#and yes he has spooked mei at least once

[feliciadraws]

Spookami 14 - Eyes Shoutout to fellow 'moon people are shiny' truther @bamboorocket for this one because we both have the same headcanon that Waka has reflective eyes (tapetum lucidum), and so of freakin' course I had to make that the basis for today's prompt, which was Eyes! Shiny!

[the-letter-horror-lover]

His Butler, The Final Solution

Roturier

Summary:

Sebastian tackles 'the Midford disaster'. Chaos, a drunken master, ill-conceived explosives experiments, naked servants in the driveway, orgies, Lau's girls and funny-smelling 'incense' in the smoking room not to mention uninvited ungulates on the tablecloth. Can the four Kittehs of the Apocalypse (War, Famine, Anestofleas and Bafftime) be far behind?

Chapter 1

Notes:

This was intended to be longer, and there was one more chapter left back on ffnet I didn't bother bringing over as I got stuck on the 5th chapter, the party...spooked myself with all this buildup I suppose. But after all these years and no progress I've given up on finishing it, and so marked it finished. But if you still want to see Tanaka dressed up as a kappa and Sebastian strutting about in hooker boots as the ultimate Hallowe'en costume, I recommend heading over to ffnet for the 4th chapter.

Chapter Text

Yes, it is me, Sebastian Michaelis, the Phantomhive butler.

Please forgive my ridiculous appearance. It isn't as though I chose to wear this asinine bonnet. If you are familiar with the household, you will no doubt recognise the signs: Miss Elizabeth is with us once again, and the mansion is in a frilly pink shambles in the wake of the visitation of the infamous 'isn't all-the-world-just-too-cute' Midford disaster.

As things stand, mere weeks remain between us and this shambolic condition becoming our daily reality. My young lord's morbid sense of humour made him suggest, in a recent family meeting, his nuptials be celebrated on All Hallow's Eve. That was shot down by the Marchioness, but the fall date was retained because the young mistress thought a harvest themed wedding would be-wait for it- 'cute' and her parents wanted the wedding sooner rather than later.

So, the Midford, like some dreadful, girly parasite, continues to embed itself deeper and deeper into the flesh of our formerly carefree, bachelor lives. Though this latest manifestation seems to have been the final straw for nearly everyone.

I have just come from the kitchen where I actually had to touch both Mey-Rin and our joke of a gardener, in order to 1.) get their hysterics under control, 2.) get them to focus on my words, and 3.) assure them I do realise Steps Must Be Taken, and since no one else here appears to have the testicular fortitude to intervene-

No, that's not entirely true. I must give Bard credit: he at least attempted to take action.

Last night he crept rather clumsily into a guest bedroom and placed enough dynamite under the bed to bring down the entire west wing. He was just running the fuse out the window and into the back garden—with a lit cigarette hanging on his lip!—when I was forced, against my better judgement, to stop him. So. It would appear Americans are not entirely without a certain charm or usefulness. It was the wrong guest bedroom, but with that much dynamite it was, as they say, the thought that counts.

But I digress. Since no one else will act, for the sake of the long-term sanity of everyone living on this estate –not least my own!- I must take the initiative and Do What Must be Done

...whatever that is. A plan has yet to suggest itself.

Having left Mey-Rin blubbing, with her head on the kitchen table and a half empty bottle of sherry at her elbow, I realise it is down to me to clear the dining room. The other two refuse to show their faces upstairs lest they get the 'cute' treatment again. Tanaka, from what I can tell under that blond wig, is in a sake'-induced coma. I couldn't coax even a single 'ho' from him, let alone any assistance.

Luckily we recently installed a dumb waiter which communicates with the butler's pantry, so such a task as single-handedly clearing up after a late supper with numerous guests is a good deal less labour intensive than formerly and well within the powers of even an ordinary, non-demonic, non-Phantomhive butler to accomplish, so I hurry up and get on with it.

A nasty shock awaits me before I can even begin, however. There by the sideboard stands my Young Master, gulping down brandy like it was lemonade, gulping it neat from its cut glass crystal decanter. The servants are not the only ones suffering it would seem. Well, after all, he is the sacrificial lamb in all this.

Have everyone in this house lost their damned minds? As Satan is my witness: things can not continue this way.

"My lord. Have you no shame left whatever?"

"Where she's concerned? Tch." he snorts blearily and tosses back another slug, swallowing the wrong way and erupting in a fit of coughing and atomised brandy.

I am inclined to let him choke. He's brought this on himself, after all. Also, the utter despair he's wallowing in is doing simply wonderful things to the piquant flavour of his soul. However, I must cleave to my aesthetics: I do owe him a certain amount of protection, so...

"Tell me, my lord, what would your opinion be of someone willing to ruin lives, make innumerable people unemployed, sick at heart, and despairing of life simply because he lacks the courage to speak up and tell the truth?"

His head bumbles up and down with his silent, smirk-filled snickering. "Hell's bells demon, I'd greet 'im like a long los' brother and invite him t' sit down and have a li'l drinkie...pro'lly needs one at least as badly as I do."

You know, I never thought I would say this, but my lord the earl, the bravest little soul with which I have ever been privileged to join contractually, is naught but a big girl's blouse when it comes to standing up to this wretched, overpowered fiancée of his.

Gah! The entire situation makes my arse throb! Please forgive my language.

"My lord, I believe I would be doing you a kindness in taking your soul right now, so please come here." I hold out a commanding hand and I am rewarded with the sound of the brandy decanter hitting the floor.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Summary:

Sebastian shows his last two aces up his sleeve in trying to persuade his inebriated Little Master.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

"My lord, I believe I would be doing you a kindness in taking your soul right now, so please come here." I hold out a hand to him rather commandingly. I am rewarded with the sound of the decanter hitting the floor.

"Wh-whassat?"

"You heard me. The kindest thing I could do for you, not to mention everyone else in this cursed household, is take your soul right now, so please take your hand off that sherry decanter and come over here to me. Now."

"Psht! Don't be a aba ba bass, Ass-chun," he slurs, clucking his tongue, then pulling a face. "Sorry, that came out ... tongue's fthick f'some schtrange reason."

Look at him: he can barely stand up, the silly creature...

"Looka ... looka wotchoo made me do," he mutters. "Schtupid d-d-demon," he is staring sadly at the spilt Napoleon puddling around his boots, listing gently from side to side, clinging to the sideboard for balance, staring at the carpet. He licks his lips thoughtfully. I can see his knees give a fraction. BaalBerith's balls, I do believe he is seriously contemplating getting down on his noble knees and sucking the alcohol straight out of the turkey rug. Not that you couldn't safely eat-or in this case drink- off my floors, but I ask you: where has my proud and haughty master disappeared to?!

"Has that mere sprog of a girl frightened you to such an extent you would actually rather become a fourteen-year-old drunk to telling her what you truly think of living "happily ever after" with a... a squealing pink dervish?"

Apparently the answer is 'yes' because all he does is peer at me owlishly. He makes a few odd twitches and head movements that look as though he's about to comment on my question but nothing comes out.

"Do you realise in three years time you could be as wide as you are tall and completely unable to walk? I shall have to roll you everywhere like a barrel."

More wordless peering and blinking.

"Is it really easier for you to die of drinker's liver than simply tell the girl the truth?"

"Sh... shu'rrup, you. Aneewaay...'s'not like I could change anything iffeye did tell her. Iffeye could ever get a word in edgewise. Th'hell do you think I'm drinkin' for?"

He makes a sort of 'pssh' noise at me, waves a dismissive hand in my direction, turns away and, snatching the last decanter from the sideboard, weaves off more or less in the direction of the grand staircase and ultimately, presumably, his bedroom.

I suppose every human has an Achilles' heel of one kind or another. Something they love, hate or fear to such an unreasonable extent they can be made to do things otherwise quite uncharacteristic of them. There's little doubt in my mind where my master's particular weakness lies.

The same child I have seen face down rapists, Mafiosi, death gods both sane and barmy, demons, zombies, even the devil himself, the child I've long since accepted as my little master, morphs into wet newsprint before this girl. I simply cannot comprehend it.

Then again, when I consider the mother...

With no other convenient vent for my frustrations, I fling myself onto the mess on the dining table in a whirlwind of stacking, scraping and clearing, all the while deliberating over some effective plan of action for my master's problem. Quite soon I have all the detritus of the evening meal bundled into the dumbwaiter and bound for the pantry. Now if only Mey-Rin isn't in such a drunken stupor by now she cannot unload it all and see to the cloth, the dishes and the leftovers, it will be one less thing I need to worry over.

Afterwards I find my master in his bedroom, sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, his back propped against the bed post, still drinking and sadly staring out the window at the impenetrable darkness. Since calls to his logic, his pride and his sense of shame as well as threatening to eat him on the spot have all failed, I intend to now try a different tack.

I sit down beside him on the floor and pretend to join him in his binge, taking the bottle from him momentarily. This will get the alcohol out of his hands at least some of the time and slow down his consumption, and with a bit of luck I can perhaps make one last attempt at talking some sense into him before it is too late. I have several last ditch cards up my sleeve, one of which I try now:

"You know your servants have resigned, my lord," I tell him, tipping the decanter back and pretending to take a long, deep pull at it.

"What?!" That got his attention.

"Bard, Mey-Rin, Finnian and even Tanaka have each approached me privately since yesterday and resigned their positions effective immediately."

"Tanaka?!" he staggers to his feet, profoundly shocked. "But... but what the hell for?"

Well that sobered him up in a hurry. I take this as a hopeful sign.

"What do you imagine the reason to be, my Lord?"

"But... but why the hell didn't you try to stop them?"

"Stop them!? My Lord, I wish to join them."

"You—you wish to..." He blinks hard at me and then sits back down, hard.

I am actually glad to see this: at least something matters to him. Nothing else seems to.

"Sebastian. Are you leaving me? Are all my servants leaving me?"

I scrub my fingers through my hair because I can't the grab the child and shake him as I am aching to, and I simply must do something. These fingers of mine are dying to tear at something and my hair will have to do.

"I persuaded them to give me one last opportunity to try and work something out with you. If not, then yes, perhaps you will soon be alone here."

His face drains of all colour. I let that sink in for a moment before delivering the killing blow:

"But take heart, my Lord. You won't be alone for long. Very soon now, you will have your darling fiancée Elizabeth at your side, every single minute of every day from now on, for the rest of your very long life. And perhaps aunt Frances will move in with her when she sees you are alone, to save you from your native disorderliness and keep you safe."

"Safe?!"

"Yes."

"Keep me safe from what?!"

"Ah hah hah hah, how quickly my young lord forgets. Do not imagine for one moment the previous attacks perpetrated on this manor and your person won't start back up once word gets out your formerly formidable and deadly servants have all left you en masse. Perhaps you will have reason to be grateful the Midfords are all so proficient with the sword. You may wish to invite the entire family to move in with you, even Miss Elizabeth's brother."

"Oh no, not him too..." The child groans and curls up on the floor cradling his head in his hands."Give me back the damned sherry, Sebastian, give it back right now."

"No."

"Now!" he demands. "It's an order!"

"My Lord, listen to me—"

"You can't leave me Sebastian. We had a deal!"

"I most certainly can leave. I may render the contract void if I wish, Ciel, and I am seriously considering it because frankly, not even your soul is worth this!"

"Wanker," he mutters.

"My Lord look at me, I am wearing a pink bonnet! That girl child will have me in a corset and a frilly knickers by the end of the week at this rate! For a girl who grew up with a father and an older brother, do you not agree she has a severely disordered concept of gender differences!? I could not bear watching what will happen to you should you permit this girl to become a permanent part of this household."

"Tch...dunno what you're on about."

I shake the decanter of sherry in his face. "This. This is what I'm 'on about.' It's already starting to happen and I can tell you, Ciel Phantomhive, I want nothing more than to walk out that door and leave you to it, since it's what you've chosen. I am not obligated to stay and watch you wreck all my hard work and destroy yourself. And destroy her as well, because you cannot think for one moment that limply going along with her and her family's wishes is going to lead to anyone's genuine happiness. Not even Miss Elizabeth is so delusional as to continue lying to herself when she arrives on the other side of her vows and realises your disdain for her has not changed one whit. And while it's true your soul will be improved by the sheer anguish you will endure when she turns into her mother and starts tormenting you day and night for duping her, I assure you I would have no appetite for it, nor for witnessing any of what will follow."

I took another mimed swig and retained the bottle, turning to fix him with my steeliest glare so he is in no way allowed to think I am anything but deadly serious- because in fact, I am.

"So, my lord, I am here one last time, to beg you. Beg you, Ciel. If you cannot bring yourself to do something about all this, then give me the order. Permit me the freedom to act in your behalf to stop this marriage so it is no longer looming over us all like some matrimonial sword of Damocles, poised to ruin you and everything you hold dear."

He is silent for a long time. So long, I am on the verge of giving up and getting up to leave—and I mean truly leave. I was only sitting there deciding where to go first once I'd walked through the boy's front door when I heard the tiniest of tiny voices say "You can't kill her, Sebastian. I forbid it."

"My Lord," I tell him tiredly, "as much as I would thoroughly enjoy killing her, as much as we all would," I say, thinking of Bard and the other servants, "I am very aware of your feelings regarding Miss Elizabeth. I give you my word: I was not and will not ever entertain any ideas involving her death."

More's the pity, I thought, though some may well be moved to attempt homicide when I've finished with them. Or suicide.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Sorry about that. I seemed to have been typing with my forehead there for a bit without being aware of it. It's corrected now. Drop me a note if anything further's amiss!

For those who have read this before over on ffnet, I've updated it so there might be a few new lines for you to (hopefully) enjoy.

Behold: the dinner party from Hell!

Chapter Text

By Friday next, Phantomhive manor is prepared to perfection.

Not to my standards, mind you, which most would say are already well over the top. No no. Rather to the ridiculously stringent, exacting standards of that fierce martinet, the Lady Francis Midford.

It would be no exaggeration to say the servants and I have slaved for this. It's been particularly hard on Mey-Rin, Finnian and Bard, since normally, they accomplish nothing more than taking up space, blundering about randomly destroying whatever I have managed to accomplish, eating up my lord's provender and providing comic relief--mostly the latter. But this situation is different and they seem to know it. I often have good reason to belittle their collective intelligence, but even they have the wit to realise their jobs, as well as the young master's future happiness are hanging in the balance—which oddly enough seems to distress them even more than the prospect of losing their ridiculously cushy positions here. Hence they are working with a will and a focus rarely seen under this roof.

Mey-Rin has taken off her useless glasses. Finny is acting as her eyes where needed. She is watching that Finny's strength is carefully controlled. Bard has for once laid aside his idiotic flamethrower and explosives, left the kitchen and the cooking to me, and picked up a bucket, brush and cleaning rags to go do something useful for once. And I? I have thrown off that restriction regarding my magic, which my lord imposed upon me after I conjured up the new manor house and sumptuous supper for him that first night together.

I want to make certain, you see, that when the Lady Francis finds fault with us, it will be for the right reasons.

Very early, well before dawn, a carriage was sent round for Lau and a judicious selection of his more discreet 'girls'—as well as some of his very best...product, shall we call it? Ostensibly the purpose behind involving of the shady Chinese and his women is to help celebrate my young lord's upcoming nuptials—in your time you will call it a bachelor or stag party, but I'm sure you realise there is more behind my machinations than a simple 'Phwee, you're getting married you poor sod' party.

Things have been carefully staged: the front door has been left unbolted and a bit ajar. A selection of empty bottles from my young lord's new hobby—he's been stashing them beneath his bed inside the box in which he keeps his collection of erotic picture books and penny dreadfuls—and some old underthings of Mey-Rin's we were about to tear into bandages were strewn about on the circular drive near the front door.

We are now awaiting the Midford's advent. At Lady Midford's insistence they normally appear quite a bit earlier than promised, So Lau and the servants have been carefully collected and arranged in the smoking room off the dining room and coached as to what they should be doing since before breakfast.

As well, I have a few tricks of my own planned. The servants have not been let in on everything. Lau was given quite a lot of money and some secret instructions regarding smoking up the room and bringing along with him some choice edibles spiked with various intoxicants for his girls and the servants to partake in pre-Midfords.

And I am beginning to really enjoy myself: it's been quite some time since I've hosted an orgy.

***

"What is the meaning of this!" rings out in the Phantomhive foyer at half eleven--proof we were not wrong to begin our plans at the crack of dawn!

At the sound of her voice I exit the smoking room at top speed and go fetch my lord. He'd been deliberately allowed to remain abed with a generous selection of hard alcohol at his elbow. Staging his participation in an orgy is one thing, allowing him to actually participate in one at his age, quite another. Protecting him IS a large part of my contract, after all.

As I pick him up I am pleased to see he has been preparing for his part with enthusiasm and dedication, helping himself to yet another bottle of brandy and falling back to sleep while still in his nightshirt and –oh dear—not much else.

Excellent.

Back down, (straight through the walls to save time,) and into the choking atmosphere of the crowded smoking room, just as our visitors cross the dining room and open the door on us all. I just had time to pose my young lord and make a few last-minute adjustments to the tableau when Miss Elizabeth burst into the room howling "FOUND THEM MOTHER!" only to be stunned for once to blessed silence.

It will not last, of course. You would think after seeing so many adults piled atop one another, barely clothed and lounging about in a room thick with opium smoke, she'd run screaming from the premises, but oh no. Is there no end to this girl's ability to deceive herself? Of all things to latch onto, she decides to comment on the atmosphere.

"What's that funny smell?" she asks, wrinkling up her nose and pointedly staring into my eyes and nowhere else. She is particularly careful not to look at her beloved Ciel, who is passed out just behind me in an overstuffed chair and wearing just his haphazardly buttoned nightshirt He is splayed in a truly spectacular manner, one knee deliciously hooked over the arm. Only the brandy bottle between his legs preserves what little is left of his noble decorum.

The Lady Francis, marching up behind her daughter, is of course, made of sterner stuff than her daughter. "Elizabeth," she bites off, "what have I repeatedly told you about throwing yourself about in this ill-bred manner? A lady does not fling herself through closed doors, bawling like a fishmonger, without first knocking and announcing yourself, especially when you are in other peoples' houses! Now you march yourself upstairs this minute and see to the unpacking. Your brother has already taken your trunk up to your usual room since no servants were available. Unpack and stay right there until I come tell you otherwise."

"But Mother, my darling Ciel looks ill and I—"

"Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford!"

The girl freezes, blanching, her eyes big as cricket balls.

Well! At least there is someone on this pathetic plane of existence to whom this stubborn girl actually listens. "Yes, mother," she says meekly, then scuttles off.

"Now. Exactly what manner of debauchery is all this?!" the Marchioness says in a dangerously soft, controlled voice.

"The very best, my lady!" I answer from my spot on the floor, "for only the very best will do for my lord the earl of Phantomhive." I say, rolling off a startled and beetroot red Mey-Rin, who thanks to the incredibly thick opium smoke has only just this moment realised she and I were lying together on the floor, both of us quite naked, as were most of the other people in the room. We are all in various advanced stages of undress, Lau included. He has on a kimono, full stop. It is only draped over his shoulders thugh, so it hardly counts as clothing. There is just 100% genuine, unadulterated Lau as far as the eye can see. Furthermore, he is making no effort to keep the garment closed in front, and that is all he has on besides an absurdly proud smile.

Well I did tell him 'come as you are'.

Yes yes, an evil trick. Of course, an evil trick! Exactly what did you people expect of a demon, church hymns and a prayer circle?

Mey-Rin shrieks and wriggles away from me, stopping just long enough to stare wistfully at the masculine glories she is abandoning in her clumsy scramble to reclaim propriety (I predict she will never forgive herself.) I myself am anything but shy by nature as you may imaginne, so I let her look.

She takes it hard, poor girl. Ah, but she does want me in the worst way-which, coincidentally, is precisely the way I had been planning on taking her if I'd had time and could manage to get away with it. Sadly, however, Lady Francis came early, and I, alas, not at all.

There is simply no justice in this world.

At any rate, Mey-Rin makes good her escape, stumbling over to the grand piano, ripping away the protective tapestry draped over it, upsetting a candelabrum, a flower vase full of fresh white roses and a vast collection of photographs and bric-a-brac. In the process showering her naked flesh with broken crystal, water, thorny cut flowers and shattered picture frames. Not that she cares, particularly. She is intent on just one goal and that is getting her voluptuous body back under wraps and then trying to edge her way out of the room as discreetly as possible while simultaneously trying to capture the blood that is slowly dribbling down her upper lip before it stains the priceless, pastel Aubusson carpet.

Once under the inhibition-banishing influence of the opium smoke and Lau's spiked 'breakfast treats', Bard and Finnian are an unforeseen, serendipitous bonus: they are currently loudly rutting with a cheerful lack of inhibition on the leather chesterfield in the corner. Thank Asmodeus the upholstery is dark leather! Otherwise I can't think how I should ever get the stains out. They are completely oblivious to their surroundings let alone their audience. And noisy! I could not have asked for better if I'd handed them a script.

I suppose I really should visit the servant's quarters more often. Look at what sorts of antics I have been missing!

Personally, I have yet to move, other than to casually prop my head up with the heel of one hand, the better to observe the Marchioness' reactions to it all. Also, I wanted to give her ample time to appreciate the brand new tattoo I have just that morning conjured up across my bum, especially for her viewing pleasure.

"Honey Hole" it says. One word for each cheek.

Well, she saw it but didn't take it as hard as I'd hoped, so I roll up onto my hip to give her a look at the other side. She pinks up at that, but still does not lose sight of her goal.

Does nothing rattle this woman? Honestly! I can clearly see from which side of the family my young lord 'gets it.'

"You there, butler," she hails me from across the smoky room. "I want these obscenities cleared away, this room aired out, THAT thing (she points to Lau) removed, and YOU (pointing to me) back in your uniform by the time I come back down these stairs in twenty minutes. Do I make myself clear?"

Lau saunters up to her, han fu robe flapping around his long white legs. We are all in various advanced stages of undress, Lau included. He has on his robe, full stop. But it is only draped over his shoulders, so it hardly counts as clothing. There is just 100% genuine, unadulterated Lau as far as the eye can see. Furthermore, he is making no effort to keep the garment closed in front, and that is all he has on besides an absurdly proud smile.

Well, I did tell him 'come as you are'.

"Now now, dear Lady," he croons soothingly, fondling her naked elbow with insulting familiarity-better him than me; my scalp still aches!- "this will never do. We have only just got started here! You are the visitor, a visitor who has decided to show up far earlier than announced which is really quite rude, wouldn't you agree? In view of this, shouldn't it be you who falls in with our ways? Why not relax, grab yourself a pipe and join us, hm? Here, I have a spare on me." He smiles broadly after blowing a huge puff of the stuff right into her face, he then produces an extra pipe from I shudder to think where, and attempts to shove it between her lips. She, however, is not having it.

"I'll just bet that fiery personality of yours would translate beautifully into fiery passion if only you'd let it, hm?" and then he dares to run a fingertip along the Lady's jaw, tipping her chin up and smiling at her as fetchingly as he knows how. For once Lau's total ignorance plays in his favour for if he knew what sort of fierce creature he was fingering, he'd never have risked that digit for fear of having it bitten clean off.

Good old Lau. Pain in the arse generally, but at times like this, he's a true brick. Zero chance of any of this behaviour of his will actually work, but at least he's tried. And who knows, as she stands there in the doorway inhaling the fumes, perhaps something might have possibly changed within her. It is certainly true she is uncharacteristically silent for a moment, studying that inscrutable face leering before her. Unfortunately my master chose this precise moment to vomit most spectacularly all over himself and the chair he is slumped in.

If there had been a vomiting award for distance or trajectory he would surely have taken home the prize. As it is, all he does is manage to bring his aunt back to her senses.

"Take your hands off me sir. I neither know you nor do I care to. Slither back to whatever subterranean realm you crawled out from and never darken this family's door again!" The woman thunders impressively. Lau casts an eye my way for a hint and I signal he should do as she says.

"And you, you ludicrous excuse for a butler: take that bottle away from my nephew immediately and get his clothes back on him. And back on you as well, you iniquitous, utterly indecent creature, NOW!" The woman takes a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabs at her forehead, upper lip and neck with it, then opens a window and uses it as a makeshift fan. "Thank God Alexis and Edward remained in the foyer as I asked. This is utterly disgraceful!"

Perhaps her mouth is saying 'disgraceful', but Lady Francis' lingering eyes and moistening features are telling me another story all together. I begin to wonder just what this visit might hold for us all.

Behind me Finny and Bard manage to fall with a spectacular thump! clean off the Chesterfield. The Marchioness' entrance hasn't even slowed them down. Lady Francis barely spares them a withering glance before turning on her heel and exiting the room to shepherd the rest of her family up to their customary guest room to unpack.

That's it? My my...are we going to have to bugger sheep on the dining room table during the fish course in order to put this woman off?

***

As one might have predicted, supper turns out a truly dismal affair, even without my lord's epic hangover. He manages to make of all our lives just that much more magical. Of course I too was doing my best to add to the priceless atmosphere of joie de vivre, creating even more delightsome chaos by ordering Mey-Rin and Finnian to help serve in the main dining room, with predictable results.

Each time the maid lays eyes on either Lady Francis or myself she changes colours like an excited squid, turning either white or red, or both in rapid succession, then drops whatever she is carrying, or for variety, tosses it into the air. She does the latter no less than three times with truly spectacular results.

I attempt to give her direction on her abysmal serving technique but I may as well have been talking to a post with glasses. But really it is fine. Nearly every time she reacts badly she manages to slop something scalding over either Lady Francis or Ciel, and once she manages to get Edward in the eye with a flying gherkin which sends him howling out of the room screaming he's been blinded. It is difficult not to cackle with glee.

Finnian keeps trying to engage everyone in conversation and cannot seem to understand why everyone is treating him like a turd in the butter dish. I did teach them 'servants are not to speak, unless directly spoken to first', didn't I? Well of course I did. It's just the child has the memory capacity of a stewed prune.

But Finnian does not truly enter into his own until the soup course, when he leans over the tureen a bit too far and the freshly hatched bird he's been trying to hand raise tumbles out of his breast pocket and into the vichyssoise. He might have succeeded in only turning Edward green since he was the sole witness up to that point, but unfortunately Finnian has no concept of subterfuge, or 'inside voice,' especially when he's excited. He announces at the top of his lungs that 'everything's okay,' because it's just cold soup and his''little Be-Be' will just be wet and a bit startled' and then he plunks his grubby gardener's paw right into the tureen and starts trying to fish out his naked pet.

So of course he has everyone's helpless attention when he suddenly stops, pales and whines "Mr. Sebastian. I -I forgot about my strength again."

My young lord, knowing exactly what this means, stuffs his serviette into his mouth and leaps from the table, upsetting his chair in his rush to find a private corner in which to empty his stomach. The rest, aware at least that they want no soup course, whatever has just happened to the servant splashing about in it, push themselves away from the table and avert their eyes. I steer the now wailing Finnian, still elbow deep in the tainted soup, out of the room and quickly bring on the next course -which I assure them all that I alone have prepared. I hear Francis mutter as I pass her "given where I've seen your hands go today I'm not convinced that is any improvement," and my joy is uncontained-though I do fight to keep it off my face.

Needless to say by the end of the meal tensions are such that I am expecting spontaneous combustions to commence at any moment. And when the Marquis and his wife both find broken glass in their tiramisu, supper is officially a dead loss and everyone stalks off to their respective bedrooms in filthy moods.

This early abdication of the ground floor suits my plans perfectly as I still have a great deal to do to get ready for the Samhain masque we will be hosting come Saturday night.

[overdrivels]

Spook

There were uncomfortable rumors about Gibraltar Watchpoint since its untimely abandonment during the fall of Overwatch. The citizens of Gibraltar would often whisper about it: a ghost lurks within. Rumors of this ghost and respect for what it once stood for kept most citizens away and the unbudging doors forcibly rejected the rest.

When Recall was issued, each agent heard of the ‘ghost’ the supposedly haunted this place, but all were quickly assured that it was Winston, who had taken up refuge in these abandoned halls. Some of the younger agents took great joy in contributing to the rumor, flicking the lights at night when the residents of Gibraltar could see, occasionally abusing a loudspeaker system to let out a haunting noise. They had to stop after a while because the police were becoming suspicious (and not because Soldier: 76 had revoked their access to the base’s controls when a badly timed prank made a couple fall off the cliff--they were fine).

But the rumors persisted, this time, from some of the agents themselves who have claimed things like:

“I heard footsteps! And they didn’t sound like anyone’s I know!”

“Food keeps going missing from the pantry.”

“Do you ever feel like there’s someone here with us?”

Eventually, the base was firmly split on the rumors (or at least, they were, outwardly).

Team No-Ghost: Hanzo, Soldier: 76, McCree, Pharah, Winston, Angela, Roadhog, Satya.

Team It’s a Ghost: Hana, Lucio, Zenyatta, Genji, Mei, Junkrat, Zarya, Lena.

Everyone else were either undecided or uninterested in how this would turn out.

Hana could not believe the members of Team No-Ghost, and that Hanzo would dare even be a part of the team. “How could you not believe in it? You have dragons!”

“Dragons do not prove ghosts exist.”

“Stop trying to save face, brother.” Genji leans over to stage-whisper to his team. “Hanzo used to pray a lot to our ancestor’s gravestones so they would not haunt him.”

“Genji!”

“Seriously? Weak.”

The look on Hanzo’s face is so very dark and for a moment, everyone remembers that this man was--is--an assassin who would not, even when faced with hardened soldiers, hesitate to silence them permanently.

“Mei, you’re a scientist,” Winston says disbelievingly.

She looks just a bit abashed.

“Well, you never know,” Mei says hotly. “What if they do?”

Tracer puts her hands on her hips. “Yeah! Don’t take the mick out of us!”

“Take the mick?”

The conversation quickly shifts from the topic of ghosts and the supernatural to slang and the complexities of language that lasts deep into the night.

Hanzo, deeply invested into the intricacies of linguistics and explaining Japanese idioms, is one of the last people to leave, wandering the dimly lit halls back to his room. The rumors of a ghost haunting these halls does indeed send a chill up and down his spine if he thinks of it, but he steels himself, knowing that it’s childish to think of things that likely do not exist. (Though, there’s no denying that Genji is right, not that he would ever tell anyone that.)

He’s almost back to his room when he stops, squinting into the darkness. Someone’s there. He approaches, thinking it’s just one of the other agents, but stops dead when he realizes that he does not recognize that silhouette and every alarm bell goes off in his head. He has no weapon, but he has more than enough physical strength to take on most men. He approaches just a bit more until he can see you clearer and realizes: he really does not recognize you.

“Who are you?!”

You blink at him slowly and then yawn, nice and slow. He could only stare as you go through the exaggerated motion of covering your wide mouth, tipping your head up to the ceiling, and just letting out something akin to a shaky wail that bounces off the walls and brings goosebumps up his skin.

You turn for a bit and then with some movement of your arms, you’re swallowed up into nothing.

You’re gone.

He stares dumbly at the space where you once were. There’s no trace of you anywhere. The silence in the halls and the utter feeling of the unknown crawls up in waves of chills up Hanzo’s back and neck and arms, and he stumbles a few steps back before breaking out into a full sprint back to his room, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him, heart thudding in his chest like it wants to burst out and fear scrambling his thoughts. If this ghost tries to eat everyone else, it can.

He stays up all night, Storm Bow in hand and ready to kill. (There’s no guarantee his dragons can kill a ghost, but he’ll die trying.) There’s nothing for the rest of the night, not until he goes into the meeting room where everyone else is.

“There was a ghost.” It sounds unbelievable coming out of his mouth, even to his ears, but even more so to everyone else in the room who stares at him with varying degrees of skepticism.

The bags under his eyes barely give any validity to his words. “I saw. And then didn’t. I saw...someone. Yawning. It looked like a person, but then it just disappeared.”

“Yawning?” Mei asks.

Lucio seems very interested. “Do ghosts even yawn?”

“Horseshit. Ghosts don’t exist. Y’all just bein—”

“Hey, Shimada.”

Hanzo looks up at Torbjörn. The man is squinting, seemingly focused on gleaning an answer from his face alone.

“You sure this thing just disappeared?” He nods shakily. “How?”

“How, you ask?”

The engineer makes an unspecified gesture with his hands. “Details! How? Did it go ‘poof’ or did it fade away?”

Hanzo describes the way you just slipped into oblivion like the scenery around you swallowed you up, the memory of it makes gooseflesh rise and his voice tight. Everyone seems rather interested in this description, probing and asking questions that may or may not be related. Torbjörn, however, remains surprisingly thoughtful, eyes flicking around. 

“You sure it wasn’t an invisibility cloak?”

Everyone stares at Torbjörn. The man frowns at him, his beard and mustache dipping down as he scrutinizes everyone’s face before bursting out into loud, obnoxious laughter that made Hanzo feel a hundred times more irritated than it should.

The engineer wipes tears out of his eyes. “One of the teams created an invisibility cloak years ago.” He taps the orange glass over his eye. “Come out here! I see you.”

The whole room whirls around when a loud and familiar yawn draws their attention. Torbjörn laughs anew.

Behind them, you stood, or at least, partially. Only your shoulders and part of your face appeared, giving the impression that you’re just floating pieces of anatomy. You yawn once more and blink slowly at the room. The hairs on Hanzo’s arm and back stands up again at the familiarity of the scene, the dragons beneath his skin rolling and reacting to his trepidation. Lazily, you give everyone a little wave.

“Good morning.”

“It’s noon,” Torbjörn responds and then shouts, pointing a claw at Jesse, “don’t say it!”

Jesse shrugs helplessly and Mei gives a nervous giggle. All of these antics at miles and miles away from Hanzo who looks just a little closer and studies a little harder at you. The edges of where your body ends seem consistent with fabric, he cannot see through you, and while he can’t see your legs, he notices the beginnings of a slipper and with that, all the fear and anxiety leaves him in a rush.

An invisibility cloak. Of course. Of course, there’s no such thing as ghosts. A laugh threatens to bubble up from deep inside, tinged with relief and embarrassment. Of course. It’s just superstition.

“What can I do for you, Torbjörn?”

“These fools thought you were a ghost.”

Hanzo knows the statement was directed at him and feels the heat of his annoyance and anger warming his skin, urging him to put an arrow through the man’s head. You tilt your head to the side, still a little tired-looking. It’s not endearing, not when they all need clear answers and a clear head to answer them.

“Oh, I’m not a ghost.” Yes, they could all see that and Hanzo feels a little smug knowing that he has dragged out the mystery of this false ghost. Problem solved. You raise a finger. “Oh, but there is one here. Her name’s Alice.”

The whole room goes cold and Hanzo feels that chill go down his spine and the dragons thrashing beneath his skin. There’s no sign of a joke on your face as you say, “She likes to open doors and steal food and watch people as they sleep. Might be a demon, actually.”

Ghost-believer or not, everyone stays in the common room that night, lights on, and oblivious to an extra presence in their peripheral (except Zenyatta, who greets this entity with a small, circular wave of his hand).