A/N: Poppet here. I've been away from the fanfiction writing scene for quite a while and am slowly getting back into it. The following brainchild is the result of a favor to my sister for her English class on six elements in gothic literature. I must warn I'm not very familiar with Cockney or accents in general, although I did some research on 18th century London for this piece. Hope you like it!

London, 1887

It was a dark and stormy night, with thunder clapping and lightning flashing, creating shadows of monstrous skeletons and cobwebs in the shady shop in London's East End. Coffins stood propped against the walls or haphazardly sat on the ground, some with open maws ready to trap and consume the first poor fool who tripped and fell into them. Another strike of lightning illuminated a dark-clothed silhouette sitting behind an autopsy table turned desk, catching a glimpse of silvery-gray hair before darkness took over.

A manic giggle pierced the darkness. "Ah, Poppy," spoke a voice. "I do love nights such as these, when the world is covered in shadows. Such splendid weather." The soft crunch-crunch of careful chewing filled the pause which followed as memories danced in his mind and began to materialize before his eyes—first as grainy and unsteady as an old film, slowly becoming more and more real. It hadn't been too long ago, and he hadn't forgotten. He just wasn't one to remember the past. He'd never been.

London, 1832

A handsome man with square-rimmed glasses and long silver hair sat deep in thought on a bench in the nearly empty St. James' Park, unbothered by the visitors, who passed before him without paying notice to his presence. Not that they should, he mused as he continued staring blankly at the canal. He could stay however long he wanted—a couple hours, a few days, maybe even a month—and probably the only ones who'd see him were the goners. He was tired; he'd been doing his job for far too long to feel anything aside from this frustration and boredom. Maybe I need to quit.

He found himself startled out of his brooding when he noticed a dirty kid of maybe nine or ten years had stopped in front of him. Two pairs of eyes, one lime green and the other black, held gazes till the boy cracked a gap-toothed grin and boldly declared, "Cheese an' Rice!* Ain't you one funny-looking granpops?" A faint frown crossed the man's features.

Grandpop? "Where did you get the impression I am old?"

The boy surprised him by throwing his hands in the air and replying, "S'obvious! Only ol' mens got white 'air. Why else you've white 'air?" At the man's lack of an answer, he nodded repeatedly as if agreeing with himself and shoved his hands into his pockets, wiggling his fingers out the holes in them while shifting from foot to foot and regarding him with curiosity. A couple better-off people (if their clothing was anything to go by) kept to the far side of the walkway and spared disgusted glances at the disheveled kid, who seemed to pay no mind, probably used to it.

Seeing he didn't have any plans to leave, the man asked him, "Where is your mother? The park will close soon."

"Me Mum's gone and me Pa's a good fo' nuthin'," was the boy's casual reply. "Me Mum was a moll* in Covent Garden till she was kicked out when she got sick with the great pox*." He shrugged. "Ah been livin' with the Lewrys out in Whitechapel since Ah can remembuh."

A voice calling out to him made him stop and search for the source till he saw the constable approaching them, who ordered him to get himself back home. The kid grinned and, pointing at the man he'd been speaking to, called back, "Dun worry, Mister Constable! Th'old man here's me mate and will make sure I get back safe." The constable stared at him in confusion and huffed.

"Cease the tomfoolery!" replied the constable. "Or I shall get you into Bedlam* if you keep it up. You had better not be here when I come around." With that, the constable continued his rounds around the park and disappeared in the next bend.

The boy tilted his head at this and turned to look back at his white-haired companion, his eyes slowly widening with understanding. "Are you a ghost?" asked he in a whisper. The man's expression remained unreadable.

"I am a grim reaper," answered him. "A gatherer of souls. A harbinger of death." The child mouthed those words a couple times before daring to ask the reason for him being there. "Even reapers grow tired of their work and must rest," was the response. It was to be expected that the boy would stare at him while he thought about all this, but the self-proclaimed reaper didn't anticipate having a grimy hand being offered to him.

"Me name's Timothy Bramley an', if you dun mind, I'd like to be friends with Mr. Reaper." Surprised, but not repelled, the reaper found his hand slowly rising to shake Timothy's, bringing another imperfect but glowing grin to the cheeky brat's face.

1 - Cheese and Rice: Cockney for "Jesus Christ."

2 - Molly/Moll: slang for prostitute, at least back in 18th-19th century England

3 - Great pox: common name for syphillis

4 - Bedlam: psychiatric hospital