Pretty Little Princess, a kuroshitsuji fanfic

"Pretty Little Princess"

An Undertaker/Vincent one-shot

Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) and all characters therein belong to Yana Toboso. I make no profit from the writing of this fanfiction, and it is strictly for entertainment purposes only.

The Undertaker sat on the stool in their bedroom, practically sulking as his now immortal lover deftly braided his long silver tresses into twin weaves. Vincent left the thin braid dangling from the right side of the mortician's head free from the larger two he was weaving, and the Undertaker grimaced when he completed the second loose braid and tied it off with a purple ribbon. He glanced at the standing oval mirror and he adjusted the glasses made for him by his old friend Lawrence, meeting the former Earl's blue-swirled eyes through the reflection.

"It's times like these you live up to your old title as the 'Evil Nobleman', my dear."

Vincent's handsome face maintained a fairly neutral expression as he looked back at him in the mirror, but for the smirk on his lips. He stroked the Undertaker's braids with a casually possessive hand and he cleared his throat—possibly to keep from laughing. "Now, now, my love. Don't be a sore looser. I honored the terms of our last bet when I lost it and it's only fair that you should do the same."

The reaper grumbled under his breath before answering aloud. "But my terms were fun for both of us! This is just humiliating."

"Since when do you possess so much as an ounce of shame?" Reminded Vincent with a chuckle. He bent over to kiss Undertaker's cool, pale cheek. "Now remember what you are to say when you greet people or whenever anyone asks about the braids. Come now, let me hear it."

Undertaker almost poked his bottom lip out in a pout. "I'm a pre'y li'l princess."

"Without the cockney accent, if you please," remonstrated the altered noble. "Those reapers you've begun to work with must be able to understand you clearly, dearest."

The mortician huffed and he straightened up, speaking in a clear but deliberately high-pitched voice. He batted his silver lashes at Vincent through the mirror. "I'm a pretty little princess…tee-hee!"

Vincent laughed in delight, and he patted the ancient on the head before bending over to kiss the pierced shell of his ear. "Wonderful. I do love the way your ears show with these braids, you know. I have always had a weakness for these cute, tempting ears." He nibbled the sensitive lobe, making the reaper shiver with pleasure. "The way they stick out just a bit, even when your hair is down. Very nice."

"Keep teasing me like that and I'll be late for my shift," warned the Undertaker seriously. "I can only behave so much, darlin'."

Vincent smirked again and he straightened up. "Later…when you return home from work. Be a good sport about it and I shall reward you—but I'd better not find out you took these braids out at any time during the day. I will have you know that I've already borrowed your strange reaper phone to contact one of your associates and he has agreed to inform me if you break the terms of our bet at any time."

"Yeah? Which one?" Undertaker got up and reached for his top-hat, hanging on the nearby coat tree.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Vincent snatched the hat from the mortician's hand. "And no head-wear, if you please. I want everyone to see how pretty you are."

The reaper huffed, realizing Vincent must have guessed his plan to stuff the braids up underneath the hat once he got to work. "Evil, love. You're evil."

"I'm simply a man that knows how his lover thinks," corrected Vincent coolly. "No loopholes, Undertaker."

There was a knock on their front door and they both looked through the bedroom threshold at the hallway. "That will probably be your associates," guessed Vincent. "Best greet them, my lovely princess."

William was in mid-knock when the Undertaker opened the door to greet him and Ronald. The Dispatch supervisor blinked at him with open surprise, and his blond companion looked as though he might bust a bullock laughing at any moment.

"Ho shit," Ron exclaimed, his voice muffled behind his gloved hand. "He really went through with it!"

Now Undertaker knew whom Vincent had charged with "babysitting" him for the day, and he compressed his lips and gave Ronald a less-than-friendly look, even as he greeted the two of them the way Vincent insisted. Forcing a smile on his pale lips, the mortician faked a curtsy. "Hello. I'm a pretty little princess."

William stared at him, and he politely coughed behind his hand. "I…beg your pardon, sir?"

The ancient huffed in annoyance and repeated himself, louder this time. "I'm a pretty little princess. Shall we go, gentleman?"

Ronald backed up and started snickering into his hand, while his superior raised an elegant brow in a questioning manner. "I…see," William said, ever polite. "If you say so, Undertaker."

Vincent came up behind his Shinigami lover and he stroked the Undertaker's shoulder casually. "Well then, have a lovely work day, princess. Do take care not to sully your pretty braids on the job. Mister Spears, Mister Knox, good day to the both of you."

William's perplexed look didn't fade, and he used his scythe to adjust his glasses before nodding cordially to the former Earl. "Yes…good day to you as well, Lord Phantomhive. Undertaker, shall we go?"

"That's 'Princess Undertaker'," insisted the mortician boldly, "and yes, do let's."

William shot a look at Vincent that said he wanted to know the meaning of this, but he was too polite to ask outright. "Er…then let's be on our way. So far your collection count has reached two-hundred and fifty-six. Impressive, for the amount of time you have been with us again."

"That's 'cause I'm trying to get it over with as fast as I can," grumbled the mortician. Dispatch had him by the stones, though. He was charged to collect two-thousand souls in exchange for Father Anderson's release from prison and the promise that they would never come after him or Vincent again—provided he didn't break any major reaper laws in the future. He'd only been at it for a week so far, but he pulled in more collections than any of their active agents.

"Well then," sighed William, "I was unsure of whether you have been keeping count, so I have taken the liberty of doing so myself. Ease your mind and…Mister Knox, please control yourself."

William snapped a glare at his younger companion, who was still snickering helplessly into his hand. Ronald cleared his throat and straightened up, eyes glistening with unshed tears of mirth behind the chunky black frames of his glasses. "Sure, boss. Sorry." He took one look at the Undertaker and he sputtered with laughter again, quickly slapping his hand over his mouth.

William sighed and shook his head. He created the portal to their own realm and he made a graceful gesture, stepping aside. "Shall we, sir?"

With one baleful look at the source of his humiliation, the silver reaper stepped out onto the porch to join his fellows. "I'll see you this evening, dearie," he informed Vincent, blowing him a kiss in an exaggerated feminine gesture.

Vincent smiled and nodded. "Have a wonderful day, princess."

Undertaker sighed again and he followed William and Ronald through the portal.

Undertaker had gotten used to being stared at when he went into the office, and eventually those stares seemed to occur less often—until now. With the thick silver-white braids draping over his shoulders and the purple-black striped ribbons tying them off, he was getting far more looks from the Dispatch agents he passed than ever before. As Vincent observed though: the Undertaker was not a particularly bashful reaper. He waved at each staff member that paused to stare at him and he loudly informed them that it was his "Pretty Princess" day.

He was assigned to work with Eric Slingby while the Scotsman's partner did deskwork. It seemed Dispatch thought they worked well together and they paired them as a team whenever Humphries wasn't on the field with him. As soon as he parted ways with William and Ronald, the Undertaker stepped into Eric and Alan's office to check in. The moment Eric looked up from his paperwork to see him, the Scotsman's brows furrowed.

"Wha' tha hell?" Blurted Eric. "Did yeh lose a bet or something, man?"

"As a matter of fact," answered the mortician, "I did. I'm a pretty little princess."

Alan also looked up, but his response to seeing the mortician's girlish hairstyle was much more reserved. All he did was drop the pen in his hand and he quickly bent over to retrieve it off the carpeted floor. "Er, good morning," welcomed Alan politely.

Eric snorted and looked to the window. "Wha' sort of bet did ya lose, auld man?"

Undertaker shrugged and he leaned against the wall casually. "The sort that inspired my Earl-dollie to play with my hair a bit. Does it really matter? We've got collecting to do, so get off your tush and let's get going."

Eric looked back at him, his gaze amused behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. "Ya seem eager tae get tha day o'er wi'. I'd love tae have been a fly on tha wall when ya took an' lost tha' bet."

"Trust me, it wasn't all that interesting," assured the Undertaker. He took out his pocketwatch and he tapped it meaningfully.

Eric got the hint and he shrugged, getting up out of his seat. "Good thing we go into tha field cloaked from mortal sight; o'erwise I'd be embarrassed tae be seen wi' ya."

"Eric," admonished Alan softly, and then he gave the mortician an apologetic look. "Please excuse my partner's rudeness, sir."

Undertaker cracked a smile. "Why? I'd be poking fun at me too. Besides, he's got braids of his own."

"Not tha sort ya see on little girls," countered Eric with a chuckle. When his partner gave him another warning look, he held his hands up. "Fine, I'll stop. Let's get goin', Undertaker."

"Careful ya dun' break a nail," teased Eric an hour or so later when the Undertaker began to draw the cinematic records from his third collection mark.

The ancient responded by displaying the long black nails of his free hand in a claw-like gesture, and he kept his eyes on his task. "It's a lot harder to break these than you'd think, chap. I've torn faces off with 'em before, truth be told."

Eric grimaced at the casually issued response and he didn't quite doubt the Undertaker's claim. Those talons of his weren't normal—even by reaper standards. "How'd yer nails get like tha' anyhow? I thought only demons had naturally black fingernails."

The mortician finished gathering the reels and he turned to give Eric a toothy, half-maniacal smile. "We all came from the same source, Mr. Slingby…reapers, demons, angels and mortals. Not to mention all those other beings out there you aren't so used to dealing with. I'm a bit different from the younger generations because I was born to a different time, is all. The rest of you lot came after me, and the only one alive today that's nearly as old as I am is the man your bloody Dispatch happens to be holding prisoner."

"Father Anderson," murmured Eric. "Don't get upset, Undertaker. It was jus' a question. I dinnae know an' so I asked."

The Scotsman sighed and he scrubbed his fingers through his wavy blond locks. "None o' us wanted tae arrest Anderson, fer wha' it's worth. He confessed before that boss could even start tae question him, truth be told. Practically turned himself in tae save us tha trouble. He's no' being mistreated—yeh saw tha' fer yerself when ya visited him last."

"A luxurious prison is still a prison," insisted the Undertaker. "Regardless of how well he's treated, his own organization turned on him."

"After he betrayed the organization," reminded Eric. "Look, there's nothin' any of us can do tae change tha board's mind, even if we want tae. Best yeh can do is fulfill tha conditions yeh agreed on an' all we can do is try tae make it easier. Yeh made yer choices an' so did Father Anderson, so dun' be putting blame on us fer doin' our jobs."

The Undertaker sighed and bowed his head, his silly braids dragging the ground by the corpse he'd just collected the reels from. "Right, it's my doing. I understand the message loud and clear, Agent Slingby."

Not without sympathy for the elder reaper, Eric sighed and approached him. He hesitated a moment before laying a comforting hand on the Undertaker's lean shoulder. "At tha rate yer going, Anderson'll be freed by tha end of tha year. Jus' keep it up."

Undertaker nodded and got back to his feet with a sigh. "Nothing much else I can do, lad. Let's have a look at the death list and move it along, yeah?"

Eric was torn between shaking his head in bewilderment and biting back laughter as he accompanied the Undertaker on his assignments, collecting his own assignments on the way as well. There was no doubt that the ancient collected his marks with a surgeon's precision, often finishing up with them in half the time it would have taken Eric to do so—and Slingby was one of the more seasoned reapers in Dispatch. It wasn't the Undertaker's methods that had Eric in a state of near-laughter though…it was his behavior whilst doing it.

"Do ya really have tae shout: 'I'm a pretty princess' each time ya use yer scythe on 'em, auld man?" Eric called out when the mortician finished up collecting his tenth mark for the day.

Undertaker nodded and banished his scythe, shrugging at his younger companion. "Of course. That was the agreement I made with Vincent, after all. I'm to introduce myself that way to everyone—including the mortals I reap."

Eric chuckled and shook his head again. "Cannae imagine wha' these pur souls must think, wi' those being tha last words they hear on this earth. Their souls'll be traumatized."

"Oh, I doubt that," countered the Undertaker with a smirk. "You've seen some of these reels. These folk have seen their share of worse things than me in braids and I'm sure they've heard stranger things than a man declaring himself a pretty princess."

"If yeh say so." Eric was still smirking with amusement. "Much as I wish mah partner was out reaping wi' me right now, I cannae say this hasn't been entertaining. What's tha next target?"

Undertaker checked his death list. "South side. Oh, that's right around my old funeral parlor! I'd like to drop in for a minute and pick up a few books I left behind."

"Ya could always move back in there," suggested Eric as they took to the rooftops and began sprinting and jumping over them. He grunted as he followed the older reaper from the top of the library to the roof of a residential home. "It's no' like yer on tha run anymore."

"Maybe," grunted the Undertaker. "Vincent and I have made ourselves a comfy li'l home out there in the countryside, though. My shop's full of memories—not all of 'em good. We'll have to think about it."

"You could always make tha cottage yer summer home." Eric caught himself as he started to slip on the damp rooftop, and he sighed and reminded himself to be more careful. "Live in London during tha winter an' out in tha country during tha summer. Weren't ya planning tae get back into tha mortuary business after ya finish wi' yer contract anyhow?"

"I'd like to," agreed Undertaker, "eventually. Haven't really had a sit-down with my better half about that yet, though. Mayhap it's time I did, after work tonight."

It felt so strange to refer to it as "work". He hadn't thought of soul collecting that way for ages, it seemed. Aside from the odd moments in the past when he'd helped Dispatch with collections when they were too overbooked to get it all done, the Undertaker avoided doing anything related to his old job. He could even say he felt quite comfortable reaping like in the old days. It felt like he'd never really left, and he frowned in thought.

"Wha's tha matter?" questioned Eric when the mortician suddenly came to a halt at the edge of the next rooftop.

Undertaker shook his braided head, confused and a little disturbed by his revelation. "Nothing…I just…I s'pose I forgot how enjoyable this work could be with a partner. I got so used to talking to the dead I forgot what it was like to exchange banter on the job."

"Thinkin' o' coming back permanently?" Eric asked. "Tha boss would like tha'."

Undertaker shook his head again. "No…reaping isn't for me anymore." Just saying it aloud increased his confidence in his choice. "I'm not that Shinigami anymore, and I don't mean to go back to it. I am rather enjoying this, though. I reckoned it was going to be a miserable year or however long it's going to take me to meet my quota. Must be the company."

Eric chuckled. "Jus' be glad they paired ya wi' me an' no' Grell. He's still holdin' a grudge an' he'd likely try tae mess wi' ya, if he dinnae hang all over ya."

"Hmph. Well, I've got no complaints. You and Knox are entertaining sorts, so I'm happy to keep getting paired with the two of you."

"Feeling's mutual," answered the Scotsman. "Now let's get tha day finished so we can get off work on time an' go out fer a drink at tha pub with Ronnie."

The day passed quickly with the company of Slingby, and as suggested, they went for a drink at the pub with Ronald afterwards. Undertaker took the young blond's teasing with a grain of salt, laughing at himself right along with Ronald and gamely introducing himself to the bartender as a "pretty little princess". Ronald laughed uproariously and he promised to inform Vincent Phantomhive that the Undertaker abided by the rules of his bet perfectly.

After having a drink, they portaled to the cottage that Undertaker shared with his immortal lover and Ronald saluted with a smirk when they walked through the door and found Vincent sitting in the rocking chair by the fireplace, reading a book. The lighting was dim so as not to irritate his light-sensitive eyes. He smiled in greeting at them and he marked his place in his book before standing up. "Well, how was it?"

"He did good," assured the young agent. "Didn't try to take his braids out all day and Eric here says he even told all his marks he was a princess before reaping 'em."

Ronald snickered helplessly at the thought. "Too bad I didn't get assigned t' partner up with him today. I'd have liked to see that."

Vincent looked at the Undertaker with a faintly admonishing expression on his handsome face. "That seems a bit excessive, Undertaker. I never suggested you should say that to the people you reap."

Undertaker shrugged. "You said I've got to introduce myself as the pretty little princess, love, so that's what I did. Doesn't matter that they were dying—rules are rules."

"I see." Vincent covered his lips with two fingers as they twitched suspiciously. "How terribly…inappropriate. Well gentlemen, I've just finished boiling a pot of tea if you would care to partake before you go."

Eric and Ronald shrugged at each other. "It's past visiting hours at tha hospital now, so I've go' nowhere I need tae be right away," said the Scotsman. "Thanks. A cup would be nice."

"I'll get it," offered the Undertaker. "Just make yourselves at home and have a chat while I pour it and bring it out."

The visiting agents sat down on the couch while Undertaker went to get the beverages ready, and shortly thereafter he came out with the tea tray and he set it on the coffee table. Vincent smirked at him as he watched the silver reaper sip daintily from his own teacup. Undertaker handled the china gingerly, having grown so used to taking his tea from beakers instead of teacups. With the girlish braids adorning his hair, it made him look rather feminine and Vincent chuckled softly.

"What are you snickering about?" asked the mortician of his lover, who was sitting across from the three of them in the rocking chair.

"You," admitted Vincent candidly. "You really are a pretty little princess."

Undertaker snorted as Eric and Ron chuckled as well. "I'd get up and curtsy but I might spill my tea."

Vincent's smile broadened and he sipped his own tea with practiced elegance. "Well, how was your day aside from the conditions of the bet?"

"Perfectly smashing," answered the Undertaker without hesitation. He nodded at the satchel he'd brought in with him, sitting against the wall by the front door. "Got to stop by my old shop and I picked up a few more books."

"Oh? How did the place look?"

Undertaker shrugged. "Abandoned. Dusty. A li'l messy. The furnishings are all covered though, so everything's more or less how I left it. Eric here was kind enough to wait for me to collect those books before moving on to our next assignment."

Eric shrugged. "We had plenty o' time before tha next target was due to die. Wasn't a problem."

"Well then." Vincent didn't really know what to say about that. It felt strange to be sitting there calmly discussing the business of harvesting souls with three grim reapers. He found agents Slingby and Knox likeable fellows, though.

"How was your day?" prompted Undertaker. "Did you get the chance to visit Ciel?"

Vincent nodded and he stirred a little more honey into his tea. "For a bit. He was having a very busy day, so I could not stay for more than an hour. I offered to assist him with some of the family business legers but he seemed to have it well in hand, and he's a proud boy."

"Much like his father," observed the Undertaker fondly. "Well, tomorrow's another day and mayhap the little lord will have a more open schedule soon, so you two can enjoy a whole day together."

"I would like that, but honestly I must be careful with such things," remarked Vincent. "The world at large still believes I'm dead. A new queen sits upon the throne and though she hasn't issued any orders to Ciel, he's still known as the "Queen's Guard dog". For his safety, I cannot risk being seen in public with him, but should he require my assistance I would like to give it."

"Why not invite him to come visit here sometime?" Ronald asked with a shrug. "It's pretty secluded if ya don't mind my saying so. Might be a bit dull for a kid, but you're his Dad. I'm sure he'd do it to spend a day with you without risking the busy-bodies spreading rumors."

Vincent considered the suggestion, glancing at the Undertaker. The mortician nodded in agreement with Ronald, and Vincent shrugged. "I suppose that would be acceptable. He could take a commoner's carriage to get here so as not to draw attention to himself when he is leaving the city."

"Good plan, love." Undertaker raised his cup. "You ought to call him tonight and set up a date."

"I will once our guests have left." He considered it rude to speak over the phone while entertaining visitors.

"Ah, tha's a'right," Eric assured after finishing his beverage. "I've go' tae drop by Alan's place an' get some clothes fer him tae wear home from tha hospital. Thanks fer tha tea."

"I shall see you to the door," offered Vincent as Eric and Ronald got up to leave.

He escorted them to the door and he shook hands with them as he bid them goodnight. "Have a lovely evening."

"Back at ya," said Ronald. See you at work tomorrow, Undertaker."

"Until tomorrow." Undertaker waved. Once they were gone and Vincent locked the door, the mortician sighed. "Well, that was an interesting day."

Vincent smiled at him. "You had fun. Admit it."

"Not one bit." Undertaker was grinning though.

Feeling generous, Vincent approached him and he took the reaper's hands in his as Undertaker put his tea cup aside. "Since you have been so cooperative today, allow me to reward you." He helped the reaper to his feet and he began walking backwards toward the narrow hallway, leading him to the bedroom.

Undertaker's grin took to his ears. "Oh goody. I was hoping you'd say something like that before the night finished."

"I have only two conditions," warned Vincent. "One is that you leave the braids in. The other I'm sure you can guess."

"Wear the boots?" Undertaker was quite familiar with that particular request by now, and he chuckled with amusement.

Vincent nodded and smiled back at him. "You know me well."

With that said, he pulled the mortician closer and he kissed him deeply

A week later found Vincent wearing a huge pink bonnet around the house. He wasn't nearly as amicable about it as the Undertaker had been about the braids. He wore a sour look on his face as he went about his daily activities, calculating bills and the budget, doing household chores and writing up a grocery list. When Undertaker came home from his daily collecting, Vincent didn't quite manage a smile for him.

"Look at that sour puss," observed the mortician, taking his hat off to hang it. "My goodness, you would think I'd made a big frilly dress part of the terms of our bet."

"The bonnet is quite enough," said Vincent. "I had to retrieve the mail in this dreadful hat. The carrier looked at me as if I'd just declared myself to be Napoleon Bonaparte."

Undertaker laughed heartily, throwing his head back. "Well, consider yourself fortunate, m'dear. You were only seen by one person. I got to show my braids off to nearly all of Dispatch and a few mortals."

"Well, you wore them well." Vincent smirked, his annoyance slightly salved by the reminder. "I certainly found you adorable in them."

"And your opinion's really the only one that matters to me," remarked the reaper. He closed the distance between them and he put his arms around Vincent. "Don't worry love; I won't make you keep it on when we lay together tonight—unless you're too miffed to be in the mood for a bit of loving?"

"I really should say no," mused Vincent, but all it took was a glimpse of Undertaker's riveting eyes to blow away any chance of that happening. "Why must you be so gorgeous?" He reached up to brush aside the shaggy bangs further, and then he loosened the black ribbon tying Undertaker's hair back to free it from the ponytail.

Undertaker likewise loosened the bonnet on Vincent's head and he removed it for him, tossing it aside carelessly. "I'd ask the same thing of you, my lord. You've already got me in a state."

Glancing down, Vincent grinned at the evidence supporting his lover's statement. "Mm, that didn't take very long."

"Never does," agreed the mortician, and he leaned in to kiss him.

Even as they began to undress and head for the bedroom, Vincent Phantomhive was silently plotting out the terms of their next wager. Perhaps if he won, he would make the mortician wear a dress with his braids.

-The End