Summary: It starts off as a game. And Undertaker loves a good game, but all games come to an end eventually. It's time for him to make a real move when Grell comes a'knocking and makes a sweet deal with him. A fun-filled day turns into a steam-filled night.
Warnings: Yaoi Mature Content
Part 1
Grell was feeling bored…
And it wasn't a pretty sight when this melodramatic shinigami got bored. Ah yes, Grell is a shinigami, a death god, a grim reaper, name it what you will, and a hell of a good one at that. When he wasn't being a moron, that is. His shift ended twenty minutes ago, successfully reaping all the souls on his list, which should make William proud, he hoped.
Oh gawds! It had better please that stuck up supervisor of his or he and that man will have words, words of the screeching, theatrical variety.
As Grell strolled along the streets of London, the sky above gloomy and overcast, an ominous morning fog lingering above the cobblestone ways, he considered if screeching at William would only get him into trouble again. Will certainly had little tolerance for his complaints, which were infinite so he says. Hell, he barely had tolerance for most things enjoyable and fun. The thought made Grell release a small, depressed sigh. Even though Grell was melodramatic, he could eventually search deeper within to find a more sensible solution. Unfortunately, the sensible solution didn't always enter his mind at the moment when it would help him most.
That's how he got himself into trouble. Often.
He wasn't in the mood to return to his Realm since everyone was probably still reaping or worse, doing tedious paperwork once they got back to the office. There was definitely no fun in that.
Work. Was. For. Suckers.
The real fun, was reaping souls and ripping them up with his Death Scythe, which came in the form of a menacing chainsaw with a red engine and was often accompanied, by Grell's manic laughter. The real fun, was watching the blood flow out of the mortals, the crimson pools he created like morbid abstract paintings, beautiful pieces of work that he admired greatly.
After all, red was Grell's favourite colour.
But everyone knew that.
Red was the colour of his long, flowing hair. Sometimes it was the colour of his lipstick and his nail polish, when motivation arose for that sort of primping. It was the colour of his reaper's glasses, red square frames with a beaded neck chain with little skulls to decorate it, but the chain also helped to prevent losing them, since he could be such a klutz. Still, it was imperative that he does not lose them, seeing as all shinigami wore glasses to correct their bad, nearsighted vision.
Red was also the colour of his coat (taken from his ex-beloved mistress, Madam Red, better known as Angelina Durless and Ceil Phantomhive's aunt), which often rested at his elbows and floated on the air behind his back. Underneath the coat, he wore a crisp white linen shirt with a dark vest and a red and white stripped bow tie and a dark pair of dress pants. His black and red high-heeled boots gave him an additional few inches to his height and emphasized his feminine predilection.
As he wandered into a familiar part of town, heels clicking loudly and pointedly, as if each step accentuated his irritable boredom, a sudden idea came to mind. A most delightful want began to build inside his chest, one could say in other areas as well, ho-ho, but that is another story.
A menacing shark-toothed grin morphed his features from a beautiful, handsome reaper into a diabolical troublemaker in mere seconds.
"Today, you old fiend—" Grell gasped as he realized what he started to say, wrapping his arms around himself and hugging his middle gleefully, "—my mistake, old you may be, a diamond in the rough and you know what they say about diamonds." His deep laughter came lewdly. "…a girl's best friend."
When Grell realized there was something he wanted, he would do just about anything to get it.
It's wrong to deny a lady after all…
Off he went, using the rooftops to get to his new destination faster, finding a solution to his mundane and boring situation. There was always a certain person he could depend on for a healthy dose of shits and giggles.
Leaping down from the rooftop across the street, Grell landed gracefully in front of Undertaker's funeral parlor. The two-story shop was one of many along the street, wedged in the middle somewhere, as inconspicuous and sinister as the loon inside probably wanted it to be. For the said loon, was actually a grim reaper himself, retired from the business, but, nonetheless a full-fledged reaper with a helluva record under his belt. Now the retired reaper was a mortician.
Suitable really, Grell thought with a flippant shrug of his shoulders.
But never mind that. He was on a mission, a most beautiful mission, which was sure to make his day, perhaps his entire week! Why, just the thought of it made Grell squeal with anticipation.
Grell's squealing was much louder than he realized when the front door opened and out popped Undertaker's head curiously. It took him a moment to realize what all the ruckus was about.
"My, my, it's just you, Mr. Sutcliff." Undertaker said with an unnervingly deep, mischievous voice. "He-he, for a moment there, I thought someone was dying right here on the step of my shop." He twittered delightfully at the irony of his statement.
Grell instantly got a grip on himself and glowered at the man in his creepy, oversized hat. "I told you before to never use that kind of language with me, Undertaker." He snapped out the old reaper's name with distain and an indignant huff.
Undertaker immediately feigned forgiveness and gave Grell a deep bow, his long, flowing sleeves sweeping across his front, a huge grin hidden on his pale, scared face.
"My sincerest apologies – my lady – I must have forgotten. How very ill-mannered of me," he said notably, using a most capable formal tone when such a need was required.
Undertaker's antics went completely unnoticed by Grell who was impressed by his hasty subservience. So an old dog can learn new tricks. He awarded the freaky old reaper with a sharp-toothed smile.
"Right, and don't you forget that, mister." Grell urged hotly with one indignant hand on his hip and the other wagging a black-gloved finger at the regretful mortician.
Inside, Undertaker was snickering the whole time, happy trails creeping over his skin as if tiny spiders crawled beneath his clothes. Grell was simply too easy to bait, a promise of much laughter and amusement for him whenever he came to visit. In fact, Undertaker was thrilled to see the other shinigami, delightfully surprised but… delightfully suspicious also.
Was he here to play another game with him? Undertaker loved a good game.
The Undertaker regained his stature, standing to his full height, which towered over Grell's even if the redhead was in heels. "I was about to pour my morning cup of tea before getting to work, my dear Grell," Undertaker shared pleasantly. "You are more than welcome to join me, if you like."
It was a foot in the door and Grell jumped on the opportunity. "I'd be delighted, as long as there isn't anything weird in the tea. My digestion is rather… sensitive."
As much as he admired Undertaker, for his reaping prowess, for his concealed good looks, Grell still felt a touch uneasy around the man. For one good reason, the man is crazy! One could never really tell what Undertaker was thinking or what he was going to do, or even worse, what he's already done. Although, many individuals call Grell 'crazy' too, but he could not seem to make the comparison between himself and Undertaker. He was a woman of passion, after all, he couldn't help that he was such a first-rate, bloodthirsty actress.
Grell's real concern was how to get Undertaker to do his bidding today. He was a sneaky one, that mortician, and he wasn't sure what tactic to use to fool the old fool.
"Now what sort of 'weird' things could I possibly put in your tea, my friend?" Undertaker giggled quietly into his sleeve and cocked his head to one side in question.
Grell rolled his eyes at that reply and decided to put on his womanly charms. "Oh I dunno, perhaps an eye of newt or something repulsive like that. Only the gods know what you do with yourself."
That wasn't exactly charming but he wasn't finished yet. He took a step closer, reaching over and gently collected a lock of Undertaker's long, silvery hair, including the long thin braid, drawing it over the fingers of his black glove flirtatiously. "Somehow," Grell began seductively, "You strike me as that kind of guy, so… mysterious."
Behind the fringe of hair that hid Undertaker's eyes, a pair of brows lifted. Grell nearly caught him off guard but for only a few seconds, before a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth and a bizarre laugh burst forth.
"Oh that was good, my dear. HE-HE-HE!"
Grell didn't understand, was the man immune to being flirted with? Maybe his many years of existence turned him into a dullard. No one should be able to resist his persuasion!
Undertaker's laughter stopped almost as suddenly as it started and he swept in even closer, hunkering next to Grell's face, poking a long black fingernail under his cute little chin so fast, that the redhead didn't even see it coming.
Grell gave a tiny shriek and stumbled back. Undertaker caught him by the lapels of his red coat swiftly, hauling him back up to his feet and jerking the red reaper closer to him. Grell's boots were barely touching the ground.
The mortician's grip was intense.
Ooooh! The old reaper was still so quick, such brute strength, Grell thought as his wide yellow-green eyes stared at the diagonal scar slashed across Undertaker's face. He hadn't really been the recipient of Undertaker's manhandling before and the aggressive display sent scrumptious shivers up his spine.
It had a fawning Grell, blushing.
"That sort of practice, my dear, is for witches and warlocks. I'm just a simple undertaker… not a magician," Undertaker assured softly, yet his demeanor spelled menace. "I promise you it is a fine quality tea imported from some faraway land—only the finest for my guests, you see." He let Grell go and chuckled again, this time a little more roguishly, tapping his nail under Grell's chin playfully now.
Crafty son of a bitch! There's something you're not telling me, Grell thought with annoyance. Yet, he kept playing along even though Undertaker's sudden mood change had rather freaked him out. He wasn't about to give up on this new game and let Undertaker win that easily, not a chance. Grell leaned down to purr next to man's multi-pierced ear.
"There is definitely nothing simple about you, darling, you are a wonderful composer of the dead after all. I had no idea you still possessed such animal impulses," Grell praised, making sure his lips brushed the fine hairs on Undertaker's ear. "I am sorry for suggesting the newt, what was I thinking."
Grell backed off, leaving Undertaker to giggle and rub at the tickles he'd left on his ear. "Let us have that tea, handsome—give me some sugar baby. Yes please!"
Of course, Undertaker was hiding something...
What he wasn't telling Grell was that the tea came to him one day in a coffin with a corpse in it. Hrmph, the tea was fine. However, the poor soul inside the box was not so lucky. The tea was a gift for Undertaker's services. Sometimes people slipped things into the coffins in gratitude and sometimes, he just 'borrowed' things.
"Well then, after you, my lady." Undertaker tipped his hat congenially as he gave a bright smile and let Grell enter his parlor first. He followed behind, closing the door quietly behind him. Oh, how amusing this would be indeed.
The dreary funeral parlor was the same as always and it took a moment for Grell's eyes to adjust to the darkness. When it did, Grell took in the all the funeral paraphernalia, the coffins, first off, were everywhere. On the floor, up against the walls, other rooms leading to more coffins piled up on top of each other. On the walls hung a few garlic bulbs along with eerie, framed photographs of deceased people, their plastic faces staring out at him like strange, lifeless dolls. Such an odd practice of this time, Grell thought with a grimace. In one corner, he saw a collection of shovels, one of them still caked with dry earth. There was a skull resting on top of one small table and bookshelves filled with dusty books and jars. The place could sure use some colour, but it was clean and it did not smell as bad as Grell would have thought.
Perhaps the retired reaper was truly great at his job.
Undertaker was silently watching Grell as he looked around his business and his home. He knew this wasn't the kind of place that tickled the redhead pink, but Grell was no newcomer in terms of dealing with the dead. Heck, for a while, Grell had given him so much business back during those Jack the Ripper days. Such a shady blessing, Undertaker revelled in the gory work provided, making all those mangled whores beautiful again. And all the wonderful things he collected. He-he. It was a treasure trove.
"Give me a moment, while I fetch your tea." Undertaker told him. "By all means look around, but you know the policy, don't touch unless I tell you to."
Grell ignored the order with a feeble wave of his hand and looked down at a dead body lying in a coffin nearby. "What did he die from?" he asked curiously.
"A strangling," Undertaker answered nonchalantly, pausing and turning back. "Not many mangled parts to see on that one." He explained as if that were a disappointment. "It was an unfortunate accident, a terrible choice of attire shall we say."
"Attire…?"
"His darling wife had made him a fetching scarf for his birthday. When he was out walking the wind picked up, a gust that sent the tail of his newly received gift into the spokes and axel of a carriage passing by." Undertaker waved one sleeve with a 'what can you do' kind of gesture. "The carriage dragged his body for three miles, the man couldn't scream, you see, as he was being strangled."
Grell could only think of the man's wife as she cried her eyes out, blaming herself for killing her husband. "Oh, that poor woman, all alone with all those accusing eyes directed at her, it's sooo depressing," he moaned.
Undertaker said nothing and left to get the tea. Besides, his tummy was grumbling, as it was way past his breakfast now after all the chitchat. He hurried off.
Grell, left alone in the parlor, was beginning to feel bored again. Coffins were not that exciting, but the stories Undertaker told about the dead were always fun. Grell especially enjoyed the plotted deaths of jealous lovers' kinds of tales, especially if the lovers were notable people and a great scandal was involved.
He glanced down again at the man in the coffin and stifled a yawn.
With a quiet sigh, Grell wandering through the shop, removing a glove and smoothing his hand over the velvety surface inside one of the coffins he passed, but something sharp inside cut his finger. Scowling, Grell inspected his bleeding finger and stuck it into his mouth. Damn, that smart. He peeked into the box and found it surprisingly full of dried up roses, tons of them, nearly black with age, having lost all their vibrant red colour.
To Grell it seemed like a horrible case of neglect on such beautiful, once red, flowers.
How sad, Grell thought and wondered what Undertaker was doing with them. Then he spotted something wedged against the side of the coffin, a black, leather-bound journal. What caught Grell's attention was a long, braided red string, bookmarking a section of the curious little book. Peaking over his shoulder, Grell made sure Undertaker was not around before he opened it.
November 13, 1889.
Imagine I have brought home yet another dozen roses for my collection. Perhaps, I am touched. How lovely their fragrance, how deep the red of their petals—reminds me of a sacrifice as they rot. Murder. A reaping. A bleeding heart. It is all the same. They have all turned as black as the nigh. This won't do. Happenings haven't been this dismal since the Great Pestilence, and that was a time to remember. Death was more rampant then than this era of London could ever be. He-he.
February 19, 1890.
Another twelve for that rotten coffin, aye it is rotten and yet has the most comfortable interior, a masterpiece really. Any such soul should be so lucky to feel it upon their living or no-longer living skin, but I digress. I have no nerve… what is this fear? Something that crawls under your bed, slithering—festering remains. It hides in the shadows of the psyche and it rattles the bolts in the furniture of a ghostly house by souls as restless as mine. It worries me. What kind of legend am I?
Geez, I really hope no one reads this journal ho-ho…
BANG!
The clatter came from the pantry.
Grell yelped with fright, startled for the second time today.
"Oops!" Undertaker chimed from the other room. "…just dropped a bottle of mace! Smells like a cookie factory in here. He-he. No fuss. No fuss."
'No fuss' he says, Grell moaned as if pained, his heart thumping wildly against his ribs. The journal, which seemed like nothing more than ramblings of Undertaker's questionable sanity, had flown out of his hands at the sudden racket. He would not have been so spooked had he not been prying. No, it wouldn't be wise to get caught with it so Grell hastily picked up the journal and stuffed it back into the coffin before the madman returned.
He ought to be a little more careful, lest he wished to provoke Undertaker's darker side. There was no saying what might trigger it.
Holding a gloved hand to his frightened heart, Grell entered another area further in the back. Away from the main showroom reserved for potential customers, floorboards creaking under his boots. This room looked like a preparation area. There was a long examination table here, a basin of water, make-up cases and tools rolled up in leather kits… he knew all about these kinds of tools from his Ripper days. He unrolled one of the black leather kits to find an impressive variety of scalpels, knives and even a small saw. However, his eye caught one particular instrument that made Grell purse his lips and stitch his brows in wonder. Puzzled, he picked it up.
"Ah, you found the nutcracker," Undertaker said merrily from the doorway, holding a tray with two cups of tea, the teapot and an urn full of shortbread cookies. "I was looking all over the place for that."
Grell gawked at the silver-haired reaper. "Why would you leave a nutcracker in here, exactly?"
"I get hungry when I'm working sometimes and nuts are delicious, especially walnuts… the way they crack so nicely under your teeth at first and then turn all soft and—"
"Ugh!" Grell pleaded, his face turning a mild shade of green, "Don't say another word."
"Kukuku," Undertaker sounded playfully. "I wouldn't have taken you to have such a weak stomach, Grell Sutcliff, considering your profession and some of your own little hobbies." Undertaker moved to set the tray down on the examination table, where who knows how many mutilated bodies rested upon its surface.
The red reaper was eyeballing the tea tray precariously. He sighed. "Well, there's just some things… you know," Grell muttered, waving his hands as if he were pushing something revolting out of the way. "Just shut up about what you put in your damn mouth!"
Undertaker smirked as he prepared the tea. "Milk and honey…?"
"Lots of honey for me, honey," Grell replied impishly, placing the nutcracker down on the table, eager to forget all about Undertaker's weird habits.
A moment later Undertaker handed Grell his tea, served inside a glass laboratory beaker. Grell didn't want to think about what he was drinking his tea from, he just wanted something warm and soothing after a hard nights' work. He sipped the tea and found it wonderfully hot and very, very sweet. Just how he liked most things, sweet like the caress of a lover's hand or the hot slip of the tongue (when you're with the right person, of course).
Grell looked up with surprise. "The tea is perfect!"
"One can never have enough honey, he-he," Undertaker agreed and offered cookies politely as he took a seat on top of a closed coffin. He held out the urn. "I took the liberty of getting some biscuits you might approve of in the happenstance that you would visit me again… at least, I believe you should approve since you always look funny when I offer my usual fare."
Grell was about to reprove about the 'always look funny' comment when he noticed the cookies inside the urn that Undertaker spoke of. "Oh, they're heart-shaped!" He said with complete surprise, taken aback for a moment. "How adorable," he said. He never thought Undertaker could be so thoughtful.
"It grieves me that they don't actually resemble anything like a real human heart, but the baker who made them didn't seem impressed when I asked him for shortbread shaped like the organ itself." Undertaker twittered as he recalled the look on the baker's face. My, my humans could be so touchy.
"Well, let's not get picky, shall we?" Grell advised, utterly thrilled to have cookies made for him especially. No one had gone out of his or her way to please him like this before and the gesture really had him wondering if Undertaker viewed him as a friend. The thought mildly alarmed Grell and at the same time gave him a warm fuzzy feeling.
He did not have many true friends…
Grell sat down on a coffin across from Undertaker, reached out, and took one of the heart cookies. "Hmm…maybe two," he muttered and then snapped, "…don't judge me!"
Undertaker was merely smiling his wicked smiles as Grell devoured the cookies (who snatched up two more, he-he). He enjoyed how Grell broke the hearts in half before he ate them. Undertaker nibbled on his own biscuits and washed it down with overly sweet tea. The red head was right. The tea was exceptionally good this morning.
Once both had their fill of cookies and tea, Undertaker decided it was time to move this game along.
"How about we stop toying around, Grell, my dear." The old reaper began conspicuously, his long black nails tinkling off the teacup eerily. His demeanor seemed more reserved. "What is the reason for your visit this time?"
Suddenly Grell looked devilishly smug, flipping his hair out and squealing with the excitement he could no longer contain. He flung himself at Undertaker's feet, sending his empty teacup flying into a nearby coffin, placing his head on the man's knees cooing all the while. He cuddled against Undertaker's lower limbs like a loving pet, arms wrapped around long, dusty robes and the sexy, buckled boots that the man wore.
"You know what I want, handsome," Grell said with a naughty chuckle, sporting his shark-like teeth with a manic grin.
The Undertaker was in all sense of the word, tickled.
"Come on, let me have it. Please, please, please, pretty please." Grell went for the begging tactic. "I think you owe me after the way you frightened me earlier, with your forceful grabbing and likely leering at me behind that curtain of hair, like a marauder wishing to shred off my clothes and ravage my beautiful body." Grell moaned like a wounded widow, and swooned as if near faint by the experience. "And then you didn't even do that and it wasn't very nice of you either..."
He sighed dramatically.
"I've been pleasant and lady like, right? I haven't attacked you or tried to bury you in salt again—which I could have, you know," Grell offered darkly, his voice sinister. However, he quickly returned to his pleading again. "But I didn't, because you're a legend and William would kill me if I did that and I don't want to be demoted to scissors again." He batted his long lashes in the same manner he would for that gorgeous demon butler.
"Oh? Is that quite all?" Undertaker questioned with mock astonishment, as if Grell should perhaps continue begging.
This infuriated the red reaper and he snarled viciously. "You're such a meanie, a real brute! I pour out my soul and that's all you have to say. Oh! I hate you!"
One look at Grell's indignant, bratty expression, as one might see on an ill-behaved child and Undertaker could no longer contain it. He exploded with wails of laughter, loud, crazy fits, shaking all the wall hangings in the parlor, bottles rattling on the shelves. In the other room, a bottle full of purple liquid smashed to the floor.
Even the Scarf-Strangled corpse bolted straight up in shock.
"Why are you laughing, you old fool!" Grell cried with a pout. "Stop it or I will thrash you within an inch of your life. William be damned!"
That only made the legendary reaper laugh harder, so hard that tears ran down his cheeks and drool dribbled down the side of his mouth. "Your f-face… Waaa-ha-ha-ha! Please n-no more." He begged as if someone was tickling him to death. "W-wait… don't stop, I can almost s-see the w-white light."
Long, pale fingers outstretched, Undertaker reached for something only his mind's eye could see.
After a few glorious moments of unearthly pleasure, Undertaker tried to regain some control. He stood up, panting for air, clinging to the nearest shelf for support lest he fell into a giggling heap on the floor. Once Undertaker's world stopped spinning with glee, he glanced down at Grell and said breathily.
"It's the fourth time in two months…"
"But it's so beautiful. I'll do whatever you want, just name your price." Grell offered and let go of Undertaker's legs. He shuffled up to his feet again, still hoping the man would relent. It was such a simple request.
There was an irrefutable blush on the crests of Undertaker's pale cheeks, such flattery. Grell was always coming to him for that. However, he was being respectful about it and, in light, making a fine game out of it. And today was especially entertaining, Undertaker was eternally grateful for the laughter. Perhaps Grell was slowly learning that good things come to those who wait, it seems.
Most of the time Undertaker gave Grell what he wanted, without much fuss, and the man left with a grin on his face. However, he had to admit, he was really beginning to enjoy Grell's visits and a part of him did not want to end their fun to end so soon, like usual.
Undertaker came up with a sneaky idea.
"You know I forbid payment by the use of the Queen's coins, so surely you didn't mean that 'price' literally." Undertaker tsk'd under his breath disdainfully. Then he tried to reason. "You can have what you want, but maybe a bit later? I truly have a lot of work today and I have already dilly-dallied longer than I should have." He unexpectedly laughed. "Dilly-dally, isn't that such a great word?"
Grell stuck his tongue out at the Undertaker.
Oh right, Undertaker got back to his point. "As much as I love this game, Grell, my latest guest is attending his grandest party tomorrow. I must get to my work, you see."
Undertaker really loved being an undertaker and his respect for the dead was immeasurable, even if not everyone saw it that way.
"Then let me help you," Grell blurted and blinked in temporary confusion behind his red-trimmed glasses. As he thought about the paperwork waiting for him back at the office, the idea of hanging out with Undertaker for the day seemed like a carriage ride in the park, right. Right…? Besides, it would seem as though Undertaker wasn't willing to give it up so easily this time. Which meant Grell was left chasing for it—something he simply loved to do anyways, because the chase was all part of the fun!
Isn't that right, Sebas-chan? Grell thought wickedly.
"A perfect compromise, Under-darling, let me assist your troubled hot self for today and then I get what my burning heart desires." Grell was hugging himself again as his mind filled with the pleasure to come.
Undertaker's all-business expression turned into a smarmy grin. "You, my dear, have yourself a deal." He-he-he!
Grell clapped his gloved hands in victory. "Then let's get this show started while I'm all hot and my juices are still flowing."
The old reaper didn't need telling twice. "Well then, I'll get some shovels," Undertaker replied cheerfully and shuffled off to the other room. "I hope you don't mind a little dirty work, this might not be the best kind of work for a lady, after all."
"Don't judge the strength of this beauty, you old dog," Grell reprimanded, thrusting a thumb into his own chest. "My ability might surprise you."
Undertaker's devious chuckles filled the parlor.
It was a bumpy ride as Grell sat next to Undertaker who steered the mule and buggy through the misty streets of London. They headed to the cemetery to make final arrangements for The Scarf- Strangled victim waiting for his final resting place tomorrow. The rows of buildings and the busy streets milling with people, all headed to the morning markets and their appointed business, thinned out as the countryside appeared before them. The well-worn trail was weather beaten and full of potholes after the winter thaw, making the tea that Grell drank jostle precariously in his lower abdomen.
"I have to pee…" Grell bemoaned. "Stop driving into the ruts."
Undertaker sighed and directed his face at the fellow reaper. "We're almost there and then you'll find plenty of reliable bushes."
Grell gasped. "You expect me to desecrate the dead by peeing in their bushes?!"
"He-he, I'm sure they won't mind."
"But a lady does not 'go' standing like you lot. Please do not make me spell it out for you, you bounder!" The carriage rattled over another large bump, making Grell whimper this time.
"You did that one on purpose!" Grell roared.
"I did nothing of the sort," Undertaker assured kindly, failing miserably at hiding the smirk on his face, which was making Grell glare at him harder. "Pretend we are some place hot and dry, like a desert," he suggested. "Sometimes that does the trick."
Grell crossed his legs and imagined they were riding through a barren desert, the sun overhead cooking their flesh, the air arid and hot, searing his lungs with each breath. Then he imagined he was parched, his tongue like sandpaper as they searched hopelessly for water.
Drat! Grell thought of water and he growled, "It isn't working!"
Undertaker was out of suggestions.
Thankfully, the cemetery came into view. It was a well-maintained place, grass as green as Grell had ever seen, the silence here was palpable, not a single sign of life around, except a gaggle of crows occupying an old, gnarly oak tree.
"Oh look, a murder," Undertaker murmured with interest, looking at the crows.
Grell spun his eyes on the old reaper, "What, where…?"
"That's what you call a flock of crows," Undertaker informed.
"How lovely…" Grell drawled sarcastically. "Well, I assure you there is going to be a murder right here if I don't use the ladies room, right now!"
Yikes! "No need to get all noisy as a church-bell, now. I'll take you to the groundskeepers house. We need to inform him that we'll be preparing a grave for our guest tomorrow anyways."
Grell just crossed his arms and sniffed.
The groundskeeper's huge house turned out to be creepier than Undertaker's was. It was darker, more disturbing and there was a stench in here that made Grell cover his nose. There was also a strange scratching sound coming from the larder, but there was nothing in all the realms that could stop Grell from using the facilities. Bushes were for the unrefined type and he would not tarnish his reputation because his bladder was about to burst.
He even managed to beat his personal record for how long it took to use the washroom, which was 'ridiculous' according to William. It often led the Head Shinigami asking, 'Do I even want to know what you do in there for so long?' Seriously, men had no idea.
Undertaker watched as Grell came barreling out of the house as if Sebastian was out here waiting for a wet kiss. He rushed to the silver-haired reaper's side quickly.
"There's something not right about that groundkeeper's house," Grell hissed at the fellow reaper, who had been waiting for him with two shovels under his hand at the gate. The redhead turned and saw the nefarious groundskeeper sitting on his porch whittling a piece of wood. His beady eyes seemed focused on them.
"You seem a bit frightened, my dear?" Undertaker said and curiously wondered what secrets lay in the groundkeeper's house. Probably just rats...
"Me—frightened?" Grell laughed as if that was utterly ridiculous and waved his hand. "Nobody messes with Grell Sutcliff. I'm not afraid of anything or anyone."
"You can hit the boogeyman with this. He-he." Undertaker handed him a shovel.
"Oh you're just so droll." Grell said, full of sarcasm.
Undertaker twittered as he turned towards the graveyard. He tried to remember which direction to go and walked off, shovel in hand. Grell ran after him and they headed for a spot over a grassy knoll. As they passed the old oak tree, all the crows leapt off into the air, cawing over the disturbance.
"Why isn't that old creep digging this hole?" Grell wondered, thumbing back in the direction of the burly groundskeeper.
"I do not trust anyone but I to procure a peaceful resting place for my guests, often these pesky groundskeepers take short cuts, burying people on top old graves due to the lack of space. The things you see, my dear. However, I really cannot blame them sometimes." Undertaker informed. "Everyone is just dying to get in here, you see." He laughed at his own joke.
Grell narrowed his eyes. He wasn't impressed.
Undertaker sighed at Grell's lack of response. "Death deserves a little respect, I do what I can because these humans entertain me so," the mortician explained.
The red reaper glanced over at Undertaker derisively. "You… respect?" He could not believe it. "You seem to have way too much fun playing the role of undertaker, Undertaker. Why, I bet you pinched a few body parts for whatever wild game you play, if you didn't, then how did you know all the details about those prostitutes and the manner of their deaths? You knew exactly what parts were missing and how they were removed from them. I have always wondered about that."
Undertaker gave a dark chortle. "I see that you are a clever one, more so than you present yourself, Grell Sutcliff. How enchanting. Careful what doors you choose to open, my dear," he warned. "You might just find it slamming closed on your pretty little fingers."
"Then that makes you a scoundrel." Grell knew it all along, unaffected by the threat.
Undertaker waved a long sleeve dismissively. "No less a scoundrel than yourself, Jack. I'm just a curious reaper that wishes to know what makes the clock tick. Haven't you ever wondered about it, instead of slashing it all to bits? Humans are fascinating and beautiful, yet, they are ugly, horrible creatures also. Don't you agree?"
"Hmm… they do have their purpose, I guess," Grell granted. "Without them we'd be out of work."
Undertaker simply smiled.
The strength of a reaper is not like the strength of a mortal and digging a hole with a shovel was merely a bothersome job, which was not that exerting. Still, Grell felt wretched and dirty as he shovelled heap after heap of earth out of the grave he stood in without his beloved red coat on, which was slung over a nearby grave marker (no way was he getting it all soiled).
Grell was all fired up! He was working like a steam engine on the fresh grave. It started after Undertaker claimed, 'I fear underestimating you could cause me a lot of trouble one day', which started an entire new conversation between the reapers, ending with Grell needing to prove himself. Undertaker teased about how Grell would never be as strong a reaper as he was.
"I'll show you, you old fiend…" The red reaper was grumbling to himself under his breath.
Undertaker glanced over from a gravestone he had his rear perched against as he twirled a fuzzy dandelion between his fingers, causing the little bracts to float off on the breeze. "Hmm, did you say something, Grell?" he questioned calmly, apparently more interested in the dandelion than working on the grave.
Why that two-timing con artist, Grell narrowed his eyes and launched a shovel full of gravel straight for Undertaker's silly, tailed hat.
The silver-haired reaper moved gracefully to the side as if he had impeccable timing, narrowly missing a pummelling of dirt. However, he was very aware. Oh yes, he was.
With a low growl, Grell tried again. And again. And again…
If one were to witness the spectacle, it would seem as if Undertaker was doing a joyful dance around the freshly dug grave, performing a strange seance of some sorts.
Grell was too stubborn and angry to give it up.
The game continued until Undertaker suddenly sneezed loudly from all the fine dust in the air, causing Grell to shriek with surprise. He glowered at Undertaker for his obnoxious, ear-shattering sneeze, only to find himself face to face with the blade of Undertaker's Death Scythe. The wide, curved blade with a partial skeleton decorating the top of the long staff, was staring Grell directly in the face, looming before his nose like a dangerous threat.
"What do you think you're up to, ex-reaper?" He spat. "If you're looking for a fight darling, then you have found your brave champion—I'll show you domestic violence!" Grell remarked haughtily, ready to release his own Death Scythe in a heartbeat should need be. His eyes narrowed to the tip of his nose, which was… strangely ticklish.
"Argh! Your stupid scythe shred a few strands of my beautiful hair!" He wailed and he blew them off furiously.
Undertaker withdrew his Death Scythe and it disappeared quickly from sight. He found the entire thing quite hilarious and giggled into his sleeves. "He-he. My apologies, I didn't do that on purpose. It… it's just a reaction whenever I sneeze."
Grell sniffed at Undertaker's comment dubiously.
The mortician was tapping a long fingernail to his bottom lip now in consideration. "I don't really understand it myself, because it doesn't always happen. I have no intention of fighting, my dear. Although that could be entertaining, we should have a good row sometime, but… we still have a lot of work to do today. Right now, that's not the sort of fun I fancy."
At this very moment, Grell imagined nothing else could be more 'fun'.
"So, your Death Scythe appears when you sneeze?" Grell charged incredulously. "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard!"
"I said it doesn't happen all the time, just when I have a really good one." The red reaper was glaring at him again. "Hmm, perhaps you've done enough digging," Undertaker remarked softly, sensing Grell's tetchiness. He glanced down into the grave inquisitively. "Oh, it's almost six feet. Let me have a go at it."
"My pleasure," Grell said dryly and gladly traded places with the mad mortician.
Oddly, Undertaker seemed to enjoy the process of digging graves as his disturbing little chuckles echoed from within as he worked. His pace was cool and unruffled as he unearthed the earth like he had all the patience in the world.
Grell peered down at the silver-haired troublemaker and taunted wickedly, "Try not to flay yourself if you sneeze again… that'd be a horrible shame."
Back at the funeral parlor, Undertaker fiddled in the pantry humming an old tune, as Grell excused himself to wash up a little. He claimed that digging out a grave was ludicrous work and he was sure he had gravel in his hair and dirt under his nails. No, Grell had definitely not come prepared, or dressed, for hard labour.
Undertaker was over the moon to be tending to his live guest, making him feel at home and being attentive to his needs, like a good host should. When Grell had asked him for some soap and a hairbrush, he was all too happy to provide. Name the substance or solution, the beauty accessory, what have you and he probably had it stored somewhere. This was a funeral parlor after all. Undertaker had even offered to brush the reaper's red hair, such pretty hair it was, because he was great at fixing hair with all the practice he's had, but Grell had only snapped at him that he wasn't 'dead yet'.
It made Undertaker smile.
Lucky for him, Grell wasn't dead or he wouldn't be having such a pleasant day. When you exist this long, it becomes difficult to find ways to amuse ones' self. The young reaper was a lively one, that's for sure and it kept things interesting. Conversing with the dead was entertaining and all that, but nothing quite beat having real company to talk with. And Undertaker would be lying if he said Grell's sort of company was full of pomp and misrepresentation, like many of the acquaintances he met up with. But that, once again, is another story.
No, Grell's company was refreshing, uncensored and he partook in an enthusiastic dose of bantering, Undertaker greatly approved of this.
"I had no idea you were capable of more than cookies and tea, dear Undertaker." Grell mused playfully when he returned, all fresh and collected once more and took a seat where they drank their tea earlier. He was looking over the spread of cheese, bread, jam and crackers and two thick wedges of chocolate cake. His mouth watered after he had worked up such a hearty appetite with all that grave digging.
"Part of the fun about digging graves, you see, is that you get to come home and eat cake," Undertaker shared as if this were the ultimate key to his happiness. He giggled as Grell stole a taste of chocolate frosting. "Anyways, you should know better than anyone it is foolish to judge a book by the cover. Wouldn't you say, my dear?"
"Which is why I say you're a rotten scoundrel," Grell claimed once more, flashing Undertaker a knowing grin. "You're one of those manipulators with a separate agenda. You cannot fool me, darling. I know all about separate agendas. Ha-ha."
Is that so? Cheeky lad, aye… very cheeky, Undertaker thought wryly. He remained silent and handed the redhead a beaker full of a mysterious dark liquid. Grell took it and eyed it suspiciously.
However, Grell wasn't finished with his verbal observation yet and added, "You deceive us with this ruse, because underneath…" The red reaper began to fan himself with his hand as if the room grew hot. "You'd have all the ladies and gents eating from your palm like obedient dogs."
"Who says I doesn't already?" countered Undertaker mischievously. He thought to himself, and you're one of them. He-he.
This retort pleased and surprised Grell to the bone. It was something he could hear himself saying, which made Grell squeal in delight. "Oh darling, you're pulling my leg. Is there another reason William calls you a 'legend'?" Grell winked suggestively. "What else aren't you sharing, come now, spill everything. I have to know!"
"A gentleman never shares all of his secrets, that wouldn't be much fun, now would it? It's awful karma, you know." Undertaker explained, eager to steer the topic away from him. "Some other time I may share a few stories with you, seeing as you compensate me for the information, that is."
Grell was utterly enthralled with the idea of finding out some of Undertaker's dirty little secrets. Hmm, maybe he had judged Undertaker the wrong way. Maybe he wasn't as crazy as he led on and that was all a ruse, too.
The redhead replied audaciously. "Whatever you want, handsome—I wouldn't miss that show for the world. Karma can kiss my ass."
"Oh my! Hee-hee! Ha-ha!"
After their silly conversation, they ate their hard-earned lunch quietly. Grell was stuffing the last forkful of the scrummy cake into his mouth, sighing in ecstasy and murmuring how Undertaker was trying to make him fat.
"Why haven't you tasted your drink yet?" Undertaker wondered ruefully. "It's elderberry cordial, which is very sweet and delicious. I thought you'd like it… unless, you still think I've poisoned your drink with witchcraft again." The careful look Grell gave him made him snicker.
"Here…" The silver-haired reaper reached over, took Grell's glass, and sipped from it. "Mmm, see…? It's not poisoned."
Undertaker handed the glass back and was tempted to start faking his death just then. I really shouldn't though, then the game will be over—kukuku—that, or Grell will knock my bleedin' lights out!
Grell stared at his drink for a moment before taking a sip. The sweet, bitter taste of some wonderful fruit touched his tongue. "You're right, it's delicious. Even if you probably backwashed into it." He sounded amazed that Undertaker could possibly have such good taste.
Undertaker seemed at a loss.
Straightening his glasses, Grell narrowed his yellowish-green eyes at the crafty Undertaker. "Are you trying to get me drunk you dirty bird?"
Undertaker waggled a long finger adorned with a big green ring at Grell. "My, my, let's not get carried away now, there is still much we have to do."
Grell sighed.
Undertaker was sure to put Grell back to work. It was almost as if he invented things for the red reaper to do because he could. First, Grell helped the mortician organize and dust an entire shelf filled with strange books and odd bottles of weird stuff inside. When Grell peered closer into one of these bottles, something squirmed around inside it. He gave a shrill cry of terror much to Undertaker's amusement.
"Ack! What is it?!" Grell took a leap back.
"They're just leeches, my dear. Such interesting little creatures that feed on the poisons..."
Grell shuddered.
Next, Undertaker had him move a few coffins, but then he didn't like the arrangement and had Grell move them to another spot.
"Have to make space for new guests. Dying is such a demanding business, he-he."
Then there was a trip to see the carpenter, who made all these coffins that Undertaker ordered, some complete with comfortable linings and many bare pine for those that couldn't afford luxurious funerals. With that task accomplished, Grell had to do more heavy lifting. Delivering two of the damned things to a church, the other two came back to the funeral parlor.
"Gotta have a good selection, ya know." Undertaker said much too cheerfully.
Grell grumbled under his breath.
The last of the business that required leaving the parlor was for Undertaker to tie up all lose ends with the chapel that would host the funeral, the people hired to accompany the procession, the decoration that would dress the coffin, and lastly the mourning cards that had been printed and would be sent out after tomorrow.
"Seems like that Scarf Guy had some serious money," Grell remarked, realizing a lot of grandeur was going into this one man's funeral. Geez, what a drag…
"A prominent member of society, shall we say. He owned a league of factories that produced engines for steam ships, big business these days." Undertaker replied as they walked back to his parlor, the sky overhead clearer now as the sun began to move to the western horizon, casting a pink-orange hue in the clouds. "Not a dime spared for his final gathering. Most don't even get a blessing, a final word for their lost and troubled souls. I's just bury them straightaway in a cheap wooden box."
"I don't see what all the fuss is about," Grell commented with a tired sigh. "It all seems like a waste of time."
"Time we have plenty of… they, however—don't." Undertaker scoffed quietly, he didn't share Grell's apathy for mortal death. "Either way, no matter how they pay… I always clean 'em all up nice and pretty. Tee-hee."
"And that's what we're going to do next, huh?" Grell was starting to get used to Undertaker's ways of torment.
"Don't tell me you're tired now? Our guest still needs us to dress him up, make him all spiffy and such," Undertaker said. His tone suggested this was the best part of his day.
Grell gave a heavy theatrical sigh. "He's your guest, not mine."
Undertaker gave Grell a concerned look, "All that eager stamina gone already?"
When Undertaker phrased it like that, Grell scowled. "This isn't the sort of vigorous exercise I would call stimulating."
Undertaker assured with a shifty grin. "After we prepare the corpse, I'll let you have what you came here for. Today you have paid me ten times over, my dear. Next time, I'll even throw in a tale or two, no fee. I won't even put you to work."
This information perked up Grell's ears like an excited cocker spaniel. If he had a real tail to wag, he would have impatiently. "Then there is no time to waste!" he clamoured, threading his arm around Undertaker's elbow like a doting lady-in-waiting. "Darling, you are much too sly. Our guest requires our immediate attention and here you are carousing down the street with the fairest of maidens on your arm like a rooster, such bravado."
Undertaker could not resist. He crowed just like a rooster.
Flattered, Grell blushed.
The Scarf-Strangled man, who's real name was Thomas Brown, lay peacefully dead as two shinigami peered over his coffin. One of them seemed indifferent, and the other… was studying him with kind curiosity.
"By now I thought he'd be reeking," Grell said, poking a finger idly into the dead man's chest.
"There is no reason for there to be an unpleasant odour since I have already drained him of blood and fluids and embalmed him. He'll stay fresh for a few days—give or take." Undertaker explained easily and held up a dark suit complete with a cravat, grey waistcoat and slacks from a hanger. "The family dropped this off yesterday. What do you think, my dear?"
"Oh, he's going to be simply dashing." Grell commented agreeably, reaching over to feel the fine fabric that would accompany Thomas to his final resting place. "Sooo, we don't get to cut him up at all? Not even a teensy bit."
"Oh no, not this one," the mortician replied gravely. "His kin demanded to be present during the embalming which didn't give me much playtime… err, privacy, you see." Undertaker giggled at his slip up. "I wouldn't want to cause a stir."
"A shame… did they not trust you?" The redhead appeared slightly puzzled as he set his eyes on the Undertaker who fished a comb from inside his sleeve and began to tidy Thomas's hair, propping the body up so he could do a thorough job all around. From what Grell could see, Undertaker really loved dotting on his 'guests' giving them a great deal of special attention.
Undertaker did not look up from his work. "Trust is reserved for fools, my dear. I was surprised they wanted to stay to make sure I did my job properly—tis their choice all the same. You do get these odd requests occasionally. I believe they called me 'strange' and what was that other word…" He drew a long nail over Thomas's cheek ever so gently, cradling his head almost affectionately as he thought about it. "Oh yes, 'shuddersome', he-he, can't say I've heard that phrase before." The retired reaper merely chuckled though. Seeing the disturbed looks on those fine folks' faces, while he emptied Thomas fluids, gave him a mind-blowing laugh.
Of course, he waited until they left his shop.
"But they would be wrong in their accusations," Grell said with an odd amount of irritation.
"Oooh…? Has a day with the neighbourhood undertaker changed your mind?" This time the old reaper did look up from his work. "Am I still a scoundrel then?"
"You're definitely a scoundrel, handsome." Grell confirmed. "But you're alright, I suppose. I understand how it feels to get into your work. I guess I'm a little disappointed that we don't get to see even a tiny flesh wound."
This made Undertaker dreadfully happy. "Then you'll have to visit me again, my dear, sorry to disappoint you. However, I have always thought you were alright, too—a little crazy, perhaps, but I like that," he admitted genuinely.
"What…!" Grell's gentle gaze snapped into a jaw-dropping gasp. "Look who's calling who crazy!"
Undertaker was taken aback by the outburst. "Calm down, little miss and let me try to rephrase that," he suggested with an anxious twitter as he set Thomas back down gently into his coffin. The silver-haired reaper held his hands out in front of him as he spoke. "What if I said, you are one of the prettiest reapers in all the realms – crazy as a bell siren mind you – that my eyes ever did see?"
Grell was not sure if Undertaker was being genuine or simply messing with his head again. "You're just saying that now since I'm cross with you. It's too late to take it back." He sat back and crossed his arms in a huff.
Undertaker decided to take a more honest approach. "Crazy—I imagine, is the title you would grant a person that, given the opportunity, would slit your throat for their own enjoyment." Undertaker made a cutting motion across his own throat that was already marked with an old scar as if someone had already tried. "Maybe you are waiting for the ideal moment. So I can't figure it out, are you a friend or foe, hmm?"
Curiosity was getting the best of Undertaker.
"Reeaally…?" Grell crooned, eyes glazing over with awe. "You think I may turn on you and paint the walls red with your blood? That's…. that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me!"
From across the opened coffin Grell latched onto Undertaker in glee, giving him the biggest squeeze while Thomas waited patiently below, ever so patiently.
Undertaker chuffed quietly as his hat was knocked to the floor, his nose catching the scent of Grell's pretty hair as the red reaper tried to deprive him of oxygen with a crushing hug. "Don't get too excited, my dear," he wheezed. "Drawing my blood is no easy task. Hee-hee."
The red reaper was still cooing dreamily. "Boy, you sure know how to flatter a girl."
Undertaker just simpered.
Grell returned to his seat, watching Undertaker fix his silly hat back to the top of his head. He said, "Listen, if I wanted your blood I would have attempted to spill it already." Grell flashed the old reaper his diabolical grin. "But I've turned a new leaf, darling, and decided to stick to reaping souls like a good little reaper should. You were the one that gives me the creeps, always thought you wanted to place my parts into those nasty jars of yours… until now."
"I'd much rather keep your parts just where they are," Undertaker said with a grin.
It never occurred to the red reaper that the lunatic was wary and mistrustful of him. No matter how often he came to visit Undertaker or how much they joked around there was still that little nuance of distrust between them. Then again, trust was 'for fools', was that not what Undertaker said a moment ago. So was Undertaker challenging him? Was he calling him naïve?! Grr.
"Why are we even having this conversation, Undertaker?" Grell demanded. "What does it matter to you, anyways?"
The silver-haired reaper tilted his head as if perplexed. "What conversation… you've already answered my question, my dear."
"I have…?" The red reaper said sounding a little confused. Grell blew out a frustrated breath. "What the hell are you playing at now?"
Undertaker held one black talon to his lips. "It's a secret."
Grell wanted to throttle the mortician so badly. "You know what – fine – keep your stupid secrets. I don't care." He really did care but Undertaker simply enjoyed torturing him and Grell would not give him the pleasure. "Let's just get Thomas ready for his party, shall we?"
Undertaker handed Grell the funeral suit.
Fixing Thomas up for his funeral was kind of like putting clothes on a doll, except this doll was a lot bigger and he got some light cosmetics to make him look alive again. Grell found out it was quaint fun to brush make-up on someone else's face and Thomas wasn't awake to complain he'd done it wrong. Still, it wasn't wrong because Undertaker assured him it was perfect. Besides, Grell got the impression the mortician would make him do it again if he had done it wrong.
Knowing he had gotten it right the first time made Grell feel deeply satisfied, much more satisfied than stupid paperwork.
Between Undertaker's content humming and the odd few shifty chuckles, he was extremely proficient about the entire ordeal. He explained things to Grell when he asked questions and, for once, Undertaker didn't laugh when he asked them. The younger reaper had to admit that Undertaker was well versed in the workings of the human body.
It was quite impressive.
The day wore on well into the evening and the shop became even darker, if that was even possible. Sometime during their work, Undertaker lit a few candles and turned on a couple of oil lamps. The mortician was very pleased how efficiently Grell assisted him. He would even overlook how Grell accidentally dropped the coffin lid on his fingers or how the red reaper somehow managed to glue Undertaker's middle finger and thumb together. Yeah… that took a while to un-stick. In all honesty, Undertaker was satisfied about the entire day. A lot of mundane work got done all thanks to that feisty reaper and his silly game.
Speaking of feisty reapers, Undertaker still needed to give Grell his sought after prize. To think Grell did all this work just so he could admire and stare into his eyes. He-he, Undertaker couldn't help but blush again. The fourth time in two months—indeed, Undertaker was awfully flattered. Grell was very amorous about his looks when he wasn't hiding behind his silver hair.
However, he realized the red reaper was being incredibly quiet at the moment. Much too quiet, though he shouldn't complain. It was definitely alarming and Undertaker looked over from his finished work to find the redhead fast asleep on top of the coffin he was sitting on.
Undertaker smiled softly. He hadn't even noticed that Grell had laid down, on his side, pulling his knees up like one might do on a park bench.
Aww, the fair lady was still wearing his glasses.
Moving around Thomas's coffin, Undertaker knelt next to Grell's sleeping form and gently removed the reaper's red glasses, slipping the chain out from under his head. Grell didn't stir, not even a little bit. All that work today must have tuckered him out. Undertaker knew Grell had come to visit him right after work and that meant he'd pulled a double shift, more or less. That kind of spunk was admirable, surely.
The chill in the air was nippy at this hour, London was a damp, bone-chilling place at times and tonight a few extra layers couldn't hurt. Undertaker removed his long, outer robe, his chain of treasures tinkling melodiously as he shifted around, draping the mantle over Grell's recumbent body.
Undertaker inspected the Reaper-issued specs ever so curiously. What might the world look like, since he had lost his glasses long, long ago? Undertaker considered this as he removed his hat. He ran his fingers through his bangs a few times, settling the hair away from his eyes and slipped on Grell's glasses.
The world instantly turned high definition.
It would seem as if he and Grell's prescriptions were nearly identical. Everything became visible, even things hiding in the shadows, the cracks in the floorboards, the spider web spun on a wall sconce on the other side of the room. Undertaker could even see the glint of candlelight flickering off the brass picture frame a fair distance away. He saw something else, as well.
"I see you there, William." Undertaker scowled. "Have you come to cause a stir?"
The supervising Shinigami, the one in charge of dispatch, William T. Spears, moved out of the shadows. He was a tall, thin man with jet-black hair, wearing a nicely tailored black business suit complete with a black tie, jacket and pants. His Death Scythe, which came in the form of a tree trimmer on a long pole, was used to adjust his glasses as he stared at Undertaker pointedly.
With an arched brow, William said. "You know it is a violation of the rules to remove a reaper's glasses when they are working, don't you?"
Just as Undertaker thought, dear William was here to ruin his fun. "I do believe Grell is not on the clock, so whatever violations do you speak of?"
William sighed. "I do apologize, sir, for this intrusion but I need to collect that feeble excuse of a reaper you have drooling all over your merchandise. He has failed to return to the shinigami realm and file his reports. As such, I am here to forcibly bring him in."
"Is that so?" Undertaker muttered, quite unhappy to hear this information. He stood up, giving Grell a quick glance before looking back at William while still wearing the red-framed glasses. "When's the last time you laughed?"
The question caught William off guard and so did Undertaker's eyes. He looked away and scoffed. "I… I'm not here to discuss myself. Don't try and change the subject. No matter who you are, or how persuasive you are with those eyes of yours, I still have to follow the rules."
"Psh! Rules..." Undertaker chided. "It was a direct question, William. To think you have forgotten how to laugh is very sad indeed."
William narrowed his eyes. "I laugh all the time, I'll have you know."
"Liar," Undertaker challenged.
William frowned and pushed his glasses up with his scythe again. "What is it that you want, Undertaker?"
A smile grew across Undertaker's face. "For you to leave Grell right where he is, that's all."
The dark-haired shinigami blinked. "Why? What are you planning on doing to him?"
"Oh… a little of this and a little of that," Undertaker mused. "I owe him a great deal for all the hard work he's done for me today, you see. And it would be terribly impolite for me to ebb on my promise."
This information confused William greatly. "Grell worked with you today? Hardly, he's the laziest reaper in our division."
"Oh, but it is quite true," Undertaker pledged. "Let me keep him for tonight and I'll send him off to you in the morning ready to work twice as hard. I'll eat my hat if he doesn't."
William grunted. "Foolishness, not even you, a legend, can perform that kind of miracle." But it could be pleasurable to see Undertaker eating his hat. William might actually laugh then.
"Then what would you have me do for this one request? Hmm…?" Undertaker wondered merrily.
Now this was interesting, William thought. "Alright, you can keep this pest for whatever insane reason I cannot fathom, if you help us out on an upcoming mission. There will be many souls to reap and, sadly, I am low on staff. Everyone is sick or on holidays and it all seems to be at the same time."
Undertaker chuckled. "It's always like that no matter what job you do," he said with a wave of his hand. "Alright, I will assist you. Now, will that be all?"
William nodded. "Yes, that is all." He directed his eyes at Grell who was scratching his butt while he slept. The supervisor rolled his eyes. "Goodnight, sir."
Lacing his fingers together with eyes all lit up and a huge smirk on his face, Undertaker spoke sweetly, "Goodnight, dear William."
He-he-he!