Title: His Wolf

Author: Neko-chan

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji (pre-canon; mangaverse)

Pairing: Diederich/Vincent Phantomhive

Rating: M

Warnings: different variety of adult themes, including but not restricted to - sexual content, torture (very much present in the first chapter), other forms of violence, death, psychological exploration, psychological manipulation, criminal underworld, etc.

Summary: When an assignment for the Queen gets irreparably botched, Vincent is rescued by the unlikeliest of agents: a wolf.

Author's Note: Diederich has such a brief "canon" appearance that it'd probably be best to remind readers of where he pops up. XD;; Chapter 32 of the manga, around page 6 (in the background sitting on the armchair next to Vincent) and speaking to Vincent on page 7. It's uncertain as to what his last name is, so I'm snagging mhikaru's name from the story that we're co-writing and will be putting up later (which will be titled "Conflicts of Interest," fyi): Diederich Ferdinand von Wolff. So credit for Deeds' full name goes all to her~ –hearts- Many thanks also go to CaladriaHaru for introducing me to this pairing, as well as Kaletin for the creation of the fan club dedicated to said pairing on BlackButler(dot)net. ;D

His Wolf

Chapter One

It didn't seem to matter how many assignments Vincent had gone on before: all it had taken was one mistake and everything had easily fallen apart. It had been such a minor thing, too: a smile at the wrong person at the wrong time, and then the situation had snowballed out of control. It had been too late to try to escape—all of the exits had been blocked by the crime lord's men, anyway—and all that had been left to do was go with the lackeys down into the hidden rooms.

Perhaps with little protest, the crime ring might end up releasing him, thinking that they had caught the wrong man—that this all had been a mistake, a misunderstanding, and Vincent had turned into the exceptionally unlucky victim.

The Queen's Watchdog knew better than to hope for rescue.

But it was hard to keep from hoping that reinforcements would come as the whip once more came down on his back, raising welts and drawing blood where the previous day's beating had bruised his skin. Again and again the whip came down, and English aristocratic pride seemed absolutely paltry now: all that kept him from screaming at the pain or biting his tongue clean through was the piece of leather that the men had forced into his mouth so that Vincent would bite down on that and nothing else.

Again. And again.

Again.

Again.

He couldn't remember when he had blacked out, which number had finally overwhelmed his ability to tolerate and endure through the pain. But unconsciousness was a welcome escape by this point and it was one that Vincent gladly took advantage of. To leave behind the hopelessness of the situation, even for just a moment—it was the oblivion that he welcomed and embraced with open arms.

There were many who would have been able to endure the pain better—perhaps—but Vincent's specialties had always resided with manipulations, working through the Ton and through the Underground, charming those who were otherwise unmovable with the quiet softness of his smile. They fell for it: men and women both eagerly sought him out, searching for him with avid eyes, hoped for a glance when they met—an acknowledgement from the beautiful aristo. Even those in the Underground never truly realized just how dangerous Vincent was; the connections that he had cultivated spanned across Europe, and Vincent knew more about current goings-on than the Queen's official spymaster.

He was the best at what he did, was as graceful as a jaguar with a sword and could put Frances to shame with a gun—but with neither at his disposal, all Vincent could do was continue on through the pain.

And enjoy the darkness while it lasted.

XXX

Vincent awoke on his belly, body haphazardly sprawled over the thin cot in the room that he had been assigned when his jailors had first brought him here. His skin was goose-pimpled with the cold, and the Evil Nobleman could feel the sluggish trickling of blood as it made its way over his back and down his sides. With the days that he had been kept here (if it was days; time had skewed and Vincent couldn't even trust in the regularity of the schedule in which they fed him) and the number of times that he had been put under his captors' tender care, Vincent knew that his back probably looked like a shredded mess.

There would be whipping scars, thick ones from the feel of his wounds; the criss-cross shape of them would be impossible to disguise, to laugh off as a childhood accident for those who might accidentally see. The loss of one of his masks, the disguise of the pale-skinned and elegant English aristocrat, tightened his chest and Vincent could only clutch his fingers tight into the threadbare sheets beneath him. One less weapon in his arsenal, one less layer to bury himself in when he went hunting—though it would only matter if he managed to escape in the end.

Somehow.

He refused to give up: there would be an opening, and the Queen's Watchdog would take it. Vincent expected nothing less of himself—always the best, striving to hone his abilities, the most dangerous man in Britain who watched and struck from the shadows.

Vincent needed to continue being that man.

But when the door to his cell opened and two of the men he recognized stepped into his room, the Phantomhive head couldn't stop the brief spasm of despair from clogging his throat and keeping the breath from his lungs for several long moments.

Not again.

XXX

They used salt this time.

It was with steady pressure that one of the jailors continued to push salt into the open wounds on Vincent's back, and the noble didn't bother trying to stifle his cries anymore. It was relentless, the pain—consuming everything as it burrowed its way into his body and soul, breaking both… but not his mind.

"What is your name?"

"V-Vincent Phantomhive," the blue-eyed man gasped out, fingers curling tight over the chains that connected to the cuffs that bound his hands, Vincent's grasp desperate enough to make the metal cut into his palms to draw even more blood. It was red, dark red—red enough to match his vision, the shade of his skin. Dark enough, too, to match his rage.

"You are a noble, are you not? What is your ranking?"

"Earl," Vincent managed to get out after screaming when a second man rubbed salt over more of his lashes. His knees gave out, forcing his cuffed wrists to take on his complete weight, slight though it now was.

"Why did you attend the party?"

They tossed water on him before he could answer, dissolving the rock salt and letting it run further down his back—settling deep into lower wounds, forcing Vincent's body to shudder with both cold and pain. So much pain. And then they started with the salt again, unrelenting and as constant as the spiraling of the sun through the sky.

When Vincent was able to breathe once more as the men paused in their administration, he managed to whisper, "Wanted to f-find backers. For Funtom Company. That was it. Smiled at a m-man—thought I knew him—and then… this. Please. I'm telling the truth. Please let me go."

The torture continued, never varying in pace despite the fact that the questions did: different questions, similar questions but worded differently, questions asked to test the knowledge that they suspected Vincent truly had; questions, questions, questions—a torrent of them, a cascade that was never ending. It was as horrifying as an avalanche, and through it all, Vincent's answers never deviated from what he had established before—and through the red haze of his gaze, he took his torturers' faces, imprinting them to memory. Their voices, too, were ones that Vincent knew that he would never forget, would remember and echo within his nightmares.

For hours, for what seemed like days, the men continued on with their interrogation, and Vincent fought to hang on to his sanity; he hid himself beneath his public mask, clinging desperately to the identity of "Vincent, head of the Phantomhive family and owner of the Funtom Company, current bachelor, well-liked Earl amongst the Ton." He forged the mask with iron, letting it ring strong as the men's tender mercies continued on without an end in sight, and he settled it firmly over his own sense of self to protect that concept behind a fortress made up of lies.

XXX

The register continued on from that point on, the men alternating with the whip and the salt—hoping that one or the other would force Vincent to finally relinquish his true secrets, the ones that they weren't completely sure of but suspected he had.

The Queen's Watchdog did not break, however.

It was days later—days that had morphed into a meaningless measure of time when all there ever was was pain—when the door to his cell opened at a time that didn't follow the usual schedule for more pain and his meals (though calling what he was given "food" was paying the group's men a compliment that they most assuredly didn't earn). Vincent turned his head to the side to watch the dark-haired man step into his room. He effortlessly made his way around the plates of food that Vincent hadn't bothered to eat, steps military-based in their regularity. He was one of the men that were forced to remain in the room while the others beat Vincent, though whenever the Phantomhive caught a glimpse of this man, his head was always turned away.

The other man stared down at Vincent with hazel-tinted eyes, some emotion within his gaze darkening the color slowly to brown. "You've lasted longer than was expected," the man finally said, voice barely above a murmur; the baritone was flavored with some foreign accept—German, perhaps?—and Vincent continued watching the man silently.

The silence stretched on for long moments, and Vincent wasn't the one to finally end it. The foreigner huffed an annoyed sigh and said, voice still low, "My name is Diederich Ferdinand von Wolff. I am one of your Queen's agents, a sleeper one; I was sent here to infiltrate the crime group and then was ordered to assassinate you if it looked as if you would cave beneath the torture. You haven't, though—and so I have come to present you with an offer: I have been given a new assignment, one that I will need help with. If I free you, I will require you to help me eradicate the members of this group and then assist me with my new orders."

Vincent continued staring up at the other man—Diederich, if he was telling the truth—before snorting in derision and turning his face away to stare at the wall. "If you truly believe that your proposition is actually realistic, then you are sorely mistaken," the noble said, giving his best attempt at a bemused drawl despite the current circumstances that he found himself in.

Diederich scowled in irritation before leaning over Vincent's cot; his lips brushed against the Earl's pierced ear and with a soft exhale, breathed out a single word. The Queen's Watchdog stiffened immediately at that, once more turning his head to meet the foreigner's eyes. His gaze had previously been dull, obviously uninterested in things with the acceptance that his torture would never end until his eventual death. But now… now, things had changed. Vincent's blue eyes glinted with feral intent, the predator within him once more aroused at the chance to return the pain that he had been subjected to. That look completely changed Vincent's demeanor, and Diederich had to admit to himself that perhaps Vincent truly had been the best choice to partner him for the job.

"Do you believe yourself capable of fighting your way through if given the opportunity?" Diederich asked, knowing that he had to be aware of Vincent's limitations with the injuries that the nobleman—evil or not—had suspected beneath his captors' tender care.

In answer, Vincent's gaze darkened to midnight blue.

"If you give me back my sword and pistol, you'll be able to see for yourself, von Wolff."

For the first time in a month, Vincent smiled—the soft expression once more settling across his face, tugging his lips upwards in a sweet, soothing smile that lulled so many others to a false sense of security. His beauty shone through again, the charming aristo given hope and the chance to survive—and the opportunity to once again hunt in the grounds that he knew best.

But Diederich continued to watch Vincent's gaze and recognized the jungle cat that had been previously banked and hidden, camouflaged beneath a cultured veneer.

This was the most dangerous man in all of Britain.

~TBC~