Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Tell Me How You're Feeling... ❯ Contemplation ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: The usual… Hellsing no mine. Anderson no mine (fortunately for him!) I'll put `em back when I'm done playing.

Splat.

A liquidy mix of watered down shaving cream and blonde bristles hit the sink with unerring accuracy.

Alexander Anderson scowled at the mirror, growling softly to himself and waging, once more, his war against his facial hair. He scraped a straight razor across his chin, then flicked the greenish foam from the blade with fluid skill.

Splat.

His growl increased in volume and intensity. His regenerating ability and the accelerated metabolism that accompanied it did more than heal injuries… no, it had some strange side effects as well, including rapid hair and nail growth. Shaving had become a morning ritual, right after brushing his teeth and before finding enough breakfast to fuel aforementioned metabolism for the morning, and usually he found it calming, almost meditative.

But the repetitive, soothing motions didn't ease his mind this morning. Not with the latest orders coming down from Maxwell.

Splat.

Anderson sometimes wondered how Maxwell had gotten into the Church. He lacked an intimate understanding of faith and of the Will and Word of God, and he certainly didn't understand the passion of being out in the field and doing the Lord's great work. Of sending the damned back to Hell where they belonged.

Nah. Maxwell was a paper-pushing politician, but he was good at it, at least.

But this…

Splat.

Anderson looked up at the shaving cream splattered mirror and repressed an urge to smash his fist into it. His violently short temper was no doubt part of the reason he was being punished.

And it was a form of punishment. As only the Vatican could come up with. It was the Iron Maiden of the modern age, and they were sending him to it.

"Well, now, Father Anderson… it seems to some of us," Maxwell had coughed discreetly, and Anderson had understood what us he was talking about, "that perhaps it might be best if you saw someone."

There was a long, awkward pause.

"Like a… therapist."

Anderson had stood dumb-founded, unable to find words to protest this injustice. Wha…?

Maxwell had taken advantage of his stricken silence, pushing on. "In fact, I insist. It'll be a good idea, and I know some good doctors who have worked with us before and would understand…"

"Worked with us… before?"

"Yes, with Yumiko. They would understand the kind of, uh, career you have and the pressures that go with."

Suddenly Anderson's mouth and brain had decided to work together. "You're what?!" He had slammed his fists down on Maxwell's large desk, leaning in close. You're sending a priest to a…!"

Maxwell had looked up coldly, frowning. "Yes, I am. If you have a problem with this, take it up with the Archdeacon. I will not tolerate your ranting in my office; I have other important issues to deal with right now. Your place is to follow orders, not question them!"

The Archdeacon had not been suitably sympathetic, and so Anderson had a morning appointment with one Doctor Dante Benedetto.

Anderson caught himself snarling at his own reflection and forced himself to drop the razor and rise the mentholated cream off. It didn't do him any good to stand here infuriated.

He dried his face and wiped his glasses, then took once last glance at the mirror, running a large hand over his short blonde hair. Good enough for now. He drew a pair of white gloves over his bare hands, and the barrier between his flesh and the rest of the world was comforting. The heavy writing on the back caught his eye, and he grinned ferally.

That should give the good doctor something to think about.