In the Name of

by Tigerlillyth

There are moments when Grell is Sutcliff. And there are moments when he is Grell, like the moments just like the one two years ago, when he was given a present and a promise sealed by a kiss.

There are moments when Grell is okay with being Sutcliff. Moments like training in the hall, nothing but a wooden stick in hand, going against his co-workers, leaving his body to his mind, and fighting, keeping his senses sharp, landing in the sweat drenched sand where thousands have fallen before him, getting up like only few of them, hearing nothing but the comments from the outer ring that has gathered during the fight, comments hateful, respectful, cheering, discouraging, empowering, heavy weighing.

Moments like when he's out on the rooftops in a cold winter night, list in his coat pocket, wind blowing back his red, red hair, smile wide as he hunts for the souls who are his to collect, to tear them from this world because their time has expired. Moments like when he's sitting at his desk, head buried in his files, arms dejectedly falling to either side, pen in one hand, trying to concentrate, but failing because dear Shinigami, this is boring. Moments like when he's out with the boys, having a drink, laughing with them, teasing them with their own stories, daring Ron to flirt with a woman, at which he royally fails, moments in which he doesn't really care who he is, where he doesn't to be anyone.

Pinpointed location in times, when he's summoned to a certain office with a certain heavy oak desk and handed a new timetable, a new list, and a few half-hearted scolding words about his tardiness and lack of quite everything concerning his job, from a certain someone with just the same determined stare, moments when the word Sutcliff rolls over William T. Spears' tongue more often than the vowel 'e' in a reprimanding, sarcastic, dry, commanding way, or all of the before-mentioned in one. moments like those in his undercover operations, because no one suits a dress as well as he does, obviously, and his further notices brought to him by pigeon are addressed to Sutcliff, where he does his job like the reaper he is, smooth, clean, swift, without a trace.

But Grell is okay with that, because there are also moments when he's not Sutcliff, not just a surname, but where he's he and names don't really matter, like moments when he's with William and they fall into a routine pace of quick-witted sentences, taking no one and especially not themselves too seriously, moments like when he and his superior are strangely absolutely in harmony with their thoughts and give each other looks that tell, when he's alone, or maybe not so alone, because a certain someone is with him on a snowy winter night, where nothing else can be done, someone whose flat he may or may not have broken into repeatedly but got tired of kicking him out, someone whose raven hair is grazing his nape because that someone's lips are kissing all up and down his neck and jaw, a someone called William, and is always reminded of it by the short-form Will, which only he and exclusively he is allowed to use. Moments like those when the name of Grell is muttered inbetween kisses and getting rid of fabric, moments when skin is pressed together, two bare hearts beating against each other, hands touching and feeling over muscles moving, when two bodies fall down on a mattress, never stopping, tongues knowing perfectly well what do where and how, ministrating themselves up and down a tensed body, moments when the red reaper makes sure that Grell is the only thing his lover is able to say when William's on top and that syllable is the only sound he can hear in that deep voice of a man whose body he is completely joined with, his own thriving, thrusting, arching to meet him, holding on to those shoulders, writhing under those hands, that one moment, when they're both pushed, driven by the insane power they fuse in themselves and each other, until they reach their destiny loud and clear, moments like the ones after said moment, when hands are still touching but not burning, where skin is warm, but not scorching, where kisses are hot but not flaming. Moments like when his hands are over William's holding his face, and he is leaning into that touch, pressed up against him, fingers in the eternal mass of red, red hair, smoothing it out, moments when Grell rolls of the normally so sharp tongue just as easily as the kisses ghosting on his back and they hold each other in the warmth while the white crystals outside paint their flowers on the windows.

Moments like when William says Sutcliff but actually means Grell, and they both try to hide their knowing faces, keeping hidden what is theirs to keep, like when Grell knows no one is taking him seriously and can't help but wink at William.

Moments just like that very one two years ago on a snowy Christmas eve when a small package was slipped into a red pocket containing a promise and a present and it was sealed with a kiss, a kiss that had an extremely taken aback Grell turn into another one, until things lead to another, and all of that just because William had wanted to give Grell a present, and in returned received a much greater one, where Grell had slipped from his lips the first time so openly and carelessly and he had been rewarded for it with another kiss so warm he knew he had to repeat that name over and over again because that warmth was something that kept him going.

Names are powerful things, and it doesn't matter if called out loud or not, if it's your heart calling it as well, you know there's one place inbetween a certain person's arms you definitely want to stay for the rest of your life.