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.
Ronald's mouth hung open.
Within the dimness of the shed, Grell's teeth glinted as she bared it into a grin. "Why, isn't that what you'd usually do with Alan, love? Speaking of positions, I'm sure you know loads more than I do. You'd probably not only wrote the book, but published it under a pseudonym as well!"
Amidst Eric's howls of protest, Ronald tentatively said: "C-can we change topics, please? I don't think I'm comfortable with this." He reached for the whiskey and took a nervous swig.
"Why not? We should call this-" at this point Eric adopted a scholarly stance, "'The Discussion Pertaining William's Willy'."
"Amen to that," Grell solemnly said, clinking shandy bottles with him.
"Before the both of you got together, we all thought that Boss has never had a shag his whole life," Eric said. "I mean, quite possibly the closest thing he's had a horizontal bop with was his desk…and that's only by accident! I dunno how you managed to coax him into it, princess, but my hat's off to you. He's someone who struck me as being more prudish than a nun. However-" he pressed on in the middle of their laughter, "that man'd sooner lick Sebastian Michaelis's arse than admit it…but any idiot with eyes can see that he's crazy about you, love. I ain't never gonna lie about that."
"Oh, Eric…that's really nice of you to say. Thank you."
"Anytime, love. An-y-time."
The three of them lapsed into a momentary comfortable silence. By now the rollup had long gone and their livers had joined the convivial organ cookout, leaving them tripping the light fantastic in whatever level of consciousness they were in at the moment. Grell was positive she saw a family of tricorn-wearing marmots zip past.
Eric grunted and patted his pockets. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to the other two.
"Ooh, champion. Ta', senpai," said Ronald gratefully. "Y'know, I think it's about time we got back."
"Mmh, sure thing. After this ciggie," said Grell, leaning over so that Eric could light hers.
...
William could sense it. His Grell Radar wasn't picking up any signals, but then that was because of a glaring lack of boisterous red anywhere in the hall. He excused himself from the main table and stalked towards his underlings' table, where he found Alan sitting quietly all by himself.
"Humphries, where're the other three?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"Eric's gone to the loo, Grell said she needed to pop into the kitchen to powder her nose, and Ronald's outside…keeping watch over the carriage wheels."
"Carriage wheels."
"Yes. This is London. You never know…they might get stolen."
William took a deep breath, telling himself to not lose his temper until he found those idiots.
Wordlessly, he left and made his way outside. If there were anything he's really good at (which was a lot), it'd be to sniff out trouble. But in this case, all he had to do was find Grell's scent and follow it.
The scarlet Reaper was an Elizabeth Bathory of perfume. She wore them like a battering ram: it, along with her reputation precedes her. It would sweep along in her wake, leaving a trail of mass destruction; and she'd happily imagine that butterflies were following her, when in truth all it did was act up people's sinuses. Grell was a walking biohazard, and William swore that if he'd wanted to clear an area, all he had to do was drop her there.
Thinking of her brought him back to the rather unpleasant phone call by the Director earlier that day. A copy of her evaluation report was on his desk, and William scanned through them, taking note of key words while he half-listened to the old man at the other line.
The prognosis wasn't good at all. He caught descriptions of 'split personality', 'borderline bipolar disorder', 'psychotherapy treatment' and 'possible danger'. His frown deepened even further. He knew exactly what they all meant, and needless to say, he was far from enthusiastic with their so-called 'expert observation'.
He may not be well schooled in that area, but he was positive that their shock and water treatments does more damage to patients. For all her spunky personality, Grell would never survive this. Nobody can. He might as well have signed her death warrant. The moment he'd allow this to go through, he'll lose his Grell forever.
There. He'd said it. His Grell. Nobody else's but his.
The truth was…while he'd never agree with it, he understood why she did what she did. Since the beginning, he was careful enough to outline the possible landmines of their relationship.
Children.
How can he make her understand that he didn't mind not having any? They're already happy together, aren't they? William wasn't a man susceptible to fear, yet the thought of no longer having that red, noisy ball of energy causing chaos in his life was…petrifying.
He was brought back to reality by the Director's sharp tone. He curtly told the other man that he will put his personal attention into the matter and bade him goodbye.