Grell's a girl in this one. The Reaper gang're all here except for Undertaker.
Kuroshitsuji and all its characters belongs to Yana Toboso.
To you who took the time to read and comment, I thank you sir/ma'am/miss. Concrits very much welcome.
"Whoah, they should, like, bake this stuff in brownies and give them to rabbits, senpai reaper man. Yeah…that's so cool."
"Nah, nah. Too little, too little. We should give them to the homeless. Didn't they teach you that in sch-hic! *'scuse me* school?"
Grell Sutcliff, Eric Slingby and Ronald Knox were dressed in their evening's finest, crammed comfortably together in the old shed behind the exam hall. They were at their alma mater the London Shinigami Academy, attending the annual company dinner; but right now they seemed more like a group of teenagers skipping the school prom and having their own clandestine party.
Between them, they'd managed to squirrel out food and drinks from the kitchen, all thanks to Ronald's boyish charm. The youngest shinigami also managed to obtain a certain rollup cigarette of dubious nature from one of the staff, guaranteed to 'give him a trippy time', which he was at the moment passing around with the other two.
By now the air was a comfortable haze of three shinigami brains gently sizzling in sweet narcotics and sauteed with alcohol.
"Hey, if I rub this stuff over my body, will I catch fire? Are you sure this is tobacco, Ronniekins?" Grell asked, inspecting the rollup.
"Dunno, they told me it was special tobacco, Miss Grell."
"Pass the whishkey, willya doll? There's a good girl. Cheersss," Eric said, raising a mock toast to them.
Grell sighed. "Wonder what my Will's doing at the moment."
For the first time that year, William was invited to join the main table up front, leaving the rest of his underlings banished into the outer stratospheres of guest tables.
Eric, Alan, Grell and Ronald were like detritus swept aside by the more elite reapers, left behind all sad and alone at table N, hidden from the world by a roman pillar with a hideously large vase of flowers. It was no secret that table N were usually reserved for the…notorious Reapers, and the London Dispatch Branch had been racking notorious points at an alarming rate of late, all thanks to their self-proclaimed Queen of Fruits.
"You know, I think my desk's still around here somewhere. During exams I'd always be in the same row as Will, and I'd spend the whole time just staring at him," she said.
"Did that inspire you to get full marks?" Eric dryly asked, much to Ronald's amusement.
"Well…no. But look at us now. Together at last! I tell you true love conquers all."
"Pfft, I can't believe you had a crush on Boss since school!"
"Whyever not? Only I can understand him, so there!" Grell sniffed.
"Whatever you say, princess," Eric said, passing the rollup to Ronald. "Which reminds me: how'd your psychological evaluation go? They send in the report yet?"
Now it was no longer a secret within the department that after her Jack the Ripper stint, Grell was instructed to undergo a test to determine whether she was fit enough to continue her Reaping duties.
"No, nothing yet. If there were, then surely Will would've told me by now. Oh, I didn't like those doctors at all, Eric! They asked all these creepy, personal questions…and I suspect they're making me give answers that'll prove I'm insane!"
"Tch, bastards. Why didn't you ask me to come along? I'd have taught them a thing or two."
"Nobody's allowed in during the interview…not even Will."
"Quit yer worryin', Miss Grell! The Boss's not going to send you to bedlam!" Ronald said, taking a swig of shandy.
"Yeah," Eric casually said. "Nobody's gonna shag him if he did."
Ronald snorted his drink up his nostrils.
"I mean, seriously," the big shinigami went on as the boy dissolved in a fit of coughs and Grell frantically patting his back. "What kind of woman batty enough – saving yer presence, of course – to do the dirty with him? Even for a 100 quid nobody'd do it. That man's about as cuddly as…as…Ciel Phantomhive! Bwahahaa!"
He was feeling rather witty, even though the other two didn't share his humour. It must've been the alcohol. Or the trippy rollup. Maybe even both. Coupled by the fact that William wasn't there, Eric's tongue was flapping looser than an airport windsock.
"Honestly though, princess…you've been with him long enough, so something must've gone right. How's he in the…you know…" he whistled and made vague motions towards his nether regions.
At this point Grell laughed and said, rather coyly: "Well, wouldn't you like to know."
"C'mon, since we're already on the topic, you might as well do some sharing. I bet you never even told your girlfriends about this," Eric urged, and then added a line he'd overheard from the accounting department. "So spill, girl."
"Hush, love. A lady never tells her bedroom stories."
Ronald gave a final sneeze before saying: "Are we really going to talk about the Boss's…er..?"
"Bollocks. I know you're dying to tell, Grellibean."
"Well, I don't have any complaints so far-"
"Hah! I knew it! Boss is a complete sex freak, isn't he? I bet he makes you dress up as a police constable, then perform a strip dance upside-down from the ceiling, and then once you're naked, he'd ask you to crawl towards him and say 'You're under arrest' in five different languages and positions. Am I right?"