Disclaimer: All characters and references to the series 'Black Butler' belong solely to Yana Toboso. I have no claim to anything.
Author's Note: Hopefully, the first chapter of this story has brought readers at least this far. The story explains itself, really. No need for a lengthy opening. If you need the basic plotline, please see the Author's Note at the beginning of chapter one. In addition, I am looking forward to a certain person's opinion on this. I would very much enjoy their opinion on how I portrayed them. -smirk- Enjoy.
Chapter Two: The Question
It wasn't his home. It was a place where he lived; a place where he exchanged a helping hand for shelter. It was also a roof over his head and a warm meal every night. It was a place that kept him busy in his free time, and made training with his teacher convenient. It was nothing more than a small, spare room in the upper level of an old building on the east end of London; an old morgue belonging to an old acquaintance. Nothing more than a hardwood floor and long-mirrored armoire with a few sets of clothes, a bed by the small window, and a nightstand adorned with what few meager personal possessions he had managed to hold on to. A place where he was allowed access to his acquaintances' facilities and, or course, lower-level workspace where he constantly lent a helping hand in lew of rent. A place where he was hidden from the prying eyes of the world that may still recognize him. A place where he was guaranteed food, shelter, work, privacy, and safety…but not happiness. That hadn't been his for a long time…and would never be his again. After all, something, once truly lost, can never be returned.
It wasn't his home…but it was good enough for now.
After dropping off his 'package' to his superiors, it was surprisingly nice to return to said place. Depositing his gun and its holster on the nightstand, he made his way to the armoire to change his clothes. He would never understand why his employer insisted that he change from bloodied to clean clothes, simply to bloody them again. It wasn't as if he was the one who had to wash them. Then again, the blood staining his collar was no one's fault but his own. If he had kept his wits about him…what had happened back there? He was never so sloppy. Why had that frivolous tune from the pocket watch distracted him so? Why had he thought of him? Halfway into his next tasks' uniform, a recollection struck him. He glanced in the mirror accompanying his armoire, and gently removed his eye patch. He met the cold stare of the boy in the mirror with scrutiny. Examining the unusual marking in his right iris closely he discovered that, as always, nothing seemed amiss. It looked just as it had for the past ten years. The fact that it was still there at all was a mystery in itself…one that Ciel had long given up on trying to solve. Its inflictor had vanished, so why did the mark not vanish as well? And why did it burn so? There was a slight shock of realization; a small widening of his mismatched eyes; then the boy chuckled to himself. What a hypocrite he was, asking such stupid questions.
Abandoning the eye patch on the nightstand, he returned to the task of changing his clothes. It had been happening more and more recently; the burning. At first, it had only occurred in small bouts when he used his Reaper-bestowed ability. He had assumed that it was simply the result of two powers clashing, and for a short while considered the possibility that spitefully requesting Reaper's sight in that specific eye only, rather than his unmarked one, hadn't been the best idea…but when he entertained the notion that wherever that man was, he might be feeling the same pain each time it afflicted him, Ciel threw that idea out the window, embracing the pain. However, it progressed. The pain worsened, became more frequent. When he awoke from his nightmares, it was there. When his memories resurfaced, it was there. Now it had even escalated to the point of burning when anyone at all physically laid a hand on him, harmfully or otherwise. His buttons and ties were fastened more tightly as his frustration built. Was this his way of showing Ciel that he still belonged to him? That he was still with him? He pulled the last tie around the small of his back just a bit too tightly. Impossible. Delicate fingers laced up and down the front of his elongated black coat, deftly buttoning the snaps. His day-uniform was much easier to adorn than his night-uniform. Strolling back to the nightstand, he gently gripped the cloth patch in his small palm. Impossible. If that was the case, wouldn't he have simply returned? What was once truly lost could never be returned. His servant was no longer at his side. His eyes masked the imperceptibly quick flash of doubt that moved behind them.
…still…
He slowly tied the eye patch back in place.
In the ten years that had passed since their last meeting…
He glanced across the room to examine his full reflection in the mirror once more.
…his voice had never been more clear than it had been in the alleyway.
Just as the sunlight began to peak over the horizon, it seeped through the dirty window and glinted off of the mirror, catching the boy's attention. He turned his cold gaze away from his reflection, and made his way to the door.
Back to work.
xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
The workspace on the lower level of the morgue allowed less light than his bedroom. His teacher (and current employer) preferred it that way, and Ciel didn't mind; his eyes had adjusted to working in the near-darkness. The actual space hadn't changed much over the course of a decade: the dusty shelves were still stocked with glass jars containing things that Ciel wished that he was unfamiliar with. The 'tables' still housed their 'guests,' and Ciel still had to traverse the mazes of said 'tables' to reach the front door and the stairs to the upper level. The room still smelled of embalming fluid, decaying corpses, dust, blood, and death…but again, Ciel didn't mind it. His senses had become accustomed to it. After all, he had lived there for nearly ten years now. The man who had taken him in hadn't changed, either. Still ghastly thin, so much so that at first glance his fingers looked more like bones. Still swathed in long, black robes, hiding his bony figure from view. Still pale as the corpses that he so adored, with long curtains of silver-gray hair falling past his waist and hiding his eyes (had he any at all, for Ciel had yet to see them). Still scarred about the neck and face, the latter of which was still constantly stretched by an crooked, hysterical grin that twisted his cracked lips as he wheezed out a giddy-
"Earl…?"
The soft cloth in Ciel's hands didn't pause in its task of wiping down the bloodied, silver instruments as the word pierced his consciousness. Not bothering to turn away from his task, he addressed the elder without as much as a sideways glance.
"…I've asked you not to call me that anymore, Undertaker. I cast off that title years ago…you know that."
The man's hysterical grin wavered slightly, then disappeared completely as he turned his back toward the boy and continued with his work. His shoulders sagged slightly; a telltale sign that the man was pouting. Ciel inwardly sighted at the man's immaturity before holding his breath and jumping into the deep water.
"…What is it?" he asked, exasperated.
He was slightly surprised to see a smirk on the man's face upon glancing over his bony shoulder to observe the boy. Ciel hated that smile. It leaked condescending "ignorance" accusations from every pore. As if he knew something that Ciel didn't…then again, when did he not?
"I was just going to ask you how your assignment went last night…"
The white cloth in the boy's whiter hands continued its monotonous motion, up, and down, and up, and down…
"I'm guessing not so well, judging by the dark circles under your…eye…"
Ciel scowled slightly as the man cackled at his own idiotic sense of humor.
"…another all-nighter, hm?"
Up, and down, and up, and down, and-
"Didn't feel like sleeping?"
-and down, and up, and down-
"…or was your eye bothering you again?"
The cloth froze mid-stroke, and the Undertaker had his answer. Ciel cast the man a vicious glare, his visible eye proclaiming that if he had something to say, he would be better off getting to the point. The boy hissed back his response through clenched teeth.
"Someone neglected to warn me that my target may be armed."
He still had a slight headache from the point-blank shot. Perhaps a Reaper couldn't technically be killed, save by a Deathscythe, but a forty-four-caliber, point-blank shot to the skull couldn't be pleasant for anyone. The fact that he was still (by their standards) a rather young Reaper failed to enhance his healing abilities or his body's durability, as well. With age and experience, he would gain these things, but that fact did little to help rein the boy's anger as the Undertaker's face split into another hysterical grin.
"Mr. Spears thought that Limbo's newest little prodigy would have assumed."
Ciel's scowl darkened. The fact that such rumors truly were currently being circulated about him among the other Reapers meant absolutely nothing to his superior. No matter how advance he was for his age, to William T. Spears, the Undertaker's 'best student' would always be the small, stubborn, haughty brat with a demon leashed to his wrist that had interfered in Grim Reaper business while he was alive. Ciel's eye narrowed, not in malice, but in a manifestation of an emotion that he could not identify, and his scowl morphed into a genuine frown.
'…but I am no longer that person…and I never will be again.'
The Undertaker's smile spread wider still, causing the boy to wonder yet again if the man could hear his internal thought. He had given Ciel his eye's current ability, after all.
"Sorry about Will's neglect…I'll scold him for it later."
Ciel's frown disappeared, giving his expression a haughty air.
"Don't bother. I managed just fine without his help."
At this, the mortician had to cover his mouth to trap the obnoxious laughter that threatened to escape. His speech was sprinkled with snorts, wheezes, and suppressed guffaws.
"…pfft….Why, yes! Ha ha! Being…pfft…b-being shot in the face is – ha!...i-is managing just fine! Ahahaha! -"
Ciel finally turned his full attention on to his teacher, who had fallen into a fit of suppressed giggles and long-winded wheezing. His cerulean eye narrowed in a warning of 'don't mock me,' which his employer promptly ignored as he rode out his fit, then continued.
"…Ah, you're getting better at making me laugh everyday, Earl," he said, ignoring the glare from the boy at the mention of the taboo title. "…but really, I expect better from you. It isn't in your usual nature to passively swallow bullets. What's distracting you lately, hm?"
Silence didn't need to precede that storm. Ciel had seen it coming a mile away. He had already avoided the man's less-than-tactful advances on the subject once now. This was strike two. He had lived with the man long enough to know that his next training session would be absolute murder if he made it to strike three. He set the cloth and newly-cleaned instrument on the 'table,' and didn't respond. The silence was all the answer that the Undertaker needed…but of course it wasn't enough. Of course he wanted to hear the boy say it. He had been trying to break the child's pride from day one. Ciel smiled despite himself at the man's stubbornness and relented. No use in trying to hide something from a man who knew everything.
"…Would you take that laugh from earlier as payment for telling me why my eye is doing this…?"
The man's smile was answer enough.
"…it's getting worse." He mumbled, defeatedly.
The man's smile didn't waver.
"And why do you think that is?" the mortician quipped with a tilt of his head.
Ciel was, for once, admittedly at a loss.
"I…don't know. That's why I'm asking you."
The man's grin spread wider still, and the boy felt a twinge of a nostalgic realization as the man turned away from him, back to his work. There was no delicate, subtle way to voice the knowledge.
"…You know…don't you?" He asked flatly.
The man continued his ministrations with his back turned to the boy. Ciel could practically feel the grin that was splitting the mortician's skull. His shoulders shook with suppressed laughter and it flared the child's anger. His volume remained low, but his tone sharpened.
"Tell me."
The tone caught the man's attention, but did not intrigue him enough to convince him to turn around. He simply hummed, amused.
"Hm? You ask me not to call you 'Earl,' but you still issue commands like a little noble…"
Ciel was thoroughly unamused by the man's change of subject. He had humored him once. He wasn't going to meet him more than halfway. The Undertaker, apparently realizing this, relented. Glancing over his shoulder to address the boy, his expression had morphed from a manic grin to a knowing smirk. Ciel had known the man long enough to know that the Undertaker was about to be serious. Whatever he was about to say was important. His tone matched his expression.
"Just wait, Ciel. You'll find the answer yourself soon enough…" his expression changed again, twisting back to the hysterical grin accompanied by suppressed laughter. "…or, rather…the answer will find you!"
He proceeded to collapse atop the coffin upon which his station was set, spiraling into a raucous fit of obnoxious laughter and pounding his fist against the lid. Ciel had had enough. He stood from his seat, scowled in his teacher's direction, turned on his heels and made his way to the other end of the room. He opened a coffin that was leaned up against the wall in the dark corner at a sixty-five degree angle, and stepped inside.
"I'm going to pick up my paycheck." He spat tersely.
He turned to walk forward, as if down a staircase, then (slammed) shut the coffin door behind him, well on his way to the Grim Reaper Library. The Undertaker calmed his fit, wiping tears from his masked eyes, the hysterical grin coming to a fusion with the knowing smirk.
"…Oh, Earl…you're so impatient."
xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
Silence. It was unnerving, really, or would have been, had he not been who he was. Had this not been the type of silence most familiar to him; the silence that occupied the empty space where a once young, strong, proud voice had taken command; the silence that filled the darkest corners of his mind, where an answer to why he had even allowed himself to be put in this situation should have presented itself, bet refused him, no matter how many times he sought it; the silence that graced the tense air, moments before the destruction of the storm occurred…
And occur it had.
That much was clearly evident, judging by the corpse slowly decaying at his feet. It was a rather unusual place to die, especially for a nobleman (if the corpses' clothes were any hint to go by). One would expect him to die at home, sleeping peacefully in a warm bed as his loved ones surrounded him, weeping; not alone in an abandoned factory in one of the most uninhabited neighborhoods in London. Murder was the first conclusion, but ultimately a false one. There were no external wounds, or even injuries…not even signs of a struggle, save for the barred entryway. So what had happened? The man's internal organs appeared to be in perfect condition, and old age was ruled out as well. Interesting, to say the least; nearly as interesting as the blood stains on the man's face. He had not bled, so where had the blood come from? A temporarily un-gloved hand bent down to swipe the blood from a frozen cheek. One whiff sent a shiver racing down a strict spine, giving new life to a dimming fire. It was fresh. It was fragrant. He had been here, and not long ago. He wiped the blood on the front of the dead man's overcoat, nimble finger pressing against something beneath the chest as he did so; something solid, that emitted a small, nearly silent tone. A distinguished brow quirked upward in curiosity, as that un-gloved hand swept underneath the coat to retrieve what had caused the noise. As the hand resurfaced, it revealed a small, silver pocket watch. Curiosity growing, the watch was given a quick wind, and in turn, began to play its chiming tune.
With a small smirk, the intruder turned and headed toward the door. No need to take the time to carefully unbar it. A quick push was enough to remove the objects, door and all, from his path. After all, what would he do if he couldn't accomplish something so simple? The moment that the outside air met his lungs, that fragrant, alluring scent permeated the air. The back of his left hand pulsed with a sickening force, as though maggots were trying to worm their way out of the skin, relaying to him that he was close; as close as he'd ever been. He was closer than he ever would have imagined…but he was not here. A brisk walk across the street would give him more information. The dead man's scent was seeping from the building down the street, and if he knew where the hunted had come from, he would know where the hunter had hidden. He took the pocket watch with him. It wasn't as if he was sentimental, but his previous one had been…disposed of, quite some time ago. He found it rather inconvenient as of late to be incapable of telling the time…and this one played such a nostalgic tune…
"…London Bridge is falling down…"
The building down the block that he was certain that the now dead man had come from, held not even the slightest hint of his scent. However, the alleyway directly adjacent to it was a different matter. The small metal gripped between gloved fingertips was caked with dry blood, permeating the same sweet scent that he had found on the victim. This had been inside of him. Someone had put it there. Only the faint, inconsistent pulsations beneath the glove of his left hand kept him from going back to the abandoned factory where the corpse lay and putting Jack the Ripper to shame. That, and the stronger scent of him that was farther down the alley still.
"…falling down…falling down…"
The bloodied handkerchief was lifted hesitantly, careful no to dirty his pristine gloves. However, one soft wind to carry the scent was all that it took to positively convince him that he could run his tongue across the pavement on which the filthy rag had lain, and he could never consider it dirty. It had been ten years. Ten years of wandering, searching, forsaking pride and questioning nature. Ten years of confusion. Ten years of agony. Ten years of longing. Ten years of starving. Ten years…and the boy had never even left London. An excited, anticipant, mischievous, nostalgic grin stretched across his skull.
"…London Bridge is falling down…"
Vermilion irises dilated; dark pupils narrowed to slits, gloved hand still clutching the bloodied cloth against upturned lips.
"…my Young Master."
