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nuclearforest · 8 months

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the sun chases icarus

Crosspost to AO3 of a fic written at the behest of @zestyaahbutler, @rotten-hearts-sharp-teeth, and @hellogreyeyedathena where my girlboss Hellsing OC beats the shit out of Walter.

TW canon typical violence and torture; word count 4.2k

Walter had intended to avoid Claire for as long as time allowed; preferably until he died. His employer, Arthur, is naturally distant from the haughty misandrist during all interactions and rejects contact with her when at all possible. The butler and middle-aged monster hunter could understand where he got it from. Unfortunately, while the older Hellsing was occupied with his surrogate mother and newborn in the manor’s private chambers, the butler was left to entertain their guest.

She’d been invited to meet the young heir and, naturally, brought blessed gifts.

And when she came, she didn’t even wait to be picked up. She drove straight up to the manor in a rental car. Sweet talked the guards at the gate while they radioed back into the manor proper for clearance for her entry. She made idle chatter as they inspected the vehicle for unauthorized devices. She was far too early; something Walter might’ve appreciated if he hadn’t already started the car to drive into London to fetch her.

Somehow she was up to date on the local league soccer game results, exchanging remarks with the men on duty while he made his way inside.

“And you wouldn’t have believed he would score that goal until he did,” she waves a flippant hand, leaning on the tall walnut-boarded counter. She was a good head shorter than every man there and was dressed head to toe in a matching black and white houndstooth suit. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail with a tortoiseshell clip and when she turned to look over her shoulder at him, her curls bounced. “Well if it isn’t Walter!”

“Takes an American to ruin a Brit’s formality,” one of the men at her side laugh, almost faceless to the butler in his carbon copy suit with a neat Hellsing arm band pinned to place. Around him, the rest of the manor was in perfect order. Sprawling halls lined with artwork and richly papered walls. Early morning sunlight poured through high windows onto the red carpet and white tiled floor.

“Well you can’t quite blame me for my excitement—not every heir is born a girl! Won’t suffer the same hedonistic distractions as you lot.”

The men just guffaw around her, back to the football game from three days ago while they finish her paperwork and fork over a temporary guest badge. “Not all of us are like the Lord,” one of them says with a chuckle. Walter just frowns at the group and sighs.

“I’m afraid the Lord’s hedonistic distraction of the hour is his newborn daughter,” the butler announces, staring down his subordinates until they resume their guard positions along the walls in the reception area. “I will be your company until he emerges.”

The woman nods, flashing him a warm smile. “Maybe you can treat me to some proper tea this time.” Last time she visited was all business, helping assess a local coven for compatibility with the area. Why Arthur simply let them practice instead of banning them outright amounted solely to her meddling. Walter would’ve rid them all without a second thought.

“I suppose that will do,” Walter hums, stepping up to the counter and looking at the older man sitting behind with a logbook and notes for the week. “Send a message to the kitchen prepare a pot of tea, would you?”

The man nods and reaches for the phone. Claire taps the counter and shoots him a smile when he turns to look.

“I’m partial to something fruity, if you have it.”

“I’ll see what we have.” The man’s stoic face breaks into a smile and Walter bites back a sarcastic remark.

“Come along, now, I’ll show you to the parlor.” And with a wave of his hand, his escort duties begin. The blonde follows him down winding halls, quietly remarking about the paintings and greeting passing agents—damn Americans—as they go.

At least they reach the parlor quickly enough and Walter opens the grand old oak door, carved before the turn of the century, and holds it open for her to enter. Inside was a collection of antique furniture from the mid-1700s, excruciatingly maintained. Matching opposing chairs, recently reupholstered in red velvet, sat next to a patterned chaise lounge with a plethora of wooden tables surrounding them.

Forgoing his office, this was one or Arthur’s favorite rooms to make merry with work and with women. Along the wall opposite the door were grand windows staring down at the Hellsing estate. Along the same wall were bookcases with classic literature and crystal bottles of whiskey. At least one wooden carving of a horse to mark the time that Claire had hosted Arthur for the Kentucky Derby.

The same sunlight poured in and illuminated the room without the crystal chandelier over the head. Claire doesn’t even take a moment to savor the opulence of the room and just waltzes in, looking over the décor and humming before picking the seat with her back to the window and dropping down before the butler could even offer.

Just as Walter steps in, another servant arrives with a piping hot pot of tea. “Pardon me,” the young man bids, “but my Lord will be occupied for some time before he is able to see the company.”

“It’s quite alright,” Claire reassures him, crossing one leg over the other and smiling warmly at the man. “Thank you for the tea.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Walter cuts in before he can reply, taking his own seat and shooting the other staff member with a harsh look in warning to leave the dangerous guest to him. In no time at all they are left alone with the quiet click of the door as Walter pours a cup of tea and passes it off to her. Shame she doesn’t pay a moment of notice to the fine bone china with delicate purple florals and gold detail.

But that wasn’t so much the issue.

What was the issue was the look she was giving him: piercing blue gaze watching his pulse throb in his throat. Her face was blank, low wide smile and relaxed posture, slouched over in the antique chair, almost sinking under her weight. She held a teacup in one hand and saucer in the other, legs crossed like she was somehow a lady despite being a raging bitch and unrepentant monster.

It was already irritating that he couldn’t seem to relax around her. That the hair on his neck stood on end and his heart raced the second that damn door sealed them alone together.

“I didn’t think Arthur would make a good father, y’know?” she drawls before taking a long sip and looking just over the butler’s shoulder at the door. The crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly when her smile broadens and she lowers her cup. “He might beat my expectations yet.” She closes her eyes and leans back a little further. Even the nearby door at his back does Walter no good, feeling his hands twitch while folded in his lap.

Despite being an ally by name, every iota of her person was a threat to his existence and goals.

“Is this why he’s been ignoring my messages?” Walter braces himself.

“You know what he’s like,” Walter snaps, feeling his lip quirk in disgust when she laughs at his reply.

“And that’s why I doubt his parental capabilities.” She laughs, tilting her head back ever so slightly just so her curls bounce behind her shoulders where they’re pinned back.

That was the charm that had Hellsing’s standard staff and agents lowering their guard around her. A motherly, middle-aged woman that could chat and laugh with them like she, too, could relate to their humanity. And yet there was no household to keep. No children at school. No mundane job, even, to keep her busy. She was the head of the American Department of the Supernatural and had been through however many iterations there had been before, generations of humans ago.

Walter’s silence doesn’t deter her. Instead, she just takes another sip and cracks her neck. “You’ll have your hands full with both of them now.”

“I beg your pardon?” He finally bites.

“You know. With the both of them: father and daughter,” she sets her teacup down on the saucer and waves her hand in a circle. “No reasonable man would send a child to do an adult’s work.” Her sharp gaze somehow sharpens then, cutting through his person and sending him back into his younger years. When he was an orphan under the watch of Hellsing, sent out into warzones to be one of the youngest unsung heroes of the war.

“I may as well have been a man myself at the time,” Walter replies, finally reaching for his own cup on a silver tray to his left. The silver cross on a silver chain glints where it hangs at her collarbones. It was a mystery how a werewolf, for all intents and purposes, went unaffected. “I would say he made the right decision.”

Her smile drops and she shakes her head at him. “If you insist. But he’d better not do the same damn thing to that poor girl. If I knew, I wouldn’t have been on the Pacific the whole damn time.” She wrinkles her nose when she looks at him again, uncrossing her legs to let them spread.

How uncouth.

“Wasn’t the first violence I’ve seen and won’t be the last.”

“So the angel of death still flies?”

“As surely as the sun rises.” He narrows his gaze at her and takes a sip of his own cooled cup, hoping to impart some of the same intimidation she lorded over him. Loathe as he was to admit it, he could learn exactly how to project his presence from her. He’d spent so damn long learning how to hide that he’d never learned how to use it to suffocate.

A sharp rap on the door steals their attention. Her eyes flit over his shoulder and he turns his head. An agent quickly opens the door and steps in, suit neatly pressed and horn-rimmed glasses shining in the daylight streaming through the windows at Claire’s back.

“Pardon the intrusion,” he grunts, face serious as he steps over to Walter. Like it matters, the man leans down to whisper and Walter shoots him a glare.

“Remember your company,” he instructs.

“Of course,” the man straightens up, “the young madam is down for a nap and it seems that visiting hours will have to be delayed further.”

“I see.” Walter says.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Claire chuckles, “let the baby get her sleep. We don’t age that quickly.”

“Likewise my Lord has other matters to tend to and entrusts Walter to keep you entertained.” The man bows and turns on his heel before Walter can choke out a reply, vein in his forehead already bulging. Claire’s chuckle blows into a full-bellied laugh.

“He’s still leaving you to fight his battles!” She sits up a little straighter and smirks at Walter. “So how exactly do you entertain?”

The door clicks shut again and Walter resigns himself to his fate. “I don’t suppose you’d like a riveting game of chess?”

“’fraid not,” she replies with a shrug, “I’m a little too uncultured for that.”

Walter suppresses his choke with a slight cough and quickly covers it with a sip of tea.

“And as much as I’d love to walk in the garden, Arthur’s not going to want me snooping around to see what he’s growing. How about we play a different game instead?”

The butler sets his tea aside again and straightens his front, correcting millimeters of fabric out of place. Now this was the danger zone.

“What were you thinking?” his voice is low and he stares at her with his chin held high, defiant where she was likely expecting him to fold. The real chess game of sorts would be dancing around her from whatever she tried to pry. As she noted, the garden and their herbs were off limits, Athur’s orders.

“The Who, What, and Where.” She stops, smirk lowering into a smile.

“And the basis of that is…?” He offers a hand, palm side up, as a gesture of good will.

“I just ask you questions about the who, the what, and the where. It was a popular show around the office for a while,” she shrugs. “All the rage at holiday parties.”

“I see.” Walter stares at her for a solid minute in contemplation. She lets his eyes roam her figure, completely relaxed if not aloof. While tempted to turn her down, he can’t help but dread the next suggestion. If she wants something, she won’t let him go so easily. “I suppose we can play.” He settles back in his own chair, feigning the same level of comfort but with markedly more tact.

“Wonderful. So do you know Millennium?”

His blood runs cold. Her face remains cheerful, casual.

“They were the division of the Nazi military that dealt with the supernatural.” Walter answers curtly. “I dealt with them in ’45.” It takes every muscle in his body to remain even slightly slouched.

Claire nods her head. “Twenty-five dollars for a good answer. I’ll have to spot you later today—I’m afraid I don’t have any cash on me.”

“No need,” the butler grunts out, internally cursing that he didn’t just take her on a walk through the damned garden and couldn’t back out.

She laughs at that. “Well let’s just say you’re all in on the next question then.” She pauses and sips her tea. Walter’s heart almost stutters in his chest, a betrayal. “What is the werewolf project?”

“Their piss poor attempt to make werewolves before they gave up and moved onto artificial vampires,” he answers. His fingers twitch again, but he thinks better than to reach for his cup of tea.

“Gave up?” Claire tilts her head, “Are you sure about that?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m the one asking questions,” she corrects, blowing right over him as her smile broadens and her eyes narrow slightly. The cold fingers of fear grip Walter’s stomach. “Twenty-five dollar deduction. Let’s go for the next one—where is Millennium stationed now?”

Walter jumps to his feet. “Are you accusing me of failure?” That’s the first thing he can think to confront her with, but in a flash, what remains of her tea spills all over the Persian carpet and she’s grabbed his neck in one hand, suddenly standing.

His trained eyes are fast enough to catch her movements, but his body is too old to function against something near immortal and unaffected by the march of time. With unnatural strength she lifts him ofrom the ground, muscle suddenly taught under her neatly pressed shirt with the seams threatening to rip.

Sharp canines stand more prominently just behind her lips.

“I wouldn’t say failure,” she slurs out in a half-growl. “Come on, Wally,” she sighs, “it’s scary to be a kid sent into a warzone.”

He struggles to breathe in her grip and raises his hands to uselessly grasp at her arm. Damn the gloves, that don’t let him uselessly dig his nails into her skin. Damn the silver wire, which would have no effect whatsoever on her flesh.

“Try to convince me this time.” She drops him and he lands on his feet, sinking lower to avoid a stumble that would otherwise send him to the ground on his rear. Her smile falls into neutrality, and her once happy eyes are open and cold, scanning his body for every twitch of muscle.

Walter takes her gracious pause to catch his breath, straightening his front again. This time it’s more than a few millimeters out of place.

“Millennium is the defunct branch of the Nazi miliary that specialized in the supernatural,” Walter repeats with a measured voice. “They had two projects—both of which you have reports on. Alucard and I eradicated them. There is no current base of operations.”

“Alucard didn’t eradicate shit,” Claire grunts, cracking her neck again. “He’s the laziest bastard I’ve ever met. And as for you—you were a kid. And I am not a damn fool.” She snorts and the faintest breath of smoke follows. The faint scent of sickly sweet applewood spreads around her and Walter wonders if he could be looking at a demon out of hell. “I won’t be nice if I have to ask again.”

Instead of snapping back that she isn’t nice now—a surefire way to see what interrogation tactics she’d be testing, the butler steels himself. He just has to buy time. It was a mistake to not have a panic button—to be alone—but he was the only one that could take her.

“The Werewulf project,” Walter starts with an emphasis on his pronunciation, “was a failed attempt to create more werewolves. If—hypothetically speaking—a scientist had escaped and resumed work, we would not know what that work entailed nor their current base of operations.”

Claire tilts her head to the side and closes her eyes. Taking this relaxation as a break, Walter takes a silent step to move behind his chair to get something between them and she lunges. He goes down with a graceless thud, wrestled onto his front despite pitting his entire strength against her as she pulls his arms back and folds them across like he were some lowly convict to be arrested.

“Now, hypothetically speaking, if some of my good friends in government had a Werewulf recipe, that would imply the existence of a living scientist.” Claire all but growls in his ear. Her breath tickles the hairs on the side of his head. Her heat and weight on top of him are crushing—she is far more than the average human and now she is bearing her hand. “I’m going to learn everything you’ve got on them.”

She exhales again and a puff of smoke hits his face like she is a raging bull staring down a red flag.

“Think wisely before you try to bullshit me again. You’re not a kid anymore and I’m not as lenient with grown bastards.” The slur of her words make his stomach churn. From the floor, he can only hope the agents heard the commotion. If he screamed, there was no predicting what the wild animal on his back would resort to. Murder was not out of the realm of possibilities.

“I have nothing further to tell you,” Walter snaps only to bite his lip when, with a flick of her finger, she breaks the pinky on his left hand. The crack was not the worst thing he’d heard, but he had only 9 left before she had bigger bones to go for.

“Try again.”

“Go to hell.”

Crack.

He grits his teeth and muffles a cry, writhing underneath her until he can get a grip on himself. His fingers throb and he looks up at the door, somewhat blurred with his monocle having slipped from his nose. Not nearly close enough with the immovable weight on his back. The butler tries for another deep breath and he can feel her stare right through him as he inhales somewhat shakily.

Despite his best efforts, he is not as good as he was in his prime.

“Can’t you respect top secret information?” Walter tries, wincing when her laugh shakes him.

“Not when it’s in my back yard, Wally.” She takes the breaking hand and pats his head, running her fingers through his hair in a way that almost has his heartbeat slowing before she tangles her fingers in it and lifts up. “You ain’t covering for Arthur, here,” she rumbles.

“Weren’t you the one remarking on his competence?”

Claire immediately knocks his head into the floor, nose first. The carpet is not enough to cushion the blow and his nose makes another softer crack. His head starts to spin and blood trickles out onto that same carpet, down his lips and onto the floor.

“You’re awfully callous in the house of your allies,” he grunts.

“You’re not being very allied,” she quips back, flat face reemerging into a smile that Walter can pick up out of the corner of his eye. The throb in his hand and now in his face is a keen reminder that she doesn’t care about the repercussions. It is a sign of feral desperation. It is a monster that turns to the one thing that usually works. He will not let her win.

So he proverbially bites his tongue and settles on the floor. She can beat him further, but she won’t know. He won’t threaten his life’s work over a project he knows nothing about. That’s the least of his worries.

The werewolf gives a pause for his silence, fingers tightening to pull his hair in a way that makes him almost gasp. But like she can feel it she lets him go with a huff and a sneer, glowering down at him with glowing blue eyes and a disgusted quirk of her lip.

The wordless exchange results in another broken finger that has him wheezing, starting to struggle under her body mass as she threatens to crack his ribs when she tests a light bounce.

“Looks like you don’t mind the fingers,” she snarls, “how would you feel about a little lick of fire?” She leans low and huffs in his ears again. This time, thick smoke seems to unfurl from her tongue down his cheek, mixing with his blood and taunting him with that same sickly sweet applewood and a hint of death. Embers leave a near pinch on his skin when they land.

“Doesn’t matter what I tell you,” Walter struggles, ignoring the smell as his hair starts to singe and a sweat breaks out on his skin. Her hand almost burns where she holds his wrist. His whole hand throbs.

Crack.

Another finger and she chuckles darkly above him. “I’m really running out of patience,” Claire slurs, “and I don’t believe in that new age shit like waterboarding.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that’s a mercy?”

“Well, it’s hard to answer when the water is boiling.”

A bead of sweat drips down Walter’s forehead. Claire puts more of her weight on his chest and he struggles to breathe, air hot and dry in a way that burns his throat.

Crack.

The last finger on his left hand. Finally he gasps, heart racing in his chest as he stares up at that piercing blue gaze. The reaper, fueled by the fires of hell, closes in.

“Last chance.” Claire’s voice is almost indistinguishable between the deeper slur and the pounding of his blood in his ears. Walter pants, chest uselessly heaving as she leans down to hiss near his ear again, promising a wicked scorch.

Then, the door opens.

Claire is off his back, warm smile surely on her face. The heat recedes.

In the hallway, Walter looks out at the other agent that just arrived and knows his blood, too, runs cold at the sight of an unrepentant monster. “T—the Lord of the estate wishes to see you,” is all the agent can stammer, wide eyes falling to the not broken but still bloodied man on the floor. When he wheezes without her weight on top of him, he figures she might’ve cracked a few ribs anyway.

“Is that so? What a right shame. Wally and I were having a pleasant discussion.”

The other agent opens and closes his mouth before shaking his head. “Follow me.”

“Will do,” Claire drawls. Walter turns his head to look up at her and her smile widens to a sickening degree. Just as she lifts a foot to step over him, she delivers a swift kick to the ribs leaves a resounding crack and leaves him coughing up blood.

As a final fuck you, she reaches back to crush his monocle with her other foot and walks towards the now terrified agent. The man pulls his gun from its holster and, with admittedly straight aim, orders: “Ma’am step away from the agent.”

“No need for that,” Claire chortles with raised hands like she hadn’t just been on her way to beating him to a pulp. “I’m coming peacefully.”

The other agent bites his tongue but nonetheless leads her out. Behind him, other agents with a medic flood in to tend to him. They had heard the commotion and the interruption took only minutes. Even Arthur’s voice, chastising Claire down the hall for getting rough without him present—was a welcome reassurance that the hard part was over.

In the back of his mind, Walter knew Claire wouldn’t threaten the head of Hellsing, or double back around for him, or even be welcomed on the grounds again while he was present. They had learned. It was a dangerous slip that ultimately costs the butler the dexterity in one hand and a slight imperfection to his otherwise symmetrical face, but it’s the smallest price he can pay for his chance at glory. If anything is suspected by his countrymen, it isn’t brought up.

#hellsing ultimate #hellsing oc #hellsing fanfiction #fire lady claire #mun's snippets #walter c dornez #arthur hellsing #if claire and amulya were in the same universe then claire would divorce arthur for her #and if claire were with sabine or june then their hans' would learn to fear #claire's motto is gaslight gatekeep girlboss #she can and will mother any woman in need of guidance she finds and she LOVES integra and seras

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