That coat of crimson.
He wore the colour proudly,
Just as she had.
He stained it with blood,
Just as she had.
He took lives of others with that garment on his back,
Just as she had.

Death was dramatic, passionate, when bathed in that splendid colour, but though she had brought it upon others, she feared it.
She feared it because of that bratty kid, the one reason she couldn't die.
The irritation that held her heart like her unborn babe should have.

That had been her weakness- maybe it was just as well he couldn't have children. He was always torn between some confusion over whether it was the femininity and acceptance as a woman he often lacked that bothered him, or whether it was the ability to bare a child.
Have his babies; to create life- the irony behind what he flirted, joked, craved... feared. A God of Death, one who stood over those dramatic, passionate, beautiful turns of events, but,

Sometimes death was lonely.
Final rasping gargles of a thrown together pile of flesh, bones and rags, marble eyes swivelling, jutting out of the skull. A mess scraped under the gutter.
Small bundle, ornate cavernous building full of cold trinkets and heartless keep sakes. A phantom family to watch the cot.
Dark alley, living on a shelf of a frowned upon shop; a vengeful surgeon- a pleasantly amused reaper in her burning scarlet shadow. A knife pools beauty over the cobbles.

There were days when the fall of his partner in crime wasn't even questionable, days when it didn't so much as cross his mind, days when what hung at his shoulders didn't seem to even have a connection to her anymore. But then,

Days when it just didn't feel right.
When there was no one to be an actress for, with that dull auburn hair and boring jacket.
No one to serve a deliberately pathetic attempt at a cup of tea, meek smile plastered on his face.
When it was just him, the smoggy streets of London and a book of lives that were to end.

Maybe it made him appreciate, underneath the psychotic attitude, the blood lust and the ecstasy of battle, how frail and occasionally valuable, human lives were.

He had always found new amusements, new fancies, new things to challenge his skill, power and his hardheartedness,
However, every now and then, even he accepted that it was perhaps alright to look back and be able to say, that maybe, she would remain one of the best.

The disguised Death God and Madam Red may have been Jack the Ripper,
But Grell Sutcliff and Angelina Dalles had written their own history books in each other's blood.
And in a delightfully sickening, twisted way,
He found that kind of romantic.