A short start for an idea I'm toying with. There only a few fics for this pairing so I thought I'd give it a try and also try and spin it off from another direction!

I do not own Hellsing.

Integra lay in bed, alone and silent. She claimed that she could not sleep, but it would have been more true to say that she did not dare sleep.

First introductions, it was said, were the most lasting… and what an introduction to Iscariot that day had been!

She had heard the name of Iscariots leader before that day of course, and assumed that he knew of her reputation too. She knew to expect a zealot because anyone who commanded the killer priest the 'Paladin' Alexander Anderson would surely have to be cut of the same cloth.

She was prepared for a confident and forceful personality in the man who commanded her would-be allies because Iscariot was the Vatican's largest and most aggressive military unit and it wasn't the sort of organisation that a weak individual could take charge of and hope to keep in check without a strong character of his own…

But biggest shock to her had been the age of the man – she'd though he would be at least middle aged or maybe even an old man. But to meet someone who was only just her senior by a handful of years...!
And handsome...

Her gut twisted, she groaned and turned on her side with a grimace.

No NO! She must not think this way! She could not!

But then again, here she was doing just that, wasn't she…?

"This will not do, you seem to hold quite a grudge." That purr of a voice, that strong Italian accept and slyness she'd heard within it. And that look he had given her... oh, but he was clever... and he had been reading her actions, trying to figure her out from the word 'go' just as she had been doing to him.

Her mouth went dry and she buried her head beneath her pillow as she trembled with conflicting emotions, the desire and respect of a man who was her equal almost as powerful as the repulsion she felt for what he represented against her Organisation... they were tearing her apart.

The memory continued through her mind, a rollercoaster she could only ride before she had the mental relief to find much needed rest...

"We are not here to pick a fight with you Sir Integra…"

"I don't believe you!" she yelled into her pillow as she raised herself up into a press up position on her bed "I don't believe you!"

… yet part of her wished that she had. Some small, and very lonely part of her really wished she'd fallen for that line or that she could fall for it. But her duty was holding her back - her need to do what was right stopping her from falling into the temptation of doing what she wanted.

And she did want. Oh how she wanted so badly sometimes...

She lay there deliberately keeping her mind blank, trying to still her racing heart. She willed the colour that was rising to her cheeks to leave them. Why was she feeling so strangely about this man?

His face flashed through her mind, the high cheekbones and long sharp nose, the pale skin and silvery hair and those fascinating... enchanting purple eyes of his that had looked so serenely at her from behind those reading glasses that he had removed…
He was so peculiar to her that it made him a thing of fascination.

She swallowed and tried to force it from her mind. She reminded herself that that very same angelic face had twisted with disgust at her Organisation and at the mention of her religion. That purring voice had become a twisted vengeful snarl as he'd insulted her, that composed man had broken those glasses in fit of petty anger just because of her tone.
His was a demeanour that changed as quickly as the wind turned before he'd been able to regain his composure.

Yet still her breath caught itself in her throat despite the memory of this rather childish behaviour, and all the while her treacherous subconscious reminded her that she was a woman who passed herself off as a peer amongst powerful men by dressing as them and doing as they did, a woman who got hot tempered at her subordinates for failure to follow what she deemed simple commands...
by what right did she judge Enrico Maxwell on the way his moods swung because his emotions dictated it to be so?
Were they so different?

By you should hate him for his stance against you, for all he's done to you! She reminded herself You should resent him for his comments, not pardon him because of some similarities you share! You should resent all he represents to you and what is yours, resent the fact he and his organisation hold in contempt all that you do for your country! Resent the whole damn Catholic faith if that's what it takes – but don't keep thinking about him like you are now! You can't like this man!

The problem was that though she tried to hate him she could not help but realise there were too many similarities between herself and the man she was trying so hard to despise right now.
He was the only man she'd every known to openly speak against her, the only man to voice what she felt was the universal feeling towards her position and character.

She knew she had to hate and resent and repress these unseemly thoughts about Enrico Maxwell… because if she didn't do it then suddenly she couldn't see all that many reasons why they shouldn't get on if she made the effort to try and bring him around to being allies and be persuaded to stay long enough to hear him out in turn.

But with the way she was thinking about him right now she didn't trust that her practical and sensible mind wasn't trying to fool her perception of the phrase 'Conflict makes for strange bed fellows' and trick her into creating a friendly relationship with Iscariot simply to have a justifiable excuse to have something else with Maxwell entirely…

This was updated by me because I've decided to expand on it.