Hellsing—Broken Wings

Disclaimer—I do not own Hellsing.

Title—Broken Wings

Synopsis—Sick, Integra Hellsing finds herself entertained and even at the mercy of her pet-slave, Alucard.

Rating--Drama/Parody. PG-13

Author's Notes—This is an one shot. Again, I dreamt this. I don't think there's any specific timeframe for this.

It was winter in London, England. Thick fluffy coats of the purest snow coated the ground in a frozen and timeless embrace. Icicles swathed the pine-trees. The glass of the 19th century windows in Hellsing Manor were heavily fogged as the coldness of nature tried to invade the warmth of the house. The Holidays were approaching, Christmas especially so the estate had been decorated to perfection, hanging misatole, colorful and flashing lights, Christmas trees, recorded music like Jingle-bells, Santa-Baby and Holy Night echoed through the corridors.

Everyone seemed prepared and even anticipating the coming Holiday and especially the social gathering between the Hellsing Organization, the Royal Order of Protestant Knights and the newest guest, Iscariot Agency—save but one individual.

Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing.

The great Director sat, reclined on a heavily cushioned divan sitting peacefully in the family library. An assortment of books, well-aged documents and Hellsing records were laid out before her, sprawled on her fluffy wool blanket. It was a mess. An organized clutter, the voice inside her head noted sweetly. She smirked, removing her glasses and proceeded to polish them with a handkerchief. Blinking through the haze of her horrible and poor vision she placed them onto their rightful place on the bridge of her nose and continued to work. Casually her eyes glanced out the frost-covered window and out at the snowy estate with a sense of resentment and envy.

A memory flashed across her mind—her as a child, wrapped in wool gloves, scarf and hat playing and dancing in the fallen snowflakes, as a younger Walter Dornez watched intently with an amused smiled tugging his lips. Her breathed fogged in the presence of the cold air and the snowflakes melted against her hot cheeks, as she labored making, snow-angels and snowballs.

Adult-Integra watched her entity disappeared and suddenly the weight of the demanding-papers seemed unbearable and endless. It was quite clear that her precious childhood had been robbed and those years were dead and lost as the memories that resurrected them.

And Integra almost choked on another memory, which threatened to rise from the decadent past—lying in bed on a Sunday morning with Teddy in her arms, warm and safe, smelling Walter's blueberry muffins and Yorkshire pudding and her father's cigar smoke floating like the song dancing on the senses. No demons or duty to be concern about—just nothing but innocence and normalcy. Perhaps if she was a weaker person she might have burst into salty, melancholic tears, but never her, Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing.

Crying was a weakness that she could not afford.

The Holidays were an annual time for celebration; however, instead of being lost in mirth and entranced by the Christmas lights and music, she was slightly annoyed and sick. Once, she cursed her mortality, finding that it was nothing but pain and weakness. Her limps ache and felt heavy like iron. She was stricken with a fever; however, Integra shivered and teeth chattered against some unseen chill. Trapped inside her chest her heart pounded against her ribcage and her lungs gasped, greedy and eager for sweet air. Besides her beloved Glock .45 a box of Puffs tissues became her best friend. Somehow she managed to dress in her typical ashen-black suit with a red-tie; nevertheless by mid-afternoon Integra discarded the jacket, loosen the tie, kicked off her shoes and unfastened the first two buttons.

The paperwork was not even a quarter-finished when the Butler came.

He bowed humbly before his sickly Mistress and reported, "All preparations have been set. Double-checked, as well. The Protestant Knights and…" he added lower, "Iscariot shall be arriving shortly." A pity, really. Of course, it had not been Hellsing's original idea to invite their arch-nemesis to their Christmas Holiday celebration—that discreet honor belonged to the mutual agreement between the Queen and his Holiness, the Pope. They hoped to smooth out any tension between their agencies. It was a foolish hope to expect so much. Murder was more expected than peace and understanding. Nevertheless, Hellsing had reached the point-of-no-return.

Of course, Integra was not exactly thrilled about Enrico Maxwell either.

Clearing his throat he added, "I have also taken the necessary precautions to ensure that Paladin Anderson and Lord Alucard avoid each other during this assembly. You would, I believe like to keep a somewhat healthy relation between Iscariot…and the Royal Order."

She had to laugh at that.

A series of violent coughs violated her, shaking her body without a shred of mercy. She rolled her eyes before blowing her nose into an already drenched handkerchief. Integra sniffed and returned to her paper; however, the Butler placed his gloved-hand on hers, momentarily stopping her foolish conquest. He glazed at her and compassion filled his soft gray stare. Walter pleaded, "I implore you Madame. You are not well."

Integra waved him into silence with the sharp raise of her hand. Her voice was raspy but somehow she managed to maintain her cool and even pace, "I am perfectly able to function."

The infamous and yet retired Angel of Death smiled grimly. He explained meekly, "I am not questioning your ability. Indeed, I cannot argue that your leadership means a great deal to the Hellsing Organization—but your health and well matters much more, concerning the Seals…"

The daughter of Hellsing grew silent. No more words or explanations were needed; Integra perfectly understood what he referring.

"Surely Walter, you do not think that a common cold would kill your Hellsing Mistress?"

"Not a common cold, but perhaps foolish stubbornness." True enough, Hellsing-descendents had iron-wills, which sometimes could only be broken by death itself. Her glaze turned to the frost window and beyond the glass, to the endless desert of rice, cold and snow. "I trust that you shall take personal responsibility for your health…and take the necessary measures to hasten your state—" he took the documents with a sharp tug and continued, "starting with quantity rest."

It was useless to argue against the Butler.

He exhaled and asked, "Shall I bring your tea?"

She nodded.

"Anything else, Sir Integra."

She lifted the empty box of Puffs-tissues and exchanged a distraught look with him.

"No words needed. I shall bring two boxes." And he exited the room.



Alucard melted through the wall and stepped into the grand and empty kitchen, startling an unexpected Seras Victoria. He ignored her and the Pip, who was polishing his switchback blade and lost staring at her blessed curves and busting beasts.

The No-Life King approached the Butler, who wore a pink apron reading "Kiss the Cook," and a mirthful expression on his aged face. "Ah…Lord Alucard, awake from your slumbering? Would you care to consider about joining us for a modest and light breakfast before our guests (meaning Iscariot, of course) arrive?" His eyes traveled to the silver platter of thick pancakes, blueberry muffins, syrup, scrambled eyes with cheddar cheese and butter toast with strawberries and apple slices. A light breakfast was a bit of an understatement.

"You know too well Angel that I cannot digest solid food." Alucard peered at Seras, who was wiping the syrup from her cheeks and hiding her plate. He chastised harshly, "And neither should you, childe. What a troublesome thing you are. Pathetic. A disappointment."

Pip stood up.

The Butler paused and inquired, "Whatever is troubling you?"

The French-Captain mumbled, "Fucking twig up his undead ass."

Alucard said, "Integra…"

Walter finished his sentence, "Is ill, I am afraid."

"I cannot sleep with her restlessness." He flopped down on a nearby stool.

Walter explained, "I have done all the persuasion I can manage."

Alucard studied the abandon prescription bottle addressed to Sir Integra and passed a glance at the discarded cup of hot coco, as an idea sprung to his twisted mind. He had a wicked expression on his smug face. Laughing at his own cleverness, he popped the lid off and dumped several pills on the counter. "I am afraid that persuasion is no longer an option. Force or deception is agreeable for me. How many pills are given?"

Growing increasingly suspicious Walter frowned and reluctantly answered, "Dr. Trevalin said 2 tablets. The medicine is powerful. I am almost fearful to ask, what devilry are you planning?"

"I think it is quite obvious." He crushed two tablets into a fine powder and deposited it into a mug of hot steaming coco.

Seras gasped, "You are not going to poison her, are you?" As Alucard as her sire, Police-Girl learnt never to underestimate or understand his action, no matter how odd or disturbing.

"I believe 'drug her' would be the proper term, wouldn't you say?"



"I must say how exquisite you look Master," came the sultry sweet of the great No-Life King.

A rare-seen smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but her expression hardened, as it also does in the presence of the No-Life King. "I am not in the mood Alucard. No games." Lacking the strength to take the Glock .45 and blow his face into an unrecognizable pulp, Integra merely buried her face in the goose feather pillow, half-hoping that he would abandon the room and seek his daily source of entertainment from his fledging, Seras Victoria or the fowl French-Captain, or even the Hellsing staff—anyone but her.

Nope. The vampire was content to stay.

"But you forget that I am always in the mood."

No doubt he was smiling that horrible Cheshire-cat grin.

Integra closed her eyes, pulling the wool blanket closer and around her neck. Heaving out an exhausted sigh she mumbled, "I am sleeping."

Alucard smirked and accused playfully, "Liar." A mechanical laugh escaped him as he swept aside his trailing and infamous trench coat and sat at the end of the divan. Hidden within the mass of long inky-black hair, his familiar pair of ruby-stone, wild and bloodthirsty eyes stared down at her and below it there was a malicious smile, half-grinning in cruel pleasure. The figure scrutinized the maiden, the taking in the rise and fall of her chest, the droplet of moist on her lower lip, closed eyes, the silvery stands reflecting in the sunrays and the steady pulse beating in her slender neck. His gloved-hand grasped her exposed ankle and his touch was like crystal ice, causing Integra to wince and retreat her foot into warmer comforts.

At the close distance he could breath in her sweet scent—cigars, lavender and virginity. It was fascinating combo and very pleasing to the senses. Suffering with a fever sweat glistered on her forehead, upper lip and neck. It was sweet, not sour. He mused, "You were always a horrid liar."

Eyes still closed she noted plainly, "Lying is a sin, Count."

He hummed in consideration. Alucard placed a hand on the back of the divan, tracing the golden-thread patterns with his fingertips. "Whatever is the matter, sweet Ignatius? O Pray tell me, have you lost your spunk? Your cheeks burn red. Are you blushing? That would excite me greatly."

Integra blew her nose and protested, "Alucard, I have a fever." Simple way of saying—not now, not never.

"So do I," he remarked suggestively as a glint shimmered in his eyes and grin flashed over his lips. "And it deepens at the sight of you, my Integra."

Her glaze darkened. "Sick or not, refrain from directing in such a possessive manner."

The No-Life King raised a pair of amused eyebrows, as if he was surprised and even impressed by her sudden strength. Alucard placed a hand next to her hip and beside her head as he leaned, hovering over her. There was a familiar smirk plastered on his pale aristocratic features. He was most likely invading her personal-bubble, but his Master remained silent and grim, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. "How curious of you! Hypercritic, would you not say? As I recall, you call me your slave and pet? I am yours," Alucard gave a modest inclination of his head before added, "As you are mine, Integra. Our relationship is mutual."

She smirked doubtfully. "I think 'dark and twisted,' are much more appropriate terms--Here I am sick and all you can think of is this."

"I am entertaining you," he explained.

She choked, "Entertaining me? Your definition of words never ceases to puzzle and furthermore confuse me."

He taunted, "Perhaps your excitement about the Holiday has frazzles your health. I had no idea that Iscariot would swoon you so easily. Perhaps Maxwell has finally charmed you."

"That is stupid and you bloody know it."

"I know…I know," he murmured as he pampered her. Alucard was gentle, which was a practice that he never was acclaimed for giving. He fluffed the pillow and smoothed out another blanket on her sickly form, his hand tucking the fabric around her like some personal cocoon. "I know what I can tempt you with and you would never refuse," he teased sweetly.

Half-asleep Integra mumbled, "Pray inform."

Alucard was only so thrilled to answer, "A mug of hot coco."

A dry laugh escaped her. Hot-chocolate was a childhood favorite that she had not enjoyed in years and the swirling dark, thick contents looked very appealing to her. The smell made her mouth water and her stomach practically beg for it. Dr. Trevalin told her to push the liquids. Alucard offered the warmth mug but she hesitated before accepting his modest and even innocent gift. It was so soothing and tasted sickly sweet.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He noted, "I can be kind."

"A rare exercise indeed," she replied evenly finishing the mug.

He simply beamed at her.

Integra frowned at his expression. She could not place it, which unsettled her. He peered closer and said with great delight, "There is something in your hair. And pray tell whatever is this?" Hearing this, Integra propped herself up on an elbow, watching his radical and questionable behavior. He flashed her a disarming grin as he reached behind her ear and pulled something out from her moonlit stands. Integra peered at the object in his hand— misatole.

She shook her head. "Remind me to lace your fledgling's blood with silver. It was her idea to place your dreaded things all over the house."

"Walter assisted of course."

Beats of silence followed as Master and Monster stared at each other.

"I am within my full right, Integra," his voice was wet with desire.


Before his lips touched hers, the medication in her tea had taken affect and a wash of drowsiness consumed her. Her lids were extremely heavy. Integra swooned, collapsing but Alucard flashed out, gripping her upper arms and slowly lowering into the comforts of the divan, thick blankets and pillows. Blinking away Integra cursed with her voice wet with malice, "Alucard…you bloody bastard."

"Doctor's orders."

He kissed her but Integra had already fallen into unconsciousness.

Alucard stood to his feet with a look of smug victory. The No-Life King passed one final look at his sweet goddess before a mechanical laugh escaped him and halted dead in his throat, as a daze of dizziness washed over him. His long tongue felt surprisingly thick and heavy in his mouth. Next his eyes drooped, feeling heavy and tired. Alucard licked his lips and at once tasted the sickly sweet aftertaste of her drugged coco. And vampires never react normally to medication, especially drugs and he was out before his knees hit the ground. He cursed, "Damnation."



A figure nudged her gently but Integra thirsty for sleep lashed blindingly out at him, almost knocking him over. Graceful and limber as a cat the stranger recovered nicely and fluidly. Returning back into her dreamless slumber was impossible and a fruitless practice now that she was awake. Stirring Integra moaned painfully, "Alucard I am going to kill you. Not shoot you, but kill you."

"Your pet is otherwise occupied," came a familiar voice.

It was Enrico Maxwell.

She sat up, staring into his hard emerald haze. Dressed in his priestly garbs, blond-gray hair sleeked back and flanked loyally by Paladin Anderson, who was staring at the figure on the floor with confusion. Perhaps the tiniest hint of a smile twitched on his handsome Irish face. Indeed. Alucard was occupied. The vampire was sprawled out at the front of the divan, asleep as the dead with a boyish expression on his face and the taste of Integra's kiss still on his lips.


Ha! Hoped you enjoyed it. Like most of my ideas, they come from dreams and I hope they never stop coming. I know I should be updating my series but this would not leave my mind. Please review me.

Author's Notes.

O Ignatius—Latin for "Fiery One."