Ciel was silent in the carriage. He tucked himself into the corner of the seat and peeked out of the space between the window and it's curtain. His father, seated next to him, didn't seem to notice how tightly Ciel's collar was pulled to his neck, and if he thought Ciel's mouth seemed a little redder, his movements a little more tender, he did not speak.

Sebastian knew Ciel had bathed since yesterday, yet the smell of cigarette smoke was everywhere still, or at least, it was to Sebastian.

He realized that this was the first time since Vincent's trip to the orphanage that he had sat in the carriage with Ciel.

He'd seen Bard, early that morning, who did his best to keep his back turned to everyone, but he couldn't fool Sebastian. His left eye was swollen and dark, bruised from the inside of his nose to his browbone.

When Sebastian asked him what happened, he told him he must have done it in his sleep.

When Sebastian asked him again, he told him he'd probably fallen out of bed and hit something.

Sebastian didn't ask Ciel what happened. He'd watched Ciel nurse his right elbow silently.

"Stay close, Ciel." Vincent directed idly, files open on his lap, flipping back and forth through the pages in it. How on earth could he not recognize Ciel's handwriting, so different from his own, looping and confident, where his son's was spidery, shaky even? Ciel nodded idly, glancing over to see Sebastian watching him silently. As quickly as Ciel's eyes skated over him, he was looking away politely, but he felt Ciel's eyes linger before falling back to the window, tucking his hand against his chest.

Sebastian saw the weak bruises on his wrist, barely there. They were probably an accident. He wondered what Ciel would say, if he was asked.

Probably that they were an accident.

"I didn't realize how wide London is." Ciel finally spoke, softly. "I always remembered these trips as being so much shorter."

"Well, we're not going to the same districts you were once taken to. The factories are…in places no child of mine should ever have been."

Ciel didn't respond. He was watching a woman out the window, hobbling weakly along, a child strapped to her back, carrying a ragdoll in a sallow hand.

Sebastian only saw weakness, poverty, a woman who was too emotionally attached to something simply because she had made it to give it up, even though she would have been better off without it. He couldn't begin to imagine what Ciel saw.

He probably wouldn't have understood, anyway.

Ciel was nearly falling asleep as they crossed over into the industrial district, no doubt comforted by the barely-familiar swaying of the carriage, as well as the quiet presence of the two men watching over him. Sebastian wanted to smile, sneer, it was so cute that Ciel found him to be a figure of comfort, especially when he was so willing to throw Sebastian aside when he wasn't satisfied, to go fool around with the cook, of all the staff. And what good had it even done him? A few moments of pleasure that had to have turned into molestation, bruises and hurt pride, no doubt an enemy in his kitchen, and for what? Had he been so desperate for something he no longer wanted from Sebastian?

No. Sebastian could not resent that. He hadn't been thrown aside; he had failed to fulfill what was asked of him.

He watched Ciel's eyes, drowsy, flutter weakly, and his lips part just barely as he took in a breath. The air here was different, heavier, tarry. Ciel was asthmatic; Sebastian was well aware how poorly his small body would handle the smog.

Ciel's eyes opened and he jolted slightly, staring directly back into the red eyes that had been watching his face. Again, as if ashamed, Sebastian dropped his eyes, turned his head away, and again, Ciel watched him in silence.

Sebastian didn't like what he was feeling, something in the pit of his stomach as he watched Ciel, an itch at the back of his throat that made him want to growl, or scream. What did humans compare it to, dread? Was he dreading Ciel?

Vincent suddenly paused in his shuffling.

"Sebastian," he began, and Sebastian felt the sudden tenseness of his voice, "Do I keep red ink at my desk?"

Sebastian felt Ciel's eyes on him, not asking for any favor, simply observing.

Sebastian tried to breathe deeply.

"I believe there's a pot of it in the east tearoom, my lord. Several more in the library."

Vincent paused, unsatisfied.

Sebastian glanced over, watching Ciel straighten suddenly.

Vincent tutted quietly and placed the papers away.

"I must have completed some of these forms over tea, then." He spoke, to nobody in particular.

Slowly, Ciel eased back into place, but Sebastian heard his little heart in his chest, like a bird, it beat so quickly.

It appeared that Vincent hadn't yet discussed Ciel's behavior with Ciel himself, and had recovered enough from sending Sebastian away, banishing him from his duties and ensuring that he felt the heat of the father's wrath enough to be deterred from his son, whom Vincent no doubt considered had been taken advantage of, in his budding sexual adulthood. Vincent seemed to have placed most of the blame for what he had witnessed upon the demon's shoulders, and made sure Sebastian knew it.

Honestly, Sebastian wanted to know, could Vincent possibly be surprised? He knew what people said about his son, the few times he was seen outside the manor, silent and composed in a way some found haunting, others haughty. They all knew he was a beautiful young man, exquisite and refined and yet also somehow waiting to be unleashed, a storm always brewing behind his eyes. He had seen the way they approached Ciel, boys and girls alike, reaching out their hands to ask for his, which he never gave. He had watched the way they gathered in groups in the corners of whatever room Ciel was in, watching him, longing for him. Sebastian knew Vincent saw the way Ciel longed back. Anything for company his own age, anything for friends at all. Vincent knew that his son was desirable, if nothing else.

And, after all, had he not allowed Ciel to name Sebastian, at the very outset transferring some part of Sebastian's favor to his son? Had he not dictated that Sebastian would be Ciel's tutor, spending hours each day with the child until he was no longer a child, have him be so close to Ciel as he taught him to play violin and dance, tilting Ciel's head perfectly into the chin rest, use his ankle to pull Ciel's leg to the proper position? What could he have expected from the demon, already starved, when confined so near a soul that was so deliciously unaware of its own age? Had he not seen enough of the demon's hunger when he decided to depend upon it? Had he yet to learn how little Sebastian truly cared for what Vincent thought of him, so long as he died sooner or later?

The carriage lurched to a stop suddenly, and Ciel's sleepy murmur filled Sebastian's lungs.

He had hardly blinked so long as he had stared straight ahead at Ciel, who had dozed off at some point, but was now peering through the fog that clung to the ground outside up at the shadow of a factory.