Disclaimer: I gots nothin'.

Author's Note: I probably shouldn't write this. That is, I know many people feel very strongly about… this issue…, particularly in this 'verse. And on top of that, this takes place so far in the future, it's probably gonna read as OOC, even in Bi-terms. (Before this story, for example, I should write the "Angel arc," where Sebastian and Ciel take care of an abandoned baby angel left on their doorstep. Angel is eventually adopted by Will and Grelle.…hey, look, now I don't need to write it, anymore. :'D)

So yeah. I really shouldn't indulge myself like this. But I'm gonna anyway. 3 And if you don't want to consider it Bi-canon, that's fine. You don't have to. I'm still not entirely certain if I do. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't put it out there. Just in case it make someone else smile, too. :3

Warnings: Crap editing. :'D Part of "Bicentennial"…? Sorta? XD Takes place (some years) after "Hitches and Knots" (and the currently unwritten Angel arc); you might want to review "Coffee Break." My thanks to Sarah for inadvertently inspiring part of this, and, as per usual, to Maddie for insisting that this fic exist. XD

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Return

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2:14 PM

Q-tips were fascinating pieces of modern technology.

True advancements in science: a real testament to human ingenuity. Thinking about it, Ronald almost got choked up, at times; he had been inordinately blessed by the opportunity to live in an era where one could buy one hundred of these suckers for less than a dollar. Truly, there was a God. And He had consecrated the Q-tip. Yes: art meets convenience meets necessity. Durable, flexible, boldly venturing where nothing else could (or should)… The reaper remembered a time when he'd compared the beautiful contraption to Sebastian's beloved Enterprise (even dared to suggest the "Q" in the name might have come from a specific continuum), only to be ceremoniously kicked out of the demon's apartment, just-barely escaping the once-butler's storm of indigent fury.

Mostly Ron remembered this incident because it had happened last week. And since then, neither he, nor the other shinigami, had been allowed within spitting distance of the avian devil and his nest. (And considering how far they could all spit, that was rather disconcerting. They needed access to the grocery store again, and soon.)

"Really! It's like someone rammed a yardstick up his ass," Grelle had snapped, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she had an impressionable three-year-old resting against her jutted hip. Little Angel— springy blonde curls bouncing as she set her large, green eyes upon her mother— giggled at the redhead's irritation, then enthusiastically began parroting the latter half of Mama's qualms. In a lisp. Standing primly beside his girls, Will brandished a reprimanding finger at his daughter (who instantly donned the look of one who'd been thoroughly chastised), and shot his wife a withering glance. Someone needed to have her mouth washed out with soap… Maybe her brain doused in bleach, too, if Grelle's contemplative frown and continued musings were anything to judge by. "Funny that should piss him off so much… you'd think he'd enjoy that kind of treatment, so long as the rammer angled the yardstick so that the edge was hitting—"

Anyway, the long and the short of it was that the reapers had been effectively banned from the premises, and all because Sebastian had disagreed with (or generally failed to comprehend) the awesome power of the Q-tip. Which was ludicrous on a number of levels, really. So, just over a week later, decidedly sick of indulging the devil's unwarranted tantrum, Ronald had resolved to make it his personal mission to prove, once and for all, that there were some things you just don't fuck with. Q-tips being one of them. Because no, one did not simply dismiss a good Q-tip.

…and also, he'd kind of dropped his keys whilst being bustled out last Wednesday, and Ron was sick of crashing on Will and Grelle's couch. As much as he once loved waking up next to a pretty lady, opening his eyes to find Angel's drooling, oatmeal-smeared face a scant few inches above his own was becoming a bit wearisome. Despite the regularity of her wake-up call (7:08 AM every morning), the shock of it never failed to stop his heart… and if the bubbly, yet-still-somehow malicious giggles his startled yelp always inspired were anything to go by, Sebastian and Ciel's brief stint as the girl's guardians hadn't been brief enough. Angels weren't supposed to be so deviant, were they? Or was that just a baby-thing…?

Well, in the cherub's defense, she always apologized to her uncle by inviting him to parties full of stuffed animals and invisible tea and plastic biscuits. That was fairly angelic. But then, she'd also invite her father and force him to wear pink princess hats, which seemed decidedly demonic. So…

Yeah, all babies were probably the devil.

But that wasn't the point right now. The point was his keys. And Q-tips. And picking this lock with the latter, since again. No keys. It was a circular sort of problem, exacerbated by the fact that his boyfriend was currently out of town, running a chore of some sort for Ciel. (Something about Funtom and visiting a pair of lesbians. That was all that Ronald's brain had retained of the long, detailed explanation his blondie had provided over the phone a few days ago.) Whatever the reasons, Finny's absence meant both sets of extra keys— to each apartment in question—were currently far across the state line, and staying there for some indeterminate amount of time. It also meant that he couldn't pretend he'd had to force his way in at the behest of the Phantomhive family's pseudo-maid, having been asked to do the other's chores 'cause he was sick, or something.

Which, again, brought him to now: Q-tipping his way into Sebastian's bolted home. And he'd be retaining full credit for doing so. Because he wanted to sleep in his own bed and have the keys back to his moped and also what the hell was Sebastian's problem in the first place? He'd made worse jokes— jokes about Clooney, even!— and gotten away with it.

"Oh my wizarding God, what is this thing called 'my life'…?" the reaper muttered to himself, kneeling before a brass doorknob and fiddling with its soon-to-be-damaged keyhole. Not that (potentially) being caught in comically stupid situations was anything new to Ron, but sometimes the reality of it all struck a bit harder than others. Maybe the glaring idiocy seemed more vivid today because he was mentally preparing to see his life (full of comically stupid situations) flash before his eyes… as soon as the demons realized what he'd done to their door, anyway. But on the bright side, he'd likely be bunkered up in his much-missed apartment when that discovery was made; it was mid-day, so Ciel would be sleeping off his nightshift at the gas station, and Sebastian would be busy serving waffles at Wendell's. So Ronald was, at least, safe for n—

"…well, hello there."

Because Irony, much like her sister the Universe, was kind of a bitch, the shinigami's reassuring thought wasn't even fully formed when (in very quick succession) he felt his Q-tip snap, the lock give, and the wooden barrier swing open wide to reveal—

"Can I help you?"

Sebastian. Clad in loose gray sweatpants and an equally-grungy sweatshirt, the dark-haired devil had a pint of caramel cone Häagen-Dazs in one hand, a spoon in the other, and both eyes trained upon the door. Whether his mouth was partly open in vague bemusement, or because a scoop of food was on-route and scheduled to land, was anyone's guess… though it hardly mattered either way. Certainly there were more important questions skittering about in Ron's mind, at the moment. Questions like: if I started running right now, would I make it to the Canadian border before Sebastian caught up? and Would I totally ruin these patented shoes in the process?

As his would-be intruder contemplated these deep and pertinent musings, trying futilely to regain his bearings, the once-butler offered said intruder—still on his knees in the hallway, half-clinging to the handle of the unbolted door—an owlish double-blink… but for the most part seemed strangely unperturbed by the break-in. By the look of things, he'd been anticipating it for some time, curiosity having interrupting his journey between kitchen and couch.

…well, this was only incredibly awkward.

"I, um—" Floundering like a fish (and with bulging eyes to match), Ronald dropped his Q-tip and scrambled to his feet, scrubbing at the back of his head. Maybe he'd dislodge an idea if he scratched hard enough. "I know this looks kinda shady, dude, but I only wanted to prove—well, actually, okay, that was just gonna be a hilarious side-story after the fact; I really just planned to– that is, I dropped some stuff a few days ago and I didn't think—…what the hell are you doing here, anyway?" the reaper finally finished, embarrassment morphing into exasperation when he suddenly remembered why, exactly, he'd chosen this particular time of day to stage his rescue mission. While it was great that Sebastian had been there to personally witness the power of the Q-tip, etc., etc., Ron hadn't really been expecting to explain himself now; he'd thought he'd have a few hours to come up with a cleverly phrased rendition of his adventures— maybe even doodles some accompanying illustrations, depending on how bored he was after catching up with his Tivo. And of course, he'd have crafted a few good puns with which to further tease the demon: something about how his "Qs" were able to take down the security system of his friend's personal Enterprise with ease.

But no. No longer, anyway; Ron wasn't particularly good at thinking on his feet, and now he felt a touch bitter over the loss of a great potential joke.

Or maybe the joke wasn't entirely lost—it was just on him, now. Sebastian, at least, seemed markedly amused: grinning around his spoonful of… well, it wasn't just ice cream, but whatever-it-was had come from a cardboard container marked "ice cream," so there was probably some of said dessert in there somewhere. "What am I doing in my house?" the devil then lightly echoed, arching a brow as he gave his utensil a ginger suck. "Not breaking the law, I suppose…? Or locks," he tacked on in afterthought, turning away from Ronald and finishing his trek to the sofa. "Your keys are on the counter, by the way. So keep your bum off of it or you'll likely lose them again."

Grinning to himself in the wake of this tasteless joke, Sebastian flopped contentedly down atop the couch and continued picking at his fare, proving that his sense of humor wasn't the only tasteless thing around. Despite being half-way across the room, Ronald could clearly make out a few pickle chips decorating the top of Sebastian's most recent bite, as well as what looked like a squirt of barbeque sauce. Wasn't this the same man who gagged whenever Will ate packets of peanut butter plain? After sweeping his keys into his jeans pocket, Ronald wandered over to the living room, as well: draping himself across the back of the couch and putting his revolted, scrunched-up features on full display. For the benefit of the butler, of course. You know, just in case Sebastian cared to know his opinion.

"What, are they not allowing you to serve others until your taste buds have started working again?" Ron shot back, peering more fully into the mysterious tub of culinary delights. He'd been right—there was a bit of ice cream in there, but it was difficult to differentiate from the mashed potatoes and kit-kats. "Geez, man. I know you don't eat human food all that often, but you were once a hoity-toity servant. You should know better than to throw all of this crap together and call it a meal. Talk about unappetizing…"

"The only unappetizing thing is that you've now stuck your nose in it," Sebastian prissily retorted, giving his friend a brusque shove with his shoulder. Yet, despite the curt rebuttal, the devil didn't seem particularly miffed by Ron's impertinence… which was nearly as surprising as the fact that he was eating at all. Crossing one knee over the other and lounging upon his Ikea furniture like a king would a velvet-swathed throne, the once-servant daintily licked the rim of his pint and offered Ron a snooty sniff. "I'll have you know that I was sent home from work because I spent half of the morning sick in the bathrooms. Funny thing about people at restaurants—they don't seem to enjoy being served by waiters who keep running off to vomit."

Judging by the terse tone of his voice, the knowledge that Sebastian had spent a good part of the day violently ill was meant to guilt Ronald into regretting his flippant ways. But no. Instead, the reaper snorted, looping his left leg over the back of the lounger and dropping his chin into the cup of his hands, lingering around Sebastian's shoulder like a Cheshire cat wannabe. He only needed the flicking tail, now; he had the toothy grin down pat. "And you figured that stuffing your face with the grossest combination of junk you could think of as soon as you got home would be a better approach to curing your flu than a shot of Dayquil?" he drolly posed, rolling around as much as the brace of his right leg would allow. "Or is it that you actually wanna puke again? Are you secretly into that sorta thing? It'd make sense, I guess—it's not often you see such a cheery sick person."

Were this any other day, Sebastian probably would have spared a moment or two to unnecessarily inform Ronald that he was disgusting. But taking into consideration what he was currently eating, the devil decided that such a rebuke would probably seem hypocritical. So instead, the once-servant allowed his lips to quirk into a simpering smile of their own, poking at a hunk of A-1 coated broccoli with the bowl of his spoon. ("Geez, you have everything but the kitchen sink in there!" "Not true. I think there's a tile of it in here somewhere…" "…" ) "Well," Sebastian then lightly retorted, eyes twinkling with distant thoughts and cryptic cheer, "that's because I'm not really sick, isn't it?" Chortling to himself and arching a pointed brow, the devil hefted the saucy vegetable to his mouth and gave it a happy chew. He might not have punch in that pint, but he looked about as pleased as it.

Ooooh…

So that was it, huh? Ron nodded sagely, totally getting it now. After all, he'd written half of the slacker's Bible himself. "Ah," he hummed— so as to fully demonstrate how closely he was following — offering a playful wink to underscore the mischief in his smirk. "Faked it to get outta work? Playing hooky to hook up, eh? Eh? Eh?" Snickering knowingly—and giving his eyebrows quite the workout, to boot— Ronald began enthusiastically jabbing his elbow into Sebastian's side, as if to physically accentuate his tease. The devil responded to this harassment with an expression of utter apathy, popping back upright like one of those old inflatable punching dolls. "Naughty, naughty demons~ But ha, I used to do it all the time, too. Ah, good times, good times." And good times they were. But what made them especially fabulous was that he'd never really gotten caug—

"…you realize that I am going to relay that to William, yes?" Sebastian leveled dryly, a deviant snicker wedging itself in his throat when his companion's face drained of all color. Spluttering, Ron half-flopped, half-rolled down the back of the couch; the demon enjoyed his next swallow with an unusual degree of vindictiveness, even as he was bodily jostled by the shinigami. ("Meaniiiiiie~!") "And no," he then added, the epitome of casual indifference, "I did not fake anything. I threw up, yes, but I am not sick."

His pale face firmly planted against a cushion, Ronald momentarily debated ignoring his host in lieu of further justified pouting—what a jerk, selling out secrets shared in an attempt to understand one another!— but in the end, decided it was kind of hard to breathe, sprawled as he was. So instead, he pealed his cheek from the leather upholstery and scrambled and squirmed 'til he'd managed to erect his tumbled body, readjusting himself so that he was sitting next to Sebastian like (dare he say it?) a normal, civilized person. Well, maybe just a 'normal' person; he did immediately prop his feet up on the coffee table. "Not anymore, you mean," Ronald corrected once he'd decided he looked presentable again, smoothing out the wrinkles that his tantrum had imposed upon his clothing. "If you've been eatin' like this for a while, you probably just had a bit of poisoning."

"…" The devil cast Ron an expression which asked if his ears were functional, or just for show. He wondered the same about the death god's brain. Assuming he had one at all.

"No," Sebastian both answered and scolded, giving Ronald's knees a sharp whap. The reaper hissed; as if this was some sort of test of his reflexes, his legs bent inward, sliding from the tabletop. Soon, a black scuffmark was the only sign he'd conquered that mount at all. Rolling his eyes in irritation—just what he needed, more messy counters— the devil sighed, looking about to correct his companion (for the umpteenth time)… but then, unexpectedly, shook his head, no longer able to see the point of doing so. "But… fine, why not? Let's just go with that. Food poisoning. That's all. Mhm."

And as if that monotone retort had been the quintessence of convincing statements of truth, the demon smirked, reclined against his corner of the couch, and made a grab for the television remote. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Clooney isn't going to watch himse—well, perhaps he would, but still. Movie time."

No. Not movie time.

With starting abruptness, the baffled Ron stood and positioning himself between Sebastian and the entertainment system—effectively interrupting the radio signals that traveled from the remote to the TV. If there was one thing Ronald hated (besides pushy landlords and icy women and overtime and overpriced brand names and My Little Pony spoilers and beats), it was being ignored and/or belittled. Deliberately overlooking the remote that was, at present, prodding him in the stomach and attempting to change the channel of his organs, the reaper fisted his hands against his hips and glared down his nose at the devil, demanding.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Disgustingly innocent, Sebastian gave his lacy lashes a single bat, as if taken aback by his friend's impulsive outburst. Right. "…generally, 'movie time' refers to a sectioned number of hours in a day during which a being decides to view pre-recorded, billion-dollar antics upon a plasma screen."

Cheeky bastard. Wholly annoyed now, Ronald grabbed hold of the controller (which seemed to be trying to find the default station of his stomach) and tossed it to the opposite side of the couch, where it would likely remain forever. Or, you know. Until someone walked by and returned it to Sebastian. Because that was the way of the world when it came to remotes: if you were too lazy to turn on the television yourself, then you were undoubtedly too lazy to get up and grab the remote if it happened to be out of reach. Or if there should be a grim reaper looming before you, all but fencing you in.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Ron groused, only-just managing to curb the childish desire to stamp his foot. Clearly, he'd been spending too much time with Angel. And her mother. "If it was food poisoning, you wouldn't be wearing that smile of yours. Youknow the one." Thrusting an accusatory finger at Sebastian, the death god waved wildly at his friend's quirked mouth, as if frantically circling the expression might somehow change it. As if his limbs were some sort of real-life Photoshop tool, and he was about to edit the shit out of Sebastian's face.

The demon, for his part, remained bemused. "No, I'm certain I do not," he assured. While wearing that smirk. The self-satisfied smirk of a cat with a canary, or a canary with a worm, or a work with a belly full of dirt. Like a devil with a scrumptious secret—one too tasty to share. Or to upchuck, as it were. Even if he had been vomiting all day. "Though, perhaps, if I had a mirror… Or maybe I could catch a glimpse of my reflection in the vacant, glassy sheen of your eyes."

"That's a liquid crusting of unadulterated awesome, thank you. It's oozing from all of my orifices. I suffer from the Ebola version of awesome," Ronald coolly rebuked, ignoring the way Sebastian's nose scrunched in mild distaste. What a vile mental image. "But seriously. Something is totally up. You're smiling, and sick people don't smile." He paused. Reconsidered. "…unless they have lockjaw, I guess."

Always classy, that Ronald.

"Well, that's not the case for me. Obviously," Sebastian unnecessarily pointed out, indulging in another heaping helping of his mish-mashed treat. He had to finish what he could before the ice cream and bomb pops melted… it'd just be gross, otherwise. "I neither have lockjaw, nor am I sick. As I believe I've mentioned. Multiple times, at this point."

"Fine, okay, I get it. You're not sick," the death god assented in mild annoyance, raking a hand though his tousled locks. "Which is enough of a reason to smile, I guess, but seriously— why the hell are you smiling? It's creeping me out, dude!"

"Oh…?" Still gallingly innocuous of tone and expression (which, really, served only to make things disconcertingly worse for his friend), Sebastian softened the pinches of his toothy grin, attempting to envelop himself in an aura of nonchalant flippancy. As always, though, he found his biggest success in portraying smugness. BBQ sauce and caramel scented smugness. "Well, that was not my intent. Though it is a delightful bonus, I will confess." Chuckling blithely as he licked at the corners of his lips, the demon finally took pity on the pouting reaper, patting the seat invitingly beside him. "Calm down, Ronald. No need to work yourself into a lather on my account… I just found out some very happy news, that's all. Now will you hand me the remote…?"

It was a nice attempt. Well wheedled. But nope.

Not yet pacified—or not fully, anyway—Ronald scrutinized Sebastian's face all the more intently, forehead furrowing as he tried to determine whether or not his friend was being honest. But then, he was a devil, and therefore not allowed to lie… "…what sort of happy news?" the shinigami eventually pressed, relaxing his posture a touch as he continued to stare at Sebastian. Or watch him, really: the demon was presently engaged in a pathetic struggle for the remote control, bending over Ron's lap and stretching for it. In the end, he surrendered to failure with a pained sigh, righting himself before he could accidentally spill or drop his snack.

"I certainly gave you enough clues. Perhaps you could deduce it for yourself," the demon returned blandly, seemingly annoyed to have risked his dignity for naught. Honestly, were the reapers completely devoid of manners? Breaking into his apartment was one thing, but refusing to return the controller? There were lines that you simply did not cross, and Ron was toeing one of them.

Not that Ronald was aware of this. Even under the best of circumstances, he didn't tend to pay much attention to where his feet were going; right now, the man was too busy mentally revisiting their previous conversation, trying to pick out relevant hints, to give heed to anything else. He might not have been as good as, say, Ciel, at deducing random shit from scattered bits of evidence, but neither was he as big a dunderhead as everyone else assumed. He got this. Though it took a moment of deep, brow-knitting, lips-pursing, nose-scrunching concentration, when Ronald finally formulated his conclusion, he was damn sure he'd come to the right one. And the realization he drew made his heart skip a beat.

"…50 percent off all My Little Pony goods at Target?"

Sebastian's expression—already flat in the wake of his fruitless straining—became so much so it was nearly two dimensional.

"I'm pregnant."

The droned correction hung between the unusual pair for a lengthy minute, kept aloft by unseen strings of tension. Ronald blinked. Once. Twice. Gawped at his somber friend, who merely arched an eyebrow in silent reply. That—! That…

That was hilarious. With a spurt of spittle and a painful-sounding snort, the reaper laughed—guffawed, really: clamped his hands over his belly and careened dramatically forward, as if mirth were a rambunctious toddler who had physically shoved him. Only-just managed to remain standing, Ronald snickered with such exuberant abandon that he fogged up his glasses, slapping his knees as he stomped his feet. "Ffffffff—Dude, you said that with such a straight face! And here I thought nothing about you was straight! (Get it? Get it?) Man, sometimes I can understand why the Undertaker loves you—!" Giggling like a giddy school girl, Ron dabbed a few beaded tears (or oozing vestiges of awesome, whatever) from his glistening eyes, wheezing in delight. "Oh, oh man… Okay, that was a good one, I'll grant you that. Now, really. What's up? …eh? C'mon, c'mon~"

But nothing else, it seemed, was up. Or down. Or any other direction for that matter; for as much as the shinigami coaxed and pleaded, the devil offered no further answer. Instead, impressively stoic, Sebastian chose to ignore Ronald in favor of eating, his movements delicate and starchy to indicate his faint displeasure. The prick. Acting so offended took all of the fun out of the situation…

"Aw, don't be like that," the glib Ron cajoled, flopping spiritedly down next to the once-butler and flashing him a tickled grin of his own. Plucking an apple wedge from the top of Sebastian's pint, the reaper cleaned it of half-melted cream, then tucked into it with a crunch and a whine. "Tell me, would you? What, did they discount those new Pony tents with Twilight Sparkle and Spike on 'em? Because I need me one of them. I thought I might hold out for a version with Rainbow Dash on it, but who knows if-or-when that'll happen, you know? And Finny thinks it'd be a nice way to hide our boxes of random junk from view, as well as be something for Angel to play with when she comes over and oh my God you're serious."

In a moment of stomach-dropping revelation, the half-eaten fruit (rather appropriately) also, well, dropped: tumbling from Ron's flailing fingers and leaving a wet mess on his pants. Sebastian's pursed lips stretched into a silent smirk— vengeful, almost, as the reaper thrashed bodily beside him on the couch, engaging in the most histrionic double-take the demon had ever seen. (Baring, of course, the time that Grelle had decided to compare her implants to Ciel's post-shifting breasts, and had grabbed a handful of the latter's chest with no more warning then "So do these count as 'real' or…?") Scrambling like a turtle that had accidentally flipped itself onto its back, Ronald did, eventually, figure out how to thrash himself onto his feet. Jabbing his index as if it were some sort of blunted sword (or maybe the blending tool, this time), he now wore a crazed expression the likes of which the devil hadn't seen since his acquaintanceship with Ash Landers.

"How the fuck did you get pregnant?"

Sebastian's placid features morphed into a mask of notable incredulity. "…you can't have been as much of a playboy as previously claimed if you really need me to answer that question," he drawled, gracing Ronald with a look that was simultaneously pointed and pitying. The poor, naïve creature; all of his former conquests had probably just been body pillows. Or those well-endowed mouse pads. "But very well. To save you from future embarrassment with Finny: when two people love each other very much—"

Okay, no. The only "embarrassing" thing here was the prospect of being taught the "birds and the bees" by a demon clad in elastic-waisted pants. Who was currently dipping Greek olives in the remnants of chocolate sauce. "But you're a man!" Ron weakly protested, gesticulating at Sebastian's slender, but-still-obviously-male body. "You don't even have the parts—!"

"Devil."

"…oh, right." The reaper faltered, blinking once, as if only just remembering this pertinent fact. As if he'd somehow forgotten the many, many other forms he'd seen both Sebastian and Ciel take, fully bosomed or otherwise. (Considering the number of times he'd unknowingly hit on the two at the bar and the club, perhaps he had forgotten. Intentionally.) But still, to look at his companion right now—still calmly popping olives into his smiling mouth—it just seemed so… well, "wrong" wasn't the right word. Or, at least, he didn't approve of its other connotations. But the universe (bitchy or no) did seem to be a bit out of whack, if Ronald was honestly expected to believe that the man before him—always so fashion conscious and beautiful— was about to willingly undergo the horrors of getting bloated and fat and then pushing something the size of a watermelon out from between his legs. How was that even going to work? How was he going to keep his job(s)? Did Ralph Lauren even make maternity clothes for guys? The questions were practically endless. And yet, Ron found himself effectively speechless.

For a good five minutes, Sebastian simply allowed his friend to gawk at him as if he were some new, previously undiscovered breed of seahorse. Then he smiled faintly, gaze gentle and apologetic. 'I'm sorry for breaking your tiny little mind.' "…I realize that this came from out-of-the-blue," the demon murmured, setting aside his nosh in favor of folding his hands: poising himself like some sort of therapist. "But I can't say that I expected you to break in—I beg your pardon— I hadn't expected you to drop by today. I'd been planning on making a general announcement at this Friday's movie night, after I'd had a chance to tell Cie—"

"CIEL OH MY GOD DID YOU HEAR THAT SEBASTIAN IS PREGNANT BECAUSE HE IS."

"—?"

Well, that was certainly a morning greeting that the once-earl had never heard before. Only-just having woken up—blearily rubbing sleep from his eyes— the not-boy in question had appeared without his husband's notice, freezing beside the jamb of the kitchen when met with a barrage of accusatory shouting. Fist lowering from his face, the demonling stared dully at the pair in the living room, brain slowly processing the sight before him. Sebastian (looking very, very peeved) was glaring balefully up at a notably-pale Ronald, who, in turn, was gawping at Ciel like a mentally handicapped goldfish, turning a shaking finger in the old butler's direction. For another long spell, there was silence—a silence tinged by pouting, disbelief…

And then was broken by burbled snorts of laughter, Ciel's blank face cracking into a snickered smirk as he gave his eyes a mighty roll. "Wow, are you easy to troll, Ron," the young devil commented wryly, scrubbing a hand through his tousled locks before turning his attention to the kettle on the counter. "I mean, I fell for that one as a child, I confess, but seriously… This is just sad."

"I… what?" Flummoxed, Ronald felt himself deflate a fraction: index finger wilting as his face tilted in dramatic bewilderment. It was as if all of his thoughts had migrated to the right side of his head— or if Ciel's curtness had stolen from him whatever conviction he'd originally possessed, throwing him physically off-balance. "But… but Sebastian said… and—and the food… and not being at work…"

Standing beside the stove now, waiting for his water to boil, Ciel's drumming fingers stilled as the shinigami senselessly babbled. Brow arcing, the demon tossed Ron a sardonic glance from over his bony shoulder, looking both concerned (by Ron's stupidity) and amused (by the same thing). Of course, as soon as his eyes were no longer on it, the kettle began to steam. "…wow. If that's all you're basing this claim of yours on, it's a good thing you're neither a doctor nor a detective." With another grunted chortle, the not-boy shook his head and poured himself a bubbling cup, idly playing with the string of the tea pouch he'd lowered into the water. "Last night, I ordered Sebastian to clean out the fridge. But then we… well, busied ourselves with other activities." The airy euphemism had Ciel's smirk widening by two teeth on either side—incisors as white as the bone-china he'd brought to his lips. His deviant mirth only grew more pronounced when Ronald gagged, not having needed to know that. "As for Wendell's, they were overstaffed this morning and sent him back home. Simple as that."

Lifting his mug as if to toast the disconcerted reaper's folly, Ciel grabbed himself a few lumps of sugar from a pot beside the coffee maker and wandered to the sofa as well, squeezing himself comfortably between Sebastian and the armrest. After glancing around for a moment or two, he frowned, turned his attention back upon Ron, and tacked on, "Hand me the clicker, will you?"

…enough was enough.

No longer able to distinguish truth from lies, reality from stories, or bear the thought of being further toyed with (after all, he hardly needed anyone else's help to feel like a moron), Ronald—without another word—turned on his heel and marched his way back to the foyer. A commendably dramatic exit, all the way around; he didn't even need to pause to open the door, seeing as it'd never been closed in the first place. Q-tips scattered across the threshold, the broken lock jangled as he wandered past, heavy footfalls vanishing along with the reaper as he wandered back into the real world, hoping he might find some semblance of sense out there. It had, after all, apparently abandoned the Phantomhives' apartment. It seemed wise to do the same. Preferably before gravity decided to hit the road, too.

2:38 PM

"…well, save it all. Now what are we supposed to do?" Ciel groused, frowning bitterly as he helped himself to an M&M half-drowned in milky ice cream. Forever the obliging sort, Sebastian tipped his pint in his master's direction, further spooning a Skittle his way… but the little one dismissed it with a distracted wave, instead sticking his fingers into his mouth and sucking off the residue of sticky candy coating. 'Melts in your mouth,' my ass. "The remote is all the way over there…"

"Mmm," Sebastian lamented, turning his gaze in the same general direction—all the way to the other side of the couch. Now on the verge of slipping between the front and back cushions, the controller plaintively (if mutely) cried out for help: innocently pleading that either demon risk their comfort to save it from the ledge. It seemed a bit mocking, really. As if it was calling them out on their laziness. "Well…" the elder of the two evenly added, with just the faintest hint of proactive defensiveness coloring his amiable tone, "I sat down first. And I am the one holding the snacks. So…"

Instinctively, the demonling bristled. He knew a battle cry when he heard one. Comely countenance curdling in complaint, Ciel allowed his Contract eye to flare: an ethereal lilac flame smoldering on the surface of an oceanic iris. "…I'm the master in this relationship," he then countered in brusque monotone.

"I thought we were equals…?" Sebastian held up his hand, showing off his wedding band with a flick of willowy fingers. Dammit. New tactic. New angle.

"I agreed to watch a Clooney movie with you."

"Because I let you use the lasso on me last night, if you'll recall."

He did recall. In iniquitous detail.

"…you loved it."

"I loved your cowboy hat, certainly," the once-butler agreed with a velvet chuckle, papery lids lowering over eyes that glistened with memories. Springing from somewhere deep within his throat, the rich sound of laughter resonated: its deviltry exacerbated by Sebastian's evocative smirk. And as that laughter persisted—grew more sonorous, even— Ciel's cheeks took on a delightful pink hue… which only served to make the scene far more amusing. "Almost as much as I loved playing the part of your fair, but bucking steed."

"Oh?" Despite his innocent blush, the fledgling's expression became one of impious suggestion. Eyebrow cocked and coral lips leering, Ciel reared up onto his knees and stared down his nose at his unruffled husband. "Then I suppose you wouldn't mind if I were to straddle you right now, horsie…?" he asked in airs of deviant sweetness, spidery fingers coiling around his lover's slim shoulders. To brace himself, of course. No other reason. At this, Sebastian smiled, setting his treat atop the coffee table. There were far more important—and far more delicious—things to hold, after all.

"Mind? Never. I am yours to ride whenever you wish," the devil purred, slender hands fluttering to perch upon the bony curves of Ciel's hips. The smaller demon shivered a bit at the other's ginger touch—his pale skin moist and chilled from lingering droplets of condensation— but nevertheless lingered atop Sebastian's lap: knees fencing waist and chest brushing chest. He only intended to stay for a moment—just a temporary tease, a bit of playful punishment for forcing Ciel to grab the clicker—but when the once-earl giggled and made to move, turning his body so as to crawl down the remaining length of the couch, he found himself unable.

Sebastian still held to him. Carefully, yes. But pointedly: applying a gentle downward pressure so that Ciel might take a seat atop his thighs, rather that scuttle away. At first, the fledgling mistakenly assumed that this was part of their game, and struggled against capture with a snigger… but as he made a show of twisting and squirming, he cast his old servant a sultry glance— and froze at the sight of his face. Though Sebastian's unblinking gaze was, as always, warm with adoration, his eyes had hardened in a sudden display of somberness; his enigmatic smile teased at pink cheeks, hinting at something… more. Something serious and important and wonderful, and the radiance of it stole the strength from Ciel's legs. With no further resistance, the demonling allowed himself to sink into the cradle of Sebastian's lap, head cocked in mounting trepidation.

"Sebastian…?" Bemused, but uncertain of how else to act, Ciel's fingers slipped down the slope of his lover's lithe limbs, smoothing flat rumpled folds of fraying fabric. They didn't get far; with his usual grace, Sebastian caught hold of his young master's traveling hands: folding his own around them and bringing the dainty digits to his lips to kiss. And all the while, his grin remained, as if the wordless answer to the other's unspoken question.

But since Ciel didn't seem to understand the silent version of this response, Sebastian eventually relented: chortling softly as he moved to rest his chin atop their twined fists. "…seeing as you just used the memory to mock dear Ronald," the demon began roguishly, faceted gaze twinkling with mirth as he pressed another, approving sort of kiss to his master's frail knuckles, "I will surmise you remember that day in Starbucks… could it have already been a decade ago? The day that I first teased you with the idea of offspring."

It took less than a beat for the memory to resurface.

"Of course I remember," Ciel quipped with a snort, mouth quirking in confusion-tinged amusement. Giving his head a brief jerk to the right, he gestured vaguely towards the hallway closet, where a number of coats dangled from wire hangers. "We're still using the punch line to hang our jackets. What of it?"

…oh yes.

"…well…" Whetting chapped lips, Sebastian delicately cleared his throat, very obviously abstaining from turning his head in the indicated direction. In fact, the idea of doing so had him looking faintly green— kind of like earlier that morning, prior to dashing off to work. At the time, half-asleep and groggy, the fledgling had assumed it'd only been a trick of the light; devils as a breed weren't known for catching flus. But… Fingers flexing atop Ciel's— twitching, more like it, in a flurry of nerves— Sebastian waffled a moment longer: pausing as if to re-garner scattered courage. Then his little smile returned, its pinches trembling hopefully. "Well, I know you felt… rather strongly… about the idea, back in the day. But ten years is a long time, baby bird, and we've both changed a great deal since my, ah, somewhat tasteless joke."

As he confessed to prior tactlessness, Sebastian's expression gained a sheepish edge, as if in apology for a prank pulled ages in the past. As if the recollection might still be offensive to his master, in some way. But no; in truth, Ciel couldn't really come up with why it would matter now, in any capacity. Hell, it didn't matter then. He hardly thought of it, even when putting his coat away. Regardless, though, and for whatever reason, this little spiel seemed important to Sebastian… So the not-boy listened and nodded along, patient and prompting, ever the supportive spouse. Sebastian, in turn, allowed himself to be prompted, pressing bravely onward. "And perhaps," he musingly continued, holding all the tighter to the hands in his grasp, "perhaps we'd never have noticed how much we'd evolved, in that sense, if it hadn't been for Angel's unexpected appearance— helpless and abandoned on our doorstep. Maybe if we'd been able to force Uriel to take her back to the realm Above, or if Grelle had chimed in with the idea of adoption sooner, we'd still be oblivious to our own growth. But as it happened… well. She was ours for three months, and she showed us a side of ourselves that we hadn't previously been aware of." Here, Sebastian paused once more, simultaneously steeling and calming himself. Ciel had never seen him so anxious… It piqued the younger one's interest, as well as his concern. "Though we only played the role of her parents briefly, and caring for her presented a number of unforeseen challenges… it also seemed to bring you—well, the both of us— …unforeseen joy. Though we ultimately knew we weren't the right guardians for a heavenly being, and though giving her to Grelle and Will was a decision that neither of us regrets, I don't think I'm the only one who noticed the… the hole in our lives after she was gone. One that couldn't be filled, exactly—you can never replace another being, I know, but— …but the fact that it existed at all was enough for me to realize how I could bring you even more happiness."

"…what are you trying to say, Sebastian?" Stiff-backed and prim atop his husband's lap, features vacant and low voice empty, Ciel mentally tried to connect the many, varied dots that the devil was drawing out for him, fighting to make sense of the situation in his static-riddled mind. What was his butler saying? He couldn't possibly be— no. No, what Ciel was thinking was ludicrous! They'd decided not to. Hadn't they? Even after the demon's hoax. In ten years' time, of course the idea of a family had come up; in his most-secret heart-of-hearts, Ciel remained, in many ways, human—if given the chance, who wouldn't want to gain back what they'd lost? (Like a certain police officer, lost long ago, whose memory he might be able to properly honor, if given such a chance…) But to actively pursue the idea wouldn't have been fair to Grelle, who wanted children more than anything. Sure, she'd have been thrilled for the couple, but the whole affair would have been doused in guilt… and they wanted better for their best friend. They wanted her to be happy—genuinely happy—and not forced to "fake it" for their sake. In truth, that had been one of the deciding factors in giving her custody of Angel: to help her realize her dream of—

… because…

…wait. Grelle was a mother now. Grelle had her child. She and Will had a family, so—

Sebastian's sunny beam, already beautifully bright, became almost blindingly-so as Ciel's blue eyes snapped open wide. His pulse thudding deafeningly in his ears, the once-earl choked on a tiny gasp, disbelief clogging his throat. "…no."

His husband chuckled, nodding as he again brushed his lips against quavering knuckles.

"Yes."

"W-we met our evil quota this month," Ciel reminded in a rush, torso heaving gently in the wake of escalating emotions. Within the bony cage of his chest, his knotting insides wriggled, and his racing heart throbbed, and they and his feelings surged and swelled to the point where he thought he might actually pop— "so you don't have to li—"

He was cut off by a blustery little laugh, Sebastian's left hand falling to rest against the base of his rattled lover's spine. "I don't lie," the devil then reminded gently, rubbing soothing circles into his master's lower back. The calming gesture was accompanied by a husked purr of a coo, as well as a seeming attempt at forced reciprocation: moving with a tentative reverence, Sebastian's right hand took hold of Ciel's, gingerly slipping his husband's palm beneath the front of his sweatshirt. As the cloth rode up, cool fingers were tenderly pressed against the barest beginnings of a bump, firm but supple. And though the earl half-considered faking a protest—insisting that this must be the ramifications of the other's recent glut of questionably flavored snacks— he couldn't. He couldn't form the words.

Sebastian could, though. He tried to prove it, too: gaze glistening, chin wobbling, smile already in his eyes but still straining to physically touch them. "Little one, I really am pre—"

Not fair. This sort of moment should leave them both speechless.

And though the revelation of pregnancy and children and family had failed to awe the elder demon into silence, Ciel's response more than made up for that: it was, after all, difficult to make much noise when another's mouth was pressed so desperately to your own. Moreover, his kiss not only succeeded in ridding Sebastian of words, but also of breath, thoughts, and eventually of clothes… As well as any desire to watch a silly George Clooney movie.

Perfection.

They shifted, they fell back; the sofa groaned as sweetly as the eager, affectionate devils. And as cushions were repositioned beneath twining limbs, the remote slipped between them, falling into the same dark void as so many kernels of popcorn, pennies, and catnip mice. Later, the Phantomhives would forget it'd been there at all, and would simply consider it lost. But that was alright.

Some things, once lost, could be found again.

XXX