literature

The Reaper's Bookshop: behind closed door (5)

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What Waits: behind closed doors. (Ch. 5)

Recap: Ciel frowns openly. "I'm not interested in 'occult friendly' employment." He sniffs, and abandons his post in favor of helping the Undertaker find the specially ordered books. Sebastian has an odd way of pursuing romantic attraction, and Ciel finds himself in several (decidedly odd) situations.


Chapter 5: Behind closed doors.

Undertaker hmms. He seems able to take any situation in stride, complete with a mad-hatter-esque grin. His whole existence revolves around strange aspects of humor, though few can actually understand it.

Currently, he looks at the boy from a downward slant, his head tilted into his thick hair, casting his features in shadow. “Won’t you be having some tea?”

Gregory nods vaguely. He’s not an uncommon visitor to the shop. New into college, and taking more art classes than a supposed business major would need, he comes from time to time. But he doesn’t come to the store for school.

He settles himself on the ornamental bench. He has something in a to-go cup, and his sketchbook is half out of his bag. His gaze drifts lazily to meet the Undertaker’s. He motions with his chin. “I’ve been helped.”

The Undertaker smiles broadly. “What are you drawing, hm?” he stretches a hand to trace Gregory’s shoulder. “Well?”

Gregory shakes his head resolutely. “It’s not finished.” And he adds a few more.

The Undertaker makes a noise like understanding and drapes himself over the bench. He’s somehow blocking the plants and not quite sitting. “Well, tell me about your intent.” He sniggers. “I hope it’s amusing….”

The boy who’s nearly a man doesn’t say anything. He stares at the page before letting a tight, almost cruel smile twist his lips. “I’m drawing your death.” He pronounces dramatically.

Undertaker laughs. “Oh? That?”

With a subtle relaxing of his features, Gregory shrugs. “No, not really.” But he pulls the pages less closely.

The Undertaker waits. “Tell me about your day.”

The young artist stares. “Nothing much to tell.” He licks his lips.

With a shrug, the Undertaker withdraws. “Ah.” He coughs gently, perhaps disguising his glee. “Is that it? Well, how is your coffee?”

The young man “mms,” half aware. “OK.”

Leaning against the wall in perfect profile, the Undertaker trails a finger against the high part of the bench. “I suppose Ciel’s brewing skills may have been affected…” he drawls. “Since the abduction.” Trying to sound natural and failing utterly.

As expected, Gregory starts. “Hm?” He looks up at the oddly serious Undertaker. His usual mirth is under a layer of cool composure. Like this, the Undertaker is unreadable. “Abducted?”

“Kidnapped. Albeit for a short period of time.” He meets Gregory’s gaze. “One would think he’d be withdrawn. Jittery.” He looks at Gregory appraisingly. “But I suppose nothing has come of it…”

Gregory turns his owlish stare at the Undertaker’s nose. Then his lips. Is this a joke? Ciel? Kidnapped?

“Why?”

“I would guess,” he hazards, “It’s because Sebastian got there quickly, and probably convinced Ciel he was in no trouble all along…still strange though.” He sniggers again. “I thought he’d at least sulk. Or snap at everyone.”

Gregory, who was of the opinion that Ciel always sulked, considers this statement. He supposes, He might be lording something over the rest of us most of the time.

Picking up his pencil, he stares at it. “I meant why was he kidnapped.” He settles. “And why he’s at work afterward.”

The Undertaker shrugs. “Oh. I don’t know.” He plops himself on the bench.

The two sit in silence for a time. The artist stares at his sketch, and the Undertaker watches idly. At last, the young man looks at the other.

“…you haven’t asked for a joke.”

The Undertaker shakes his head. “I haven’t.” He agrees.

Gregory sighs and tucks his supplies away. “I’ll go talk to Ciel…” he mutters, though his irritation is clear on his face.

Inside, Ciel sits at one of the small tables. His pale hands tap on the dark wood, and his face is cast in shadow. At that moment, Ciel is as tempting a subject to draw as any Gregory has seen.

“Ciel,” Gregory frowns. He leans in on the boy, but thinks better of it. As a result, he stands slightly to the side, hanging back just a little. He frowns as Ciel slowly meets his gaze. That kind of masterpiece wouldn’t do. Ciel and he would have to do better…

“You…want to…” want to what? He thinks to himself irritably. Talk? He scowls to himself.

Ciel eyes him. “Is your latte not to your liking?” His frown is delicate, but his eyes slip away.

Ah. Gregory almost smiles. So maybe fearsome, strong Phantomhive’s defenses are breakable.

“No. It’s fine.” Gregory smiles thinly. It only barely disguises his lingering irritation. “The little boy has his doubts, then?”

Ciel scowls now.

Where did that come from? Gregory sighs. He isn’t very good at this. Wordlessly, he takes a sheet from his pad and flicks a piece of willowy charcoal at the boy. It cracks into two pieces.

Ciel continues staring. “What?” he doesn’t pick it up.

“It’s very light-weight.” Gregory explains. “Less heavy than the standard blocks…it’s called Willow Charcoal, similar to Vine Charcoal. Easier to fathom for beginners.” The words come easily, and he finally sits down. “Gesture drawings and the like.”

Ciel tilts his head. “Thank you.” He doesn’t move, and this irritates Gregory. “Why?”

“Art is a release.” He indicates the sketch pad.

“From what?” his lips quirk sardonically. “From nightmares?” the boy offers his mocking smile, and it’s as though all the irony and discontent have merged to the left tilt. Wry, yet still dignified. The boy is a mystery, truly.

Gregory thinks, surely he hasn’t gained anything from the encounter…only lost something. His sense of freedom or safety perhaps. But he’s acting all wrong. Ciel’s chin is high.

Gregory likes to imagine himself a good judge of character. But Ciel…might be mad enough to call truly…creative. Gregory trades smiles with the little brat.

From behind, the Undertaker laughs. “Well. Isn’t that nice?” he grins. “Take up the charcoal…try for a sketch of your…mm, desire.” As though this is the most hilarious idea yet, he hides his mouth behind his hands. Then he slinks off again to the side of the shop.

Gregory stares after him. The Undertaker does like to make an exit.

“You heard about it?” Ciel guesses.

“Quite.”

“Then maybe you think you’re being kind and helping me. Lending me an ear.” His lips quirk again.

Gregory shifts, an expression of discomfort and fury mixing. He doesn’t care for being played with, but that’s all Ciel ever does.

“I have things on my mind.” Ciel says dismissively. “So unless it’s about your latte?” His eyes are hard. “I’ll just keep thinking my own thoughts. Alone.”

Embarrassment and pity mingle in Gregory’s mind. There’s got to be something. (uncomfortable and probably embarrassing) that might make Ciel open up. If only he could think of it. An excuse, maybe?

But Gregory doesn’t have to do this…and though he couldn’t think of what to say seconds before, that realization is just what he needs to speak up.

“Go on and fight the Jabberwock on your own, then.” He tosses his hair back. “I’ll weave your burial shroud  once you’ve finished.”

Ciel raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.

Gregory walks out and resumes sitting on the bench, leaving Ciel not quite staring in his wake.

Ciel huffs. The bookshop gets the strangest customers.

<center> * * * * * * * * * * </center>



Ciel finishes buffing the coffee bar for the third time, hating the unusually bad weather and the lack of customers. Undertaker is doing something on the other side of the store, crooning some lullaby in the dim light.

The shop seems darker than usual, more full of cobwebs and dust. Ciel considers dusting, maybe even vacuuming. With a sigh, he settles onto a stool, and stares at the door, willing someone to come in. Sebastian, maybe.

Sebastian…Ciel frowns, unable to get the man out of his head.  Was he telling the truth? Does he really not know the kidnappers? The thought gives him pause. Then of course there was Ciel’s unease with the man-- the sense he isn’t completely natural. But then, he did come to the Undertaker’s bookstore. And most customers, he paused, thinking of Gregory, are rather strange.

Undertaker mentioned someone helping him start listing some of his books online… could Sebastian be that associate? Ciel examines the email screen and does a quick search for “Sebastian Michaelis.”

<center>* * * * * * * * * * * *</center>




“Sebastian is some kind of hacker, isn’t he?” Ciel confronts the Undertaker, hands on his hips. “You know about that, right? He asked to use your old shop name. Probably to fake the credentials of a real online security company.”

“Really?” Undertaker gives Ciel a watery smile, apparently clueless. He barely suppresses a giggle.

“Well? Isn’t he?”

“Information like that will cost you, Phantomhive.”

“Will it now?” He asks sweetly. “I suppose we’re not talking about favors anymore, are we?”

“Insouciant boy.” Undertaker teases,  but there’s no weight to it. “…if you know a good one, proceed.”

Ciel hesitates. The last time he had to tell a joke to make Undertaker laugh, he was trying for half an hour or more. In the end, Undertaker only giggled at Ciel’s discomfort and frustration, then set him to manning the coffee bar wearing “Victorian” clothing for a few days. These shorts and an old fashioned blazer one day, and Charles Dickens’ famed ‘orphan boy’ the next.

“Isn’t there something faster?”

“Still out of jokes from the last time?” Undertaker croons. “Well then. You want to put it off. How about you have a little chat with Aleister in the shop? That man is top notch entertainment. Of course, I’d like you to wear something new. Pink, maybe.”

Ciel scowls. “Aleister? Who—why would you want pink?”

“How about a deal then. You put down a nice little down-payment.” Undertaker claps his hands, and allows his features to relax into his placid cat expression. “I dress you in  a nice costume, we take a few snapshots, and I show Aleister Chambers, viscount of Druitt. If he’s interested, you two have a little chat in the café.”

“It’s a simple question.” Ciel complains.

“The answer is more complicated than that. Would you like a cookie as well?” He draws out the vowels, sounding as though he were half singing. “I’ll give you an address, you learn about Sebastian Michaelis. Life becomes interesting around here for a while.”

Ciel doesn’t doubt that. Anything the Undertaker suggests is certainly ‘interesting.’ He chews his lip, all the while resenting the fact that the Undertaker couldn’t seem to be persuaded to do anything that he didn’t already want to do.

“…do you have a costume like that? Here?”

“In fact I do. You don’t seem to have grown much,” he tuts, and strokes Ciel’s hair. “But it does make it easy to guess your size.”

The dress, as it turned out, is neither a dress nor pink, but a blue tunic. It has a loose fit and lots of layers. Definitely along the lines of lolita fashion, but with pumpkin shorts instead of a ridiculously voluminous skirt. He doesn’t know if he should feel better about that.

Ciel sighs, and begins to take off his clothes.

“Ciel, don’t  forget the corset. And the padded bra.” Undertaker giggles from outside the staff bathroom.

“Sure.” Ciel mutters, but hides the offending undergarments underneath his own clothes in the corner. The dress is loose enough that nobody would be able to see the fake boobs anyways, right?

“Just darling. How about we wrap some bandages around your face? You’ll be so alluring.”

“Are those sterile?” Ciel eyes the Undertaker, who weaves said bandages between his fingers, almost like he were playing a game of cat's cradle.

“Mmmm,” he says, noncommittal.

“I don’t want them near my eye.” Knowing the Undertaker, they are probably authentic Victorian bandages. Possibly used bandages.

“But it’d be fun. Give it a try?”

“You said a pink dress, and maybe a conversation. Nothing about possibly infecting my eye with embalming-fluid-soaked-bandages.”

Undertaker snorts, and then giggles. His shoulders bounce with laughter. “Don’t be silly,” he rasps. “There’s no embalming fluid. It’s just bandages from Boots,” he names a chain pharmacy.

“Still. No.”

“You don’t think it’s part of the costume?” He chews a long, black fingernail.

“No.” Ciel prays that the Undertaker doesn’t press the point.

Undertaker holds up an antique looking camera which flashes a bright light at Ciel. He blinks, and feels himself pulled over to an overstuffed armchair among the towers of bookshelves. Still seeing spots, he almost doesn’t notice Undertaker snapping a second picture with his cell phone.

He suffers through this in silence, his expression somewhere between impatience and sulky embarrassment.

“Nice doing business with you, Phantomhive. The address is on the bar. Go there, if you want.” And just like that, he is off to lurk in some dark corner of the store.


*****

This is it? The building is hidden next to a laundromat and a fast food restaurant, snuggled between the backs of two other, bigger buildings. The street sign is right, but he nearly misses the door, mistaking it for a side door of what could be an office building.

Ciel might have kept looking at the building, wondering how to get in if it weren’t for the door opening in front of him. Music doesn’t so much as pulse from the establishment as leak out when a couple leaves.

He suspects this is one of the places where he ought to be stopped at the door, carded, turned away, and then come up with another way to get in. So for now, he simply observes. Ciel sees through the opening, and what’s there surprises him. It’s an ordinary...waiting room? Like one might find in a doctor’s office. There’s another door with....handcuffs... hanging on a peg.

...what?

When who should come round the corner than one smartly dressed Sebastian Michaelis? He’s leading a young woman by the arm and gives a well-mannered bow. “Do pay us another call...”  he smiles slightly. “You know I won’t forgive a slight to my invitation.”

The woman—though by her behavior, is more like a girl than an adult – is flushed. She doesn’t meet his eyes, but offers a tremulous smile. “Of course, Mister Sebastian.”  And here she does something odd, parting her lips a little and lifting her chin up. She’s bearing her throat-- almost how a dog might to its pack leader.

Sebastian notices Ciel watching through the open door. And smiles.

the House of Thorns is lettered in neat white, inconspicuously placed by the window. It seems an innocent enough name, but that display...


Ciel’s breath catches in his throat. Sebastian looks Ciel up and down, still smiling. He gives the girl one last glance before she scuttles away, muttering something under her breath.

Sebastian steps out of the club, and Ciel realizes he’s wearing stiletto heels and his nails are painted black. “Well, well. Good evening, Mister Phantomhive.” He tilts his head, as though considering the boy. “Ciel.”

The door opens again. “Sebastian, the party in room three requested a spanking.”

Ciel swallows hard, eying the man just inside the door. Sebastian himself has semi-formal clothes, but this man’s outfit is gaudy in the worst way. It dawns on him that this club might be very low class. And Sebastian might be little more than a…

“Are you a stripper?” The words slip out of Ciel’s mouth.

The man snorts. “He’s the only male house dome. He doesn’t strip—he makes other people do that, and then spanks them.”

“Only if they need to be punished. Otherwise, I’m a perfect gentleman.” Sebastian is coldly amused, but something in his posture—a tenseness in his upper body—suggests he realizes he’s lost some of his standing with Ciel.

“I can’t believe you. Are you anything you say you are?” Ciel accuses, scorn coloring his words.

Sebastian cocks his head. “Of course I am. I’m all of those things.” He taps a heel. “It’s foolish of you to think I can be one and not the other.”  

Is it sign of impatience or frustration? Ciel wonders.

Sebastian casts one last look at the prideful young man, looking both shocked and personally offended by Sebastian’s relationship to the fetish club. Already, Sebastian considers the benefits and potential problems with his counter plans.

Sebastian isn’t pleased with this turn of events—it’s like a game where he is suddenly on the verge of losing because of his own mistake rather than any particular brilliant move on Ciel’s part. He’d rather wanted to delay Phantomhive’s knowledge of this part time gig until he could bring it up. Slowly. With a touch of power play and dry humor, rather than have Ciel control the entire next game because of his negligence.

So he walks down the stairs and leaves the boy staring after him.


Not won over yet. Sebastian tells himself.

Not yet.




...tbc...
Title: The Reaper's Bookshop: What Waits.
Status: Multi-part fic.
Warnings: Uh, language. ♥ implications. Sebastian in a suit. With heels.
Words: about 2,800

Archive: Chapter One | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

So....

...what did you think? :XD:? Crazy? Interesting? Fun?

Next chapter NOW~
© 2012 - 2024 smallsmiles
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daddysarmygirl's avatar
luv this but one question is ciel still the same age and also is this sebastian trying to get ciel for the first time or did he just lose him and now trying to get him back
( srry more than one question) : p