I was gonna wait a few days to post this… but then 101 followers happened. :’D (asdfghjklthankyou~ <3) Sorry this story doesn’t focus on a similarly happy event. ^^; But I promise— more fluff is to come. :3

Title: “Right”
Series: Kuroshitsuji
Pairing: Mostly Seb/Grelle friendship, but also mentions of  SebaCiel and Will/Grelle
Genre: General/Family/Friendship/Drama
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Pregnant (wo)men are always right. Part of the “Bicentennial”* series/”666” collection.

*All hail Hannah, queen of the sticky post~ 8D

Disclaimer: Haha, no. :’D

Author’s Note: So there are two camps, it seems. Camp one is “Add more angst to Bi!” The other is “Bi must always be happy!” And after visiting both of these camps for a while, I’ve… well, I don’t want to say that I’ve joined either party, but I’ve come to a decision in regards to proceeding. The way I see it, if “Bi” is all sunshine, all of the time, it loses its credibility as a series. I mean, life isn’t always rosy, right? Not to mention, it’d get boring to read and write. XD; So while I don’t (necessarily) plan on giving “Bi” a sad ending (or an ending at all), that’s not gonna stop me from throwing in some drama, from time to time.

…and okay, maybe I really like writing angst. >_>;  

Warnings:Fail editing. :’D M-preg. (I can hear you judging me. Stop that.) But in my defense, we know nothing of demonic physiology, so I contend that this could happen. (Review “Coffee Break” for more details on that.) Other ‘warnings’ include implied SebaCiel; Grelle/Seb friendship, an Angel sighting (Grelle and Will’s adopted angel daughter— see author’s note of “Return” for more details), a temper tantrum and some swearing. Part of the “Bicentennial” series…? Takes place a few years after “Hitches and Knots” and the (currently unwritten) Angel arc, and just over half a year after “Return.” (As is probably obvious at this point, I don’t plan on attacking the “preg!Seb” storyline chronologically. ^^; ) A sort of pseudo-sequel to “Moral.” Grelle PoV.

XXX

Right

XXX

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

And that’s all that I manage before an indignant puff of air—a histrionic wisp of a sigh—punctuates my attempt at a tale with all of the finality of… well, punctuation. “I know dis one, mama,” the three-year-old in my lap mumbles in reminder, frowning dejectedly as she tilts her pudgy face back to look into mine. Her green eyes are baleful and bored; her curls are mussed from her slovenly slouch against my chest. Crossing her cherub arms, Angel pouts out her bottom lip and fumes in response to my barefaced audacity; how dare I even think of boring her with a repeat? This, of course, coming from the little one who has somehow managed to wear out three electronic movie files by watching them incessantly.

Tilting my own head upward, I indulge in a roll of my eyes. A bad habit, I know: one that Angel will undoubtedly pick up and immediately begin to use against me, despite my best attempts to instill her with a sense of ladylike demureness. But I can hardly help it, sometimes; girls will be girls, and all of that. And she is every inch her mother’s daughter, bless her. 

“Well, the story isn’t for you, is it?” I nevertheless counter, careful to keep my voice low and gentle. I had made her promise to stay quiet, as well; like the angel she is, she has so far kept her word, despite her mounting disappointment. “It’s to entertain your uncle.”

“…oh?”

Apparently, this was news.

Once again, I am offered a breathy curl of laughter as answer— just as soft as Angel’s previous exhalation, and nearly as girlish. In a deep, crushed velvet sort of way, anyway: husky and rasped. Teetering on the edge of femininity; slowly surrendering to the inevitable fall. Supine and swaddled, skin as white as his blankets and sheets, Sebastian whispers an amused chuckle. “If t-that’s so,” he then mumbles, his long, lacy lashes flickering blearily, “I’d be equally happy… with another story…” The coverlets rustle; the springs of the bed groan as loudly as its occupant, both shifting in futile attempts to find comfortable positions. At different points, both Angel and I had attempted to assist—in some way, anyway; maybe just rearrange the quilt for him—but our efforts and hands had been gingerly batted to the side, a slender (no, downright skeletal) arm lifting to act as a sort of barricade. Those bony barriers had since fallen, lax and limp against his hip, but the sentiment remains.

Of course, there are other ways that I can help. I know that. But for the moment, I’ve to set a good example for my child. “What sort of story would you like to hear, then?” I inquire cheerfully, my chin falling to rest once more atop Angel’s golden head. She squirms a bit, antsy; her heavenly lineage makes it difficult for her to see suffering creatures and not want to purify and heal. But that would do more harm than good, in this case… I tighten my arms around her, trying to still her wriggles. And Sebastian, noticing the gesture, responds in kind: oh-so-subtly attempting to inch from the edge of the mattress, away from mother and daughter. Not so much out of callousness, I know, but so as to help alleviate any growing temptations. How un-devilish of him… But then, it wouldn’t be the only strange thing about Sebastian, now: not the only contradiction or paradox. Braced as he is—temporarily propped up on his elbows—the front of Sebastian’s nightshirt has pulled itself tightly against his torso… and straining against the pale cloth of the opened top are the buds of tender breasts. The emergent bits of foreign anatomy heave and quaver beneath bolts of clammy cotton; Sebastian notes their appearance with an expression of vague disinterest, choking down a shuddered wheeze. As if the added weight of the exotic lumps serve as the last metaphorical straws, the demon slumps and sinks once more:  prostrate, listless, weak. With whatever strength he has left, Sebastian allows his heavy head to loll, the inky strands of his lengthening hair splayed and shining and sticky with sweat. Unbelievable. I’d replaced his pillow case no more than five minutes ago, and it’s already transparent with oil and exertion. He needs a new one. He needs to sleep. He needs—

But instead of doing what he needs to, Sebastian uses his groggy black eyes to search out my own; their hazy stare is highlighted by the violet bags that ring their weary undersides. And all the while, the devil smiles. Lips as thin and blue as the ribbons of visible veins that coil beneath his papery skin, he smiles. “…perhaps one… from that book of yours,” he returns in kind, so cheerful it’s almost disgusting. Still dangling from the side of the bed, the tips of his fingers give a twitch that might have been intentional. They are, after all, pointed in the general direction of my purse. And inside of my purse… “Like… with Ciel…”

The words are little more than choked syllables and disconnected sounds, by the end; the poor attempt at language eventually dissolves into a cough that racks up and down the whole of his body. As has become something of a theme these past few weeks, there’s nothing I can do but helplessly watch as he gags. Watch as he suffers. Watch as he… as he clutches his stomach, panting around a whimper. And as his trembling fingers contract against the round of his distended belly, I can’t help but feel my own flip-flop— the bowels that writhe directly beneath it becoming ice, then air, then nothing. He’d meant it as a joke, I know. He’d meant it as a joke, because the situation is so very, very grim. Because this is his way to cope and comfort.

Because I am not the only one plagued by a strange feeling of déjà vu, it seems. I am not the only one aware of the sick, sick similarities. Same bed. Same cloth and bucket. Same log by my side, same act, same lie. Same grin for a while, but it has since slid from my face… and I allow the fidgety Angel to slide from my lap in kind, setting her instead on the floor with a kiss sweetly pressed to her forehead. She looks a touch confused by the sudden loss of her seat—chest stuck out and cheeks ballooned cutely, clearly wondering what she’d done wrong— but I reassure her with a chipper beam, silently praying that my notable talent as an actress is still enough to fool one person in this room, at least.

“Mama and your uncle need to talk, sweetheart.” It’s not a lie. It wouldn’t really matter if it was, since I, as a grim reaper, am allowed to spout out as many falsehoods as I damn well please. (Take that, devils.) But it is, unfortunately, a half-truth, and angels are notoriously good at sniffing those out. As if to exemplify this, Angel scrunches her nose and frowns, torn between trusting what her mother says and knowing that her mother reeks of blatant bullshit. What on earth? I used to be so good at this. Maybe years of peace have left a layer of rust on my performance skills… or maybe it’s just easier to fool an audience who’d rather believe your attempts at deceit. Unfortunately, it seems Angel is not currently counted amongst that crowd.  

“You’re gonna tell him another stowy, aren’t you?” the little one accuses, seemingly hurt to realize that she’d managed to lose her invitation to story time. Hadn’t she been quiet? Hadn’t she been good? Fisting her bitty hands in the front of her heart-print day dress, Angel again puffs out her rosy cheeks and snivels in protest. “I wanna hear it, Mama!”

Her insistence is wearisome; all the more so because there really wouldn’t be much to hear. Well, besides the sound of chewing. And my husband’s furious screams if he ever discovered what I was about to do. “This is a story for grown-ups. You can hear it when you’re older,” I nevertheless assure, because that’s what I do. I coddle and bolster and generally lie through my teeth. Geez, if I had a monthly evil quota to fill, I’d be set. As it is, I grin and slip my glasses from my face, instead placing the bridge of the scarlet spectacles atop my daughter’s button nose. Like most children, she has always been fascinated by what she’d not been allowed to touch; with a delighted squeal, she clamps her fists around the plastic temples and holds them to her head, brilliantly pacified by this new toy.

Pacified, but not totally distracted.

“Pwomise?” she insists with a giggled grin, pearly little baby teeth glinting like ivory in the sallow glow of the bedroom lamps. Emerald eyes now magnified— seemingly taking up half of her face—Angel’s gaze remains intense and probing… until, with a somber nod, I sign to her “I love you” and chant with notable graveness:  

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The solemn ritual conveys what it needs to, and convinces who it must. Still fiddling with the glasses, keeping them clamped in place with her own tiny hands, Angel bobs her head in appeasement and then turns her attention to Sebastian. Her smile loses a touch of its mirth at the sight; in mimicry of all of the adults who have ever spoken to her when ill, she tiptoes to the bed, leans over the mattress (as best she can, anyway— which is to say, she presses herself flat against the bedframe), and lowers her voice to a concerned stage whisper. “I’mma go pway with Uncle Finny now, ‘kay…? In case you need me.”

She’s not yet tall enough for anything but her vivid, currently-bugged eyes to be visible over the lip of the bed; still, that is enough for Sebastian to know where to look. Head tilted downward, he chuckles in a show of understanding and gratitude, the tips of cold fingers skimming briefly over the apple of her cheek. Angel makes a grab for that hand, but neither has the strength to hold the other… and if she lets go of my glasses, she risks breaking them. Looking a touch saddened by this realization, the angel nuzzles against the demon’s motionless arm, as if trying to force some life back into it. “Still no hugs, ‘Ba?”

His dangling hand jostles limply in the wake of the toddler’s affections. Brow puckering with guilt, Sebastian flashes the small girl an apologetic smile, propping his temple up against the headboard. “I’m sorry, love… I can’t—” touch you more than this. Honest, maybe, but too cruel. Knowing this, the devil hesitates, swallows. And after a moment, he makes a valiant second attempt: still not lying, but instead telling a different truth. “…it makes my tummy hurt to move.”

Angel considers this, nostrils flaring suspiciously… but she is a generally accepting creature, and it is easiest to act in accordance with one’s basic nature. “D’you wan’ me ta touch your tummy?” she sweetly volunteers, pushing herself forward and trying to shimmy onto the bed. Though her jostling of the mattress makes the both of us wince—I’m quick to tug her down and back— Sebastian seems touched that she holds his comfort in such high regard; it’s even more important than protecting my precious and usually-forbidden eyewear. Well, at least she understands the importance of priorities. “I can make you feew better…”

And she could. Were Sebastian willing to take a very great risk and possibly pay a very high price. But he is not, and so he must refuse. Head jerking feebly back and forth, her graces the cherub with a grateful grin, but nevertheless flicks the offer away with a tic of his fingers. “Not this time, Angie… Rain check.”

The idiom is lost on the three year old. “I think Uncle Ronnie said it’s gonna rain on Friday,” she informs, visibly perking. It draws another chortle from Sebastian’s lips, previously lodged somewhere deep in his throat.  

“Mm… Perhaps Friday, then.”

“’Kaaaay~” the mollified angel sings, skipping to the door with an ASL flash of love for the both of us. All sunshine and daisies, that one… and when she leaves with a twirl, closing the door behind her, things feel so much darker than they had before.

“…”

For a moment, Sebastian and I sit in a heavy silence. Which is actually more impressive than it sounds, considering all that I want to say and all of the agonized moans that the devil is trying to stifle. Sans a single muffled yelp, he is for the most part successful… But that is of very little comfort to either of us. In a last-ditch effort to sooth what writhes within, the devil mutters a croaky coo, one of his emaciated hands lifting to rub at the bulge of his belly; despite cloaking layers of fabric and flesh, I can still see the protrusion of minute hands and feet thrashing and pushing against the prison of the devil’s provisional womb. I muffle a pained sound of my own, and then slip from my chair—instead gingerly lowering myself onto the bed beside my best friend.

The devil’s eyes are closed when I sit, but I know he can feel the slight dip in the mattress. More acutely, he can feel the heat of my body as I lean clinically closer— insides twisting strangely as I watch his unseen babies struggle beneath taut skin. It’s not jealousy, per se; I’m a mother now in my own right, and couldn’t love Angel any more if she’d been biologically bred of me. Besides, Sebastian-darling and the brat have suffered enough for my sake, reigning in their own desires for a family in fear of hurting my feelings. So no, it’s not envy that leaves me feeling faintly sick. I don’t hate Bassie for being able to do what I can’t.

But… for now, in some ways, I do hate—

“So… do I get the story you promised…?” The cracked query cuts through my dark musings with a lilt and a laugh, lighthearted mirth still the only medicine Sebastian can seem to prescribe himself. I am tempted to follow in kind; perhaps if I treat this situation less seriously, it will magically become less serious. Somehow. But no, I figure one of us has to play the level-headed, clear-minded adult. And it seems only fair that I should step up on the rare occasion that Sebastian should choose to reject the role. With a blustery sigh, then, I reach down and hook my boot around my handbag’s strap, pulling it over to me and rustling through its messy insides. Even as I scrounge, I can’t help but take some degree of pride in the hiding place I’d selected; everyone knows it’s impossible for anyone but the owner to find things in a girl’s purse. It might as well be a portable Swiss vault. Case in point—what I’d managed to smuggle out of work.

“Here,” I mutter under my breath, pressing two short reels of ethereal cellophane and gleaming astral into the demon’s palm. Life stories, one might euphemistically call them. A slightly less controversial way to tell your husband you’re off to give a demon stolen souls. “Two teenagers. Not particularly good kids. Died skydiving yesterday. That’s all I could manage.” Like some (gorgeous) double-agent from a James Bond movie, I cast a brief glance over my shoulder as I speak, perhaps expecting to find a hidden camera or an approaching enemy lurking in an abruptly shaded corner. But no—the room remains well-lit and camera-free; we’re safe and alone in the curtained bedroom. And it helps that any evidence that might have damned us disappears less than an instant later, my fingers nearly snatched away as foggy irises flash a feral vermillion.

With a grimace that morphs my mouth into a disapproving frown, I muse on this whole bloody mess as Sebastian desperately feeds: hand pressed fully against his mouth as he swallows the spirits whole. Their consumption will barely make a difference, in the long run… I sigh again, raking a hand through my mussed pixie cut. “I can’t keep this up, darling,” I declare as I do so, the confession a gentle but firm chastisement. “You have to tell the brat.”

“…” Had he the energy to do so, the devil might have bothered to look displeased. As it is, he merely grunts. “…I can’t ask for more than I already do,” he then adds in hoarse protest, bottom lip quavering in selfless worry. It’s rather of annoying, really; if he’d only act with more self-interest, like a good demon should… but old habits die hard, and Sebastian had been putting Ciel first since the eighteen hundreds. “He’ll starve…”

“You’re going to starve, at this rate!” I snap in return, justifiably riled by my companion’s thick-headedness. Stamping my foot, I unlace my folded arms in favor of flailing around, gesticulating wildly in a futile attempt to burn off anxious energy. “How can you not see that?! You’ve told me of that scare you had at the Aurora—how can you not see that this is even worse?! You were only feeding one extra demon, then! How do you think you’re going to survive this on what meager stores you have?! This stunt of yours is going to kill you!”

My bluntness elicits the ghost of a glower, a wobbling expression framed by throbbing veins and powdery cheeks. His gaze accuses me of being a drama queen. And yes, usually I am. Not now. “How do you know…?” he nevertheless retorts, staring up at me with petulance. He and that brat are certainly two peas when it comes to stubbornness; it’s enough to make me want to beat my head against the wall. But no, somebody needs to keep her wits about. “I survived that… So how can you say in good faith that this will— …oh.”

With disconcerting abruptness, the devil cuts himself off, seemingly without reason. Blinking once, he snuffles a chuckle; I slowly realize that his eyes have slid from my face, falling instead upon my handbag. I’d not yet closed its crimson cover flap— the leather-bound corner of my logbook peeps up at us through packets of tissues and replacement lipsticks. Oh… “…that’s right,” Sebastian sniggers as I spit a muted curse, stuffing the bloody tome deep into the confines of my messy purse. This time, I make certain it’s entirely buried beneath old receipts and compacts. His gaze glints with further amusement as I proceed to toss the lot of it across the room—as if to bodily refute his suspicions—nearly hitting his precious cat in the process. Georgina retaliates by swiping her claws across the face of my two hundred dollar Gucci bag. She’s lucky I have other things on my mind. “…yes, that’s right. I forgot…”

The airy ease with which the condemned devil speaks only succeeds in further aggravating me. “I didn’t mean it like—!” I begin to object, but his tranquil shrug steals the breath from my lungs, leaving me silent one more. Speechless. I can’t help but blame his remorseless serenity for leeching my ire away, though I’m able, at least, to replace it with tenacious exasperation.    

“It’s alright. You can tell me… what’s in your book,” my friend gently reassures me, moving then to reassure the bitty creatures inside of him, as well. Rubbing soothing circles against the swell of his belly, I’m again struck by the unusual femaleness of his features: thicker lashes, longer forelocks, high cheekbones stained in a demure sort of blush. Not to mention that famous “glow”… it’s all rather disarming in its novelty. Oblivious to my penetrating stare, the devil’s hooded gaze remains locked upon his undulating stomach; the blind adoration in the expression is so intense, it leaves me feeling a bit nauseous. Not because I don’t understand the sentiment… but because he looks so very pathetic. Helplessly pathetic. And my Sebastian— my Sebastian especially—should never look like that. But despite this arguable truth, despite my worries and his mortality, the demon continues to grin: as if at some secret joke, the punch line of which lurks in the subtext of his murmured encouragements. “You don’t need to… pretend for me. We both know… we’re all able to die.” A sidelong glance; suddenly his smile is for me alone. “Are you the one assigned to me…?”

The questions posed by his placid countenances are answered with sour scowl; I cross my arms as I glare down my nose at him, lips pulling back into a riled sneer. 

“I’m not going to answer that.”

The demon blinks slowly, genuinely confused. “Why…?” he presses, innocuously bewildered. As if I’d just refused him the most mundane of favors—denied him the use of an extra pen or snatched a spare napkin from his lap. Like I’m acting this way just to be a jerk. But that’s not it. It’s because—

Because…

Because it goes against the moral of the story.

“Because it’s not your business to know,” I sigh, again scrubbing at my temples—as if vainly trying to dislodge an irritant. A painful thought, the thorn of a memory… Or maybe somehow claw his feeble voice from my brain. “I’m breaking enough rules as it is, Sebastian-darling. And it shouldn’t even be relevant. You need to stop this.”

It’s Sebastian’s turn to frown, now: forehead furrowing as he wraps protective arms around his middle. Like I’d really try something; I gave up stealing uteri a long time ago. “You can’t ask me to do that…” he shoots back with a shaky snarl, thin lips quavering as our stalwart stares collide. “They’re my offspring. My children, Grelle…”

“They’re killing you.” I’d think that’d be an unnecessary argument to make, seeing how incredibly apparent it is, but I guess it needs to be said. Not that my flat rebuttal does me any good; Sebastian’s obstinacy remains as obvious to me as the aforementioned facts.

“Someone trying to kill me… has never stopped me from caring about them before,” he grumpily reminds, his dour glare both barbed and pointed. Wonderful. Because I really needed to be guilt-tripped on top of everything else. I counter with an acrimonious pout, crossing my arms and my legs in a show of discontentment.

“Bassie…”

My whine doesn’t elicit an apology, but the notable hurt in my eyes serves to soften his own. “…I’m not dead yet,” he pronounces after a lengthy pause, gulping down a few shallow breaths in a fruitless attempt to steady his body and mind. The bed sags and screeches as he arches upwards a bit, trying to momentarily alleviate some of his pain; the attempt does little more than augment previous soreness. He hisses and keens, but nevertheless proclaims: “I can do this. I got through… the six months without any problems…”

“Then during the six weeks,” I coldly remind, “you collapsed. Regularly. Until you had to be bedridden.”

I am ignored.

“Just another six days, now…” he finishes quietly, determination all but oozing from the reedy, half-rasped words. The demon’s eyes are distant as he thinks on it, another delighted grin tweaking the corners of his lips. Next Friday. ‘Friday’s child is loving and giving,’ promises the poem. I only hope they’ll give their parents a chance. “My baby bird’s newest Contract will end… on the same day,” Sebastian further relates, as if I didn’t already know. I wish it would end sooner—just a day sooner. Maybe if Ciel could see what he’d done… “Then we’ll all be together. It will be okay…”

No. At this rate, it won’t. “Sebastian, your body isn’t built to endure something this!” I snap, too frustrated to maintain any semblance of composure. Never mind my head—I wish I could bash his against the wall. Maybe that would beat some sense into him, or dislodge and knock the hubris out. “Look, I love them, too—they’re supposed to be my godchildren, for goodness’ sakes! But those twins of yours are leaching your life away, not to mention your power; you can’t even maintain a single gender anymore! You can’t fucking stand! How long do you think it’ll be until you can’t sustain a corporeal form at all?!” As if to physically emphasize this, as well a few other significant details, my arms have gone back to flapping wildly: gesturing and jabbing as I stand and pace the room.Sebastian watches my floundering blandly, his features unreadable. “We both know how demonic pregnancies work. Two are conceived, they fight for their resources, one surrenders and dies. Survival of the fittest; it prepares them for the outside world. It’s been that way since the beginning. It keeps your gene pool strong and all of that crap. No one even thinks about it, anymore— it’s as natural as pregnancy itself! So why are you resisting?! Dead babies are sad, but so are dead parents!”

In spite of being the one to demand that we all maintain a relative silence, my voice has leapt in pitch and volume; it actually might be more appropriate to call my caterwauling ‘hysterical screeching’ at this point. Finny, Ronnie, and Angel—all lingering somewhere beyond the bedroom—are no-doubt fully aware of our discussions, now… Perhaps that’s why I can hear the indistinct echoes of the blonde encouraging my daughter to grab her coat; “let’s go play outside before Mr. Sun goes away and the spring rains come back.”

There is the distant, muffled slam of the front door.

And then the only sound in the whole apartment is of me swallowing thickly, trying to hold back a barrage of hot tears. I’m not very good at it; I sniffle and choke, blinking furiously at the ceiling as the salty water scalds the back of my eyes. I’m almost afraid I’ll break down right there: just start sobbing and screaming like a child throwing a tantrum, because he’s being stupid and this situation is dumb and cruel and not fair—

But my internal, bitter tirade is interrupted by the papery press of cold fingers against my clenched fist. I glance down to find Sebastian gingerly reaching for my hand, his expression full of concern. Not for his well-being, of course. But for mine. That bastard. For God’s sake— demons aren’t allowed to be so annoyingly altruistic!

“Grelle, please…” Sebastian husks, brow knitting as he wordlessly pleads for my patience, my understanding. After a few gallant tries, he successfully manages to hook his trembling digits around my wrist, tugging me weakly back towards the bed… I don’t bother resisting. I sit when commanded, lie down when encouraged, and surrender myself to a one-armed hug when he gives it, curling up against his side.

“…he made an order,” the devil then whispers, resting his cheek atop my crown. His free hand is back to trekking up and down the mountainous range of his belly, fingers trailing and thoughts meandering and lips beaming when unseen limbs try to follow his teasing progress. “They’re a part of me… they’re bound to obey.”

Despite being, for the most part, placated by Sebastian’s unusual show of affection, I can’t help but snort in protest at this, pouting into the curve of my best friend’s shoulder. “But the brat didn’t know what he was asking!” I desperately grouse, flicking a sidelong glance at Sebastian’s unruffled profile. Still so pretty. And I know it’s juvenile to think so, especially after having seen Sebastian take on so many forms over the centuries, but… it’s still kind of weird. Maybe that was why he’d chosen to maintain his male form for as long as he had. For as long as was possible, anyway. “He still doesn’t know. Because he had to leave before you got… sick. Because he hasn’t seen the damage his order has done. Because you won’t let us tell him. Because you won’t tell him.”

“I don’t want to lose either of them,” Sebastian counters impassively, clearly growing tired of this fight. Or maybe just tired in general. Either would be understandable, but not enough to make me shut up. “Neither does Ciel. Isn’t that normal? Even if it goes against my biology… is it not natural to want to keep one’s child alive?”

“But at what cost?” I rebuttal in kind, flopping over on the bed so as to properly glare up at the demon: unframed eyes peeping across the camber of his chest. He cocks a mirthful brow at my sullen antics; I suppose it is sort of funny to be debating about children so childishly. But I don’t care. “He doesn’t want to lose you, either. And at this rate, he’s going to. He’s going to lose all three of you.”

I’d have assumed that such a foreboding announcement—bequeathed by the likes of a reaper, no less—might have elicited some form of morbid awe from the demon… a respectful hush or something. But no. Sebastian’s chuckle makes it clear that he thinks nothing of my warnings. If anything, he seems to believe I’m being melodramatic again. “Oh, I’m not going to die…” he repudiates lightly, and I can’t help but marvel at how utterly nonchalant he is about the entirety of this situation. Really, he’d shown more distress over his inability to join Angel and Ron inside of the latter’s new My Little Pony tent (due to present size) than he did my warnings about his impending and ultimate demise. “None of us are going to die.”

Hubris again. It makes me want to scream. Fighting that urge, I instead allow my mouth to contort into its umpteenth frown, gracing my companion with a cynical scoff. “Are you quite sure about that?” I frostily press, response wry and sardonic. But for as much emotion as I jam-pack into each of my rejoinders, the devil remains equivalently calm; rather than spit back some clever riposte, Sebastian instead waits for a moment—for my breathing to even again, I figure— before carefully taking my hand.

“Yes,” he then steadily returns, dislodging my clenched fist from his side. In lieu of a more volatile show of resistance, I grumble a grunt in his direction— one that loses any semblance of virulence as the demon urges my curled fingers loose. Once he has excavated my palm, he presses it carefully against his warm belly… and almost immediately, two unseen hands press eagerly back, as if trying to play patty-cake with me.

I tense; I gasp. I can feel my pulse quicken, and my heart melt, and damn him for knowing my weakness…

Perhaps he hadn’t lost his ‘demonic touch’ as much as I’d thought.

“I won’t die… because you won’t let me,” Sebastian murmurs tenderly, wholly confirming my growing suspicions. His free hand moves to cover my own, keeping it pinned against his rolling stomach. “You won’t let us.”

Really. Damn him. “It’s my job, darling…” I half-heartedly protest, convincing absolutely no one of my conviction on this matter. As much as I’ve been trying to suppress my giddy thoughts about baby clothes and new toys and playmates for Angel, I can feel those sunny hopes and daydreams return with a vengeance as the twins, again, move against me, so full of life. So close to their birthday. Just six days…

Surely I can bend the rules for them for just six more days…

As if somehow able to hear these thoughts (and I guess it wouldn’t surprise me if he could), Sebastian sighs a scratchy chortle, relaxing against his pillows in the wake of a well-earned victory. He pats my hand, thankful, but still a bit condescending in his amusement. “You’ve never done your job properly before…” he then mellifluously murmurs, closing his eyes in preparation for a much-needed nap. “I can’t imagine a reason… you’d start doing so now.”

The wispy comeback drifts off, much like the demon’s consciousness; Sebastian falls into a slumber that more closely resembles a coma than a nap. It might soon become the former, to be honest. And for the third time, damn him.

As the woman here, I’m the one who’s supposed to always be right.

XXX