#cielbastian

Act I: Preparations and Protests

"Absolutely not."

Ciel Phantomhive sat behind his desk with his arms crossed, his visible eye fixed on Sebastian with the kind of stubborn determination that usually preceded either capitulation or catastrophe. The morning light filtering through the study windows illuminated the invitation lying between them, heavy cream cardstock, gilt edging, calligraphy so elaborate it was nearly illegible. An invitation to host the season's most anticipated political ball at Phantomhive manor.

"Young master," Sebastian said with infuriating patience, "the Queen herself has requested your participation. As her Watchdog, refusing would be—"

"Inconvenient? Insulting? Possibly treasonous?" Ciel grabbed the invitation and waved it like a weapon. "I'm thirteen years old, Sebastian. I run a confectionery company and hunt serial killers in my spare time. I don't host balls. That's what old people do when they've run out of more productive ways to waste time."

"Nevertheless." Sebastian retrieved the invitation before Ciel could set it on fire, a legitimate concern, given past incidents. "The guest list includes three members of Parliament, two foreign ambassadors, Lord Ashford who controls half the shipping contracts in the Empire, and Lady Harrington whose husband chairs the committee that approves your Watchdog activities. This isn't merely social posturing, young master. This is politics."

"Politics is just polite warfare with more silverware." "Precisely. And you're rather good at warfare." Sebastian's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Consider this an opportunity to gather intelligence, forge alliances, and demonstrate that the Phantomhive family remains a force to be reckoned with despite your... youth."

Ciel hated when Sebastian was right. Hated it even more when that rightness came wrapped in logic he couldn't refute without sounding petulant. The truth was, hosting this ball would solidify his position among the aristocracy, remind London's elite that Phantomhive manor was more than a haunted ruin inhabited by a traumatized child and his suspiciously competent butler.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Fine," Ciel said with maximum resentment. "We'll host their ridiculous ball. But I'm not dancing, I'm not making small talk about the weather, and if anyone asks about my eye patch, you're authorized to 'accidentally' spill wine on them."

"How delightfully petty. I'll prepare accordingly." Sebastian produced a leather-bound notebook from seemingly nowhere, already flipping to pages covered in meticulous planning. "The event is scheduled for Saturday next, six days to prepare. We'll need to address the manor's structural issues, hire additional staff, coordinate catering, arrange entertainment, and ensure adequate security given that you've accumulated a rather impressive collection of enemies who might view a crowded ballroom as an ideal assassination opportunity."

"You make it sound so appealing."

"I live to serve." Sebastian's expression suggested he was enjoying this far more than appropriate. "Now then, shall we discuss your attire? I'm thinking something that projects authority without appearing as though you're playing dress-up in your father's closet."

Ciel threw a paperweight at him. Sebastian caught it without looking up from his notes.

"Your aim is improving, young master."

"Get out of my study before I find something heavier."

The household staff received news of the ball with reactions that ranged from panic to catastrophe.

"A BALL?!" Finnian's voice cracked with pubescent enthusiasm as he processed the information. The young gardener clutched his pruning shears with enough force to bend the handles. "Like with dancing and fancy dresses and, oh no, the gardens! The gardens aren't ready! There's that patch by the fountain that still hasn't recovered from when I accidentally used fertilizer that was actually poison and—"

"Finny." Sebastian's voice carried the weight of demonic patience stretched thin. "Breathe. You have six days to make the gardens presentable. I have complete faith in your ability to make things grow at supernatural speed. Just please, please try not to create any carnivorous plants this time."

"That was ONE TIME—"

"FIRE!" Baldroy's voice echoed from the kitchen, accompanied by ominous billowing smoke. "WE GOT FIRE AGAIN!"

Sebastian closed his eyes briefly, his expression suggesting he was mentally calculating how many demonic powers he could use without violating his contract's discretion clause. "If you'll excuse me, young master. It seems the chef is practicing his pyrotechnic skills."

"Practicing," Ciel muttered, watching Sebastian glide toward the kitchen with supernatural speed. "He calls it practicing."

Mey-Rin stumbled into the study carrying a stack of china that was wobbling dangerously, her thick glasses slightly askew. "B-begging your pardon, my lord, but Sebastian said we need to inventory all the fine china and I was just checking that we still have the—OH NO—"

The stack tilted. Ciel watched with detached horror as expensive porcelain began its inevitable journey toward gravitational destruction. Then Sebastian was simply there, materializing from nowhere to catch every piece mid-fall, restacking them in Mey-Rin's arms with impossible speed before vanishing back toward the kitchen where Baldroy was presumably still setting things ablaze.

"—good serving pieces?" Mey-Rin finished weakly, blinking in confusion. "Did I... did I just drop those?"

"No," Ciel lied, because the alternative was explaining that his butler had demonic speed and his maid had somehow remained employed despite proving that gravity was her natural enemy. "You caught them. Very... athletically."

"Oh. Good. Yes. I'm quite athletic, I am!" Mey-Rin beamed and promptly walked into the doorframe on her way out.

Ciel returned his attention to the documents on his desk, actual important work that was being interrupted by ball preparations, and tried to ignore the sounds of chaos emanating from other parts of the manor. A crash from the direction of the dining hall. Finnian's voice raised in what might have been triumph or terror, it was hard to tell. The distinct sound of Sebastian's polite-but-deadly tone explaining to Baldroy that flamethrowers were not traditional cooking implements.

This was going to be a long week.

By Wednesday, the manor had been transformed into something resembling organized chaos. The ballroom, normally dusty and unused, more ghost story than functional space, had been cleaned, polished, and decorated with enough flowers to bankrupt a small nation. Crystal chandeliers sparkled with fresh cleaning, their candles replaced and ready to be lit. The floor had been waxed to such a high shine that Ciel could see his reflection in it, which he found vaguely disturbing.

"It's excessive," Ciel observed, standing in the ballroom's entrance with Sebastian. "We could host a coronation in here."

"The goal is to impress, young master, not to practice minimalism." Sebastian adjusted a flower arrangement. "These people judge based on display. The more opulent the setting, the more seriously they'll take you. It's peacock logic, the one with the most ostentatious plumage is presumed to be most powerful."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"And yet, empirically effective." Sebastian moved to inspect the musicians' platform, testing its stability with one polished shoe. "Your wardrobe for the evening has been prepared. I've selected something that projects authority without appearing costume-like. You'll need to practice your formal greetings and ensure you remember the proper forms of address for—"

"I know how to address nobility, Sebastian. I am nobility."

"Yes, but you're nobility who regularly tells dukes to shut up and viscounts to piss off. This event requires more diplomatic phrasing."

"So I should lie."

"Consider it a tactical deception." Sebastian's smile was wicked. "You're quite good at that when it serves your purposes."

Ciel couldn't argue with that. He'd built his reputation as the Queen's Watchdog on strategic deception, on appearing to be exactly what people expected while hiding everything that made him dangerous. One night of playing the gracious young host shouldn't be beyond his capabilities.

"What about security?" Ciel asked, because paranoia was a survival trait he'd cultivated carefully. "You said enemies might see this as an opportunity."

"Already addressed. I've hired additional footmen from... reliable sources." The way Sebastian said 'reliable' suggested they were either criminals or corpses, possibly both. "They'll be positioned throughout the venue, watching for anything suspicious. Additionally, I've taken the liberty of installing certain... deterrents in strategic locations."

"Deterrents."

"Bear traps hidden beneath decorative plants. Tripwires connected to alarm systems. A rather creative arrangement involving the chandelier and razor wire that I'm quite proud of." Sebastian pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time. "Nothing that will be noticed unless someone attempts something untoward. And if they do, well, the screaming should alert everyone promptly."

"You've booby-trapped my ball."

"I've strategically enhanced our defensive capabilities while maintaining aesthetic appeal. There's a difference."

Ciel found himself fighting a smile. This was why, despite everything, despite the demonic nature, despite the contract that would eventually claim his soul, he valued Sebastian's service. The demon approached every task with the same meticulous attention to detail, whether arranging flowers or arranging murders.

"Very well. Continue preparations. And Sebastian—" Ciel met his butler's crimson eyes directly, "—if something does go wrong, I expect you to handle it with your usual... efficiency."

"But of course, young master. I wouldn’t be one hell of a butler if I couldn't manage a simple assassination attempt."

* * * Act II: The Ball Begins

Saturday evening arrived with the inevitability of doom and significantly more glitter. Ciel stood before his mirror, examining his reflection with critical disdain. Sebastian had dressed him in a midnight blue tailcoat with silver embroidery, the colors chosen to complement his dark hair and single visible eye. The eyepatch tonight was particularly elegant, black silk embroidered with the Phantomhive crest in silver thread.

He looked, much as he hated to admit it, like the Earl of Phantomhive should look. Aristocratic. Powerful. Entirely too young for the weight of responsibility that showed in his posture.

"Stop brooding," Sebastian said, appearing in the mirror behind him to adjust his collar with unnecessary precision. "Your expression suggests you're attending a funeral rather than a ball."

"The difference being?"

"Significantly better music, for one." Sebastian stepped back, surveying his work with satisfaction. "And considerably more opportunities for political maneuvering. Now, final review: You'll greet guests at the entrance with appropriate formality. You'll make the rounds, engaging in precisely three minutes of conversation with each key figure, enough to seem interested, not so long as to appear desperate for approval. You'll open the first dance as tradition demands—"

"I'm not dancing."

"You're absolutely dancing. It's expected of the host. I'll lead you through the steps so you don't embarrass yourself." At Ciel's murderous expression, Sebastian added, "Or you can select a young lady from among the guests and attempt to remember the waltz instruction from your childhood. Your choice."

Ciel weighed the options: dancing with Sebastian, who would be flawlessly competent but whose demonic nature meant the whole affair would be vaguely unsettling, or dancing with some simpering debutante who would probably giggle and make inane conversation about the weather. Both options were terrible, but at least Sebastian wouldn't expect actual conversation.

"Fine. You lead. But if you step on my feet—"

"Young master, I'm a demon of precision. I never step on anyone's feet unless I intend to break them."

"How comforting."

The first guests began arriving at eight o'clock precisely, their carriages forming a glittering procession along the manor's drive. Ciel took his position at the ballroom entrance with Sebastian slightly behind and to his left, the perfect picture of aristocratic authority and demonic servitude.

"Lord and Lady Ashford," the footman announced.

Ciel arranged his face into something approximating welcome. "Lord Ashford, Lady Ashford. Thank you for attending. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"Most pleasant, Lord Phantomhive." Lord Ashford was a portly man with spectacular mutton chops and the calculating eyes of someone who'd built a shipping empire through ruthless business practices. "I must say, the manor looks splendid. Your butler has worked miracles."

"Sebastian is adequate," Ciel said with deliberate understatement, feeling rather than seeing Sebastian's amused reaction behind him.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before the Ashfords moved into the ballroom, replaced by the next wave of guests. And so it continued, an endless parade of nobility, each requiring precise calibrated responses, each being mentally catalogued for potential usefulness or threat level.

By the time the last guest had been greeted, Ciel's face hurt from maintaining a pleasant expression. Sebastian materialized at his elbow with champagne, non-alcoholic, given Ciel's age, but convincingly presented in appropriate crystal.

"You're doing admirably," Sebastian murmured. "Only two instances of visible contempt, and both were directed at people who deserved it."

"How magnanimous of me."

"Indeed. Now, I believe it's time to circulate. I've prepared a route that will ensure you speak with all key political figures while avoiding the most tedious conversationalists." Sebastian produced a mental map that was probably somehow physically manifest in his demonic brain. "Shall we?"

They moved through the crowd with choreographed precision. Ciel engaged in carefully measured conversations about trade agreements, Parliament gossip, the Queen's health, and various other topics that ranged from boring to mind-numbing. Sebastian remained a constant presence just behind him, occasionally interjecting with perfectly-timed information or subtle redirections when conversations threatened to become problematic.

It was, Ciel had to admit, effective teamwork. Sebastian's ability to read social situations and provide support without overshadowing made these political minefields navigable. The demon was never quite a servant, never quite equal, but something strategically positioned between the two that gave Ciel the appearance of authority while ensuring he didn't make catastrophic mistakes.

"CIEL!" A cheerful voice interrupted his thoughts. Lady Elizabeth Midford swept toward him in a dress that involved more ruffles than should be structurally possible, her smile was bright enough to cause temporary blindness. "The ballroom looks absolutely wonderful! And you look so handsome! Doesn't he look handsome, Paula?"

Paula, Lizzy's maid, murmured agreement while looking vaguely concerned about her charge's enthusiasm level.

"Elizabeth." Ciel managed not to grimace, but it was a near thing. Lizzy was his fiancée, an arrangement made by their parents before everything went to hell, and while he didn't hate her, her relentless cheerfulness was exhausting. "Thank you for attending."

"Of course I'd attend! I wouldn't miss it for anything! Oh, and you simply must dance with me later. I've been practicing the new waltz variations and—"

"Young master," Sebastian interrupted smoothly, "I believe Lord Middleton wishes to speak with you about the shipping contracts. If you'll excuse us, Lady Elizabeth?"

"Oh! Of course! I'll find you later for that dance, Ciel!"

Sebastian guided him away before Ciel could protest that he'd never agreed to any such dance. "You're welcome," the demon murmured.

"I didn't thank you."

"You were thinking it very loudly."

They continued their circuit, and Ciel found himself falling into a rhythm. Smile, greet, engage, extract, move to the next target. Sebastian orchestrated it all from half a step behind, his presence both support and shield. It was, Ciel realized with some surprise, not entirely terrible. Oh, it was still boring political theater, but there was a certain satisfaction in playing the game well, in seeing Sebastian's careful planning unfold exactly as designed.

"You're enjoying this," Ciel accused quietly as they paused near one of the refreshment tables.

"Immensely. Watching humans engage in elaborate social rituals while pretending they're not all mentally calculating who to betray first is endlessly entertaining." Sebastian's eyes gleamed with amusement. "And you, young master, are performing beautifully. Several people have commented on your maturity and poise. One even suggested you'd make an excellent addition to the House of Lords when you come of age."

"Perish the thought."

"Indeed. Though it does indicate that tonight's objective, demonstrating Phantomhive stability and influence, is being achieved."

Before Ciel could respond, the musicians struck up the opening notes of a waltz. All around them, couples began moving toward the dance floor, forming the elaborate arrangements that formal ballroom dancing required. And tradition, as Sebastian had annoyingly predicted, demanded that the host open the dancing.

"Well," Sebastian said, offering his hand with theatrical formality, "shall we give them something to remember?"

Ciel looked at that extended hand, gloved in perfect white, steady as stone, and felt the familiar mix of resentment and resignation that characterized so much of their relationship. He placed his hand in Sebastian's, allowing himself to be led onto the dance floor, and tried not to think about how this probably looked to observers. A thirteen-year-old Earl dancing with his butler. Unconventional at best, scandalous at worst.

But then the music swelled, and Sebastian moved, and Ciel found himself caught in the rhythm of the waltz. Sebastian led with the kind of precision that made it effortless, no fumbling, no missteps, just smooth rotation across the polished floor. They moved in perfect synchronization, and Ciel realized with annoyance that Sebastian was making him look competent.

"You're thinking too hard," Sebastian murmured, his voice pitched for Ciel's ears only. "Trust me to lead. You simply need to follow."

"I don't like following."

"And yet, you're doing it beautifully." Sebastian spun them through a complex turn, navigating around other couples with inhuman precision. "Sometimes, young master, strength lies in knowing when to trust your partner."

There was something in his tone, something beyond the usual mockery or formality, that made Ciel look up. Sebastian's expression was unreadable, his crimson eyes reflecting candlelight, but there was an intensity there that Ciel couldn't quite name.

"This isn't a partnership," Ciel said quietly. "It's a contract. You serve until my revenge is complete, then you take what you're owed. There's no trust required, just mutual benefit."

"If you truly believed that, you wouldn't have allowed me to arrange this entire event. You wouldn't dance with me in front of the entire aristocracy. You wouldn't—" Sebastian pulled him through another rotation, "—rely on me the way you do."

"I rely on you because you're contractually obligated to be reliable."

"And yet." Sebastian's smile was enigmatic. "Here we are."

The music swelled toward its crescendo, and Sebastian executed a final dramatic spin that had Ciel's coat flaring impressively. The other dancers applauded, polite social obligation, and Ciel found himself slightly breathless from the exertion and the intensity of Sebastian's gaze.

"Well done, young master," Sebastian said, releasing him with appropriate formality. "You didn't step on my feet once."

"Because you didn't let me."

"Details."

* * * Act III: Complications

The evening progressed smoothly until it didn't.

Ciel was enduring a conversation with a particularly tedious viscount about grain tariffs, a topic that combined the excitement of watching paint dry with the intellectual stimulation of counting ceiling tiles, when Sebastian stiffened almost imperceptibly beside him. To anyone else, the change would have been invisible. But Ciel had spent enough time observing his demon butler to recognize the subtle shift: danger detected.

"If you'll excuse me," Sebastian said smoothly to the viscount, "I believe there's an issue with the champagne service that requires immediate attention."

Translation: something was wrong, and Sebastian needed to investigate without causing panic. Ciel maintained his expression of polite interest while the viscount droned on about agricultural subsidies, but his mind was racing. What had Sebastian detected? An assassin? A demon? Some other supernatural threat that London's underworld seemed to produce with depressing regularity?

The viscount finally wandered off to bore someone else, and Ciel used the momentary isolation to scan the ballroom. Everything appeared normal, couples dancing, guests clustered in conversation groups, servants moving with efficient purpose. But Sebastian had taught him to look beyond surface normalcy, to watch for patterns that didn't fit.

There. Near the musicians' platform. A footman who stood slightly too still, whose attention was fixed on Ciel rather than on serving guests. And another, positioned by the refreshment table, whose uniform fit just slightly wrong, as though he wasn't accustomed to wearing it.

Not footmen. Infiltrators.

Ciel's hand moved to his chest where the contract mark burned beneath layers of expensive fabric. Sebastian would know, would feel Ciel's heightened awareness through their connection. And sure enough, within moments, the demon materialized at his elbow carrying a tray of champagne that was definitely a prop rather than genuine service.

"Two near the platform, one by the refreshments, possibly more I haven't identified," Sebastian murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the music. "Professional bearing suggests military or intelligence training. They're waiting for something, a signal, perhaps, or a specific moment."

"The dance," Ciel realized. "They'll move during the next dance when everyone's distracted and positioned predictably."

"Clever young master." Sebastian's smile was sharp with anticipation. "Though they've made a critical miscalculation."

"Which is?"

"They've brought human assassins to a ball hosted by a demon."

Before Ciel could respond, the musicians struck up the opening notes of a more complex dance, a quadrille that required precise formation and would indeed position guests predictably. Around them, couples began moving into formation, and Ciel saw the false footmen shift subtly, hands moving toward concealed weapons.

"Sebastian—"

"Stay here." It was a command rather than suggestion, Sebastian's demonic authority surfacing beneath the butler's politeness. "And young master? You might want to close your eye. This could become... messy."

Then Sebastian was moving.

One moment he stood beside Ciel with his serving tray. The next, he was simply elsewhere, his demon speed carrying him across the ballroom faster than human perception could track. The false footman near the platform reached for his weapon, probably a pistol, given the outline, and then Sebastian was there, his hand catching the man's wrist with enough force that Ciel heard bones crack even across the ballroom.

The assassin's scream was lost in the music, and Sebastian's follow-through was brutally efficient: a strike to the throat, a twisted joint, the man crumpling unconscious before he could alert his companions. Sebastian caught the falling body and the concealed weapon, then continued moving as though he'd simply stopped to adjust a flower arrangement.

The second assassin, stationed by the refreshments, had better reflexes. He saw his companion fall and drew his weapon, definitely a pistol, aiming not at Ciel but at the crowd, clearly intending to create chaos rather than execute a clean assassination. But Sebastian was already in motion, crossing the distance with inhuman speed, his hand closing over the barrel just as the assassin pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was muffled by Sebastian's grip, the bullet redirecting harmlessly into the floor. The assassin's expression shifted from determination to terror as he met Sebastian's crimson eyes and realized exactly what he was facing. Then Sebastian's fist connected with his face, and he joined his companion in unconsciousness.

Two down in less than fifteen seconds, and the guests remained oblivious, caught up in the intricate steps of the quadrille. Ciel watched Sebastian move to intercept the third infiltrator, his movements fluid and predatory, and felt something complex twist in his chest. Pride, perhaps, in his demon's competence. Or something darker, satisfaction at watching enemies eliminated with such elegant efficiency.

The third assassin proved more problematic. He'd realized his companions were compromised and was moving toward the exit, one hand inside his coat where he presumably had either a weapon or some method of signaling backup. Sebastian pursued, but the crowd had grown denser as more guests joined the dancing, creating obstacles even demonic speed struggled to navigate without causing obvious disruption.

Ciel made a decision.

He stepped directly into the assassin's path, small and innocuous, just another noble youth navigating the crowded ballroom. The assassin barely glanced at him, moving to step around this child who couldn't possibly be relevant. Then Ciel's foot, positioned with precision, caught the assassin's ankle in a textbook trip.

The man stumbled, balance compromised, and in that moment of vulnerability Sebastian was there. One hand clamped over the assassin's mouth to prevent shouting. The other delivered a strike to a nerve cluster that had the man unconscious in seconds. Sebastian lowered the body carefully behind a decorative plant arrangement, then turned to Ciel with an expression that mixed approval and exasperation.

"I specifically told you to stay put, young master."

"And I specifically ignored you. Are there more?"

"Not that I can detect." Sebastian's eyes swept the ballroom, inhuman senses cataloguing every guest and servant. "Though I recommend we increase security protocols for the remainder of the evening. Clearly someone views this gathering as an opportunity."

"Clearly someone has terrible timing." Ciel straightened his coat, projecting calm despite his racing heart. "Can you remove them without causing a scene?"

"Already arranged. My 'reliable' footmen will transport them to the manor's holding cells for later interrogation." Sebastian produced a handkerchief, wiping away a minute spot of blood from his glove with meticulous precision. "Though I must say, young master, your assist was quite skilled. Have you been practicing martial maneuvers?"

"I've been observing you for two years. Some things transfer through exposure."

"How flattering. You're learning violence from a demon. Your parents would be so proud."

The sarcasm was biting enough that Ciel almost smiled. "They'd probably be more concerned about the assassination attempt."

"True. Though given your father's political machinations, he'd likely approve of your tactical thinking." Sebastian offered his arm with elaborate formality. "Shall we return to mingling? We still have several hours of performance remaining, and it wouldn't do to appear unsettled by a few mere human assassins."

Ciel took the offered arm, allowing Sebastian to guide him back into the social current. Around them, the ball continued, guests dancing, conversing, completely unaware that three armed infiltrators had just been neutralized in their midst. It was, Ciel thought, rather emblematic of aristocratic society: focused on surface elegance while remaining willfully blind to the violence underlying everything.

"Sebastian," Ciel said quietly as they moved through the crowd, "why do you think they targeted tonight?"

"Several possibilities. Could be retaliation from one of your previous cases as the Watchdog. Could be competitors attempting to destabilize Phantomhive interests. Could be supernatural entities testing our defenses." Sebastian's expression was thoughtful. "Or could be someone testing whether you're adequately protected, gathering intelligence for a future attempt."

"Comforting."

"I'm a demon, not a comfort provider." Sebastian's smile was sharp. "Though I will note that you handled the situation admirably. Calm under pressure, strategic thinking, effective support without compromising your safety. Very well done, young master."

The praise was unexpected enough that Ciel found himself momentarily speechless. Sebastian rarely offered genuine compliments, preferring sarcasm and veiled mockery. Hearing approval, real approval, not performance, did something complicated to Ciel's carefully maintained emotional walls.

"Yes, well," he finally managed, "I have an excellent teacher. Even if he is an arrogant demon with delusions of competence."

"Delusions," Sebastian repeated, amused. "Young master, I just neutralized three armed assassins in under twenty seconds without disturbing your guests' dance. That's not delusion, that's fact."

"Fine. You're adequately competent."

"High praise indeed."

They continued their circuit of the ballroom, and Ciel found himself relaxing slightly despite the recent violence. This was familiar territory, the dance of conversation and observation, with Sebastian providing backup and commentary. The assassination attempt had been disrupted so efficiently that it barely qualified as an interruption.

Though he'd need to investigate who'd sent those men, and why tonight. Someone wanted him dead or destabilized, and that someone had resources and intelligence adequate to infiltrate Phantomhive security. Which meant his enemies were getting bolder, more desperate, or simply better informed.

Problems for tomorrow, he decided. Tonight was about maintaining appearances, demonstrating strength, proving that the Earl of Phantomhive remained a force in London's political landscape. The assassination attempt, ironically, had reinforced that message: Ciel was important enough to target, and protected well enough to survive. * * *

Act IV: The Final Dance

The ball wound toward its conclusion near midnight, guests beginning to make their farewells, carriages queuing along the drive. Ciel stood near the ballroom entrance performing his hosting duties one final time, thanking attendees, accepting compliments, maintaining the pleasant mask that aristocratic society demanded.

"Wonderful event, Lord Phantomhive," Lady Ashford gushed as she prepared to depart. "Your butler must be extraordinary to coordinate everything so flawlessly."

"Sebastian is... adequate," Ciel said, using his now-standard response. Behind him, he could feel Sebastian's amusement.

"More than adequate, I'd say! Why, I saw him managing at least six different crises simultaneously, the champagne service, the musicians, that incident with the flower arrangement. Such dedication!"

If only she knew about the actual crisis Sebastian had managed. "He does his best."

Finally, the last guests departed. The footmen, both legitimate and "reliable"—began clearing the ballroom, and Ciel felt the tension that had sustained him all evening begin to dissolve. He'd survived. The ball had been successful. His political objectives were achieved, and he'd only dealt with one assassination attempt.

All things considered, not a terrible evening.

"Young master." Sebastian appeared beside him with tea, actual quality tea, not the decorative champagne from earlier. "You should rest. You've been performing for six hours straight."

"I don't need rest." But Ciel took the teacup anyway, grateful for the familiar ritual. "I need answers. Those assassins, did your 'reliable' footmen extract any intelligence?"

"Some. They were hired through intermediaries, paid half upfront with promises of the remainder upon confirmation of your death. Standard mercenary arrangement." Sebastian's expression darkened. "They didn't know their employer's identity, but they mentioned a symbol, a serpent coiled around a cross. Does that mean anything to you?"

It did. The symbol belonged to a Continental organization that Ciel had disrupted during a previous case. He'd thought them eliminated, but clearly some faction had survived and held grudges.

"Wonderful. International assassins now. My reputation is really growing."

"Indeed. You're becoming quite the target." Sebastian began unbuttoning his tailcoat, the formal butler persona sliding away to reveal something more relaxed beneath. "Though I must say, handling them during a ball shows remarkable audacity. Most assassins prefer less public venues."

"Or they were sending a message. Demonstrating that I'm vulnerable even in my own home, surrounded by witnesses and supposed security."

"Possible. Though they failed rather spectacularly, which sends its own message." Sebastian collected the teacup as Ciel finished it. "That message being: the Earl of Phantomhive has a demon butler, and infiltration attempts will be met with extreme prejudice."

Ciel found himself smiling despite the evening's complications. "You enjoyed that, didn't you? The violence."

"I'm a demon. Violence is somewhat inherent to my nature." Sebastian's expression was unapologetic. "Though I'll admit, there's particular satisfaction in protecting what's mine while maintaining perfect butler aesthetics. It's the principle of the thing."

"What's yours?" Ciel caught the phrasing, curious despite himself.

Sebastian paused, considering his answer with unusual care. "You are my contractor, young master. Your soul is promised to me. Until that contract is fulfilled, your continued existence is very much in my interests. Therefore, you are, by definition, mine to protect."

It should have been threatening. Should have been a reminder that Ciel was ultimately just food, premium quality, carefully cultivated, but still destined for consumption. Instead, it felt oddly... protective. Possessive, yes, but in a way that suggested Sebastian took genuine pride in his contracted human's survival.

"Well," Ciel said finally, "I suppose there are worse fates than being considered a demon's property."

"Indeed. You could be property of the Continental assassins' guild, for instance. Much less comfortable accommodations."

They stood in the now-empty ballroom, surrounded by the detritus of the evening, wilting flowers, abandoned champagne glasses, the lingering scent of perfume and candle wax. The chandeliers still burned, casting golden light across the polished floor where Ciel had danced with Sebastian hours ago.

"It was a successful evening," Sebastian said finally. "Your political objectives were achieved. The Phantomhive name has been reinforced as a power in London society. And we identified and neutralized a security threat. All while maintaining perfect hospitality standards."

"You forgot the part where you booby-trapped my ballroom."

"No one triggered the traps, so technically they didn't exist. Schrödinger's security measures."

Ciel laughed, actually laughed, the sound surprising even himself. The evening had been exhausting, dangerous, and largely tedious, but there was something absurdly satisfying about having navigated it successfully. About working with Sebastian to handle both political theater and assassination attempts with equal competence.

"You did well tonight, young master," Sebastian said, and there was no sarcasm in his voice, no mockery. Just honest assessment. "Hosting a ball while managing security threats, maintaining diplomatic relations, and keeping your household staff from causing catastrophic disasters. Very well done indeed."

The praise settled warmly in Ciel's chest, and he found himself unsure how to respond. Compliments from Sebastian were rare enough to be noteworthy, genuine compliments even more so. He settled for: "We did well. This was a team effort."

"Team effort," Sebastian repeated, something like pleasure crossing his features. "I like that phrasing. Though technically, I did most of the work while you stood around looking aristocratic."

"I tripped an assassin."

"One assassin. I neutralized three and prevented a ballroom massacre. But who's counting?"

"You are. Constantly."

Sebastian's smile was genuine now, the careful butler mask dropping completely in the privacy of the empty ballroom. "Fair. Though I will concede that your political maneuvering was exemplary. Several guests specifically mentioned your poise and maturity. Lord Middleton even suggested you'd make an excellent addition to various committees once you're older."

"I'd rather eat glass."

"I know. Which is why I politely deflected those suggestions while making it appear you were simply too busy with existing responsibilities." Sebastian began extinguishing candles with methodical precision, moving through the ballroom with his characteristic grace. "You're welcome, by the way."

Ciel watched him work, noting how Sebastian moved through space, efficient, elegant, never wasting motion. Two years into their contract, and he still occasionally forgot that Sebastian wasn't human. The demon played the role so perfectly that it was easy to think of him as simply an exceptionally competent butler rather than an otherworldly entity bound by dark magic.

"Sebastian," Ciel said suddenly, the question forming before he could consider whether to ask it. "Do you regret it? The contract?"

Sebastian paused in his candle extinguishing, turning to face Ciel directly. In the dimming light, his crimson eyes glowed faintly, demonic nature visible in ways it usually wasn't. "That's an unexpected question."

"But not an unreasonable one. You're bound to serve a thirteen-year-old human for however long it takes me to achieve revenge against enemies who keep multiplying. You've spent two years dealing with assassination attempts, supernatural threats, and incompetent household staff. You've organized balls and neutralized assassins and prevented Finnian from accidentally growing man-eating plants." Ciel moved closer, tilting his head to meet Sebastian's gaze directly. "So I'm asking: do you regret binding yourself to me?"

The silence stretched between them, filled with the soft sounds of the manor settling, distant voices of staff cleaning other rooms. Sebastian studied Ciel with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but wasn't, just familiar, the way Sebastian always looked at him when assessing something important.

"No," Sebastian said finally. "I don't regret it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're interesting, young master. In over a century of existence, I've encountered perhaps three humans who've genuinely intrigued me. You're one of them." Sebastian resumed his candle extinguishing, but his voice carried a weight of genuine consideration. "Most humans are predictable, they want power, wealth, pleasure, salvation. Simple desires, easily fulfilled or denied. But you? You want revenge, yes, but you also want justice. You want to protect people even while destroying your enemies. You're simultaneously ruthless and principled, cold and passionate, calculating and impulsive."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is. But it's also fascinating. You keep me guessing, young master. And for an immortal demon who's seen centuries of human behavior, that's valuable." Sebastian extinguished the final candle, leaving only the moonlight filtering through the tall windows. "Besides, serving you has provided more entertainment than the previous fifty years combined. Tonight alone, political maneuvering, assassination attempts, dancing, and I even got to use my booby traps. How could I regret that?"

"You didn't use the booby traps. No one triggered them."

"A tragedy, truly. I was quite proud of the chandelier arrangement."

Ciel found himself smiling despite the heaviness of the conversation. This was why their partnership, contract, whatever it was, worked. Sebastian took nothing seriously except the things that mattered, and he had an uncanny ability to navigate the space between formality and familiarity that made their relationship functional.

"I suppose I should thank you," Ciel said grudgingly. "For tonight. For handling everything so efficiently. For making me look competent in front of people whose opinions actually matter."

"You did look competent. I merely provided support." Sebastian moved to stand beside Ciel, both of them looking out at the moonlit ballroom. "Though I'll accept your thanks, since you offer them so rarely."

They stood in comfortable silence, the weight of the evening settling around them. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, investigation into the Continental organization, managing fallout from the ball, coordinating with the Queen on Watchdog matters. But tonight, in this moment, there was just the quiet satisfaction of having navigated impossible demands successfully.

"Sebastian," Ciel said after a long moment, "when this is over, when my revenge is complete and you claim your payment, will you remember this? Remember nights like tonight?"

It was a morbid question, one that acknowledged the inevitable end of their contract. But Ciel found himself genuinely curious. Would Sebastian carry any memory of these years, or would Ciel simply become another consumed soul, indistinguishable from countless others?

Sebastian was quiet for so long that Ciel thought he might not answer. Then: "Yes. I'll remember."

"Why?"

"Because you'll have been the last thing I taste before eternity continues. Because these years of service, of watching you grow and fight and survive against impossible odds, they'll have been the culmination of our contract. And because—" Sebastian paused, seeming to choose his words carefully, "—because you matter, young master. Perhaps not in the grand cosmic sense, but in the small, specific sense of this moment, this contract, this peculiar partnership we've formed. Yes. I'll remember."

The confession was more honest than Ciel had expected, more vulnerable than Sebastian usually allowed himself to be. It should have been frightening, the reminder that his demon butler would eventually consume his soul and carry those memories into eternity. Instead, it felt almost comforting. At least he'd be remembered. At least these struggles would mean something beyond their immediate tactical value.

"Good," Ciel said finally. "Then make sure you remember the good parts too. Not just the revenge and the darkness, but nights like this. When we worked together and succeeded. When things were difficult but not impossible. When—" He stopped, unsure how to finish.

"When we were a team," Sebastian completed softly. "Yes, young master. I'll remember those parts especially." * * *

Epilogue: Morning After

Dawn found Ciel in his study, reviewing reports from Sebastian's interrogation of the captured assassins. The intelligence was useful, connections to the Continental organization confirmed, specific names of individuals holding grudges, potential future threats identified. Standard post-crisis analysis, the kind Ciel had become depressingly accustomed to.

A knock at the door. Sebastian entered with breakfast, actual breakfast this time, not the decorative refreshments from last night, and the morning papers.

"The reviews are in," Sebastian announced, setting down the tray with a flourish. "The Times calls your ball 'a stunning display of Phantomhive elegance and influence.' The society pages are practically breathless describing the decorations, the guest list, and your 'remarkable poise for one so young.'"

"They didn't mention the assassination attempt?"

"Oddly, that didn't make the papers. Can't imagine why." Sebastian's expression was the picture of innocence. "Though several guests did mention to me on their way out that they'd noticed your 'impressive security arrangements.' Apparently three footmen quickly removing intoxicated individuals was viewed as admirably discreet."

"Intoxicated?"

"My cover story. I implied the men had overindulged and needed to be removed for their own dignity. Several guests complimented your compassionate handling of the situation."

Ciel laughed despite himself. "So I'm compassionate now? That's a new one."

"You contain multitudes, young master." Sebastian poured tea with his characteristic precision. "Though I should mention Finnian has accidentally created a new species of rose that appears to be mildly carnivorous. It's currently attempting to eat Mey-Rin's feather duster."

"Of course it is."

"And Baldroy has requested permission to use 'cooking explosives' for tonight's dinner. I've tentatively denied the request, but he seemed quite insistent."

"Absolutely not."

"I thought you'd say that. I've hidden all flammable materials accordingly." Sebastian settled into his customary position by the window, the morning sunlight catching his perfect butler facade. "Oh, and you've received an invitation to tea with the Queen next week. She wishes to discuss last night's gathering and several Watchdog-related matters."

Ciel groaned. "More politics."

"I'm afraid so. Though look at it optimistically, at least tea with Her Majesty is unlikely to involve assassination attempts."

"You say that like it's guaranteed."

"Fair point. I'll prepare accordingly." Sebastian's expression turned more serious. "The Continental organization will likely attempt retaliation for last night's failure. I recommend increased security protocols for the next several weeks."

"Already planning on it." Ciel sipped his tea, grateful for the familiar ritual after last night's chaos. "Though I'm curious, how did they know about the ball? The guest list was confidential."

"I'm investigating. Someone either leaked information or has been monitoring our communications. Either option is concerning." Sebastian's eyes gleamed with something predatory. "Though it does provide an opportunity to feed false intelligence and draw out potential traitors."

"You enjoy this far too much."

"I'm a demon. Intrigue and deception are core competencies." Sebastian moved to collect the breakfast dishes as Ciel finished. "Though I will admit, last night was particularly satisfying. Successfully hosting a political ball while neutralizing security threats and maintaining perfect butler standards. It's the sort of challenge I appreciate."

"We did well," Ciel said, echoing his words from last night. "Both of us."

"Indeed we did, young master." Sebastian paused at the door, turning back with something approaching genuine warmth in his expression. "Though between us? I think your mother would have been proud. Hosting a ball with grace and competence while managing threats to your life. That's remarkably sophisticated for thirteen."

The mention of his mother should have hurt, usually did, when Sebastian brought up Ciel's parents. But this time it felt different. Not painful, but bittersweet. A reminder that he'd once been someone's son, before becoming the Earl and the Watchdog and the boy who sold his soul for revenge.

"Thank you, Sebastian."

"You're welcome, young master. Now, shall we review today's schedule? You have correspondence to address, estate matters requiring decisions, and Finnian's carnivorous roses to deal with before they achieve sentience."

"They can't achieve sentience."

"You say that with such confidence. As if you've forgotten every other impossible thing we've dealt with."

Ciel couldn't argue with that logic. In a world where he'd contracted with a demon, been hunted by supernatural entities, and regularly dealt with the absurdities of London's underworld, carnivorous sentient roses were hardly the strangest possibility.

"Fine. Let's handle the roses first. At least plant-based threats are straightforward."

"That's the spirit, young master. Face today's challenges with the same determination you brought to last night's ball."

As Sebastian glided out of the study to coordinate rose containment, Ciel found himself reflecting on the past twelve hours. The ball had been exhausting, dangerous, politically complex, and absurdly theatrical. But it has also been successful. He'd proven himself capable of navigating aristocratic society, had strengthened political alliances, and had worked with Sebastian to handle threats with efficient brutality.

Most importantly, he'd been reminded that despite the contract, despite the darkness of their relationship's foundation, he and Sebastian made an effective team. They understood each other in ways that went beyond master and servant, beyond human and demon. There was trust there, not the comfortable trust of friendship, but the hard-earned trust of having survived impossible situations together.

It wouldn't save his soul. Wouldn't change the contract's inevitable conclusion. But it made the present bearable, even occasionally satisfying.

And for a thirteen-year-old Earl bound to a demon by desperation and revenge, bearable was actually pretty good.

Outside his study window, Finnian's voice rose in panic as the carnivorous roses apparently made their move toward full sentience. Sebastian's calm response drifted back, something about pruning shears and holy water, delivered with the kind of professional competence that made demonic butler service worthwhile.

Ciel smiled despite himself, finished his tea, and prepared to face another day of impossible problems with his impossible demon butler.

Some mornings were better than others. This, surprisingly, was one of the better ones.

Later that evening, over dinner that Baldroy had somehow prepared without explosives, Ciel mentioned that the next ball wouldn't happen for at least six months.

Sebastian agreed this was reasonable.

Finnian's carnivorous roses were successfully contained and relocated to a greenhouse where they could pursue sentience without threatening the household staff.

And somewhere in the Continental underworld, surviving members of the assassination organization received word that the Earl of Phantomhive was significantly more dangerous than previously assessed.