7/13/17: Changed to rated T but may be M in later chapters.

[an excerpt, from a letter to 10 Regent Street, London:]

This is the beginning of the end. It might as well be an understatement at this point.

When a wide-grinning psychopath—a death god or whatever lunacy it was he claimed—has rescued me at the brink of drowning in the sea for the reason, I quote, "It'd be the greatest misfortune losing the human that could make me laugh this hard."

Whether I will take that as a compliment or an insult is still debatable; though that is a digression, as it is not the real issue at hand. The bastard has done me a great injustice by not sending me back to London—worst of all, to this sodding place.

This is the end, I know. Though it would not be as tragic if not for her contribution.

In other words, she will be the end of me.

From your brother with love,

Aleister Chamber

She's a woman ahead of her time, according to Mrs. Thatcher.

His impression of her straddled between the fine seams of exceptionally horrific and wonderful. She was of a different stripe of female; indeed, her mannerisms adopted the core of the pure victorian vein, all English prim and proper, however it was her insolent autonomy that made him think otherwise.

Women hadn't been a mystery in his line of experience, may it be the coy gesture of a fan to the secret enclave between her legs. London had a variety, possessing their own brand of flavor, and he could make an effortless boast discriminating this one to the other. He was handsome, charismatic, and damnably affluent with a young man's appetites—or perhaps, a tad too much—and the dames always fawned over him for understandable reasons. After all, he loved women and they loved him. He was the scandal of a ball and the fire in a woman's loins, and it hadn't been completely a sin to live up to a precious reputation, especially when he was showered with their utmost attention. He fancied that, honestly.

Perhaps, what came unwarranted was the shipwreck that ended those blissful days and the woman that begun the start of a newfangled fascination. Oh, she was an interesting specimen, not just a pretty thing to gawk at, with those bloodcurdling glares and that sharp vicious tongue. It was a façade, of course—maybe—because constant volatile tempers had been another conduit for a deep unexpressed passion, a quenched yearning, and to be frank, he was a charmingly irresistible man.

It was ludicrous to think she wouldn't be infatuated to him. Simply ludicrous.

"You're insufferable," said his blue sparrow, out of unadulterated vexation.

Insouciant and foolhardy, Aleister had worn his best attractive smile. "Insufferable? Why, blue sparrow,"—she barely contained her self-control when he called her through that little pet name of his—"pray tell, how have I been insufferable? I don't understand how you could have thought of such—the miracle that I am. Besides, I call all my birds with befitting endearments."

"I am not your bird. Not anything, sir," she argued, crossing her arms. "As I've said for the umpteenth time, don't call me blue sparrow."

His eyes scrutinized her with a wince though he couldn't deny the profound curiosity within them. The candor in her words was brimming with confidence and asperity hence rather refreshing from the demure euphemisms of a noblewoman's lips, despite his slight discomfort. It was that remarkable impertinent show of hostility and strength that made her so exotically unreachable, all the more desirable.

Instead of a weak smile, he curled his lips up slyly. "I don't mind the suggestion, love," he remarked, thinking he had figured her out. "But for a lovely face, I would need a name, no?"

From his response, he had been engrossed of her reaction. She remained quiet in her cold indignation, but her eyes—oh, how he adored those blue smoldering eyes—burned like a fire and dare he say: one could get scorched in them. This banter, no different from countless others before it, had been the greatest amusement he had ever since his tragic parting from his sailing in the Campania.

Aleister chuckled softly. "When you brought me here, you never gave me your name."

"I told you before to address me Miss Hadley."

"Your first name, blue sparrow."

"Unnecessary. After this week, we're still nothing but strangers to each other, sir."

"But that could change, couldn't it?" he implied in a suggestive tone, leaning dangerously close. "A week can be enough. We are here alone. Unbothered. What do you think can not happen?"

His insinuation, as well as blatantly admitting his shameful intentions, caused her brow to twitch.

Unabashed, he then allowed himself to edge at the side of her face; the promise of sweet stifling heat beckoned. He spoke softly to her ear, "Besides I'd love the thought of whispering your name."

Her response was a sharp intake of air. Short of breath already?

She took a step back though it hadn't been for the silly excuse that she was overwhelmed—she wouldn't condone it, if that was the case—but for a steady angle to meet his eyes. Hers, however, were nothing short to indifference and reproach. "And I'll assure you whispering my name would be the very least you'd want to waste your time on. When I reluctantly agreed to take you in, I expected you to leave."

Their chance encounter had been the sort of tale worth telling for all the nonsense and absurdity it had been. It began with relatively harmless interaction; she was minding her own business near the docks and he was doing the world a great deal of displeasure by cursing out his miseries upon it like some pissed sod, but the funny thing was that he managed to find himself in an incident—he tripped accidentally from a ridge on the pavement after fruitlessly shooing away a seagull—and, well, she stepped on him on her way.

Then there came eye-contact, swift and steady like those rose-colored romances—at that moment, he was captivated and a little relieved in the occasion that someone had graced him a rare coup d'loeil. However, she hadn't returned those sentiments as she relentlessly ignored him ("Must this be fate—ah, wait! A moment of your time, please! You—no, not you, you're in the way! You, the beautiful woman in blue! You're still leaving . . . oh, ah, where are you going? Blue sparrow!"). Regardless he understood in those fleeting intervals of a glare that there was something hopeful beneath the surface, something of promise, and that she lured and he followed, gravitating to her pull. So he made a mad dash after her till they reached her flat and the rest had been history.

Incensed, she replied in all her harsh bluntness, "If not for Mrs. Thatcher's meddling, I wouldn't have thought twice to let you stay in my flat."

Aleister was mildly amused. "You speak in past tense, my dear," he remarked. "You said wouldn't but you have. You let me stay here, and that is what is happening at present." He smirked at this, full of cheek, with an arrogant tip of his chin.

Determined to have the last word, his blue sparrow chuffed. "That's because you wouldn't let go of my leg from your pathetic begging."

And like a drop of a hat, that was where his smugness slid off his face.

Albeit the disapproving frown on her lips, he could make out the small remnants of a smile form, a haughty smile. She loved rendering him into the fool; it was a sadistic habit of hers, he believed.

He sighed dramatically. "Must you always say it where it hurts?"

Regardless he adored her for it.

It was quite the start of an interesting route of an unfolding complicated relationship. One he'd certainly venture for if the end had assured the prospect of getting under her skirt; he liked the stubborn ones, full of passion and vigor, and just as much, when they would scream his name from the top of their lungs.

Well, those were the pros. However the cons were nothing less from a bleeding can of worms.

Her company hadn't been compensation for his plight, not in the slightest. He was a thousand miles away from London, probably in some far-off rural county—somewhere in Yorkshire, he didn't bother remembering the particular location—filled with estranged denizens who don't know a thing or two about the most fussed blueblood celebrities or finesse, the Season parties or even the latest vogue—he couldn't tolerate it quite frankly, and he already had the strong suspicion that these sad miserable people were only bred for sad miserable things like most of the lot in life, the mundanities he'd rather not divulge. Pitiful, really.

Even more so that they had no foggiest idea who he was. That was profanatory!

As he recalled their first tête-à-tête that one evening ago, Aleister remembered gaping at her in bewilderment when he spoke: "You really . . . don't?" he asked, uncertain. "B-but that cannot be! You must know . . . I—I've never felt so offended!" there was a hand clutched on his chest, an indication of his pure mortification.

Sitting opposite of him, Miss Hadley graced him an odd look, her nose pinching. Then she rolled her eyes. "Calm down. Goodness, you're barely an hour here and you've already made a fuss in less than a minute," she interjected. "Well, I don't know you. And I swear if you're going to make another elaborate story of what you did being this famous Viscount Druid—"

"Viscount Druitt."

"—Druitt, whatever," she muttered. "You're not doing yourself a favor."

Joining behind them, Mrs. Thatcher berated, "Dearie, it's rude to treat a guest coldly," —his blue sparrow huffed—"How would you like your tea? Milk or sugar?"

He smiled charmingly, recalling his social graces. "Sugar," was his answer. "You should listen to your landlady."

She nonchalantly dismissed his advice—him, in particular. "I am not treating him coldly. I was simply being straightforward because I've no inkling what he's talking about. I've never heard of such ridiculous story in my life—really, nan, have you ever heard of a Viscount Drewitt?"

"Druitt." He corrected, after graciously receiving his tea.

"Well, I don't believe so. Never, honestly."

"There. I've made my point quite clearly."

"A viscount? An acquaintance of his, perhaps?"

"He claims to be that Viscount, nan."

"He—oh."

It was that incredulous tone in the elder woman's voice that had further corroborated a bleak outlook of an earlier return to London, oh to his first-class livelihood and his grand mansion and his shiny-eyed admirers. He eyeballed them, dumbfounded. "But . . . but I'm certain I've made quite a reputation for myself. This is still England, is it? Is it? One of you must know or at least have heard of me," they stared at him unblinkingly, to his dismay. "Oh, a no as well? Really? This is too much . . . I'm an important personality in London, for God's sake!"

They both shared a look that he could identify with concern—except, his blue sparrow who possessed a sort of withering glance—and mumbled quietly to each other. He could barely comprehend their brief colloquy though he was certain there was a mutter: "—he's gone bonkers . . ." and along the lines, ". . . only doesn't understand what's he talking about.".

It was frustrating. Absolutely. Frustrating.

Miss Hadley was the first to gratify him a stern glare, perusing him with those skeptical blue eyes of hers. "I honestly think you're just delusional," this earned her a terse scold from Mrs. Thatcher. She sighed in resignation, composing herself. "But I suggest you give some forethought in what you're implying."

On the other hand, Mrs. Thatcher sympathized. "You should have plenty of rest, I believe. You look a bit peaky, Mr. Chamber. I personally think it's best that we continue this conversation again when you feel well, no?"

Unbelievable, he thought. They're still not convinced he was telling the truth.

After having another curt exchange—in which his blue sparrow's face soured in reaction—Mrs. Thatcher had plastered on an affable smile and excused herself out with a short adieu. If he hadn't been undergoing an identity concussion, he might have taken the initiative to listen more keenly. As they were once again left alone, he was slightly confounded to find himself in an uncharacteristic silence.

His blue sparrow appeared preoccupied whilst latching on her tea. "So the beautiful woman in blue, hm?" she spoke, recollecting, after gnarling quietly to herself: "honestly, who talks like that?"

Before he could even utter a response, she snapped her fingers, her expression elucidated. "Ah, you're one of those twelve-pound actors, aren't you?"

"I beg your pardon!"

"That explains it. I reckon that whole Viscount doobrie is a character for some stage play you're in."

"Druitt," Aleister automatically corrected, feeling more doleful than he had been and somehow enthusiastic in winning her over with the truth. "I will confess that I am an avid enthusiast for the theatrical arts and have participated in a few coups de théâtre some time ago though I am what I say I am. I am a viscount in London."

"Oh, come off it, theatrics won't help your situation," she quipped, calmly sipping her tea. "I've met one of your ilk before; a borderline narcissist, over-the-top, and a sweet talker, he is. You're not that different—only that, perhaps, you're a shameless skirt chaser."

"I am not an actor. Although I will excuse the skirt chaser argument, I'm nothing like the rest. I'm far better than that, of course," he said, making her curve a dubious brow. He appraised her, hooking a thumb under his chin. If he could recall, he was certain that the bold action had evoked at least a blush on a girl's face though she hadn't done so, defying his expectations once more. If anything, she didn't care as she fussed over her tea. "With that kind stubbornness, I'm assuming you're the type that's hard to please."

Her blue eyes flicked back at him as if to sting. She looked like she wanted to protest but realized that hadn't been the case.

Because it's true.

His lips couldn't help but smirk. "Your silence alone confirms it," he chuckled, a tad sardonic. "How lovely. We're getting to know each other quite well. My, it's a rapport in progress, I dare say."

His blue sparrow was annoyed. So annoyed in fact that he could notice the taut grip of her teacup. He would note that his sarcasm was a bit uncalled for, ungentlemanly even, however it was tremendously worth it for the sake of teasing her.

She kept surprising him. In the stead of the anticipated flush on her cheeks were those unrelenting crossed arms, that dignified tipped chin. This mere woman had the decency to be prideful as if she did have pride, and he didn't expect this transgression to not be appalling. And how rare, he thought, for a woman to possess such a thing.

Still irked, she went on: "If you're still not in the mood in being cooperative, then I'd fill you in my terms while you're lounging about here."

He blinked at the notion, quickly forgetting their small banter a while ago.

"Oh! Before that, I've seen my room. It's so cramped, not that everything in this flat isn't either, but I've seen your room—"

"You . . . what?"

"I've seen your room."

"Rephrase that, you mean you went inside my room without my permission."

"Well, you could say that," he shrugged, nonchalant of her indignation. "Anyway my bed was stiff, barely sleeping material; yours, however, was quite comfortable enough."

"So you didn't only trespass inside my room but you also laid on my bed."

"Yes."

She was upset, seething within that impressive image of sophistication. "What are you trying to imply again, sir?"

Aleister buoyed at the suggestion. "Ah, will you lend me your room instead?"

Her tone elicited her outrage, overtly disapproving. "You actually have the gall to ask that?"

"Yes," he said, smiling. "Well?"

"No."

"Is there any consideration for me sharing a room with you?"

"No."

"Are you certain about the last one?"

"Of course."

"You're not allowed inside my room. I swear if I find you there, you're sleeping outside," Miss Hadley threatened, which did manage to dither the nerve out of him. "Another thing we must discuss is priorities because it seems you lack thereof. Simply, I own the flat and you're staying on my flat which would mean you listen to me. So if I ask you to do chores, you'll have to comply with it. You'll have your share of responsibili—"

"—wait a moment! I will work? My dear, you must have forgotten about the fact that I am a viscount." He stated, awfully too proud to lower himself into subservience.

"Now should I kiss your shoes and beg for forgiveness? Oh please," she said mockingly in defiance. "I don't care if you're a viscount or not, I will never allow a lazy pretentious debauchee, such as yourself, mooch me around just because you said you're a victim of a shipwreck. Sir, if you can't come to an understanding then I best suggest you find an alternative outside my flat."

He was about to open his mouth in protest however found himself at a loss of words. Humbled down from his size, his ego.

By a mere woman.

Making up his mind, he sighed in resignation. "Of course," he reiterated with a grimace, defeated. "I'll . . . come to this understanding."

"Good."

Her lips crooked into a glorious smile. However he was conflicted of how he found such a wretched gesture attractive still.

She might as well be evil incarnate—all fiendish smirks and smoldering blue eyes—but one thing remained; she was but an elusive creature who screened smoke and mirrors of the woman that she was and remained to be—and it was just that. Fickle was the heart of a woman, and he knew with confidence how it worked and ticked. A little coquetry, some bit of seduction, and he'd play this game of affections with her.

So he smiled in a manner full of meaning. If it was a simple conquest, how can such a precious thing between them be relished after all.

A/N: Okay. So first of all, I deeply apologize for leaving this fic however I'm still grateful for those who stuck around to read it.

Second, I've rewritten it, no questions asked. I've been thinking about it for awhile because of the handful of faults it had, so I did it. The plot's practically the same cheesy romcom slice-of-life story before but with a few changes. Don't be surprised to read some parts of the old story being written down here again.

Third, I hope you enjoyed it just as much as I did writing this!

Permanent disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.