Title: That Demon, My Successor

Author: Neko-chan

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji

Rating: T

Summary: In the Phantomhive household, there is one gaze that is always scrutinizing—there is one gaze in which the owner knows more than he lets on.

Author's Note: Eleven o'clock at night while on the phone with mhikaru, and she comments out of the blue, "You know, out of all of the servants in the Phantomhive household, I bet that Tanaka is the only one who knows that Sebastian is a demon." I go, "… *pauses. considers this. lightbulb slowly flickers on* akjd;kjdl;ajl;kdjakl;jdalk;jda! I HATE YOU. SO MUCH." And thus, the plotbunny was spawned. :|

That Demon, My Successor

To be a Phantomhive servant means being the best.

The standards are high for us who serve this family: faults reflect badly upon the Master or Mistress—whichever one is the current head—and mistakes oftentimes have led to death. This is why the servants of the Phantomhive family must be the best, must be above reproach, must be perfect.

A Phantomhive servant both provides services that helps the head, the current Watchdog, solve the cases given to him or her by the current ruler; our strengths are indispensable, are given over to help our Master or Mistress as thoroughly as possible. The Phantomhive head is the mind and the arm, and we the weapon wielded in that decisive grip. We are the tools that the guardian who stands in the shadows must use to keep the kingdom safe.

We are needed to both help the Watchdog, and we are needed to keep the head of the Phantomhive family safe in turn. We, in turn, are guardians ourselves—the first line of defense when attacks strike from unexpected directions. To be a servant of Phantomhive means to be an insurance, an assurance, for the family. We stand firm against the wave of invading darkness so that the empire's protector can continue on being the faint light in the dark of the night. We are required to be the best to ensure that that starlight glimmer does not go out.

We have failed in that task.

Or, shall I say, I have failed in that task.

To be the Phantomhive heir's butler means to be impeccable in all tasks, whether it means making sure that the Master's clothes are neatly pressed for his activities the following morning or to be the shield that keeps the Master's back safe when on assignment. To be a Phantomhive butler means to see all, hear all—and to keep thoughts and words safely tucked away in one's mind, secrets locked and hidden from the world because those secrets are the Master's secrets. And a Phantomhive butler never tells, never breaks; a Phantomhive butler always stands steady.

To be a Phantomhive butler means to watch as one's Master learns of ways to cope with the violence and depravity that he must see. To be a Phantomhive butler means to keep silent regarding how the Master deals with such things, or to stand there silently in the morning as the Master points a gun at one's head.

During my time as a Phantomhive butler, I have seen many things.

I have seen Claudia Phantomhive fall into darkness, standing silent as she allowed herself to be corrupted by those that she fought; I watched as she began to care less and less for human life, both her own and others'. I stood by when that apathy finally took her, and her son stepped forward to become England's new paladin.

Vincent was strong in ways that Claudia could not understand, was cruel in ways that she could never have possibly understood. He kept his inner darkness tightly leashed beneath a veneer of a gently smiling nobleman, eyes kind and engaging a person in a soul-deep connection. But the connection was always a mask, was always done for appearances sake. Master Vincent was a man who wore black gloves to hide from others the stains that blood had left on his hands.

He was a dangerous man, this Master: a shark amongst the Ton, a deadly jungle cat that twined its way through the masses to strike when prey least expected it. Master Vincent was excellent at manipulation, thrived in politics. And his shot never wavered, never hesitated, never missed.

I failed him.

Two generations of Phantomhives have passed, and now the current is growing into himself. The Young Master is the best of his father and grandmother—and, too, the worst. He stares out at the world with a dispassionate gaze, intelligence coldly calculating his advantages in each of his moves. Young Master is an excellent tactician, the world's most talented chess master though he keeps his games to people and not game pieces. This Young Master is perhaps the most dangerous of them all—because he has embraced the darkness and the corruption, taken it into himself and continued on towards a goal that perhaps only he can truly ever understand.

This Young Master is a Phantomhive made up of paradoxes: both cruel and kind.

The Young Master fights for what is supposedly right and good in the world while he craves vengeance for the wrongs done against him, and all the while on his missions to once more bring balance to Queen Victoria's rule, he has a demon at his side.

A Phantomhive servant must be the epitome of perfection, and Sebastian Michaelis is certainly that: efficient, meticulous, a perfectionist to the core due to his various aesthetics. He is both shield and sword, protecting the Young Master—the Queen's Watchdog—in such a way that I never could have matched, even when I had been younger. He is the servant that all must attempt to emulate, the best of us all—and the dichotomy of his contract, the payment expected, and his role as a butler in protecting the Young Master—it is an effort balanced on a razor-thin line, expertly walked along with the grace of the truly talented.

He is the best of us, the one that we all must look to for our own standards—and he, too, is the worst of us because he will be the one to end the Phantomhives.

I watch from the shadows, the Young Master's unknown shield, and I watch the perfect servant's perfect conduct, the effortless way he works out all of his duties, the way that he shadows the Young Master; he dogs the Young Master's every step, the Abyss that stretches out over the Phantomhive heir's body, ready to strike and consume at a moment's notice.

I was once the Phantomhive family's butler, though I claim that title no longer.

I am the weapon most used by the Queen's Watchdogs, the dagger that slips between the enemy's ribs to pierce the heart when that very same enemy least expects the attack. I am both shield and sword, though it has been three years since I have last been asked to fulfill that particular role.

But I still watch. And I wait.

From the shadows, silent and unassuming, I watch the Young Master's demon, the Phantomhive butler, prepare the snack for afternoon tea. I watch as the butler meticulously layers the sweet cake with dark chocolate, and then places the latest issue of Beeton's Christmas Annual onto the side and next to the dessert plate.

The gesture makes me pause, never mind how brief and as unassuming as the small consideration for the Young Master's interests seems to be. But it is a gesture that is telling, just as the manipulation to encourage the young writer to continue on with his work was telling—a small indulgence for the Young Master that the perfect butler wouldn't have bothered to do three years before.

But I watch and wait—and perhaps begin to reconsider this servant of the Phantomhive household and his role within the Young Master's life. And, perhaps, I begin to mull over the idea that there may truly be a new sword and shield that will full-heartedly take my place once it is time for me to leave.

End.