A/N: This story was originally published on AO3 with the tags "Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive," "Mental Health Issues" and "Discussion of Suicide."

The reaper attacks with a ferocity that somehow surpasses the rumors. Even with five butter knives lodged in her torso, she growls and rushes at Ciel, aiming her scythe straight at his head. When Sebastian materializes in between, the blade pierces his breastbone and his spine before emerging on the other side. He crumbles to the ground, and brightly-colored reels depicting this contract burst from his chest, throwing glimmering specks of light upon his face— his closed eyes, his strangely serene smile.

The reaper flees a moment later, yet Ciel remains still, holding his breath, staring at Sebastian until his eyes flutter open once more. The demon's expression contorts first into something like rage before settling into a perfectly blank mask.

For the second time, Ciel gives his butler the day off.

Ciel spends hours plotting in his study, then enters the servants' quarters after dinner. Sebastian lies still on his bed, eyes closed, fresh bandages faintly visible under a crisp white shirt, his torn tailcoat hanging from the bedpost.

"I apologize for destroying yet another wool coat," his butler murmurs as he surveys the scene. "With your permission, I will use magic to repair it . . ."

"Absolutely not, this is your day off," Ciel interrupts. "And you didn't destroy the coat anyway. This new reaper's scythe did."

"I placed myself in the way of her scythe, and so I bear responsibility for its destruction."

Ciel snorts. "I'm amused to hear a demon take responsibility for a problem, but I see no need for you to. You had no choice but to throw yourself in front of me, did you?" Receiving no response, he continues, "How have you enjoyed your sick day?"

"I look forward to returning to my duties."

"Are you well now?"

"This body has largely repaired itself."

"I see." Ciel glances at his butler's chest, rising and falling in a perfect approximation of human breathing, a bloody chasm just yesterday. "I rather feel I should thank you."

"As your loyal butler, I require no thanks."

"Would my gratitude matter to you if I gave it?"

"It would only be fitting for a loyal butler to appreciate a token of his master's favor."

"You could have died, Sebastian—" Ciel's voice turns suddenly hard— "one more bloody casualty of my revenge. Am I right? Were you truly at risk of dying last night?"

"I did not die . . ."

"Did you know you wouldn't?"

"I realized fairly early on the blow would not kill me."

"And how early is 'fairly early'?"

"Why fixate on words, young master?"

"It's a simple enough question."

"The moment was rather chaotic, who could remember each detail . . ."

"You could." He pauses. "Need I give an order?"

"About half a second after the blow fell."

Ciel gapes. "And . . . And did you throw yourself in front of me simply because of the contract's magic?"

Sebastian opens his eyes, pushes himself up with only the slightest wince, and chuckles. "Are you sure you're asking the questions you want answered?"

"I'm sure I'm not. Now answer."

"No."

"What did you just say?"

"No."

"Stop refusing to— oh. So you didn't block the scythe just because of the contract. Is that correct?"

"Correct."

"Why did you block the scythe?"

"Because the angle and speed of her scythe would surely end your life, without outside intervention, and the intervention I provided would allow me to suffer the blow instead."

"I bloody well know that," Ciel scoffs. "And you know what I meant."

"I cannot know exactly what you mean. Language is a terribly imprecise tool, and I have misused more languages in my lifetime than you can even name."

"So you're using language to pretend ignorance," Ciel sighs. "What would happen if I commanded you to answer my questions as you think I intend them, not just as I articulate them?"

"The result would depend on your exact wording, and on your state of mind, and . . ."

"Give me your most plausible guess."

"You would storm out of here with poorly concealed tears in your eyes."

"Why?"

"Because I would tell you that I did not act as I did because I feel your mortal feelings, nor because I return your human 'love.'"

"You—" Ciel nearly lunges forth but stops himself, exhaling slowly, eyelids floating closed and open again. "Say that again, just as you did."

"Because I would tell you that I did not act as I did because I feel your mortal feelings, nor because I return your human 'love.'"

"Can you— can you feel anything like mortal feelings?"

"I have not in what seems like an eternity, even to me."

"And can you ever return human 'love'?"

"I have never done so before."

Ciel looks down at the ripped coat. "And how did you know that . . ." He trails off.

"That you do love me? Let me count the ways. I smell it in the dark and dirt and pain your soul now holds, while blundering in vain . . ."

"Shut it."

"With pleasure."

"What—" Ciel exhales, trying to keep calm. "Then what motivation compelled you to block the blow?"

"I wished for it to not hit you and to hit me instead."

"And what deeper motivation are you trying to hide with that unhelpful answer?"

"As a millennia-old creature, I have many deep motivations for this, and almost all my actions."

"Tell me the first, clear, deeper motivation that came to mind when I asked my question."

"I wished for it to hit me."

"What— but you thought it might kill you."

"Indeed," he says with a smile in his voice.

"Did you wish to die, then?" Ciel scoffs.

"No more than usual."

"Do you value your life?"

"Yes."

"Do you value your life more than mine?"

"No."

"Do you value your life more than, say, Elizabeth's?"

Sebastian contemplates. "That depends on the particular standard by which I judge."

"What would you have done, if Elizabeth had been standing in my place?"

"I would have pulled her out of the way."

"That was a viable option?"

"Yes, I suppose it was."

"Then what the hell were you thinking?" Ciel bursts out. "Really, at the moment of impact, what were you thinking?"

"I was wondering whether this blow, which seemed fiercer than Undertaker's on the Campania, would unearth Cinematic Records from before this contract and yet leave me alive. Of course, it did not."

"Did you want that outcome?"

"Not particularly."

"What's in those records that you were so afraid of?"

He frowns. "I felt no fear in that moment."

"Then what did you not want seen?"

Sebastian makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. "I doubt there would be much to see. They're cluttered with events, of course— balls, riots, wars— but I suspect those would all blend together on the film."

"So, even if the blow had revealed more of your past, we'd still have seen nothing but a colorful blur?"

Silence.

"Sebastian?"

"I have doubts about 'colorful,' my lord. My previous life seems far more likely to be rendered in monochrome."

"Like Madam Red's?" Ciel intones.

"If you search my history for a grand tragedy, you will be disappointed."

"A series of small griefs can do as much damage as a single tragedy," he shoots back. "Do you often wish to end your existence?"

"I have no intent to commit some flamboyant suicide . . ."

"Do you often wish your existence would end?"

"It . . . does grow tedious, from time to time."

"And?"

"I do not intend to burn the earth and sky down in search of death, as others of my kind have. I have no serious suicidal intention at all."

"Only dreams of suicide?"

"I have had dreams of starving and undergoing sublimation," Sebastian smirks. "Of simply closing my eyes, melting to smoke that quickly wisps away." He inhales deeply, pausing for dramatic effect . . .

"I feel that's a rather common sentiment, actually," Ciel cuts in.

"You know not of what you speak."

"But here is what I do know, Sebastian. The record you describe sounds as sad and gray and pitiful as Madam Red's, from when she fell into her depression. And frankly, I find this half-hearted grasp at suicide quite pitiful in its own right." Ciel's voice rises. "I have questions, Sebastian. Why am I still alive? Why have you left me alive? I was no trained lawyer drawing up our contract; if you chose to attack it with the full power of logic and wordplay and language you demonstrated today, then you could find at least five loopholes to exploit, ending the contract immediately. You could claim that my father's activities as the Watchdog brought this ruin on me, and that my revenge is already complete, that the person responsible is already dead. Is this correct, Sebastian?"

"I do believe it is, young master. A fascinating idea, and I am surprised to hear you lay out it so clearly for me . . ."

"You thought of this the day our contract started," Ciel snaps. "Probably by the second minute. And yet I am alive. And yet—" he advances along the side of the bed— "your memories of this contract, as I've seen three times now, are clear and bursting with color. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to say that you can't feel human emotion and human love, because those possibilities are in sight for you, now, for the first time in millennia."

Ciel drops down and grips Sebastian's chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling him up, drawing his lips close. He breathes, "So don't you dare think you really want to die."

Sebastian simply stares, motionless, as Ciel's own jaw trembles. He straightens once more and proceeds towards the door, only stopping to say, "This is an order, Sebastian. Try to be happy."

He sweeps out of the room.

In that second, Sebastian sees a good five ways to circumvent that order, or abuse it. He knows Ciel has seen them too.

Still, he leans back, ignoring the coat still torn on his bedpost, and lets the smile spread across his face.

A/N: The allusion to Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnet 43" was originally inspired by Eglentyne's "A Magnificent Depravity."