Despite my burning need to delve into this subject with Grell, I am but a simple cissexual girl. I've tried my best to explore what this headspace would be like, but as someone who isn't trans, I can never know for sure what it's really like. So, I apologize for any inaccuracies when it comes to that subject and that state of being. Insight and constructive criticism would be helpful.
Also, this is my first time writing Grell, and since I'm writing a side of her many probably don't consider that only adds to what are probably innumerable flaws in my characterization of her.
Basically this thing sucks and I'm sorry.
Also I'm not sure if I could tell you if this is animeverse or mangaverse. Probably some convenient hybrid of the two?
1. Grim reapers weren't known for their parenting skills or for being particularly loving, but for reasons even she didn't know for quite some time, Grell felt that Master and Mistress Sutcliffe were especially cruel to her.
And for quite a long time, she never really understood why she felt this way. She was raised in the decadence that befits a well-to-do Reaper family, they kept a roof over her head, fed her, clothed her, paid for her education and gave her all the opportunities she needed to succeed in their race's trade. They never raised a hand against her, rarely insulted her on purpose, and would acknowledge her presence when she walked into a room. By the standards of their people, they were absolutely coddling.
And yet. Something felt wrong, something hurt. Something hurt terribly whenever they cut her hair short. Something hurt terribly when Mistress Sutcliffe reprimanded young Grell for using her mother's makeup or trying on her mother's dresses. Something hurt terribly when Master Sutcliffe let out a long-suffering sigh and told her she was a little too old to still be wearing a gown. Something hurt terribly when she looked at the portraits in the Sutcliffe manor and saw a young boy with red hair staring sullenly from where she could've sworn she'd stood when they painted the portrait.
Something ached deep in her stomach when they introduced her as their son.
But she didn't know what. What was it, what primal, basic thing reacted so violently to every time they told her that boys shouldn't do this, boys should do that, boys are sons and sons should stop trying to put on their mothers' makeup when they reach a certain age?
But it wasn't wrong, was it? She was their son, the little Sutcliffe boy with the bright red hair. People had been calling her that for so long, they couldn't possibly be wrong. People didn't make mistakes for that long.
Did she really have any right to feel hurt when nobody was doing anything wrong?
On a birthday of hers- she didn't remember the exact year (time was a little… funny in the Reapers' world), only that she looked like a teenager at the time- her parents let her dress however she liked for the banquet. After all, the party wasn't really for her. She was a member of the aristocracy, and all the parties among aristocrats (no matter the occasion) were just elaborate arenas where the affluent and important dueled with wits, words, and wealth. The least they could let her have was some choice.
She'd dressed to the nines in a scarlet gown to match her hair, accented it with some golden jewelry borrowed from an aunt, brought out her best features with Mistress Sutcliffe's makeup, wove her hair into a tight and elegant braid (she did so hope they'd let her keep it long for just a while more; she wanted to play with it a bit before chopping it all off again), and finally brought the stilettos she'd acquired in secret out of the wardrobe.
At the party, she felt like a vision in red. All the uncomfortable shifting from people who knew her and whispers behind her back dampened the mood, but the gown and makeup were armor against their slings and arrows. It was a feat to get her down when she was looking her best. She ate, she danced, she gossiped and chattered while skillfully ignoring the myriad eyes glued to her skirts.
Grell passed her mother and another wealthy Reaper in conversation. She didn't know the man talking to Mistress Sutcliffe, and he didn't know Grell. But he did know the crimson of Grell's braid.
He smiled, as warm as a Reaper can manage, and remarked, "Is that your daughter, Mistress Sutcliffe? She's quite a beautiful girl."
Grell stopped dead in her tracks. She tucked her head down, trying to hide her face, but she couldn't hide the wide, toothy grin stretching across it. Mistress Sutcliffe's daughter. The beautiful Sutcliffe girl. Something clicked in her mind in a way nothing else ever had. That was her. That was her. Oh, she'd known intellectually that "the Sutcliffe family's son" was her, but this. Something about this was earth-shatteringly right. She couldn't help but giggle to herself, her face as red as her hair.
Mistress Sutcliffe sighed, pushing air up and out from the bottom of her lungs as she adjusted her glasses and tucked some scarlet hair back into place behind her ear; "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Mister Dabney. That would be my son."
As those words carved a hole in her, Grell finally knew exactly why she felt Master and Mistress Sutcliffe were especially cruel to her.
2. Meeting William T. Spears for the first time was supposed to go better than this. She'd done done everything right. She'd dressed professionally and abided by the dress code, but chosen everything carefully to accentuate her good looks despite the restrictions. Now that she wasn't a slave to the expectations of House Sutcliffe, her hair reached well past her waist, and she'd taken extra time to wash and brush it to make sure it was shining brilliant crimson. Her makeup was tastefully limited so that she could be taken seriously and still look fabulous. She'd worn her favorite red glasses, the ones with the chain on them, just for an extra confidence boost.
All in all, she was looking her best. Nothing could get to her when she was looking her best.
She'd ran over everything she'd learned in her training and her desk work over and over before even leaving for work that day. She'd used the long morning hours to practice against a poor unsuspecting tree everything she'd learned and figure out exactly what she'd need to know during the ever so short afternoon and sluggish night. Not only would she impress him with her looks on her first day out Reaping, but she'd bowl him over with skill, as well.
And she was determined to introduce herself this time. Master and Mistress Sutcliffe wouldn't do it for her, neither would the senior Reaper leading her down the hall. She would put herself out there, make a damn good impression, and he'd see her. Really see her.
The older Reaper opened the door to the conference room, and Grell craned her neck to look over his shoulder and get a glimpse of her new mentor. She caught sight of him fairly quickly thanks to him being the only other person in the room, sitting at the long table and tapping his foot in time with the ticking clock on the wall.
She concluded that William T. Spears was incredibly handsome. Even though his green-gold eyes were nothing special among Reapers, they pierced straight through her, sending a shiver down from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. His dark suit and hair were a lovely contrast to his alabaster white skin. Everything from his stiff, businesslike posture, to his hand clenched just too tight around the shaft of his death scythe, to his mouth just barely restraining a frown of impatience belied his conflicting disdain and respect for his surroundings. He was the very model of cold, cruel beauty. And God did Grell find that irresistible.
William looked over, noticing the young and old Reapers in the doorway for the first time. He stood up and nodded politely to the older Reaper.
"Mister Dabney." William's eyes flickered over to Grell, making her shiver once again; "This is the trainee I'll be taking on, I assume?"
Before Dabney could open his mouth, Grell breezed past him and took William's hand in what she thought was a firm (and what William would remember as 'crushing') handshake, grinning wide and showing off all her bright white teeth. Thank God she was wearing gloves, otherwise he'd know how sweaty he was making her palms.
"Indeed I am, Mister Spears," she chirped, "I'm Grell Sutcliffe. I'm quite excited to be working with you! I've heard about how good you are at the trade, but I hadn't heard a thing about how handsome you were."
William looked her up and down, eyes cutting right through her. She couldn't even imagine what he was seeing, she only hoped he didn't feel that lovely shiver he sent up her spine every time his eyes rested on her. For a brief moment, he looked to Mister Dabney with a quirked eyebrow, then looked back at her and broke the handshake.
He adjusted his glasses with the blade of his death scythe; "Very well, Mister Sutcliffe. Follow me. There's much work to be done."
For a moment, she couldn't hear anything but the words 'Mister Sutcliffe' echoing loud and pounding against the insides of her skull.
Grell bit her tongue and kept up her brittle grin. It didn't matter. It was alright. She was used to it. It was silly to get upset about it. She'd only tried her absolute hardest to make him see. She didn't have any right to be upset. It was fine.
She could hear a voice in her head hissing, "For God's sake just keep your mouth shut and don't make a scene Grell he obviously thinks you're enough of a freak don't go making it worse."
She gnawed on her tongue as she followed her mentor out of the conference room. Meeting William T. Spears for the first time was supposed to go better than this.
3. Ronald tried to understand, bless his heart.
Somewhere along the line he'd realized she wasn't just some drag queen or flamboyantly gay man. He'd realized there was something genuine when she called herself what she really was. And she supposed he'd been courteous about it because she'd been good enough to him when they worked together. She was mostly just being polite, but there was no need to be cruel to him, so courtesy won the day.
And he'd tried. He really had. He tried to correct himself when he called her "he" or "mister". He tried to offer her the same courtesies and compliments he'd give any other lady. And she should've been pleased that he'd put in an effort at all. But everything he did for her was so stiff and lifeless. Every time he called her the right thing, he frowned to himself like he'd just swallowed some bitter medicine. It felt like hearing a familiar song played by an incompetent musician.
It didn't feel like acceptance. It felt like she was being patronized.
And it came to a head when she heard him whisper behind her back, "Christ, why couldn't he just be a normal gay guy instead of… this?"
She stopped being unnecessarily courteous to him, and he stopped trying.
Ronald tried to understand, bless his heart. But in the end, the gap was impossible for him to cross.
4. Grell knows for a fact that she's falling hard for Sebastian when him calling her 'he' just about rips her in two.
5. "You know, you're the funniest joke here, Young Master Sutcliffe."
She doesn't dignify the deserter with an answer. She just switches her clipped walk to a stomping trot, slamming the door behind her hard enough to knock his sign back down again.
The Undertaker chuckles through his teeth; "There isn't a thing in the world more amusing than a fool trying to be someone he's not."
6. Madame Red knew what Grell was the moment they met.
Her heart skipped a beat when the human woman with hair as red as the blood all over her clothes summoned all her courage and wondered, "Oh my, don't you know it's dangerous for a girl to be wandering around alone at night?"
She'd composed herself quickly and replied back with, "I could say the same to you. And the pretty young thing you're cutting up, for that matter."
Grell was perfectly fine posing as Madame Red's butler. She could handle it, because she knew that when they were plotting murder, Grell was her right hand woman. When it was just the two of them, Grell was a lovely girl. Madame Red never made a mistake, and beneath the violence and lovely red hair, it was probably this that made Grell fall for her.
Madame Red would apologize every day for making her play as a man in public; respectfully, she would leave it there. They both knew Grell couldn't pass just yet; nobody would believe she was her maid. And they both knew how little bringing that up again would help matters. Grell would run long fingers through short red hair, along pale white skin, and murmur distractedly that it was nothing. Madame Red would call Grell 'she' and Grell would call her Angelina.
The Madame's weakness at the end was dreadfully disappointing. After all, softness and mercy had their place, and that place was not in the realm of murder. It was such a shame that the Madame had to be so human. But Grell kept her coat for more than just fashion.
After all, despite everything, Madame Red knew what Grell was the moment they met. And she'd always be grateful for at least that.