Chapter Two


He cut through the bodies before him with a grace that paired tightly with the threat that his role within Society represent: the Evil Nobleman, come to call; Vincent's sword flashed out, severing limbs and flicking slightly enough so that blood splattered over the walls of the mansion in elegant, abstract patterns. The Earl wielded his blade with his right hand, the left effortlessly marking different men for death—the gun went off, the bullet flew through the air, and man after man fell to the ground, dead with that bullet lodged firmly in their forehead.

Diederich was impressed.

The Prussian had heard rumors regarding Vincent Phantomhive's competence. He had assumed they were only rumors, however, despite the Watchdog's reputation amongst those that he hunted. Still, it was a different experience and realization finally seeing what it was that he had previously been hearing about: this man was deadly.

Diederich came in behind Vincent, ending the lives of those that Vincent hadn't bothered with when he struck out with his sword—and it didn't take long for the sleeper agent to notice that those that Vincent left to suffer with debilitating (and eventually life-threatening, though not in an immediate sense) were those that had been down in the torture room.

He ended those lives with a shot from his gun, knowing that he'd have to apologize to Earl Phantomhive later for ruining his game of cat and mouse, and the hunt that would have resulted from the horrors that had been done to him. Unfortunately, neither man had the time for it—in normal circumstances, Diederich wouldn't have cared. But he needed Vincent for his next mission, and he couldn't afford having the Watchdog be distracted by revenge left unfulfilled.

This would have to be enough for the Englishman because Diederich couldn't afford to allow for anything else.

Thus, so the Prussian continued his way forward, slaying the men that Vincent didn't have time to get to or the men that the Watchdog hadn't managed to notice in his bloodlust—those men Diederich killed swiftly, bullets flying through the air as men screamed in pain. It was gratifying finally lashing out at the people he had been slowly growing to loathe over the months: ending their corruption with an efficiency that showed his military training. Though he didn't have the grace or elegance in battle that Earl Phantomhive did, Diederich didn't much care. In the end, dead was dead.

And it was a relief to finally shed the sheep's clothing and reveal the wolf beneath.

XXX

Vincent could feel his wounds pulling tight across his skin with every lunge and parry, every downstroke and every thrust of his sword; what scabs had managed to form despite the torture he knew were being pulled away and leaving agony in their wake. He knew that the scars would be worse now.

But he couldn't bring himself to care at the immediate moment.

The Earl's mask was lowered as the tattered remains of his shirt clung to his back, blood running heavily over his skin; the iron fortress' drawbridge was lowered, and Vincent emerged from within the sheltering depths. As with the plague given unto Egypt, Vincent descended upon the men who had tortured him. He gave no quarter, no mercy, and his normally kind eyes were hard with predatory, hungry intent.

Vincent Phantomhive was who he was:

He was the Queen's hidden dagger, the man capable of balancing the line between light and darkness; the Ton's darling and the underworld's personal nightmare, the terror that waited for them in the shadows when their greed and cruelty overcame their self-preservation and caution.

Then he struck, as hard and as thoroughly as he did now.

And when the last man fell, gasping with the remnants of his sense of self—trying so hard to cling to the life that he had led, the life that Vincent had claimed for his own—the Earl reached down and took the man's cravat to use the silk cloth to clean his sword thoroughly before sheathing it.

"Are we done here?" Vincent asked, very carefully keeping his posture rigid as he looked over his shoulder to meet Diederich's assessing green-tinted eyes. The nobleman ignored the haze at the corner of his gaze, the way that it was difficult to think in linear patterns since his mind continuously wanted to drift off into a new tangent. He felt light-headed and dizzy, needing a hand to steady himself against the wall. The blood loss was not a new experience, and Vincent had no intention of letting it overcome him.

Diederich continued watching Vincent for several more silent moments, eyes narrowing and turning even more assessing, but he eventually nodded at the very end. "Yes, we are done. The members of the group have been effectively terminated, and they will no longer concern the Queen. Let's go."

Vincent gave no answer to that for his gestures were still as brusque as ever, and he pulled away from Diederich so that he could head for the manor's entrance—the doorway that he remembered stepping through so long ago and was finally stepping out.

It had seemed an eternity, and the Earl was glad to be leaving.

He didn't even make it to the waiting carriage before the trauma and loss of blood dragged him into unconsciousness, dropping to the cobblestones beneath his booted feet. He was still breathing, Diederich was relieved to see, but that still didn't change the fact that Vincent was still unconscious and Diederich's medical knowledge only contained the advice of "walk it off, you bloody fop." He stared down at the Earl, shifting imperceptibly from foot to foot as he debated what to do: going to the hospital was out, as well as notifying Vincent's butler—the assignment that Diederich was expected to fulfill relied upon the fact that most by now assumed the Earl dead. Eventually coming to a decision, one that he wasn't too particularly fond of, Diederich sighed and stooped to carefully gather Vincent into his arms.

"Well, damn," the Prussian muttered, irritated.

XXX

The first thing that Vincent became aware of was the gentle caress of fingers across his back; he couldn't stop the shiver at the sensation—the fingers were coated with some sort of salve, and the pain that had encompassed his world for days slowly began to fade in the touch's wake. It felt good, so good, at no longer having to immerse himself in pain. He stirred as the hands eased over the wings of his shoulder blades, spreading the salve over the worse of his lashes and welts—the men had enjoyed concentrating their whipping there and over the small of his back, knowing just how often those muscles were used by a person.

At the Earl's movement, however, the hands paused in their ministrations and lifted up from Vincent's back—unashamed, the Phantomhive heir moaned softly at the loss of the cooling caresses that quenched the fire of his back. "Please don't stop," Vincent murmured, his words barely audible and husky from his voice's lack of use.

Cautiously, the hands returned to smooth more of the medicinal salve over Vincent's wounds. The fingers lingered longest over the deepest lashes that the nobleman had received, layering the salve thickly to try to promote healing; it was an emergency medicinal treatment that he had learned to make in the military that was comprised of comfrey, beeswax, and tea-tree oil—with added bay berry bark and opium to help with the pain.

"It is helping?" the owner of the pair of hands asked, tone bordering on doubtful.

Vincent paused for a brief moment, startled by the German accent that laced the voice; he had expected Tanaka's soothing, familiar voice—had expected his butler to be the one to care for him now that he had managed to leave his prison. Instead, the Earl was left with… Vincent turned his head to the side, just enough to look over his shoulder from the corner of his eyes.

Diederich's hazel gaze met Vincent's own, and the other agent waited (not so) patiently for the Englishman's answer, a muscle slightly ticking regularly at the edge of the dark-haired man's jawline.

Gathering together his wits, Vincent let his mask once more fall down so that he could retreat to the fortress of stone and iron that he had built for himself while being tortured. The Earl's eyes softened with apparent gratitude, and he gave a slow, gentle smile before closing his eyes to once more rest his forehead against the pillow that had previously pressed against his cheek. "Yes, it is," Vincent answered. "Thank you. Thank you for returning my weapons to me—and thank you for dressing my wounds now."

Irritated by the gratitude—but only because it made him uncomfortable—Diederich shrugged, the gesture unseen by his current patient. "There is no need to thank me," the Prussian retorted as he inspected his work with the salve and reaching for a towel to wipe his hands clean. "I need you alive and healed to go through with the mission. It's only a means towards an end."

Vincent chuckled at that; at least the sleeper agent was honest.

"That may be true," Vincent said in reply, fingers flexing carefully over the blankets beneath his body—doing so to allow the muscles' ripple and pull to ease over his back, judging the extent of his wounds. The Queen's Watchdog stifled a hiss of pain and stopped his experiments: it would take a while to heal, and he would have to be careful while healing to ensure that the scars wouldn't go deep and ruin his range of motion. "However, if this is unusual for you, please notify my butler, Tanaka. He is efficient and discreet, and he has been with my family since my mother's time. He can be trusted."

The Prussian laughed openly at that. "No one can be trusted," he answered once the laughter had died down, easing away. He shook his head in bemusement despite the fact that Vincent wouldn't have been able to see. "The only reason why I'm bothering to include you in my assignment is because I need a partner and you're indebted to me for saving your life."

And, oh, how true that statement was.

Earl Phantomhive gritted his teeth, swallowing down the surge of fury at the knowledge that he had been effectively trapped, and had been unable to do anything about it: either reject the offer of rescue and die at his captors' hands or take the offer and be tied to this man for as long as his mission would last. The choice had been easy enough to make at the time, and Vincent knew that he would still make the same choice if given another chance, but the fact that he had been cornered was nothing less than insulting.

However, when he managed to look up at Diederich once more, a small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, lashes lowered to give him a sleepy, defenseless look. "Since it seems as if you're the only one nursing me back to health… I can't remember the last time that I had something proper to eat. I'm hungry—starving, actually—and so may I request a meal, Mr. von Wolff?"

Diederich grunted something in reply, not bothering to put his answer into words, but the soldier did stand and head towards the bedroom door with his boots lightly thumping upon the wooden floors of Vincent's assigned room. When the Watchdog heard that those very same boots had made their way to the far end of the house that they were staying at, a mean, small smile flickered across his mouth as he reached for the telephone that had been otherwise just out of reach.

If the Prussian knew who Vincent truly was, then he shouldn't have relied on the Earl's apparent helplessness that would have otherwise kept him out of commission until he had healed completely; the Queen's Watchdog hadn't broken under torture, had never broken his mask despite the danger that he had oftentimes found himself in—and he would never, ever allow himself to remain helpless if he had the chance to arm himself.

In this case, Vincent summoned his sword and shield to guard his back until he was fit once more.

An hour later when Diederich returned to Vincent's sickroom with a tray loaded with nutritious broth and milk and other easy things that someone healing should eat—or so he remembered from the tents on the battle field as the doctors made quick work to nurse their soldiers back to full health. He stopped, though, at the sight that was presented to him:

An elderly gentleman dressed in a butler's garb was gently helping Vincent to sit up on the edge of the bed. Despite the opiates that the Prussian had included in the salve, the movements still hurt the Earl as evidenced by the tendons that stood out starkly in his throat, as well as the soft hissing sound that Vincent couldn't stifle.

"Who the hell is he?" Diederich snapped out, tray dropping to the floor as he rolled and drew his gun with one efficient movement. He braced himself, gun pointed steadily at the gentleman's head as Diederich watched the Earl from the corner of his eyes.

"This is Tanaka, my butler," Vincent murmured in answer, spreading his arms slightly—just enough for Tanaka to quickly and carefully wrap bandages around his torso. "I told you that he could be trusted and, besides, a lord must always have his butler by his side."

Suddenly, though, his gaze sharpened as he stared at Diederich, and the sleeper agent couldn't help but give the blue-eyed man his full attention. "Furthermore, he will be assisting us with your assignment. While I am indebted to you and have no other choice but to help you since you offered me that spidersilk thread of hope back there, I won't allow anything other than a full partnership. We'll be equals."

The Prussian snarled in answer, teeth bared threateningly as his temper loosened slightly from his iron-clad hold upon it. "This is my mission. I was the one to offer you help, to free you from your prison. I'm the one in charge."

Vincent offered Diederich his trademark, quiet smile—but the jungle cat once more eased its way through his eyes, hunting through the thick foliage and eventually settling to wait patiently for the best time to strike.

"We will be equal partners in this, von Wolff."

Vincent's voice was implacable, and Diederich shifted the muzzle of his gun to point at the spot over the Earl's chest. Tanaka began to stir at that, movements quick and still remaining graceful—and it was then that Diederich knew that Tanaka had been trained in some sort of martial arts, though that point was moot since the old man had him pinned to the ground with a stranglehold on his throat.

"Tanaka, enough," came the Watchdog's commanding tone and, as a butler never questioned his lord, Tanaka released his hold on Diederich without a word of protest, leaving the soldier gasping for breath on the floor as he went to stand at the Earl's side—as was proper, according to Vincent, though the Prussian now knew that there was more than met the eye to, perhaps, any of the Phantomhive's servants.

Diederich didn't bother to hide his scowl as he rubbed at his throat, though, propping himself up on an elbow to glare angrily at lord and butler. In answer to that, Vincent smiled and it was pure cat-got-the-canary.

"Since I do wish to keep my original promise to you and you seem to be foolishly stubborn on this one point… how about a game of chess to determine the outcome: you in charge and me as your subordinate or, as I wish, with the both of us as partners."

He didn't want to agree to the offer, but it seemed as if it was the best way to resolve the conflict without resorting to violence—and an excellent military knew how to pick his battles to ensure that he always came out the winner of each outcome.

Besides, he did also have an advantage: by going to the military academy to ensure that he would become an officer, he had been thoroughly trained in the art of tactics and strategy. He had come out the top in his class and, as one of the results, had never lost at a game of chess.

He would win in the end, so what did it matter drawing the issue out a bit longer?

Slightly, Diederich inclined his head towards the Earl, never taking his eyes off of the apparently effeminate, foppish man. "I agree to your proposal."

XXX

Diederich had lost.

He stared down at the chessboard, at the black knight that had finally checkmated his king. It shouldn't have happened—he had never lost a game of chess in years and, besides, his white pieces had overtaken the board. So how was it that Earl Phantomhive had managed to win despite the odds?

He glanced up, hazel eyes dark with irritation, and snapped, "You cheated."

Vincent's reply was idle and unconcerned. "I didn't," he answered, shrugging a shoulder at the Prussian's look of disbelief, though the gesture was aborted when his skin began to tighten warningly. "You were arrogant in your movements, thinking that your choices were subtle while they were still relatively straightforward. I allowed you to take my pieces to lull you into assuming that you were winning and thus had less to be concerned about. And then I checkmated you. That is it, and you have lost, Mr. von Wolff."

About to snap at the smarmy bastard again, Diederich paused as a thought occurred to him. Though he was still scowling darkly, he looked Vincent up and down: even though he knew that Vincent was the Queen's Watchdog, the man typically acted so unassuming and unthreatening, and he seemed to be able to easily lull his enemies into a state of complacency. They fell for it—and so had Diederich.

Mulling this thought over, Diederich glanced over at the Watchdog with a much more assessing gaze.

In answer, Vincent just smiled: his eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, lashes falling just enough to brush the beauty mark beneath his left eye, the touch as light as a butterfly's kiss. And his image completely changed, shifting to sultry and dangerous—a lazy cat content for the moment but could just as easily lash out when it chose to do so. "I am what I am," he murmured.

And Diederich finally understood what that truly meant.

~TBC~