Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Just a little Bicentennial-related piece that I finished in an hour or so. I wasn't even going to post it here, but some friends insisted. XD;

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Moral

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Once upon a time, a long time ago, this guy noticed Death givin' him the ol' hairy eyeball.

Obviously, the guy freaked out. I mean, "memento mori" and all of that—plus, Death had a horrific sense of style, back then. Not just dark and dreary, but trite to boot. Anyone would have run screaming, if only to keep their eyes from bleeding. Though a splash of red might have helped improve the scene… In any case, that's what this guy did—he bolted to the village elder and asked for advice, something he could do to keep Death (who wasn't all that great at the 'subtly' thing) from finding him. The village elder scratched his beard (well, I assume he did; he was old and supposedly wise, so he undoubtedly had a beard) and told the guy about another city across the mountain path. It was almost a suicide run at that time of year, but if the guy was serious about escaping, it was probably his best bet.

This is where irony kicks in, of course.

So the guy makes the journey. And shockingly, he doesn't accidentally kill himself on the way—which is what I totally thought would happen the first time Will told me this story. No, instead, he makes it to the second town no worse for wear… only to immediately run into Death.

Needless to say, our hero was pissed. He'd just risked his life to escape Death, and there he was, as if waiting for him! Throwing a tantrum probably wasn't a wise idea, but still, he couldn't help but ask Death how the hell he'd managed to find him here.

"Well," said Death, "it's the darnest thing. When I saw you in that village the other day, I was so confused! My log said I was to pick you up in three days in this city, so what were you doing in a place so far away? But I see it all worked out."

That's where the story ends, I guess, and that's where the moral kicks in. Back in school, Will told me the lesson was that we can't change fate, and it's stupid to try. But to me, it's always rang more as a warning about self-fulfilling prophesies, you know? Or any prophesy in a movie, really: it only comes to pass when someone goes out of their way to try and prevent it. Like… like in Kung Fu Panda 2. What if that peacock-kid had just left all of the pandas alone? He probably would have gotten away with being evil.

The point is, sometimes, inaction is action. Don't tell someone something is going to happen, and it won't. It's a different sort of self-fulfilling prophesy. Ignore Fate, and it won't hurt you. It will change and try to trick you, but it will keep its sorry ass away or it'll wind up with a pretty scarlet chainsaw lodged in its throat.

"How is he?"

Instinctively, I snap shut the covers of my book. Ciel Phantomhive. Species: Devil. Cause of Death: Murder. Death Day— "Oh, the little brat is fine~" I trill, beaming at the worried demon loitering in the door. He's dressed in his Target uniform; crusting spots of brown are slowly starting to materialize on his shirtfront, burgundy blood oxidizing and appearing like magic. Sprawled atop freshly laundered sheets (you're welcome, brat), Ciel's bandages are staging a similar production, using the same set of tricks. But at least the pus is gone. And he's started breathing again. "I keep telling you, that sick priest doesn't have a prayer. No pun intended, heehee~"

Sebastian doesn't look convinced. Or amused. (C'mon, that was a pretty good pun, wasn't it?) Instead, he waffles in the threshold, unsure if he should go or stay—if he's more of a hindrance or a help. The poor romantic sop; he wants so badly to curl up beside his master and (literally) try to kiss his pain away, but he's got a shift tonight. He's already going to be late. Ciel is stable, but—but— but—

"Sebastian-darling, please," I scoff, pouting out my bottom lip in an expression of mock-hurt. "Do you really think I can't handle looking after a half-comatose child for a few hours? Honestly, you shouldn't be worried about him—you should be worried about me. Who'll save me from being bored to death?" I sigh dramatically and scrub my fingers through my hair, looking as annoyed as possible. But only for a moment. Then I visibly soften, tone switching from sarcastic to soothing. "You know he'd order you to fulfill your obligations. And besides, I'm the one with the mothering instincts and bedside manner. You're more for in-bed manner, and tut-tut, now isn't the time for that." With a teasing smirk, I giggle behind an uplifted hand and wiggle my eyebrows in a knowing way.

For a full minute, his glare is flat and mirthless. But then Sebastian's shoulders sag. He lowers his head to shake it; when he glances back up, he wears a small smile.

"I'll be back promptly at eight. Please promise to tell him when he wakes up."

Apparently, according to American Sign Language, that old hand gesture I used in England was a 'backwards' "I love you." Recently—after having fully assimilated myself in the US-style of life— I've taken to flipping my hand palm-out and portraying my feelings properly. "Cross my heart and hope to die~"

Sebastian snorts, satisfied, and turns away. I can hear his keys jangle and the door latch itself as he goes, leaving his heart behind. For a while (just in case) I continue to wear my perky smile… But after half an hour I allow it to slide away, and open my book once more.

Sebastian Michaelis. Species: Devil. Cause of Death: Starvation. Heartbreak.

Excellent. Just a little while ago, we'd been dealing with heartbreak and suicide. Even better—the clocks have jumped forward; both devils are now looking at—

"…g-good… read …?"

I glance up, startled. Ciel has cracked open one bloodied eye and is grinning at me, chest rolling with coughs and cringes. I can feel his fever from here; I set the lodger aside and instead pick up the cloth and bucket at my feet. I dip the cloth in lukewarm water, wring it out, and dab the brat's forehead with it, making a nonchalant sort of sound as I do so.

"Well, it's not Harry Potter, but…"

He manages a brittle laugh. Good. A sense of humor is good. He hisses a long sigh as he, again, settles fully against his pillows, closing his eyes as I work. I'd have thought he'd just gone back to sleep had he not still been wearing a tiny smirk, as if inwardly laughing at some joke. Before I have a chance to ask what the punch line is, though, he asks:

"Is my… name in… t-there…?"

I don't pause. Blink. Jolt. React in any way. I only tell him, "nope" and offer an obnoxious laugh to counteract his idiocy. After all, demons don't die, right? Right. I clean out the rag again, reapply its coolness, and am so incredibly calm and casual that the brat has no choice but to believe me.

He returns to sleep. I return to my chair, my book, my thoughts.

If I don't allow them to see Death, they won't panic and try to flee. If I don't tell them about the city beyond the mountains, they won't think to leave. Death expects a rendezvous in three days time; by staying here, they'll escape him. I'll see to it that they stay. Because if they stay, I can protect them.

That's the moral of the story.

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