"Honestly, the only business I should have with you is beating your secret out of you and taking you back to the Shinigami Library to answer for your crimes," Grell mumbled dejectedly, unable to draw the fire of the anger he had earlier in the evening.

The Undertaker sighed heavily, and shook his head. He released Grell's hands and walked to a shelf, grabbing a candle and sticking it into a tarnished brass holder. Before lighting it from an already burning lamp, he fished through the pockets of his hanging cloak and produced a large ring jingling with keys.

"I have a proposition for you, Grell. Come downstairs with me, and let me show you some of my secrets. If, by the time we return here, you still feel the need to turn me in to your superiors, I will go with you willingly."

Grell rolled his eyes and uttered, "Oh, alright! But this had better be worth all the trouble you are putting me through."

"I don't think you'll be disappointed," the Undertaker replied gleefully.

Grell followed him cautiously as they walked to a dark wall at the back of the shop. The Undertaker selected a key from his ring and unlocked a door that Grell had not noticed before. It creaked open to reveal a long, rickety staircase. The Undertaker stood in the doorway and beckoned for Grell to continue with him.

"Watch your step. These stairs are fairly steep, and older than you," he said.

Keeping close behind the Undertaker, Grell felt a chill as they descended into the basement. The room they arrived in was too dark to see very well, and as the Undertaker waved his candle around, Grell felt grateful. The brick walls were lined with shelf after shelf, each filled what must easily have been hundreds of jars. What the jars contained were anyone's guess, but Grell was certain that he spied a few previously internal organs floating in the flickering light. He instinctively clutched at the Undertaker's arm, knowing full well that he was the one responsible for the macabre sight.

The Undertaker giggled, "There is no need to fear, sweet child. They won't bite. Besides, I doubt that there is much in my collection that you haven't seen before. You are familiar with the removal of vitals, after all."

"Yes, but we didn't keep them! Well, on second thought, I'm not sure what Madam Red did with those nasty things, and I never cared enough to ask. If she put them on display somewhere, it is news to me!"

Even so, Grell kept his grip on the ex-shinigami's arm as he was lead across the large room. The Undertaker lit a few more candles along the way, and Grell found himself stepping around piles of wooden boards and stacks of velvet and satin. He stopped, pulled off a glove, and grazed his bare hand over a particularly deep red bolt of velvet.

"Ah, you like that, do you? As you can see, this is where I store my coffin-making materials. I am particularly fond of the velvets, myself. So much more warm and inviting than slippery, cold satin. Not that my guests usually mind either way, hee hee. My dolls never complain about their sleeping arrangements, either. It's rather nice, actually."

Grell shivered at the implication, and mentally slapped himself. Why did the creepy bastard have to be so damned charming? Even when he was talking about his horrid experiments, he was smiling, and his unmasked eyes glowed like two fireflies. Perhaps it was sheer insanity making them shine so brightly; perhaps that was just what happened when a shinigami reached the age of what one might call 'ancient.' To distract himself, Grell yanked the watch from his pocket and glared at its face.

That ridiculous laugh echoed through the basement tunnels, "Too late, my dearie, too late. The ship is already midway through its final farewell. Your bright-eyed student, that incorrigible demon that you are so fond of, and his poor little slave-driving master are certainly quite beyond your reach now. You might as well just follow me to your own fate. I, myself, am curious as to how this all might play out."

The little annoying part of Grell's conscience told him that he should have been whipping out his scythe and doing his best to pin this unhinged freak to the wall. However, the weight of his situation, emotional exhaustion, and utter frustration chose that moment to hit him like a fist. It was too much. He burst into tears, wailing loudly enough to stop the Undertaker in his tracks.

With an uncharacteristic frown, he said, "Now, now, don't get so upset! It simply breaks my heart to see a lady cry!"

The Undertaker wrapped his arms around Grell and pulled him into a tight embrace. Grell started to lift his hands to push him away, but found he lacked the willpower to fight back. Instead, his own limbs encircled the mortician's waist, and he allowed the beast to caress his back consolingly, while he buried his face in the mane of silver hair drifting over his shoulder. Why was this horrible man so hard to resist? Was Grell so starved for affection that even the slightest bit of kindness would conquer him? While the tears continued to flow, he suddenly recalled a lesson from his training so long ago. His instructor had mentioned a famously talented shinigami whose power was so entrancing, the dying would seek him out, and beg him to take their souls. He could not help but wonder now if he was being comforted by the very same reaper.

Leaning into Grell's ear, the Undertaker whispered softly, "Come along with me. I have a place for you to rest, and something to show you that might amuse you. It's just beyond the door in the far wall."

Grell choked back his sobs and leaned on the Undertaker as they continued to the back of the dingy room. Fishing yet another key from his giant ring, the mortician unlocked a heavy oaken door and pushed it open. He ushered Grell inside, and locked it behind them.

"Welcome to my sanctuary. You should be pleased to know that you are the first being besides me that has ever set foot in here. It is my home away from the morgue."

Leading him to an overstuffed but comfortable chair, the Undertaker finally let go of Grell and bade him to sit. As he proceeded to light several candelabras around the small space, Grell's eyes widened.

The décor was decidedly less morbid than what he had come to expect from the Undertaker, aside from the oversized coffin pushed against the wall. One small desk was littered with papers, notebooks, and various anatomical drawings. Several bookshelves adorned the walls, each draped in purple velvet and packed with books on subjects ranging everywhere from medieval history to American politics. The floor was covered with an elaborately detailed oriental rug; the kind that might be seen in one of Lau's opium dens. The table to Grell's right drew his attention almost immediately.

Like the shelves, it was topped by velvet, though black instead. Various trinkets and mementos ornamented it, including a crystal vase filled with dried roses, a lock of golden hair, a laughing Buddha statue, and a printed poem in a silver frame. In the middle sat a familiar purple book. Grell gasped.

"Is that . . . it is! It's a bound record!"

The Undertaker kept smiling as he sat on the big coffin's lid and began to unbuckle his boots. He let Grell stew in surprise as he pulled off each, before unrolling the dark stockings and casting them aside. He crossed one thin leg over the other and ran his spidery fingers through his hair.

"How very observant of you, my dear. Yes, that is a bound record. A very special one, at that! I'm feeling particularly generous tonight. Why don't you take another sip from your bottle to calm your nerves, and I'll tell you all about it."

Not having to be told twice, Grell poured a few drops of liquid onto his tongue and waited. His conscience told him that he should still be fighting, but since when had he ever listened to that annoying voice? It sounded like William, for heaven's sake! No, his curiosity held sway, as usual, and he watched the handsome shinigami as he tiptoed across the rug and fingered the golden curls on the table.

The Undertaker began, "I was once enamored of a mortal woman. It really wasn't that long ago, considering my age, but fate is a funny mistress. She was brilliant, beautiful, and so talented. She wrote a book when she was quite young that proved to be quite an inspiration to me and my work. It was intended as a work of fiction, but she had inadvertently stumbled upon great truths in her fancy. My infatuation was silly; I know this now, but at the time, she invaded my every thought, every dream! I admired this woman from afar, as I had no idea how to approach her. There was one occasion, when her father passed, where I was able to properly converse with her. She was polite, charming, and even more quick-witted than I pride myself to be. We talked about many things, and agreed to meet on a happier occasion to speak further. We did, and had many riveting conversations, but that was about it. Once I realized that she had eyes for no one but her dead husband, I gave up hope of even attempting anything beyond a casual acquaintance. I settled back into my work, trying to forget and before I knew it . . . well, mortal lives pass so quickly, don't they?"

Grell listened with fascination, his bright green eyes transfixed to the elder shinigami as he held the lock of hair to his lips. He had grown quite tipsy on the amount of laudanum he had consumed, only stared at his captor before asking, "What happened to her?"

The Undertaker returned the hair to its resting place and brushed his fingers over the top and spine of the book lovingly, before grasping it with his hand and hugging it to his chest. His familiar, overt smile attempted to return, but it didn't grow as broad as it normally did. He tapped his fingers on the back cover as if it were a drum.

"She died," he said sadly, then handed the book to Grell.

Grell could feel the Undertaker watching him as he opened the book to its frontispiece. He gasped at what he saw.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley

Date of Birth: 30 August 1797

Date of Death: 1 February 1851

Cause of Death: Tumor of the brain

Dispatched by Grell Sutcliff

Grell stuttered, "My gods, she was one of mine! And you've held onto this for forty years? I . . . wish I could remember. For what's it worth, I am sorry."

Now Grell knew he was drunk. The closest things he ever made to apologies were the insincere shows of remorse he liked to put on for William's benefit. He glanced away in embarrassment, and chewed lightly on his lower lip. Why did he even care? He had reaped hundreds, if not thousands of souls in his lifetime; why should this one be any different? And why the hell was he trying to comfort the Undertaker? As if this night weren't strange enough!

"Think nothing of it, Grell. You were only doing your job, and had I been in your shoes, I would probably have done the same. From what her son told me, she had been incredibly ill for a long time, and was waiting for death to release her. He said that she had joined his father and siblings at last, and that she was finally at peace. The poor man was quite distraught, but adamant about carrying out her final wishes. She had requested my services when her time came, and had made a rather odd request that she knew I would honor. You see, she had kept her husband's heart, which someone had rescued from his funeral pyre, and wanted to be buried with it. I obliged, of course. He had been dead for almost thirty years, and it was little more than overly-dried meat at that point, but I placed it in her coffin just the same. I also clipped a lock of her hair. And, before you ask, yes, it is that very lock of hair lying on her altar. Her son, Sir Percy, wanted her to be buried in Bournemouth, where he had just purchased a manor house, so that she would be close by. I drove the funeral coach myself, all the way to Dorset, and dug her grave in Christchurch Cemetery. It was the least I could do. Not long after, Sir Percy and his wife called upon me again, because they wanted to transplant the remains of Mary's parents to her crypt. It was all rather unorthodox, but the area where they were buried had fallen into ill repute and they wanted to have them all in the same plot. I admired their devotion, as foreign to me as many human customs, and agreed to assist them. I distinctly recall sitting in the driver's seat of the carriage containing those coffins, with rain pouring down, as Percy argued with the groundskeeper to let us pass. We were eventually let through, and I dutifully stacked those caskets on top of hers. Such a fascinating family! And to think that you of all people were a part of the story as well. It's too strange to be a coincidence."

Grell was enjoying the tale, becoming more entranced with the Undertaker's strange, lilting voice. He said nothing as the Undertaker sat down at his feet and leaned back against his weary legs. Grell grasped at his last straw to keep the conversation going, as he was entirely unsure of what might happen next. If he had had any warning about what this day and night was going to throw into his lap, he would never have gotten out of bed!

He pretended to ignore as the Undertaker's hands caressed his calves, and picked up the framed piece of poetry. It had obviously been cut from a book, and the printed page read:

A DIRGE

By the Author of Frankenstein

1831

This mourn my gallant bark, love

Sail'd on the sunny sea;

'Tis noon, and tempests dark, love

Have wreck'd it on the lee.

Ah, woe! Ah, woe! Ah, woe!

By spirits of the deep

He's cradled on the billow,

To his unwaking sleep.

Thou liest upon the shore, love

Beside the swelling surge;

But sea-nymphs ever more, love

Shall sadly chant thy dirge.

O Come! O Come! O Come!

Ye spirits of the deep!

While near his sea-weed pillow,

My lonely watch I keep.

Far from across the sea, love,

I hear a wild lament,

By Echo's voice for thee, love,

From Ocean's caverns sent:-

O List! O List! O List!

The spirits of the deep—

Loud sounds their wail of sorrow,

While I forever weep

"She wrote that one," the Undertaker said before Grell could comment, "and I kept it here to remind me of how she was devoted to her husband, and that was how it should have been. You've probably read his poetry. He was quite accomplished, and I probably would be just as enamored of him as I was of her, had our situation been different."

Grell blindly replied, "Oh, you mean Percy Bysshe Shelley? Of course! I've always loved his work, believe it or not. He always had such an intriguing grasp on both the morbid and sublime. He died far away, though, didn't he? I don't recall any of my colleagues bragging about claiming his soul."

"He drowned off the coast of Italy in 1822, so I would imagine that the reapers of that jurisdiction caught him. But yes, you are correct. His talent was immense, and I cannot blame sweet Mary for clinging to him. I've tried my best to hold no particular grudges against him, mind you. I just wish that she had been able to let go. Alas, she did not, and the poem stands as a monument. It reminds me that she was never mine to begin with, and that it is folly for one like me to pine after someone like her. No one is at fault; fate just had other plans," the Undertaker explained.

With a nod, Grell shifted in his seat. He was still contemplating the story when he noticed that the Undertaker began paying close attention to his heeled shoes. When the mortician started to unlace the strings of his right boot, he cleared his throat.

The elder shinigami laughed, "Oh, I just thought that your feet must be very worn out by now. I know that mine are. Just sit there and relax. I swear, on the artifacts of that table, that I mean you no harm."

While Grell still had his lingering doubts, he allowed the Undertaker to pull the shoe from his right foot. His bony hands crept up his pant leg, and unhooked his stocking from the garter situated just above his knee. He tugged the stocking free of Grell's foot, then kissed his painted toes and rubbed them playfully. The mortician's careful touch sent unbidden shivers up to Grell's brain and back down to his lap, causing a certain organ to twitch. He had been afraid of this, but, at this point, he didn't care in the slightest. He had no idea if it was the laudanum, the Undertaker's strange, intoxicating power, or utter exhaustion at the whole ordeal that made him give in. Right now, it didn't matter. Grell even smiled when his captor's attention averted to his other foot, and he welcomed the ensuing pleasure.

"So, you aren't worried at all about your Bizarre Dolls or the repercussions from them?" Grell asked dreamily, feeling a million miles away from the predicament aboard the Campania.

The Undertaker continued to massage Grell's feet, until the red reaper leaned back on the chair, closing his eyes in contentment. Grell's breath hitched when he felt the scarred face of his elder rubbing up the length of his leg before settling on his lap. His trousers had already become uncomfortably tighter with each gentle touch he had received, and he felt his unfortunately and decidedly male member grow even more engorged when the beautiful, scarred face nuzzled against its bulge.

"No, not really. That fate has already been decided. Why not enjoy what we have right now? Besides, it appears that you have warmed up to me already. Hee hee." the Undertaker breathed, as his hand squeezed Grell's right thigh.

Grell could not suppress a small chuckle before he grabbed the Undertaker's bangs and drew his face up to meet his eyes. He was tired of the games, and ready for the evening to commence.

"I see. Well, in that case, I will offer you some advice. If you're trying so hard to get in there, the least you could do is kiss me first."

The Undertaker paused in his ministrations, and broke into a fit of giggles worse than any others he had offered the entire night. Grell felt his anger building, but before he could react, the Undertaker sprang up on his knees, grabbed his head, and fused his lips to Grell's scowling mouth. Once the elder shinigami's tongue snaked through and met Grell's, all apprehension was lost.

xxx

Lemony goodness is on the way!

In case anyone is interested, the poem ,"A Dirge," was printed in the 1831 edition of The Keepsake. If you would like more info, let me know! I have my own copy! (And yes, I suck at proper citation.)

Thank you so much for reading!