(A/N) :
New cover art! We're also on Spacebattles. Yay!
For those of you expecting us to get to the meat and potatoes of the Kuroshitsuji plot, you're going to have to wait a little longer. The plot proper will take time to begin and I want to show the consequences of Archer replacing Sebastian in real time instead of hindsight. Patience. It will come. I can't wait either. You have no idea what I'm sitting on :D
Was initially thinking of adding another part to this but this worked better as a standalone, so here it is.
As always, big thanks to fallacies, Hecturnus and fluflesnufaluphagus.
"A lowly servant like you... you wouldn't be thinking about hitting a noble, would you?"
"Oh I assure you, I think about it all the time. It's my lifelong dream to smack a bitch."
- Earl Charles Grey the 2nd and EMIYA, Easter 1889
A polite man might have described Ciel Phantomhive as "single-minded" and "steadfast".
An honest man would have preferred the terms "inflexible", and "unyielding".
Archer - barely an hour into his summoning - would have suggested "belligerent", "ungrateful", and "twat", in that order.
The journey started well enough, with Ciel admitting that he had no idea where his family's manor was nor where they were at present.
Archer bemoaned the fact that his master felt the need to mention this only after they had burned the abbey to the ground and thus robbed it of any distinguishing features.
It was therefore suggested that they make their way to the Royal Hospital in London where a relative of his worked as a doctor.
Of course, his master didn't know where London was either.
Archer had a sinking feeling that this was going to be the state of things to come. He served a master raised in cotton wool soaked with breast milk and chocolate fudge.
Still, the whole thing could have been worse. With his enhanced vision, Archer spied in the distance a village and suggested visiting and asking them for directions. Though initially worried about being seen and recognized in his current state, his master - seeing the lack of any other alternatives - agreed.
Five minutes had barely passed into their journey, with the two of them gingerly making their way through a particularly dense forest before his master tugged on his sleeve.
"What is it now, Master?"
"I need to go."
Of course. As highly as he conducted himself, his master was but a child. Archer sighed.
"Master, this is the quickest way through to the village." He waved towards the village's general direction with the parang he'd projected to clear the trail of ferns and other blockages. "If you're worried about the wild animals in the distance then I assure you I'm more than capable of handling it. Now let's keep moving and it will be over before you know it -"
"No, Emiya, you misunderstand me. I need to go."
Archer blinked, uncomprehending.
He was missing something here.
Beats passed punctuated with birdsong from above them before his master huffed and looked pointedly away.
"I need to relieve myself."
… oh.
Ohhhhhh.
Hurriedly - and with more embarrassment than he'd care to admit - Archer brought his master in front of a particularly aged and well-rounded oak tree.
"Alright then, do your business, I'll be on the other side keeping watch." He'd scarcely taken a step around him before his sleeve was pulled again.
"Wait just a minute." The boy was incredulous. "You're not expecting me to do my business like this, right?"
Archer stared in incomprehension before it hit him. "Right. Forgot you had a need for this, but here."
He promptly projected a roll of toilet paper and tossed it to a thoroughly dumbstruck Master. "If you're worried about littering, don't be, I'll vanish it when you're done. Chop chop."
"No, Emiya, that's not what I-" His Master started, stopped, before proceeding to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Are you being deliberately obtuse?"
"How am I obtuse?" Archer retorted, a little stung. "You don't want to be seen and recognized by the villagers so we can't borrow their amenities. We're in the middle of God knows where, in a forest, and I'll be damned if you can find so much as a chamberpot for miles. I realize it's not ideal, but it's all we've got."
The glare his master sent him was downright frosty. "So you want me to do it at the bottom of a tree like an- an animal?!"
Years later, nursing a bottle of his master's favorite Reds with Bard, Mey-rin and Finnian during one of their Sunday poker nights, Archer would rationalize that he'd mentally checked out at this point, so exasperated was he, that he thought uttering the following five words were an excellent idea.
"Yes, Master, hop to it."
It was not, in fact, an excellent idea.
The words had scarcely left his mouth before Archer realized it had been a step too far. Whatever had been frosty on his master's countenance before was now nothing short of murderous, and Archer didn't need to read minds to know his master was imagining unspeakable things done to him with his bare hands.
"... Emiya, let's get one thing straight." His master growled, and Archer warily eyed the trembling roll of TP in his hand. "I'm never going to be doing my business like that."
"Well what would you suggest, then?" Archer sighed, waving his arms. "It's not like we have any other choice."
… his master was staring again. "Wow. So you're really doing this on purpose, aren't you."
"Speak plainly, Master. It's not like we have all the time in the world; if you have another suggestion I'd love to hear it."
Famous last words.
Ciel looked fixedly at his servant with the air of a cat camping outside a mousehole.
"Aren't you a practitioner of... magecraft?"
Archer stopped. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like this."... yes?"
"And in the basement of that wretched facsimile of an abbey did I not watch you produce a bow, a table, two chairs and an artillery shell out of nothing at all?"
Oh. Oh dear God, Archer paled. He really didn't like where this was going.
"So in that same manner," his master continued on, a nasty grin on his face, relishing his servant's growing despair, "can't you just produce a working toilet for me to use right here?"
Just as his Master was in the middle of doing his business, Archer was in the middle of an existential crisis.
Four years.
Distantly, Archer remembered spending four years shadowing Rin in the clock tower, picking up the general fundamentals of modern magecraft honed and refined for generations under the tutelage of that irritable, overworked professor.
He had spent a further three working for the church, utilizing what he learnt in fighting creatures of unspeakable darkness and evil.
After dying, he imagined he had spent countless eternities in service of the counter force, making full use of his one single mastery to great effect in curbing disasters before they spelled the collapse of the Human Order.
And now here he was, in the middle of a forest of fuck-all, using what he'd learnt and practiced for millennia to projecting a modern toilet for his new Master to use.
Where did I go wrong? Archer, back against the oak tree, dully stared into space. What wrong decisions did I make in life to end up in this situation?
It wasn't that Archer couldn't; the toilet itself was state-of-the-art, and along with what you'd generally expect out of a privy had also included the nice touch of a heated seat. But it was the principle of the matter: the entire situation was just absurd.
There came a tinkling behind him, and Archer shuddered.
I knew I should have killed Shinji right then and there.
Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted mournfully.
No, this is probably the fault of that blasted priest.
Behind him came another plop and a splash.
Yep, Archer was sure of it. He might not have been born yet, but this entire situation reeked of Kotomine.
The counter guardian was in the middle of hypothesizing what he could have done to piss off the counter force to merit such a punishment when his master yelped in alarm.
"EMIYA!"
He was at his Master's side in a flash, Kanshou and Byakuya in hand, only to find his Master hurriedly pulling up his rags that passed for trousers, dripping wet and snarling.
"What the hell is that?!" Ciel demanded, pointing at the toilet, which had begun spraying water at a very particular angle from an extendable nozzle. Archer frowned, slowly relaxing from his combat stance.
"It's a bidet of course."
"It's a what?!"
"A bidet. It's used to clean the area after one's done… you know." The swords were dissolved, and Archer used his free hands to rub the growing headache away. "Why are you so surprised? It's hardly a new invention, and it's all the rage in France."
"Oh, of course the French would be all over this, the bloody perverts. It's a nightmare, that's what it is!" His master ranted, and Archer hid a grin as his master grappled with the shock of having his arse blasted with spring water. "If that's the future of indoor plumbing then I'll stay a traditionalist, thank you very much."
"You're very welcome. I'll keep your undoubtedly illustrious and well-regarded opinion of toilets in mind when we get back, Master." Archer murmured dutifully, grateful for an excuse to dismiss the damn thing at last.
Grabbing Ciel by the arm, he hurriedly returned to his task of clearing the trail ahead. His master, having recovered from his shock, resorted to staring daggers at his back.
The two of them had barely managed to see the forest's edges before Ciel finally voiced the question that'd been on his mind for a while.
"Say, Emiya. You wouldn't need to do your... business as a spirit, would you?"
"I don't need to eat at all, Master." Archer busied himself with hacking a particularly stubborn shrub. "Why would I ever need to use the toilet?"
The response was immediate.
"Because you're full of shit."
Archer tripped over a root.
Like a high-end production of King Lear, it had started to rain by the time Archer got back from the village.
The two retreated into the forest, where Archer hastily projected a patio umbrella and two simple lawn chairs for the two to take cover in. Tossing his master a cashmere blanket, Archer set to work creating a fire using whatever dry kindling he could find.
"We're somewhere between Birmingham and Norwich. London is several leagues south." Archer reported, preparing a small parcel of birch bark he'd been lucky to find. "If the rain subsides, we'll be able to reach the royal hospital in time for dinner, provided I carry you for the rest of the way."
A shower of sparks followed his explanation and Archer watched with some satisfaction as a small flame was borne within its edges.
"Now, I'd rather we didn't make any more stops," he slowly set the lit piece of bark down, breaking down and feeding dry twigs into the growing flame, "so I took it upon myself to procure some foodstuffs in the meantime. You'll eat, the rain stops, we move on."
"Wait. With what money?" Ciel interrupted, finally taking his gaze off the parasol's lurid shade of salmon pink. "Or did you merely resort to common thievery?"
"No, I hold myself to higher standards than that." Archer shot his master a knowing look. "If anything I simply engaged in common forgery."
The fire had grown into a respectable thing, crackling and moving about like a dockside whore.
"If it makes you feel any better," Archer supplied knowing full well it wouldn't, "the money won't vanish for a long time, enough time for our benefactors to spend it on whatever they want."
"Right. Because money vanishing in someone else's hand is so much better." Ciel sighed, wrapping the blanket more tightly around himself. "Don't make a habit of it. I'd rather not have my first assignment as the Queen's watchdog be to investigate a sudden increase in the amount of pounds on the market."
"What's to investigate?" Archer retorted, projecting a cast iron skillet and a stockpot, "What I produce may be fakes, but I assure you they're every bit as good as the original."
On a small stump beside him, he started on the mushrooms he foraged on the way, picking apart the sandy grit with practiced ease. Having done so, Archer set about slicing them into halves, examining them for critters and discarding them here and there.
Once done, he filled the stockpot with water and set it upon the fire to boil.
"Also, I feel like I should ask…the Queen's watchdog?"
"It is traditionally the duty of the House of Phantomhive." Ciel murmured, watching as Archer tossed the prepared morels into the pot. "The Watchdog is to maintain the division between polite society and the underworld of Great Britain. Any interference within society would make its way to Her Majesty; she relies on us to use whatever methods necessary to nip it in the bud. We handle threats to the royal family and cover up any criminal activities as Her Majesty sees fit, for the betterment of Britain as a whole."
In the middle of slicing a block of goat's cheese, the counter guardian paused as he mulled on his Master's words. Betterment of Britain… It seemed Alaya had a truly sick sense of humor.
"So in other words," Archer muttered slowly, "she needs your family to do my job."
"... Just so we're on the same page, when you say your job-"
"Wet work. Compromising important individuals. The odd assassination. Interference in certain wars." Archer washed the grains in a small basin as the cast-iron skillet hung over the fire. "I'd go into greater detail but we don't get to remember any of the jobs we've taken before. My employer prefers we be clandestine about it, after all."
The mushroom stock was ready, Archer took it off the fire. "It's hardly a job for a child, you know. When do you think she'd call upon you?"
Ciel looked troubled. "A week or two after news gets out that I'm alive."
Archer scowled. This was going to be problematic. "Any chance of you sitting them out? Say that you're in need of recuperation and recovery?"
"And project an image of weakness? No," his master remained adamant, "it is the job that comes with the title, and the sooner my enemies see that Phantomhive carries on the better. I want them to see that they did not succeed."
No, Archer thought darkly, they might not have extinguished the family entirely, but they might have got what they wanted out of that attack all the same. I'd have to investigate the manor to be sure.
He dropped a pat of butter onto the cast-iron pan, watching as it bubbled and frothed into a delicious golden brown.
It was one thing for Archer: as much of a bad decision as it had turned out to be in hindsight, he had in the end volunteered and ended up in his current position. It was quite another for a veritable child to be expected to handle what Archer does on a semi-regular basis. Even if he had Archer to help him.
The grains sizzled on the skillet, and Archer set to work adding the mushroom stock one ladleful at a time. As he settled into the frankly repetitive work of alternating stirring and adding stock, he stole glances at his Master, deep in thought.
Oh, his Master certainly projected an image of bravado and gravitas, but Archer knew better. Whatever image he currently strove to uphold, it hid a deeply warped and unsettled mind. And no wonder. His structural analysis of his brother's corpse brought some things to light: force-feeding, beatings, malnutrition, dehydration, whatever it was they went through was nothing short of hell.
And that was all without making mention of the bruising and contaminants in the corpse's...
The skies rumbled, and Archer grimaced.
The priest had called it defilement and corruption.
Out of respect for his Master's wishes, Archer had chosen not to bring it up when asked, trusting that he'd have time to gently broach the subject in the middle of his Master's recovery; now though, Archer was seeing a single-minded desire to throw oneself into work, pretending that he was above it and denying the trauma that would forever shadow his life. The servant knew that unless brought up soon, perhaps his window of opportunity would be forever lost.
The risotto grew gloopy, and Archer scraped the bottom of the stock pot in mild annoyance before remembering the small bottle of sherry he'd purchased from the merchant.
There was nothing to it, then. If his Master was going to be handling jobs of such ill-repute, Archer would do his best to keep his master's hands clean. What he thought would have been a short, easy task was fast becoming an absurd outsourcing project, but as Archer made up the difference in stock with a generous glug of sherry, he rationalized that it could always have been worse.
I can't save your brother, Master, Archer vowed to himself, but I will save you.
"Risotto of spelt and morel mushrooms, a salad of rocket and dandelion greens, sandwiches of grapes and brie, and a small selection of charcuteries. For tea, I've prepared a pot of Lapsang Souchong."
His master eyed the small collection of dishes in front of him in wonder and more than a bit of wariness.
"I didn't know you could cook."
"My father couldn't. Everything else that followed was out of necessity." Archer placed the bowl of gruel and a spoon into the boy's hands. "Normal people have their happy place just like you have your high and lonesome place," his Master shot him a deeply unimpressed look, "and for me… the kitchen is where I go to stop thinking."
Ciel considered this, before experimentally taking a spoon of risotto and tasting it. Archer watched, projecting an air of nonchalance as the boy went on to methodologically sample everything that he'd prepared.
His Master took a sip of Archer's tea, and looked up.
"I suppose it's passable."
Archer blinked before registering his master's words.
"Only passable?" Archer sat straighter, indignant.
"Yes." His master was merciless, taking another bite out of his sandwich. "Or would you prefer I failed you?"
Archer saw red.
There were few things in life that Archer was proud of: his reality marble, the red shroud he carried, and his cooking skills. He'd just labored for 20 minutes making risotto over a goddamn campfire within a godforsaken forest, buffeted by rain and wind. He went above and beyond in providing side dishes. Archer even tasted the damn thing and given the circumstances was proud to serve it up.
He did not do all of that to be only deemed 'passable' by this ungrateful brat.
Archer took a deep breath, collecting himself.
"Expand." He spoke in controlled tones.
"Your presentation leaves much to be desired-"
"Just a fucking minute." Archer bit out, incensed. "Who gives a damn about presentation in circumstances like these? This isn't brunch at Hyde Park corner, it's your first decent meal in a month after escaping captivity, prepared and served in a forest. Who gives a damn, as long as it tastes good?"
"I do." Ciel murmured, pointing his utensil at Archer reproachfully, "And so should you now that you represent the Phantomhive family. Also, I taste grit in these morels."
Archer blinked.
"I'll give you this, leaving aside the fact that half of these dishes were served as is, flavor-wise there's not much I can pick apart." Ciel nodded appreciatively, "But you're rough around the edges, and if you're going to be serving food on my behalf you're going to need to have a greater attention to detail… that, and the fact that you didn't prepare a dessert."
Christ on a cracker, Archer swore, what this brat needs is a good spanking from his betters until he can't sit for a week.
Granted, it wasn't one of Archer's better meals, and mayhaps a stray bit of grit had remained on those mushrooms his Master was lucky to even have, but considering the circumstances that they were in, he wondered if it would kill his Master to be a little more appreciative of what he had at all, at the length his servant went to to ensure he had a delicious first meal.
All for his master to hem and haw and say that he wanted an entire chocolate cake.
It was in the middle of an elaborate fantasy involving his Master, a runaway circus train, a pelican gullet and a length of rope that Archer heard the bowl being scraped clean.
"Emiya."
"If you're looking for seconds, we're fresh out."
And I'm equally fresh out of fucks to give, Archer thought darkly.
"No, Emiya, there's something I'd like your input on." His master looked thoughtful as he poured himself another steaming cup of tea. Sighing, Archer set his daydream aside as he sat up straighter.
"I'm all ears."
"I'm trying to decide what role you shall play in my household, going forward."
Archer frowned. "What's to decide? I'm your servant, use me as you see fit."
"It's not as simple as that. As much as I choose to allow you to talk back to me, if you're going to represent me going forward as a servant serving the house of Phantomhive, what we have here," his Master gestured vaguely between them, "cannot stand in front of others."
"Others?"
"Nobility. It's one thing if you weren't a servant. I could probably make the excuse that you're a foreign dignitary that the Phantomhive family saved in a moment of weakness, and this is your opportunity to repay your debt, but that sort of excuse isn't going to hold up to close examination." Ciel sipped his tea.
"Conversely, if I do introduce you as one of my servants going forward, it needs to be of a suitably high position in the household's hierarchy for you to spend time in my company. And, you need to pay attention to the way you carry yourself. Etiquette, manners, how to run a household, these are all things you need to take note of should you represent me as my servant."
"Oh is that all?" Archer took a swig of tea from the thermos himself. "It shouldn't be too difficult. I'll have you know I've been a butler before."
That perked his master's interest, and Archer watched with some satisfaction as Ciel struggled in digesting this tidbit in front of him.
"You." Ciel looked dubious. "A butler."
"Yes." And it wasn't even a lie. He'd never thought he would have to go back to those halcyon days at the Clock Tower serving under her again, and privately he'd come to realize he was there mostly for eye-candy and a means to make Rin jealous, but he'd like to think the knowledge she and her collection of servants imparted stuck all the same.
"To a master of good repute?"
Rin would vehemently disagree, calling her a twin-tailed, nouveau riche hussy with more breasts than sense. Said master, though?
"OHOHO. OHHHH HO HO~"
"Very." Archer finally said, smirking slightly at the memory.
His master continued to look dubious, though he chose to put it aside.
"Well if your butlering skills are anything like your cooking skills then it will need work, but no matter. When we get back to the manor and to polite society, I shall see it for myself, and we'll work from there. As of now, your alibi is that of someone who wanted to be in my good graces and saved me, and I decided to reward you with the position of bodyguard, training to be the Phantomhive butler."
Archer wisely didn't give voice to his true thoughts on what he felt about this supposed reward.
At that moment, sunlight filtered through the forest canopy, and Archer registered that the storm had passed.
"Well," he stood up, dusting his knees, "it's not how I would have preferred to do things, but I guess I'm no longer in a position to choose, am I?"
"No." Ciel joined his side, wryly watching as Archer dismissed the campsite in motes of light. "And for what it's worth, you never were in such a position to begin with."
Story of my life.
With food in their bellies and a renewed sense of purpose, Archer took his master into his arms and ran.
There was more to discuss, and Archer had more than his fair share of concerns that he dearly wanted to voice, but it seemed that if he wanted to ever get the chance to voice such thoughts he'd need to excel on a myriad of matters: he needed to keep his Master's hands clean. He needed to represent the House of Phantomhive in a way that wouldn't bring shame to his master. He needed to run the household. He needed his master to open up.
And if what it all took was him giving his master nothing to complain about...
Shirou Emiya would just have to become one hell of a butler.