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The city breathed frost from every gaslight and gutter, and even the bustle of Whitechapel couldn’t shake the chill that crept beneath coats and gloves. When Fred Abberline knocked on the Phantomhive townhouse door that evening, it wasn’t for business. Not entirely. His fingers were reddened from the cold, and he clutched a small paper bag that gave off the faintest curl of steam. Sebastian opened the door first, his usual immaculate smile in place. “Inspector,” he greeted smoothly, as though welcoming a duke rather than a weary policeman. “My young master is occupied, though I suppose—”
“I won’t be long,” Fred interrupted, his breath misting the air. “Just… something small.”
From the study came a tired voice. “Let him in, Sebastian.” Ciel Phantomhive sat behind his desk, papers scattered, the faint smell of ink and candle wax clinging to the air. His single visible eye flicked upward as the inspector stepped inside, uncertainly shifting his weight.
“Phantomhive,” Fred began, clearing his throat, “the case is finally closed. The last of those smugglers are in custody.”
Ciel nodded. “Good. Then that particular nuisance can be considered resolved.”
Silence lingered. It should have ended there, business concluded, as always. But Fred hesitated, glancing down at the small bag in his gloved hands. “I, uh… thought you might like these,” he said finally, awkwardly placing it on the edge of Ciel’s desk. “Got them from a vendor outside Scotland Yard. They’re roasted chestnuts. Bit of warmth for a night like this.”
Ciel blinked, looking at the plain brown paper bag as if it were something foreign. “...Chestnuts?”
Fred rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah. They’re good when they’re hot. Figured… you don’t get much chance to stop and eat normal food, what with all the—well, y’know, noble duties and all that.” Ciel’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. He only stared at the bag, the faint scent of roasted nuts reaching him, sweet, smoky, ordinary. “Anyway,” Fred said, stepping back toward the door, “consider it a thanks. You’ve done more for the Yard than you’ll ever get credit for.”
Sebastian tilted his head, amused, but said nothing as Fred departed into the snow. The faint sound of the door shutting seemed to echo in the room long after he was gone.
Ciel sat still. The paper bag’s warmth radiated faintly against his fingertips when he reached for it. “…Sebastian,” he murmured after a long pause, “what would one do with these?”
“Why, eat them, my lord. They are quite popular among London’s common folk during winter.”
Ciel frowned faintly, as though that answer were too simple. “Hmph. I see.” He didn’t eat them. Hours passed. The candles guttered low, and the ink on his paperwork dried in uneven streaks. Sebastian cleared the desk, but Ciel stopped him with a quiet, “Leave it.”
The chestnuts remained, unopened, cooling slowly as the night deepened. By morning, they were cold and hard. Ciel sat at his desk again, staring at them with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and guilt. Sebastian entered with tea, glancing at the bag still there. “Shall I dispose of them, young master?”
Ciel hesitated. Then, softly: “No. Not yet.”
The warmth had long since fled, but still he could not bring himself to throw them away. Perhaps it was the gesture itself, the small, clumsy kindness of a man who owed him nothing, who simply wanted to offer warmth to someone who never asked for it. For someone like Ciel Phantomhive, warmth was a foreign currency. And so, the bag remained on his desk for days, a quiet token of something he couldn’t quite name.
When at last Sebastian cleared the room in his master’s absence, he found the chestnuts still there, wrapped neatly in their paper. He paused a moment before discarding them. For the briefest instant, he almost smiled. After all, even devils could recognize a human heart when they saw one, especially one so small, and so easily lost to the cold.