slowly into consciousness. It's a curious discrepancy between the two worlds, one that he does not care to understand. He knows the void is just some twisted form of a dream, yet he is sinking into to a heavy consciousness that seems far more surreal than any fantasy.

His eyes drift open, and the black world is suddenly torn away as a bright light blinds his vision, a dappled silver glow shining through a watery surface.

Anderson still does not breathe, and he realizes his lungs are filled with the water. Yet, it isn't water; too blue, too thick to be water. It feels like liquefied air, suffocating him as well as nourishing him. He can feel the substance deep inside him. His lungs are freezing with it.

It comes as a distant, hazy revelation that this is why he hadn't been able to speak; he's drowning in a liquid air.

This isn't the first time, either. Those years ago, when the Iscariot had those scientists give him regeneration, they had kept him like this. In a cold, black sleep, so deeply unconscious it had felt almost like death.

The sting of fear that strikes into him is as sharp and utterly precise as a blade, tearing brutally at his insides. This is too real, too familiar.

Anderson can scarcely see beyond the cerulean liquid, just a pale whiteness of a room that he now knows can only be a laboratory. There are bright lights shining down at him from the ceiling, stinging his eyes, and he desperately wants to move, to tilt his head away from them.

But his body is still numb, completely unrelenting to his will. His fingers twitch just faintly in the thick liquid, but it is still all he can manage.

There's a shift of movement, and a man donned completely in white – a scientist, he realizes – moves towards him. Anderson tries to close his eyes and succumb to the void again, a void that seems far more precious than anything else, especially now that he knows where he is. His eyelids don't even twitch, and he stares at the man that comes to a halt in front of the glass. Even in the distortion, Anderson can see a pair of striking blue eyes.

Unfamiliar eyes, but that cold, cruel curiosity is something he recognizes.

The scientist holds up something, a white remote that Anderson feels he should remember, and a moment later – almost far too quickly – the void is back. The pain he felt before has completely vanished, leaving a sense of clarity, and he knows now what those stars actually were.

Needles. Hundreds of needles, stabbing deeply into his flesh. Whatever liquid it was being forced into his body was unbearable, a scalding heat that seemed to reach every inch of his soul.

But Anderson pushes the recollection of that pain from his mind. The agony is gone, along with the definitive sensations of his body; it's a blessed relief.

The Doctor was there.

It's not simply 'a' doctor, not in Anderson's mind. The title seems appropriate, and he knows, somehow, that The Doctor is an important figure. It's someone that both he and the creature had known in the tangible world. At the very least, they have both known of The Doctor. Anderson can't quite recall a face, nor a voice to fit the mysterious man.

The creature moves closer, the glowing eyes staring into Anderson's sharply, as if he's trying to see the memory himself. Whatever he is looking for he finds, because his white mouth is suddenly grinning, a grin of triumph. But Anderson doesn't care at this point, doesn't care about the lab or the scientist; it just feels like a repeat of years long past.

There are more important things at hand.

Who are you?

The creature barks a short laugh, a cold sound that Anderson can almost feel. 'You still don't remember?' he asks, a taunt in his voice. 'Nothing at all?'

Anderson feels himself tense with irritation; the creature is teasing him, even now, in this dream world. It's familiar, the anger than he feels towards the beast with red eyes. He doesn't know what's causing it, doesn't understand why he feels such vindictiveness towards it. Anderson doesn't feel any real fear of the creature, no real hatred. It's just an honest to God feeling of utter annoyance.

The aura of the creature is a competitive one, and Anderson feels like he's lost somehow. Lost a game he doesn't quite remember playing.

If I remembered, would I be asking?

The creature chuckles quietly. 'Touché, paladin,' concedes the creature, amusement clearly marking his tone. 'It is nice to see you haven't lost any of your infamous mordacity. I was almost worried your personality would be a casualty of your pitiful attempts at being omnipotent.'

You're ignoring my question.

The creature shakes his head. 'No, paladin,' he replies, sounding uncharacteristically serious for the briefest of moments. The crimson glow fades as the creature closes its eyes. 'I'm only looking for a memory.'

Anderson doesn't even have the chance to question this, because a moment later there's a blinding flash of blinding light. Suddenly, too suddenly, gravity is present again. For the first time in too long, he has a body again, he has fully functioning senses.

Anderson reels back in shock at the sudden, inexplicable shift, nearly overthrowing his balance with the movement. His head is hazy, eyes bleary as he tries to reassert his senses, senses he hasn't used so clearly in what seems an eternity. Anderson manages to catch his balance before collapsing, staring at his surroundings with a feeling of grim familiarity.

There's nothing but destruction, a frozen moment of war. The particles of ash and dust hang in the air weightlessly, the smoke from the fires frozen in its ascent. Anderson remembers this, remembers that this place is the battlefield of the war.

Vampires, ghouls, and werewolves had once tormented these lands. They had become a living nightmare to the humans.

'Don't tell me you don't remember this, Anderson.'

Anderson's head snaps up to the voice, eyes falling on the form of Alucard standing before him, the proud vampire, the enemy. Anderson's fingers tighten, body instantly poised for an attack against the heathen. He remembers this man well, this repulsive monster that once dominated his mind. The vampire had stolen away his every waking thought with painful ease, eventually becoming a nightmarish obsession that Anderson couldn't seem to shake.

Alucard laughs softly, a coldly vicious grin drifting over his features. 'I remember that fire in your eyes, priest,' he purrs, a disturbingly seductive tone in his voice. 'I never thought I'd have the chance to see it again.'

'Why are you here, vampire?' snaps Anderson. He hears a heavy accent in his own voice, and distantly recalls that he's from Ireland. It's nothing but a menial tidbit of information, but a promising sign nonetheless. The memories – all of them – are beginning to drift back to him. The recollections are sudden and varying in importance, like piecing together a broken mirror.

Alucard steps closer to him, hand tucked casually in his pocket, other hand grasping an obsidian gun with a pale inscription on the side. 'You disappeared,' says Alucard quietly, iridescent eyes upturned to the sky, focusing onto the moon. 'I left you for dead, but no one ever found your body afterwards. No sign left of you to speak of.'

Anderson only vaguely remembers this. There's an obscure memory of being only half-alive, yet someone was moving him, dragging him away from the battlefield. Anderson almost tells Alucard this, but doesn't, keeping carefully silent. The vampire doesn't really need to know, and Anderson doesn't feel like speaking of it.

At least, not until Alucard tells him the exact reason they are speaking now.

'The Millennium was destroyed. Their Führer is dead, their Captain gone.' Alucard's eyes darken in thought, lips drawn into a scowl. 'To my knowledge, only two of the Millennium survived. A vampiric doctor simply called 'Doc,' and a hybrid creation named Schrödinger.'

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but no memories of the boy readily present themselves.

'A boy that's neither dead nor alive,' adds Alucard thoughtfully. 'I wasn't able to kill him.'

'Can't manage to kill anything that doesn't die by your gun, eh?' mutters Anderson, impatience creeping into his tone. He almost adds that Alucard hadn't managed to kill him either, but it would have been an overstep of pride. According to Alucard, he had been left for dead. If that much is true, then Alucard truly had won.

'The Doctor slipped away before I was able to find him,' continues Alucard, blithely unperturbed by the insult. 'Schrödinger bought him enough time to escape.' From the look on Alucard's face, it is clear that he has no lingering respect or amusement for the cat boy. 'Two survivors is more than enough to start the entire process over again. Decades from now, they would be able to compile an army again. Every time Millennium regroups, they have more knowledge. The more knowledge they have, the closer the come to being able to best me.'

The vampires frowns, brows furrowing in thought. 'Unfortunately, this time around they decided to begin using my personal acquaintances against me.'

'The butler,' says Anderson suddenly, a brief flash of memory flittering over his consciousness. It's a memory of a dark-haired vampire, metal wires threading through his fingers like cat's cradle.

'And you,' adds Alucard, eyes flashing with simmering irritation. 'You nearly killed me, Anderson. Came closer to it than anyone in the Millennium ever has or ever will. And that drew their attention.' A frustrated sigh escapes the vampires lips, fangs bared faintly in a expression of utter disgust. 'You're a damn fool, priest, and because of it, we both nearly got killed. And because of it, you're now very close to becoming a puppet for Nazis and monsters.'

Anderson instantly feels disgust at the thought. Millennium has him now, slowly brainwashing him for their own goals and dreams. No matter where he goes, he is always used, always a scientist's game.

The vampire turns away slightly, eyes focuses on the scenery, on the frozen vision of London burning to the ground. 'I warned you, Anderson,' he says. 'I warned you that committing suicide would never end well.'

Anderson growls, stepping forward to the vampire, grabbing onto the creature's forearm. He pulls hard, so the vampire is facing him. 'I did not commit suicide,' he says darkly, fingers digging into the vampire's arm like a vice. 'I would remember that.'

The vampire raises an eyebrow at this, a condescending glance that causes Anderson's blood to boil, hatred and utter irritation washing over him. 'You did commit suicide,' insists Alucard languidly.

It's a statement of simple fact, and it bothers Anderson more that Alucard doesn't sound like he's trying to convince him. Alucard simply sounds like he knows it, has irrefutable proof of it that will halt any attempts of argument.

Anderson hates it when he knows Alucard has the upper hand.

'You stabbed yourself in the heart, with that,' says Alucard, nodding his head to the wooden nail in Anderson's hand. The priest nearly drops it; he hadn't noticed it before then, hadn't felt it. 'You stabbed yourself because you felt trapped, felt you had no way out. It was escapism, and an act of incredible cowardice. If that isn't suicide, then I don't know what is.'

Anderson's jaw clenches slightly in anger, but he doesn't debate it; there's no point to, not when he's so disadvantaged. His memories of the nail are fractured, distorted. He can only remember a few flashes of pure sensation, pure emotion; still, none of the memories are completely clear.

There's a rather vivid recollection of the stab, a pain that seemed to burn with all the fire of hell, sending shockwaves through his body like lightning bolts.

He also remembers that the agony of the wound had lifted almost as quickly as it had come, and he had suddenly felt weightless, untouchable. It was an ascension of power that was utterly intoxicating, utterly irresistible.

He wonders if that's how Maxwell had felt in the end, when he had been given control. Unstoppable, righteous… Godly.

And yet, all the while… Anderson remembers regretting it. Even amidst the rush of adrenaline, the superiority, he had felt regret. It was a constant, dull pain in his mind, something he couldn't quite grasp, nor simply push away.

'I want you hear you say it.'

Anderson looks at the vampire, lip curling. 'Say what?' he asks viciously.

A knowing smile graces over the vampire's features. 'I want to hear you say you regret it,' says Alucard, sounding imperturbably smug. Yet, the expression in the vampire's eyes doesn't quite match the tone of rampant self-satisfaction. 'I know you were thinking it, Anderson.'

The paladin glares, grabbing Alucard's throat, violently yanking the vampire closer. 'I will not,' he hisses fiercely, fingers tightening.

Anderson resists the urge to rip out the jugular, to harm the creature; this world is simply a farce of reality, a place that Alucard probably has complete dominion over. There is no point in beginning a fight when so lacking, trapped in a memory Alucard himself had conjured.

The vampire's smirk fades. 'You killed people, Anderson. Innocent people,' he says, voice rough with passion. 'You nearly killed me, and had you done so, the Millennium would still be infesting all of London. By now, they'd probably have the entire world. And because of your idiocy, you're a mere pet project to the enemy.'

Anderson's grip lessens just slightly, and Alucard steps closer, bodies so close he can feel the cold of the vampire.

'You yourself could be used to kill for their cause, to end the human world. And if it weren't for me, that's exactly how it would end.' Alucard grabs the cloth of Anderson's shirt, a possessive grip. He drags Anderson down, eyes at equal level. 'So I want to hear it, paladin! I need to hear it. Tell me you regret this, and I might consider finding you!'

'You arrogant–' begins Anderson, but he immediately stops himself. The vampire's eyes seem to fill with an odd light of resignation, of apathy. It's as if he's simply disconnecting from his emotions, banishing them from his mind completely. Anderson doesn't like the expression, doesn't want this. He doesn't want Alucard to just determine that he's trash and leave him to rot.

Because really, Alucard probably doesn't care about the human race one way or the other, doesn't feel that righteous drive to protect life. Anderson knows if he spites the vampire, Alucard might as well just let the Earth fall apart.

'I regret it,' says Anderson angrily. 'You know I do, you vampiric bastard. I'm always going to regret it, because I hate knowing you were actually right.'

Alucard grins. 'Thank you,' he says simply.

Anderson begins to retort, but it cut brutally short when Alucard's cold lips press against his hard, the sharp, needily fangs biting against his mouth. Perhaps in another world, another time, Anderson would have resisted, would have torn away and told Alucard exactly what he thought of human and vampire couplings.

But Anderson doesn't, it doesn't cross his mind to do so. He simply kisses back with equal ferocity, possessiveness, and both of their weapons fall to the ground, unheeded. Anderson's fingers grasp onto the form of the vampire's body with desperate force. The raw passion feels like power, a sensation that seems to grip his very soul, anchoring him to the lust, the brutal desperation.

Hazily, Anderson realizes that the vampire is much more lithe than he had once believed. There is a slender body hidden beneath the many tresses of the vampire's coat, one not comprised of hard, inhuman muscle. It is simply a normal body.

A great deal of trivialities strike Anderson in that surreal moment, like how Alucard actually smells of vanilla, not war and musk, or how the vampire's lips have an almost metallic flavor, one that doesn't quite taste like blood.

The vampire's kisses are hard and dominating, but Anderson persistently fights them. He sharply nips the moist flesh of the vampire's lips, mirroring the love bites Alucard gives him. He can feel the vampire's fingers raking against his flesh, a tear of cloth as Alucard brings him closer. Their bodies mesh together, so close that Anderson can feel every inch of the vampire's torso, every dip of muscle, every inch of his frame.

There's a sharp pain, a harsh bite against his lower lip. Blood dribbles down his chin thickly, the vampire's tongue greedily tracing the crimson fluid. Anderson manages to snap out a few muffled expletives at the vampire, but doesn't withdraw; withdrawing would mean surrender.

But Anderson also feels no inclination to stop. The exhilaration of it is far too addictive, the lust too compellingly violent.

The vampire's coat tears down the side when Anderson grasps it, a loud rip filling the air as the fibers of cloth separate. A slim shoulder is revealed, as well as a narrow chest that's nothing near the muscularity that Anderson had oft envisioned. But this form seems to fit Alucard; there's a strange grace to it, a predatory elegance that makes him utterly distinctive. Anderson runs his hand down the shoulder, over the collarbone and chest as he memorizes the vampire, increasingly frustrated by the presence of clothes. He wants to feel the cold skin, to feel the agile body in its entirety.

Alucard chuckles into the kiss, enthused. 'I thought you would have been much more difficult than this,' Alucard manages to say between harsh bites, a gloved hand running over the back of Anderson's neck. The fingers grip Anderson's hair tightly, and the vampire bestows another fervent, painful kiss onto the priest's lips.

'Bastard,' growls Anderson, with barely enough hostility to sound genuine. The vampire knows that it's a forced response, and he chuckles deeply, teasingly. Anderson can feel the vibration of the laugh within the vampire's chest; it's an oddly comforting sensation.

Anderson's fingers roughly snap the buttons of Alucard's vest, a hand seeking out the pale flesh. He barks a soft curse when he realizes he's still wearing his gloves, and he tears them off impatiently. The hand resumes its greedy exploration of the vampire's chest, his obsessive fascination with the creature's slender body only increasing tenfold. He wants to feel it all, the violence mingling with the lust and passion he feels for this creature.

But evidently, this is not to be so. Alucard abruptly halts the kiss, ceases touching the paladin, and Anderson is painfully tempted to cause serious harm to him for doing so. Anderson opens his eyes, glaring at the smirking vampire.

'Consider that two years of pent up frustration, Anderson,' drawls Alucard amusedly, a gloved fingertip tracing the scar along Anderson's jaw. 'I haven't had a good fight since you disappeared.'

It strikes Anderson that it should somehow be significant, the fact that two years have already passed since the war. But it doesn't bother him at all, not now that things are back where they started between them. Back to the more simple, enjoyable version of rivalry, back to the exasperating, yet harmless competition.

Nearly where we started, amends Anderson with grim amusement, moving a hand to brush away the blood from his lips. Some things had indeed changed.

'While I am rather enjoying this encounter, priest, I do have to go,' says Alucard, backing away from the embrace. He straightens the tear on his coat carefully, the fabric simply mending together on its own. 'But I want to know one last thing, before I go.'

'What?' asks Anderson roughly.

The vampire tilts his head inquisitively, mussed bangs falling across his eyes. 'Why weren't you breathing while you were in the void?'

It is hardly the question Anderson is expecting, but luckily one he can answer with ease.

'Some kind of liquid oxygen,' says Anderson quietly. Alucard simply fixes him with a piercing glance, silently asking him to explain further. Reluctantly, Anderson continues. 'The Iscariot used liquid oxygen on me when I became a regenerator. Easier to keep someone in stasis that way. It's not surprising that the Millennium would use something like that as well.'

'I see,' says the vampire, sounding too nonchalant, too casual. There is obviously something important about this information, but Anderson lets it go; if Alucard had wanted to enlighten him of the plans, he would have done so already.

It's of little importance at this point anyway. Anderson can tell that his time with Millennium will be a short-lived captivity; Alucard had already said he was coming for him. Despite everything he's learned about vampires throughout his life, Anderson cannot help but trust Alucard. He knows when Alucard is being genuinely honest.

The vampire looks around at the broken city, over the motionless flames, the slaughter. 'I rather miss this,' Alucard admits. Anderson is unsurprised by the admittance; Alucard has always been utterly shameless about loving war, loving death. As much as Alucard has done for the protection of humans, it's still more than clear that he is still of vampiric nature; he would never be able to resist his bloodlust.

'I don't miss it,' says Anderson dourly, and it is no lie. In his earlier years, war held meaning, held a purpose. But now it was nothing more than a disgusting business, utterly pointless. Even religious wars had become a tiresome burden; they were wars he had taken part in far too often.

Anderson would much prefer his rivalry with Alucard to the Millennium's war any day.

Alucard chuckles quietly, as if he knows to what esteem Anderson holds their rivalry. Which, realizes Anderson grimly, probably isn't far from the truth.

A gloved hand reaches out to touch Anderson's lower lip, the index finger lightly teasing over the small puncture wounds, gathering the droplets of blood. The vampire slowly pulls the hand away, sensuously licking the droplets of blood from the tip of his glove. The gesture seems far more intimate than the violent lust, far more tender. A vampire's kiss of affection.

'Until next time, my priest,' he says, and Anderson trusts that the promise is no lie.

The memory surrounding him begins to fade, the scenery of war vanishing into a colorless nothingness, Alucard along with it. In the blink on an eye, the darkness swallows the last lingering colors away, and Anderson is once again alone in an empty darkness. He feels the presence of the vampire disappear entirely from his dreams, leaving not even the faintest trace of himself in the black realm.

There is nothing left, no color, no sounds, not even the faintest residue of sensation. Yet, Anderson is content with this, content with the numbness.

Until next time, Alucard.