I found a list of darkfic prompts, & one of them was fears/phobias. So, I decided to write this little ficlet. It's set in some post-canon future, & it isn't really a dark fic, per se...
Practicality
"So, you knew Earl Phantomhive," Grey says. He's lounging, as much as he can lounge in the moving chaos that is Sullivan's lab. Books and expensive equipment line the walls; mechanical arms crank themselves out of hidden pockets to hand her what she needs. The young woman looks nothing so much as the heart around which the whole place works like some infernal organ. Practical and scientific—Grey admires it. He still couldn't help jumping the first time one of those mechanical arms brushed past him.
"Yes; but of course you know that," Sieglinde answers abstractedly, not looking up from her work. There are delicate glass contraptions filled with colored liquids that must have some significance; he's sure she explained it to him once. When whatever this is is all done, and it does what it's supposed to do, he'll use it—but the process is a whole other language, something he's never had the head for. She's a vision, green eyes frowning in concentration; short dark hair tied back with velvet bows. "He brought me to England. One more moment—I'm almost done."
"I'll wait," Grey says. Not that hurrying her would have any effect; he's seen her stubborn spirit. Perhaps it was that which kept his interest, as outside of his purview as everything about her is—untouchable. Finally she sighs, and turns down the flame. She makes mechanical sounds herself, as she turns—though the spider legs that had more than once almost ripped his clothes by catching on it are gone, replaced by clawed dragon feet that curl up, hidden, under her dress, only visible in moments. A clockwork appendage hands her her coat and hat, and she slips them on, before following him out into the overcast afternoon, the sky heavy with drizzle, washed-out and with the hint of cold. He holds out an arm to help her into the carriage, before he swings into the seat across from her.
"You want to talk about him," Sieglinde says. "Why? Does he have something to do with the case?"
Charles laughs nervously. He feels the hilt of his sword, once more, just to remind himself it's there, and that the case is as likely to be some charlatan looking to stir up trouble as anything actually supernatural. "He had a knack for appearing around the inexplicable."
"He was never interested in the occult," Sieglinde says. "He said he had too many things to worry about in the here and now to think about his immortal soul." She pauses, for a moment. "I was asking him if he'd ever experienced a spirit himself, you see—after what happened, in my town—after what I learned—the very foundations of everything I knew to be knowledge were shaking apart beneath me. I wasn't sure if magic was real at all."
"And now?" Grey asks.
Sieglinde gives him a small, hidden smile; she doesn't answer. At last, she says, "I have science enough to keep my interest."
Grey knows what they had called her, back then. The green witch. It's only because he knows it was nothing more than an act of which she was innocent that lets him feel safe around her; but there are moments, like these, where he feels a chill down the back of his spine, and half-imagines that there is some unseen power that she holds curled about her, like one of her mechanical contraptions. As like as not it's only her feminine allure, but there's something a little too dangerous about it; it makes him guard his tongue.
A powerful ally is always better than a powerful enemy.
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