Another Walter-Integra Hellsing drabble: Boggarts in Sleep
Instead of finishing one of my million WIPs, I started a totally new drabble.
At least I finished it in the same sitting.
Yep, Hellsing, and yep, Integra-focused. Briefly, it was to vent after having a horrible dream.
Title: Boggarts in Sleep
Word count: 353
Betaed: Vaguely. Didn't actually send it away, but got a couple of opinions on specific parts.
Rating: G
Walter entered the study at six a.m. to discover Integra stretched out on the sofa, still in her dress shirt and pants, her face buried in the pillows at one end while a dropped file sprawled on the floor, below her limp hand. Smiling, he went over to her and bent to shake her shoulder gently. “Sir Integra….”
After a few moments, she stirred, drawing her arm in slightly and raising her head a little - then, without warning, she seized his wrist with such speed and tightness that his reflexes almost jerked him away and into a defensive position. As it was, he was quite startled; even more so by how she had not raised her head to look at him, or enough for him to see her face at all. He could hear, however, her breathing, which sounded painfully fast and shallow.
Quite concerned now, Walter bent to his knees, as she maintained her fixed grip on his wrist. “Sir Integra, are you all right?”
Her breathing sounded more controlled now, and though most of her face was obscured by her hair, he could see how her eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth twisted. “Sir Integra?” he repeated, very softly.
Her hold on his arm lessened by a fraction, and Integra relaxed enough so that she was leaning her forehead on the pillow, though her face was still drawn into harsh lines.
“Walter,” she said at last, her voice very small, “you can still dodge bullets, can’t you?”
“I do believe so,” he answered, feeling rather bemused. At last, Integra let go of his wrist, moving her hand to instead push back her hair and turn her head to look at him, her expression much calmer now.
“It was nothing, I’m sorry to have worried you.” As Walter continued to look at her soberly, she sighed a little, closing her eyes briefly, and whispered, “We dream about what we fear most, don’t we?”
Walter stared at her, shocked once more, although he wasn't quite sure why; and it struck him again how very much responsibility this fifteen-year-old girl felt.
At least I finished it in the same sitting.
Yep, Hellsing, and yep, Integra-focused. Briefly, it was to vent after having a horrible dream.
Title: Boggarts in Sleep
Word count: 353
Betaed: Vaguely. Didn't actually send it away, but got a couple of opinions on specific parts.
Rating: G
Walter entered the study at six a.m. to discover Integra stretched out on the sofa, still in her dress shirt and pants, her face buried in the pillows at one end while a dropped file sprawled on the floor, below her limp hand. Smiling, he went over to her and bent to shake her shoulder gently. “Sir Integra….”
After a few moments, she stirred, drawing her arm in slightly and raising her head a little - then, without warning, she seized his wrist with such speed and tightness that his reflexes almost jerked him away and into a defensive position. As it was, he was quite startled; even more so by how she had not raised her head to look at him, or enough for him to see her face at all. He could hear, however, her breathing, which sounded painfully fast and shallow.
Quite concerned now, Walter bent to his knees, as she maintained her fixed grip on his wrist. “Sir Integra, are you all right?”
Her breathing sounded more controlled now, and though most of her face was obscured by her hair, he could see how her eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth twisted. “Sir Integra?” he repeated, very softly.
Her hold on his arm lessened by a fraction, and Integra relaxed enough so that she was leaning her forehead on the pillow, though her face was still drawn into harsh lines.
“Walter,” she said at last, her voice very small, “you can still dodge bullets, can’t you?”
“I do believe so,” he answered, feeling rather bemused. At last, Integra let go of his wrist, moving her hand to instead push back her hair and turn her head to look at him, her expression much calmer now.
“It was nothing, I’m sorry to have worried you.” As Walter continued to look at her soberly, she sighed a little, closing her eyes briefly, and whispered, “We dream about what we fear most, don’t we?”
Walter stared at her, shocked once more, although he wasn't quite sure why; and it struck him again how very much responsibility this fifteen-year-old girl felt.