Blood was everywhere. It covered his hands and stained his coat. He leaned against a tree, eyes wide and pupils blown. His breathing was too fast, his knees too weak. Sliding down the tree trunk and sitting on the dirty forest floor, he stared at the two corpses next to him. They were messy. He couldn't quite believe that he had killed them. Back when he worked for Ciel he would never have made such a mess of himself. His coat would have been clean, his hands clad in spotless gloves.
Yet there he was, sitting in the dirt covered in blood, with two of the most gruesome corpses he'd ever created. He was starving. He mourned the days when he'd had a contract, and a guaranteed meal. Or at least, when he'd believed he had a guaranteed meal. But those days were gone, along with the name Sebastian Michaelis, and now he was a wild, nameless beast with no tamer.
If he'd been in better sorts, he would have heard the footsteps that tainted the silence of the moonless night. But instead all he heard was the ringing of his own ears, and then it was too late. A pair of stiletto-clad feet appeared next to the bodies, and then the end of a chainsaw dug into the ground next to them.
He lifted his head wearily, and blinked to clear his blurred vision as he stared up at the being in front of him. Due to the combined effects of the dark and his own ill health, he could just barely make out the familiar features of the scarlet reaper he'd encountered so long ago.
"Grell," he said, and then coughed violently, "it's been a while since we last tried to kill each other."
Visions of the two of them locked in a vicious yet beautiful dance of death flashed in his mind. He remembered Grell's bloodthirsty taunting grin and the snide jabs they'd thrown at each other. It seems like a whole lifetime ago.
"What on earth is wrong with you?" Grell isn't grinning now. She looks more serious than when they'd last met, sadder, somehow. She doesn't try to flirt either, which throws him off. Does he really look that bad?
He must be taking too long to answer her question, because she looks him up and down grimly, and then surveys the state of the two bodies.
"Scott Harvey and Karen Mills." It's not a question, it's a statement and her tone makes him uncomfortable. It's too direct. Grell isn't direct or serious; she dances around topics daintily, decorating death with pretty words and dramatic flair. But then, he supposes, this entire situation is something completely out of the ordinary.
"You're here for their souls." He hacks a bit, and a vile substance with the consistency of clotted blood and inky black in color runs down his chin. He wipes his chin with his hand, but ends up smearing blood on his face well.
He's mortified. He's a prideful creature after all, but Grell doesn't laugh or mock at him. Her red lips don't even begin to twitch into the smallest hint of grin. She just looks tired. He's grateful in that moment, for possibly the first time in his life.
"You can't have Scott Harvey's. I took it. I tore it from him." He stands up weakly, and leans limply against the tree, watching Grell warily.
"I know. However, I'm not here to collect souls." She inspects her nails for a second, "I didn't realize you were so out of the loop. I don't work for the Dispatch anymore."
He stares at her. If he'd been feeling better, he would have smirked and said something witty, but he can't quite muster the energy now, so he settles for staring.
"Well," she continues, laughing bitterly, "I don't know if they've officially fired me or not, but I certainly haven't done my job in a long time. At the very least, I have a hell of a lot of overtime."
She grins then, but it's a cold, self-deprecating grin. It's not the grin she wears when she fights or reaps. It's a startlingly human grin and he doesn't like it.
"What's wrong with you Sebastian?" She asks again, but he can tell that this time he's not going to get out of answering it.
"My name," he says, "is no longer Sebastian."
Grell raises an eyebrow.
"Ciel's dead," she says, her voice matter-of-fact.
"He's dead, but I didn't kill him." He's having trouble organizing his thoughts into sentences that make any sort of sense, but Grell's smart. He wouldn't have admitted it before, but he knows it. She's smart, possibly smarter than him, and she can guess what he's trying to say.
"You didn't eat his soul. Why didn't you complete the contract?"
"He was sick Grell. Really sick. Medical science wasn't what it is today."
She hums thoughtfully and then stares at him. Then, she starts nudging the bodies with her foot. His eyes flutter closed and he's nearly asleep. He's drifting on the plane between consciousness and nothingness when she slaps him hard across the face.
"Wake up Sebastian." She pinches his arm painfully with her nails, "we're leaving."
He must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing he knows, he wakes up in a dark room, with light filtering in from between the slats of a boarded up window. He sits up slowly, and hacks up more black gunk. It stains his already filthy gloves further, and his vision in hazy as he stares at them.
"Hello Sleeping Beauty," Grell singsongs, her entirely too loud voice interrupting the throbbing in his head.
Narrowing his eyes at her and getting to his feet, he begins to try and wipe some of the filth from himself with his handkerchief. Given that he's covered in blood, dirt and some sort of demonic death gunk, this doesn't prove to be an achievable task.
"There's a sink in the other room. Cold water, but it'll do."
His head snaps up to look at Grell. He'd forgotten she was there for a minute. Suddenly, he realizes that he and Grell haven't spoken in years, and they hadn't parted on incredibly good terms either. Suspicion suddenly flooded him in a sickening wave, and he buttoned what was left of his tattered tailcoat hurriedly.
"Thank you for your help, but I'll be going now," he turns to walk out the door, but is suddenly slammed against the wall, Grell's arm pressed threateningly across his throat.
"You're not going anywhere Michaelis. Not in that condition anyway. One minute you're half dead in the woods, a couple of the sloppiest corpses I've ever seen at your feet with their souls all but ripped from them and the next you're out the door good as new? I don't think so." She removes her arm from his throat and looks at him for a couple seconds.
He realizes that she was trying to start a fight with him, and he didn't take the bait. It also hits him that she would beat him easily right now; she could kill him in a second without really even trying. It also occurs to him that she didn't.
"Where's your fancy silverware now? No taunting words? No dance macabre? Either you've mellowed out severely since we last seen each other, or you're about ready for my old friends down at the Dispatch to come and gut you, and I doubt it's the former."