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"It's difficult to say, Sir." I was surprised by her candor, she had taken more care with such inquiries in the past. It always felt as if a small barrier, built by the strange juxtaposition of our ages and our roles to one another, had been there and now suddenly dissipated. I was familiar, by then, with her fathers tendency to blow past boundaries as if they were nothing more than smoke, asking deeply personal or potentially incriminating questions about my life and my desires and what I was doing on my (very limited) time off. They would be asked as easily as asking about the weather, throwing the wrathful teen i was out of balance. Her breech felt different. I was also familiar with her inability to be anything less than the person with the most integrity (pardon the pun) in any room she occupies. I knew her question came from a place of deep care, a bond we forged through grief and service to the Hellsing name. I knew my near betrayal of her, and all of my life weighed heavily on her. Not because she didn't trust me, which would have been bearable. No, Integra Hellsing never put blame on anyone other than herself when it comes to what is most important to her. She's wondering, subtly and without expression other than her usual calm blue gaze, what she did wrong. That's a simplification of her thought process, but in the end, she blames herself. As she does for far too much. Realizing I was lost in thought, I drew into a smile as I refocused. "I have had many positions over the years, and eventually, they all became part of one another." I took my time here, viewing the answer as critical to the continuation of a semblance of our former relationship even if she didn't. I wanted her to know how sorry I was that she had nearly had to pay for the sins of her father at my hands. We never spoke quite that candidly, however. "I take pride in my position, Sir Hellsing. The trials of being what I am to the organization are nothing in comparison to the positive impact Hellsing has had on the world in recent years." She would likely think I meant since the Millennium War, her constant rebuilding of London and our extermination of left behind FREAK vampires. Really though, I meant since she had taken over at the time of her fathers untimely death. While I was technically the interrim head of Hellsing until she became of age, I had never kept her from a round table meeting or from making a decision. Maybe some part of me knew I would need someone like her to pull my head out of my ass. Pardon the profanity. "My only true complaints lie with factors beyond our control, and even then, we always adapt, Sir." I inclined my head, my usual indication I was done answering her question. I briefly glanced at her cooling cup of tea from my place standing near her, noting the need for a refill.
A candid question wrapped delicately and expectantly in a desire for honesty. Integra had mulled on it for some time, perhaps even before the war. But it was only now she dared to ask. They were no longer licking their wounds, and the query felt less like rubbing salt in her own. She hoped it didn't tip an already precious scale to one side, one that made him feel as though she doubted him. Despite the events and Walter's near betrayal, or so it felt like, Integra found herself still clinging steadfast to the bonds forged between them by time, history, and familiarity.
She tips steepled fingers towards her chin with a soft exhale and thinks of lighting a cigarillo. Sir. A title she took pride in suddenly felt grating and like a blockade. She wanted to wave a hand at him and scoff and tell Walter there was no need for such formality. But it wasn't a performance or mockery, she knew this. And though their wounds were healing, some things were still tender, and this, she knew, was another attempt to keep them on a steady path. Truth be told, Integra was grateful for it.
"We certainly do, don't we?" A rhetorical question and an acknowledgment. Walter was right. It's what they do. Adapt. Adapt and march on. Wasn't that what he did? And still, Integra felt a strange sense of entrapment. The only thing she was adapting to was a strong shake in her foundations, the largest overhaul of staff since the Valentine Invasion, the loss of one eye, and the absence of Alucard - the other being that had been a constant throughout the years.
"Walter," she begins, only to give pause with the uncertainty of how to phrase the thoughts she carried. She didn't want to give an order but also didn't want to cross a delicate boundary. "I cannot begin to understand your actions, and I won't pretend to understand them any better now. And you don't owe any explanations or details to your personal reasonings. But I do ask for one thing..." Integra takes her now cold tea and drains it, unable to keep her features from twisting with disapproval. She loathed cold tea, but she couldn't stand to waste it either. "That if there is ever anything you need, do not like, or do not approve of, please speak up. What you have to say matters. And please don't refill my tea." The latter she adds with a small smile as she sets the cup back upon its saucer. What went unspoken but was clear as crystal in her words was that she would always adapt to the circumstances, just as he said, and she didn't want to have to adapt to a life without him in it. Not yet. Truth be told, the thought of losing Walter felt as though it might swallow her whole.
"Can I ask why?"
