Proof of the Pudding, a kuroshitsuji fanfic

Warning- this fic portrays demonic Sebastian and not the cute, smiling butler we are rather accustomed to. Based on the manga-verse.

Proof of the Pudding

"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," Bard says.

Sebastian pauses with an empty egg shell in one hand. He shapes the words with his mouth and feels their weight on his tongue.

"Or that's what they say," Bard continues. The blade of his knife slices dangerously close to red finger tips. He slides his hand away and the knife's edge slams against the wooden board with more violence than the task requires. A row of uneven onion cubes roll like severed heads, catching on the small pile.

The demon licks his teeth, amused that for once human cleverness has nearly gotten something right.

"Though I don't think they're talking about actual pudding," Bard throws in.

Sebastian picks up a wooden spoon and begins to stir the mixture in the bowl. He watches as the perfect yellow circles break, the thick yolks swirling in the milk, clinging to its form until the mixture smoothes out into a pale yellow. He remembers the days he would have eaten the egg raw; the days he was unfamiliar with the delight of preparing a feast.

"But I'm sure it will be delicious," Bard rambles on. "Everything you make turns out perfect," he mutters.

"I wonder," the demon smiles as he sifts the flour into the bowl.

The deal is simple. The exchange is nothing creative- nothing that hasn't been done before. He steps between worlds, unnoticed by the sea of grotesque smiles too delighted with standing on the other side of the carving knife. He stares down the butchered lump of sheer willfulness thrashing on the alter and marvels at what a tiny master has called him. He will have his meal within the week if he so chooses.

He speaks and only the child hears him- a soul so close to death the reapers are knocking. He brushes their nagging aside and concentrates. The ritual must be observed. He warns of what has been lost, what can never be regained, watching as the small limbs grow still upon the stone. The blood sacrificed spills onto the circle. He makes no complaint that the offering is nothing much-a mere scrap of innocence, sprinklings of sorrow, a few precious drops of real fear.

The boy's consciousness wavers, his body still and his soul hovering. He hesitates to move on, burdened with the selfish desire to live. A decision is made and the demon follows his nose- breathes a familiar scent like still rising bread- until the leash is upon him. And when the first command roars from his new master's lips, the savory hint of wrath churns the early stages of hunger.

The child refuses to eat. He stares at the edge of the good china with one blank eye and two small hands resting over the linen napkin protecting his blue shorts.

"Young master must eat to keep up his strength," Sebastian says. He picks up the silver fork and knife, slicing off a mouthful of roast. The meat steams in the cool air and Sebastian blows upon it softly. He holds it to the boy's mouth and awareness flickers back to life, gaze lifting upward. A question hangs upon his brow.

Sebastian lowers the fork to the plate before the juices can drip and stain the ivory tablecloth. He presses the knife against the silver, small scraping sounds deafening in the quiet room and pulls the meat from the fork. He spears a sliced carrot and two peas instead. The boy shakes his head feebly at the new offering. Sebastian tuts as he puts the fork down, metal clinking softly against the plate.

He is impossible when these small fits come upon him.

Sebastian moves to the cart where a smaller plate has been covered. He pulls the lid and uncovers a small chocolate tower in three layers. He sets it soundlessly on the table, observing the way his master's lips rub together. His small throat clenches and his jaw tightens, one eye gazing on the creamy spires rising from the chocolate tower. Sebastian loosens the fingers of his gloves, black-tipped nails plucking the glistening red orb from its bed of cream. He holds the small fruit before his master's lips, pausing when the small tongue swipes the top of his bottom lip. His master hesitates, but does not move away. Sebastian waits, holding the small cherry in the air, not a breath away from parted lips and makes no move to bring them closer. His master's brow slopes, the dark lashes pointing downward. The boy tips up his chin, closing the few centimeters dividing them. His tongue slips out, touching the fruit tentatively, followed by his lips. He accepts the fruit from Sebastian's hand, mouth working this small prelude while his gaze is already fixed upon the rest of the prize.

Sebastian slips his glove back on, tugging the fingers down to fit snugly between each digit. He picks up the lid and relishes the angry flinch when he covers the dessert.

"Master must not spoil his appetite," he sing-songs, looking pointedly at the neglected fork.

The boy scowls and he looks at the shielded plate longingly. One hand rises slowly, gripping the silver instrument and raising its speared contents to his mouth. He chews noisily, stuffing a bite of meat into his mouth and revealing the glob of mashed orange and green pocketed between his teeth and the skin of cheek. He tears off a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth, his cheeks bulging as he chews roughly.

The demon tilts his head, clasping his gloved hands together. One finger clings to the fabric of his glove, sticky with fruit. He retreats to the corner of the room, watching the gluttonous imp stuff his face with one eye concentrated firmly on the silver lid.

If he allows it, his master will be sick tonight. He will glut himself until he's fit to burst and then he'll eat some more. Just one more bite of dessert, just one more swipe of cream. He will lick the plate clean.

The demon draws in a slow breath unheard over the sounds of chewing and the metal fork scraping against the china. He holds his breath, rolling the air against his tongue; the tang of sin almost strong enough to taste.

Sebastian is learning that a successful servant works swiftly and invisibly. Picking up the fresh towel, the towel scrubbed clean with his bare hands and carefully hung with pins to dry in the bleak autumn sun, he carries it over to the four legged tub. His master scowls from the center, water chest high with bucket after bucket, painstakingly heated and poured one after another quickly before it could cool, only to frolic for all of fifteen minutes before complaining the water had grown cold.

The white cotton falls from his hands, nearly brushing the floor and bounces back when he tugs the corners pinched between forefinger and thumb on either side. His master stands, water tinkling as it slides down his sleight form and Sebastian drapes the material over his shoulders, snatching him up quickly before the ends can dip into the water. He places the boy on the braided carpet- the carpet he beat with a wooden paddle before the other servants were awake. The boy's teeth chatter in his skull.

How lazy these noble mortals be, he thinks when the boy fails to even tug the folds of the towel closer together. How content they are to laze about while their servants labor silently to provide the smallest conveniences of the hour; warm towels, a cake of soap, the bath filled and emptied, soapy refuse disposed of in unseen corners. The demon marvels at the waste.

Sebastian pulls the fabric free of the skinny limbs, baring goose pimpled flesh to the wintry air. The boy shivers, arms hanging beside his slender torso and makes no move to step closer to the fire. He makes no complaint, even as Sebastian hesitates, patting the pale body dry with deliberate slowness. He sets the towel down gently in the basket of laundry to be taken down to the wash room later tonight. His master ushers no command for swiftness and his hand lingers over the linen shirt, bleached and freshly starched, and runs a finger over the small corner where he scrubbed laboriously to remove a chocolate stain the size of a mole.

"The young master should take care. The mornings are decidedly chillier." He helps his master slip his arm first on one side, then the next. He pauses again, glancing down at the top of the damp head of hair, down the line of pale chest visible between the folds. He wonders how his master would fare having to dress himself. He circles round and kneels, fingers deftly fixing up the pearly buttons. "We would not want you to catch your death," he smiles, straightening out the fabric protecting the helpless worm. How easy it would be to crush him, or let him dry out on the sidewalk when the rains have flooded the grounds. Oh how he would squirm, too powerless or simply too lazy to help himself.

The contract gleams a little, cutting Sebastian's thoughts short. The demon stands and retrieves his master's clothes quickly. Glancing once more at the contract following him lazily, Sebastian reminds himself a servant moves quickly and invisibly.

"Ciel! Ciel!" Soma's slippered feet patter along the marble tiles. Sebastian holds the door open, lowering his face as the prince enters the sitting room. Soma holds up a small box frame up with both hands, a small painting in water color of a lush tropic centered incongruously between gilt edges. "What do you think?" he asks excitedly, waving the painting in front of the young master.

"It's an improvement," Ciel says, casting a brief look before returning to the folded pages of The Times. Sebastian sidles over to the table, studying the small work and presses his fingers to his chin.

"The blending of colors is quite excellent and you've taken care not to use too much. The texture of the fauna here is quite remarkable," Sebastian points a gloved finger, marking where the prince has taken great pains to dilineate certain leaves. "Your skills have increased, Prince Soma."

Ciel presses his lips together, one corner turning up in a slight scowl. He tuts softly behind his paper and Sebastian smiles when one angry blue eye glares at him from the edge of the page. Sebastian ignores the look.

"Is this landscape perhaps a scene from your home, Prince Soma?" he continues.

The prince nods his head enthusiastically, turning the painting and gazing at it wistfully. "The Marchioness has taken great interest in the stories Miss Elizabeth has shared with her. She commissioned this piece herself. My first commission!" he raises his voice. "Maybe now," Soma says, raising one clenched fist in the air, "you'll acknowledge me Ciel Phantomhive!"

Ciel does not respond. He raises the paper even higher over his crossed legs, maintaining the thin wall between them. The prince's fist wavers. The paper rustles as Ciel turns the page.

"Very well Soma," Ciel says. "Now that you're independent, perhaps you'll be content to stop relying on me." Soma's smile falters. His mouth twitches, struggling to hold his expression in place.

Ciel stares absently at the words in front of him, the pages wrinkling beneath his grip. "If I may say," Sebastian leans over, "Mr. Agni and Prince Soma are quite excellent care takers. Agni has never failed to meet my every expectation."

Ciel bares his teeth on one side. "Then they should find no difficulty procuring work elsewhere," he replies sharply.

The prince's expression crumbles. He lowers his hand with disbelief, his moment's confidence turning into a frown. He looks at the painting in his hand and sets it down on the table.

"I guess it really is a bit silly of me, isn't it? To be so proud of one commission when all this time I've been living off your charity. And it wouldn't be too unlike Miss Elizabeth to request this of her mother..."

Dishes clatter when Agni steps into the parlor. He rushes forward and sets the tea tray down on the table. "My prince," he says, kneeling down on one knee while both hands reach for the Prince's trembling shoulders. "What has happened? Is it the painting? Did the Marchioness?" He looks around and observes the Marchioness is absent. Soma shakes his head, wiping his tears with the heel of his palm.

"It is nothing," he says, sniffing audibly. "Just a bit of foolishness on my part." Agni pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the prince's face. He hands it to the prince who nods and blows his nose, sounding very much like the elephants he loves to boast of and not the member of a royal family. He hands it back to Agni who accepts it with a look of relief.

"Come Agni," the prince says huffily, rising from his seat. "There is much work to be done." He casts Ciel a challenging look over the top of the newspaper, ignoring the forgotten canvas resting on the unoccupied divan. Agni glances back at Ciel uneasily and nods to his prince. Sebastian smiles and Agni, startled, relaxes into a smile.

Ciel hasn't turned the page in some minutes, Sebastian reflects, bending over the coffee table to straighten out the tea. He pours his master a cup and sets a fork next to the small slice of apple pie. He admires the latticed crust that is hardly second to Sebastian's own.

"That was quite a mean trick, young master," Sebastian grins as he sets the plate closer to the edge of the table. "Had I not known better, I'd say your eyes were green."

Ciel huffs and tosses down the paper. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, scooping up the apple pie and taking a bite larger than befits a young man of manners.

It is only a matter of time, Sebastian reflects, polishing the silver handle of his master's new cane. The sleek, black body shines in the firelight and Sebastian lowers it, pressing his weight upon it carefully. He stoops over and when the wood is unyielding, keeping him upright, he straightens out and leaves the bag of gold upon the counter.

It began as a matter of appearances, he reflects, observing his new coat in the glass of the window. It was simply a way to not shame the Phantomhive name or, at times, to appease the whims of lady Elizabeth and her love of fine things. But what began as an attempt to meet expectations slowly evolved into his master's personal brand of vanity. Custom buttons, gold and silver Prince Albert chains, coats in velvet, satins and silk of various qualities; the shoes, the stockings the hats and the silk flowers with which to decorate them. Sebastian is familiar with the shapes and colors, the fabrics and the variations. He knows the comparative costs by the yard. He knows the price of lace, of peacock feathers, or the exotic plumage of Lord so and so's collection.

Sebastian crosses the street quickly, weaving between the crowds. He reaches for the small brass handle, turning the latch and wiping his feet on the small mat as he enters the hatter's shop. A small bell tinkles, announcing his arrival. The shopkeeper smiles, bends down and picks up a box from behind the counter. She pulls out a hat Sebastian is certain could challenge the Duchess of Devonshire herself. Sebastian glances over it carefully, content that it is to his master's specifications. He nods, putting the right amount of coin on the counter and the hatter places it delicately in the box, covering it oh so carefully so as not to crush the ribbon.

What proud manner of animal his master has become, he reflects with amusement, accepting the new bundle under his arm. How vain, how pretentious, how utterly greedy for new colors and textures to parade about the filthy London streets. A regular sop posing as a boy king. The hatter thanks him for his business and sends her regards to the Earl. No, no, Sebastian bows, tipping his hat respectfully to the shopkeeper and tells her the pleasure is most certainly all his.

It is only a matter of time before the vanity turns to greed.

Were the demon to choose he would say it was pride- pride was the deadliest of his master's sins. Pride over his heritage, his birth, his inheritance; the pride afforded to those society openly praises with silver-sweet flattery rolling gently off the tongue. The mark of the beast on his master's back does not press so deeply as the stamp of pride upon his brow. And though the reaper chastises him for his unremarkable choice, his tastelessness in souls, the demon smiles at the reaper's failure to see what an endless source of entertainment noblemen can be.

For who is more proud than those society prizes best? The cream of the crop, raised to live without humility, to subsist on daily sin like bread.

It is almost too easy, the demon reflects, pressing a towel against his master's slender torso. How simple it is to incite a child's wrath, to strike up envy with the right turn of a phrase; how easily a child succumbs to gluttony or greed, and all by his own hand. The demon cherishes these small moments when he must bite his tongue lest he be tempted to taste what a delicious morsel this tarnished soul has no doubt become.

Still, there is one more challenge that must wait. A sin that does not lend itself so well to a child.

The young Earl watches him closely, tracing the movements of his servant's bare hands. He sucks in his breath when a bare knuckle brushes against his waist, flinching from the uninvited touch. Sebastian issues an apology, berates his own carelessness and the Earl relaxes into his comfortable stance. How slow the seduction will be, the demon reflects, careful with his minute touches and selective of his clumsiness. A child is not suited for lust and the demon is not interested in stealing innocence.

A demon does not need to steal. Not when humans are so desperate to give.

And some day the boy will turn. His greedy eye will light upon a woman, the lines of her bodice or the softness that is to be had beneath the petticoats and lace. Or some day he will not flinch, will not recoil when Sebastian's hand brushes against him; he will not turn from the cherry held to his lips and he will accept it of his own volition.

"What are you smiling at?" his master asks and the demon shakes his head slightly. He covers his master's damp hair with the towel and rubs the strands vigorously to rid them of the excess drops leaking trails down a porcelain neck.

"I was simply recalling a witticism Bard shared with me in the kitchen." He pauses, moving only when his master snorts and tilts his head, sending the towel tumbling sideways.

"I didn't realize Bard was capable of witticisms," he says.

Sebastian slips the linen shirt over two slender arms. "Humans are full of surprises." He steps near enough to feel the faint body heat of the sleight figure before him, leaning close enough to whisper in his ear. "Are you familiar with the saying about pudding?" His fingers quickly tug the edges of the shirt together, one black button clasped between forefinger and thumb.

His master tilts his head, angling his neck to move as far away from the demon's whispers as his position will allow.

"The proof of the pudding," he pauses. He doesn't flinch when Sebastian's gloved hand brushes against his chest, only tenses his narrow shoulders and stands very still. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating," he says firmly. "It means the ending is what matters."

The demon's lips curl at the boy's ear. He inhales sharply and bites his tongue lest the hunger tearing through him make him momentarily forget. "Yes," he nearly hisses, finishing the last button and stepping away smoothly. "But I think I've come to disagree." He masks his face with a familiar harmlessness, sliding a dark ribbon across his master's shoulders. His hand lingers on the boy's shoulder, a small tremor running along his fingertips. "While the young master delights so much in eating his pudding, I find I rather enjoy the making."