Ciel looked at the selection of jewelry laid out before him, and he frowned. "Mey-Rin, come here."

The maid immediately joined his side. "Yes, M'lord?"

"You're a girl. Tell me which of these you think Elizabeth would like the most."

Mey-Rin pushed her big, round glasses further up on her nose and she peered over his shoulder at the selection of fine ladies' jewelry. "Oh, it's all so lovely, young master!" She beamed and absently twiddled a lock of chestnut hair hanging down from the fluffy pigtails she kept it in.

"Yes, yes, they're lovely," Ciel sighed impatiently. He looked up at her with a clear blue gaze. "But which do you think best suits my fiancé?"

"Hmm." She considered the various pieces, and she pointed out a whimsical set of pink diamond jewelry, made to resemble flowers. "That one. That definitely suits the Lady Elizabeth!"

He looked at it, and he nodded in agreement. He'd been eyeing that set himself, thinking it served Lizzy's love of "cute" nicely, but he was no girl. "Yes, I see what you mean." He nodded at the store clerk. "I'll take this set, if you please."

Unseen by him, Mey-Rin turned to look out the window, where the footman waited with an expansive umbrella. Snake's eyes met hers through the glass and he offered the tiniest, shy little smile before blushing and looking away. She blushed as well, and she jumped when Ciel called her name.

"Mey-Rin, take this."

She turned and took the bag from him, giving a brief curtsey. "Yes, sir!"

Ciel adjusted his cravat. "Let's go. Elizabeth's train should arrive, soon."

There was a scream from somewhere outside, and Ciel frowned. He went to the door and found Snake staring at something at the end of the block. "What is it?" demanded the Earl as his maid clamored up behind him.

Snake pointed a white-gloved hand at a pair of struggling men down the street. "That man is trying to eat the other man…says Oscar." The one snake that Ciel had allowed him to bring was draped over the footman's shoulder, its tongue flicking in the air.

Ciel almost asked him what in bloody blue hell he was talking about, but then he looked where he was pointing and he saw a rather haggard looking fellow biting into the neck of a struggling gentleman. Blood spilled down the gentleman's fine, pinstriped suit and he made another gurgling cry, before going limp. Part of his throat ripped away as he fell, to dangle from the mouth of his assailant.

"God help us!" someone yelled, and there was a woman's shrill, agonized scream from just a bit further down the street.

As Ciel and his servants watched, several more people were attacked. At first he took the assailants to be homeless, unkempt wretches that must have decided to begin rioting, but then he saw the flesh falling off of one of them and his eye went wide.

"They appear to be coming from the cemetery…says Oscar," observed Snake, speaking through his pet reptile as always. Mey-Rin stepped closer to the exotic footman, and her hand sought out his covertly.

Recognizing the attackers as the undead things that they were, Ciel groaned. "Not this again. I knew it was a mistake to help him!"

"S-sir?" Mey-Rin squeaked.

"Nothing," Ciel sighed. He tensed up a moment later. "Lizzy. Come, you two…we need to get to the carriage and leave, right away!"

Snake kept pace with the young lord and he held the umbrella over his head as they ran through the rainy streets of London. Mey-Rin took up the rear, and she shrieked when they passed a zombie that was making a meal of an old woman.

"M-my lord, they're dead!"

"Yes," agreed the boy with remarkable calm, "and so are we, if we don't hurry. Keep moving!"

They made it to the carriage further down the street, where the chaos thankfully hadn't yet reached. Baldroy sat in the driver's seat of the carriage and he yelled out a greeting when he saw the three of them running toward him.

"What's the hurry?"

Ciel surprised Mey-Rin by opening the carriage door for her and ushering her inside first. "The city is under attack by zombies," he announced. "Take us to the train station immediately, and don't stop for anything! Snake, be sure your pistols are loaded, and should any of those creatures get close enough to touch this carriage, you shoot them in the head!"

"Wait…Zombies?" repeated Baldroy with wide eyes. His cigarette fell out of his mouth a moment later when he witnessed a man get cannibalized a moment later, just across the street. "Holy hell!"

"Hell isn't holy," snapped Ciel impatiently as he got in after Mey-Rin. "We're in! Drive, Baldroy!"

The "cook" wasted no time. He snapped the reins and the two-horse team lurched into motion. Inside the carriage, Ciel braced himself and he checked his pistol. He glanced at Mey-Rin, who was looking out the window of the carriage.

"I think it's time you rid yourself of those glasses," he said, "and take up arms."

Mey-Rin's expression hardened, and she nodded. She tugged the glasses off of her face and handed them over to him, and then she knelt down on the carriage floor to flip her seat open. She withdrew a case from inside of it and opened it to reveal the newest model of a very deadly sniper rifle, which she began to put together while Ciel kept watch for danger. When the firearm was assembled, she loaded it and glanced at her master with narrowed brown eyes.

"Count on me, Young Master."

Ciel nodded in approval. "I shall."

"M-mistress?" Paula looked around hopelessly, her eyes wide in her pale face as the malevolent din pressed in closer.

Elizabeth Midford had a foil in each hand, and she had already cut down two attackers that made it through the rest of the terrified passengers and station workers to them.

"This way!" Called the blonde girl. "Don't panic, Paula! I won't let them hurt you!"

Unfortunately, keeping that promise might prove more difficult than words suggested. All of the recent dead in London seemed to have risen against the living, and though she had fought zombies before—far too recently for her liking—Elizabeth wasn't so certain she could save herself and her handmaid alone. Unsurprisingly, her thoughts weren't really on her own peril, but on her fiancé.

"Oh, I hope Ciel's all right!"

"W-we're the ones about to be eaten, milady!" Paula shrieked and smacked at a reaching zombie with her closed umbrella. Elizabeth promptly put her blades to use, stabbing the creature in the throat with one foil, and in the eye with another. The second strike disabled it, and it fell to the ground, twitching.

"Come on," urged the girl. "We need to reach higher ground! If these are anything like the uglies on Campania, they can't climb!"

She practically dragged the handmaid with her to a nearby ticket booth, and she started to tell her to lift her up so that she could get on the roof and pull her up behind, when she heard gunfire and the whinny of horses. She looked to see a carriage charging down the street to the station, driven by a familiar, rugged blond man. One of the doors was open and she saw Ciel's maid firing a long rifle at the zombie hordes, while the strange footman with patches of scales on his skin shot the nearer ones with a pistol.

"Lizzy!" shouted Ciel Phantomhive as the carriage stopped at the curb. He was inside the vehicle, behind Mey-Rin. "Hurry and get in!"

"Oh, drat!" complained the young lady. "I hate for him to see me like this!"

"Please, just get in, Lady Midford!" urged Paula. "You look lovely! Just go!"

The zombie danger certainly was more pressing than looking cute for her betrothed, at the moment. Elizabeth sheathed her foils, gathered her skirts and ran to the carriage, with her handmaid close at her heels. They got inside and Baldroy chucked a flaming Molotov cocktail into the zombie masses—unfortunately burning a couple of living victims that got caught up in the mob, as well. Mey-Rin blew the skulls of two zombies apart, while Snake shot one in the face when it got too close to the carriage. Ciel covered the two young women climbing into the carriage and he yelled for Baldroy to get a move on, once they were inside.

The Phantomhive coach sped through the streets of London—which were now in chaos as the risen dead sought out the flesh of the living.

The next morning, Undertaker was surprisingly business-like. He helped Grell make breakfast, learning how to use the kitchen appliances with impressive speed. After eating, he asked Grell to go up to the rooftop with him and spar, while the skies were relatively calm. That in itself certainly didn't bother the redhead. He loved to spar and fight, and he knew Undertaker would provide a more than worthy challenge, to him. What got him disconcerted was being told to remove his glasses for the exercise.

"Excuse me?" he sputtered indignantly pausing in the act of lacing up his boots. It felt a bit odd to be back in his usual male attire again, but he knew he would fight better in it than in a dress. "Did you just say that you want me to fight without my glasses?"

Undertaker nodded, sliding his fingers along the crescent blade of his scythe to check for burrs—though he wasn't likely to find any. Grell found himself staring. The slow glide of his fingertips over the glinting metal was unreasonably sensual, to him. It made him think of the way Undertaker handled his body when they made love, and he flushed.

"You need to practice doing without," insisted the older reaper. "Learn to use your other senses. You'll be that much stronger, if you do."

Grell sighed. "Well, I think this is a terrible idea."

"In what sense?" challenged Undertaker. He stopped caressing his blade and he circled around the counter island, reaching out with one hand to cup Grell's chin. "I would not have this pretty face carved up by the angelic host, if they bring the fight to us. Humor me and at least try to hone your other battle senses. If your glasses get damaged or lost during a fight, you may thank me for it."

Feeling a bit like a brat, Grell lowered his gaze and nodded. "Oh, all right. I suppose it can't hurt anything."

Undertaker smiled and rewarded him with a kiss on the lips. "That's the spirit. Don't worry though; I'll be suffering a similar handicap. After we train without glasses I need to practice with them."

"How is that a handicap to you?" If anything, Grell thought it would be more of a handicap to him, because he found the sight of the man in glasses so alluring it might distract him.

"Depth perception is different with the glasses, for one thing," answered the older reaper. "I recognize the tactical advantage it could bring me to fight with clear vision, but I haven't relied on these old eyes of mine in ages. I've got to re-learn how to use them in a fight, just as you've got to re-learn how to go without."

"Why bother with them at all, then?" puzzled Grell. He grimaced as soon as he said it.

~Shut up, you fool! You might convince him not to ever put them on again, and that would be a real tragedy!~

Reminding himself to think with the head on his shoulders rather than the one in his pants, Grell regarded Undertaker with what he hoped was a sincere look of clinical interest.

"Because what could be coming is nothing to play around with," answered the Undertaker somberly. "True, I can hold my own in a fight without the benefit of visual aids, but I know I can do a lot better with my full visual potential than I can without."

Grell shivered involuntarily, imagining the devastation this man could cause. "If you could put a percentage value on your fighting strength without glasses, what would your estimate be?"

"Hmm." Undertaker fell back into the habit of tapping his teeth with his fingernails as he worked it out in his head. He shrugged. "Oh, I'd say around sixty-five percent."

Grell ogled him. He'd expected a higher number than that. "So all the times I've seen you in action so far, you were only at sixty-five percent of your full potential?"

Undertaker shrugged again, completely blasé about it. "Being able to see clearly does make a difference, love. Blind fighting is a nice skill to fall back on, but I'll admit my precision leaves something to be desired. You may never get to see me at my full potential, given how little time I'm likely to have to train before the fight comes to us. If it happens at all, it will happen soon. I'm not the reaper I used to be."

Grell found that a sad statement, but not because he believed it meant Undertaker was diminished in any way. He put his arms around his waist and gazed up at him sincerely. "Perhaps you aren't the man you were in your youth, but who amongst us is? I used to be an arrogant, self-assured know-it-all when I was starting out."

Undertaker grinned teasingly at him. "Not a bit like you are today, eh?"

Grell nipped warningly at his throat, drawing a low noise of surprise from him. He licked away the spot of blood he'd drawn, and Undertaker stroked his hair and murmured with approval. "Mmm, now isn't the time for play, lovely."

Grinning now, Grell finished cleaning off the salty blood and he pulled back a little to look up at him again. "Everyone changes, Undertaker. It can be subtle, or it can be drastic, but nobody stays exactly the same forever."

Undertaker traced his features with the back of his nails, and his smile softened. "No, I suppose not."

"So don't diminish your own worth," advised Grell.

"I wasn't trying to, my dear. I'm merely being honest. The Shinigami seem to expect a living legend. What they're actually getting is an old veteran who's simply been around long enough to learn most of the tricks."

"Hmm, I still think you're too modest," Grell sighed, but he smiled at him and he kissed the fading bite mark he'd made on his throat. "But there's a certain charm to that. If what I've seen you do is only a little over half of your full potential, then you're going to be bloody glorious without your vision impaired."

Undertaker chuckled. "Or bloody clumsy. Again, I remind you that I haven't worn the glasses for a very long time. The world looks quite strange to me, with them on." He shook his bangs aside a bit and he winked at him. "Although I do enjoy being able to see you clearly, even when you're on the other side of the room."

"Mm, charmer." Grell combed his fingers through the taller man's long, silver hair. "We'd best get up there, while the weather holds. I don't fancy the thought of getting soaked or hit by lightning."

"Right," agreed Undertaker with a nod. "Shall we?"

"You're still using your eyes too much," advised Undertaker as Grell barely blocked his attack. "You have to learn to listen, Grell."

"I am listening," snapped the redhead, flushed with humiliation. To his credit, Undertaker wasn't teasing him or belittling his fighting skills. He was strictly business; correcting him whenever he did anything wrong and encouraging him when he did something right.

"You are listening in conjunction with your sight," said Undertaker. His blade cut a deadly arc through the air, singing eerily as it went. The man's death scythe sounded like the moaning of the wind when he slashed with it, and even a bloodthirsty, practically fearless reaper such as Grell Sutcliff was prone to chills when he heard it.

"You can do this, Grell," Undertaker insisted when the redhead ducked and rolled away. "You've fought me before. Don't hold back!"

Grell would have dearly liked to follow that advice, but it was hard for him to get in the "killing zone", under these circumstances. He had always believed that he could reap a man he loved if he had to, but he found it impossible to put his mind in the right place for this exercise. This was his lover, not his enemy, and he—

Undertaker's boot connected with Grell's face without warning, knocking his troubled thoughts right out of his head. He fell to the ground, stunned, and his scythe went spinning and sputtering away. He put a gloved hand against his smarting jaw and he rolled onto his side, looking up at the silver Shinigami standing over him with bewildered, hurt eyes.

The cold, lethal metal of Undertaker's blade pressed against his throat warningly, and as he looked up the length of the classic, ancient weapon at its wielder, Grell saw no mercy in his cold, flashing eyes.

"Fight or die, Grell Sutcliff," Undertaker said, his long, pale hair whipping in the wind. "Your enemies won't give you quarter."

Angry with him for daring to strike his face, Grell scowled. "You bastard."

Undertaker smirked, and he lifted his scythe as if to strike. Grell took his chance and he rolled away toward his dropped chainsaw. He caught it, got to his feet and set it roaring to life again. He jumped over the taller reaper's next swing and rather than try to put more distance between them, he charged him. Undertaker dodged his attack, but Grell followed up with a strike from his elbow. He popped him hard in the jaw, repaying him for the kick from earlier and making him stagger.

He took the opening immediately, thrusting with his chainsaw with the blind intention of sawing into this gorgeous creature's torso. He realized what he was doing at the last minute, but it was too late to stop his attack. He nearly sighed in relief when Undertaker arched his back gracefully and practically danced aside, suffering nothing worse than a torn hem on his jacket for it.

Grell hollered in protest when he got punched in the face in retaliation, and he kicked out hard. The heel of his boot struck Undertaker in the side, and he could have sworn he heard and felt a crunch. The snath of Undertaker's scythe blocked his next attack, and there was an ugly, screeching sound as his saw spun against it. Grell stared into Undertaker's eyes angrily, trying to understand his betrayal. He saw no malice in those thick-lashed eyes, nor did he see any satisfaction. Instead, he saw a grim resolve and a fierce love.

The blows to his face were a deliberate attempt to provoke him into fighting with real passion, and it had worked. He thought he saw some regret in those gorgeous eyes, a split second before Undertaker's knee connected with his solar plexus and drove the breath from his lungs. Grell gagged and staggered away, and Undertaker advanced with a neutral, unsmiling expression on his scarred face. He wasn't enjoying this. Undertaker usually smiled when he fought—even laughed and came out with witty comments. He was silent, somber and void of humor, now.

Grell recovered quickly, panting for breath impulsively even though he didn't need air to function. He got into a defensive stance and squinted at his opponent, watching closely for his next move. He'd lost the brief advantage of close range, and now he was back where he started again. He saw a trickle of red at the corner of Undertaker's mouth, and he heard him cough when he drew breath to speak.

"Don't look," advised the ancient. "Listen, Grell. Smell. Taste."

His simplistic logic made an odd sort of sense. If he concentrated, Grell could indeed smell Undertaker's scent on the wind. Though his footfalls were typically light as a Shinigami trademark, Grell could hear them against the cement. He had no bloody idea what Undertaker meant by "taste", though. While he certainly didn't mind giving Undertaker or Bassy a lick on the cheek in a fight, he had no intention of making that a part of his regular routine.

This time, Grell sensed the attack coming and though he couldn't see the swinging scythe clearly, he felt the breeze of its passing against his stomach as he hopped away. He began to run, trying to put some distance between himself and his deadly opponent. Undertaker gave chase, and Grell leaped up on the structure covering the stairwell leading back inside. He jumped back down immediately as Undertaker approached, and rather than jump away from him, he jumped directly at him, with his chainsaw leading the way.

There was a teeth-jarring clash as their scythes connected, and Grell forced Undertaker back against the brick wall of the stairwell. The skies opened up and it began to rain on the two struggling reapers. Grell pressed the attack grimly, snarling with effort to prevent the stronger man from breaking away or striking out with other limbs. Undertaker stared into his eyes behind the crossed weapons, and blood steadily trickled from his mouth. He suddenly smiled, and Grell found the sight so distracting that he relaxed his guard for just one moment.

He saw Undertaker's eyes rushing at him, just as the taller man forced both of their weapons down. Grell saw stars as his lover's forehead connected solidly with his nose, just hard enough to daze him and make it bleed. His chainsaw was knocked out of his hands again, and he found himself spun and shoved up against the wall he'd just had Undertaker backed against, moments ago.

"I'm afraid you lose," announced Undertaker in a slightly rough voice. His hand was like a vice around Grell's throat, holding him in place as he pressed the point of his scythe's blade against the redhead's chest, over his heart. "Do you yield?"

Grell forced a wild grin at him. "Never."

Undertaker stared mutely for a moment, and Grell actually began to wonder if he would follow through and reap him. The ancient suddenly smiled, retracted the scythe and released his throat.

"Brilliant answer, love."

Grell stared up at him, aroused, angry and confused all at once. "You struck me in the face."

Undertaker nodded. "I apologize for that. For the purpose of this training exercise, I couldn't behave as a gentleman."

Grell slapped him across the face.

Undertaker took the blow stoically, his now dampened bangs whipping to the side with the motion of his head. He looked at Grell as lightning flashed overhead, and he smiled tenderly at him. "Feel better now, lovely?"

All of Grell's anger melted away, and he cupped the back of Undertaker's head to draw his mouth down for a kiss. It wasn't a gentle kiss asking for or granting forgiveness; it was passionate and bruising, cutting both their mouths on Grell's teeth. The rain fell harder and Undertaker pressed tighter against him, shielding him from it with his body. His tongue thrust into Grell's mouth demandingly, salty with their mingled blood. Grell surrendered to it and he moaned into the kiss as Undertaker wedged a thigh between his legs, pressing against his growing arousal.

There was a brilliant flash of lightning overhead, followed by a boom of thunder that shook the very air around them. Undertaker withdrew his mouth despite Grell's protests, and he offered him a pained grin as he retrieved his scythe for him and gave it over.

"We ought to get back inside now," suggested Undertaker.

Grell nodded in agreement, having a mind to finish what they'd started. His aches and pains were fading, but as he put his arm around the taller reaper, he noticed the way he grunted. Remembering the kick to the ribs he'd given him earlier, Grell looked up at him as he wiped the blood from his mouth on his sleeve.

"Do you require medical attention, darling?"

Undertaker shook his head. "No, I just need to get into a comfortable position while the rib repairs itself." He smirked at him. "You kick really hard, my dear."

Grell smirked back. "That's what you get for striking a lady in the face. Let's get out of this rain and back inside, so I can nurse you."

Grell got his shirt jacket and undershirt off first, before getting Undertaker to stretch out on the sofa. He winced at the purple bruise on his torso, noting the shape of his boot. He really had kicked him hard. Undertaker was smiling up at him benignly, evidently forgiving him for the abuse.

"I'll put together a cold compress for it," promised Grell. He tried not to think of how sexy he looked, lying there bare-chested in his black pants and thigh-high leather boots. He retrieved his glasses from the coffee table and put them on so that he could see what the bloody hell he was doing, and he swore when the phone in the kitchen began to ring.

"Be back in a minute, my handsome lunatic," promised Grell, blowing a kiss to Undertaker.

"Take your time," sighed the older Shinigami, shutting his eyes.

Grell went into the kitchen to snatch the phone off its cradle on the wall. "Hello?"

"Sutcliff, I've been trying to reach you for an hour," William's voice said on the other end. "Undertaker's personal phone is ready for him to pick up at Headquarters, and we have a request for him. Please bring him in as soon as possible."

Grell scowled in annoyance. "Haven't we asked enough of him? He's already agreed to fight by our side if these rebel angels make it through to our realm. Why can't you just leave him alone for a while?"

"Because there is every chance that we could be facing Armageddon," answered William coolly, "and Undertaker is the last of the True Born, not to mention the oldest Shinigami warrior alive. Any day now, we could be all that stands between a host of enemies and the Great Library. I think requesting that he impart some of his combat knowledge onto our ranks is a reasonable request."

"So you want him to act as an instructor?" Grell looked through the archway leading into the living room. He had to admit, Undertaker made a splendid tutor, but his methods might be a bit violent for fledglings. Then again, maybe they needed that sort of brutality to prepare for what was to come.

"We could use any edge we can get," William said. "We have no way of knowing how long we have to prepare, but I think Undertaker's presence as an instructor will not only improve skills, but bolster morale."

Grell sighed. He couldn't really refute that. Everyone that knew who Undertaker was beneath the guise of the creepy funeral director looked upon him with awe. His presence would certainly inspire a lot of reapers to do their very best. He just hated to see his lover used.

"So let me understand this correctly," Grell said, turning his back to the dining room and living room again. "Management—who wanted to condemn him to stasis and brand him for life—now wants Undertaker to be the official Shinigami mascot. He was deemed too dangerous and insane to be left free, but they want to put him in a position as an instructor?"

William didn't even try to rationalize it. "Yes."

"I would like to tell them to fuck themselves sideways, Will," said the redhead bluntly, "but that isn't my decision, sadly. It's up to my gorgeous Undertaker."

"Then please speak with him about it," said the supervisor. "His company phone is waiting."

Grell sighed and hung up the phone. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he was embraced from behind, without warning. "Thank you," said a droning voice in his ear, "for standing up for my dignity."

Velvety lips brushed against his temple, and Grell blushed, relaxing against the taller man's embrace. "I'm going to buy you a bell to wear around the house," he decided, turning his head and tilting it back to look up at him. "You sneak even more than you loom."

Undertaker laughed softly and rocked him. "Mm, I'll try not to sneak so much. So, they want me to be a combat instructor, do they?"

"Apparently so," grumbled the redhead, "but feel free to tell them where to stuff it. I'll be cheering you on."

"I have no doubt you would," chuckled the ancient. He turned Grell around in his arms and he winced a little at the motion. "This is bigger than my resentment for what they attempted to do, though. Everything could end, if we fail to protect the Great Library. I don't know about you, love, but having just found you again, I'm not so willing to throw in the towel. We didn't get our chance the last time you were alive, but we've got an opportunity to be happy now. Bugger the world, I want a future for us."

Grell smiled at him, and he gently traced the slowly fading bruise on his torso with his fingertips. "You must be a glutton for punishment. I like a man who can take a beating and still love me, afterwards."

"I think I gave as good as I got," answered the taller reaper, and he caressed the sore spot on Grell's jaw. "Didn't like hitting this pretty face, though."

Grell shut his eyes, enjoying the loving touch. He turned his head into the caressing hand and he kissed the palm and fingers. "I understand why you did it, and I forgive you."

"So generous," whispered Undertaker with a smile, and he lowered his mouth to Grell's for a kiss.

"Mmm, you'll end up on your back in the bedroom, if you keep that up," warned Grell, only half-kidding. He gave the taller man an admiring once-over, and he cupped his ass and gave it a squeeze. "I would love nothing more than to ride you until we both collapse, but they want you to come in and I still need to see to your bruise."

Undertaker visibly reacted to his sensual words and grope, and he cast a quick, rueful look down at his protruding crotch. "Well, I can't go in like this. What would people say?"

Grell snickered softly, and he impulsively reached down to give the bulge a little pat. "They would probably say I'm a very, very fortunate reaper. Now go and lie down so that we can get your injury healed faster."

"Might need an extra cold pack for that as well," sighed Undertaker with a nod down at his crotch. "Your little pat didn't help the situation in my pants, love."

Grell winked at him. "It wasn't meant to, darling. Go on, shoo. I'll be in there with you soon."

They were shown to William's office after arriving at Headquarters and being given Undertaker's new phone. While the ancient fiddled with the device curiously, William explained his proposal.

"Management feels that you can help our reapers prepare better than any instructors we have here now," he said, "and it would be a great honor to us if you would…er…pardon me, but are you listening, sir?"

Undertaker glanced up from the phone, his mouth slightly slack with distraction. "Eh? Oh, yes. I understand what you want of me, Mr. Spears."

William nodded and waited. When Undertaker resumed pushing buttons on his phone, the supervisor politely cleared his throat to gain his attention again. Grell chuckled behind his hand as his lover again looked up, his eyes completely hidden under his bangs.

"Yes?" asked Undertaker politely.

"Do you accept our proposal, or not?"

"Hmm." Undertaker put the phone in a pocket in his long, black garments. "That depends on you, Spears."

William frowned. "Me?"

"Indeed." Undertaker grinned and relaxed in his seat, threading his long fingers together in his lap. "There's the matter of my fee, you understand. If you want my services, you've got to reimburse me for them."

The expression on William's face revealed his dread. "What can I do for you, then?"

The mortician's grin became almost sadistic. "Entertain me, of course. You know how to make me laugh. You managed to get a pretty chuckle out of me yesterday, after all."

William looked to Grell almost pleadingly, but he found no help in that quarter. The redhead watched him expectantly. "You heard him, Will. Entertain him."

The brunet almost looked as though he'd been sentenced to death. He sighed and he stood up, taking a step back from his desk to make room. "This is absolutely the last time."

Undertaker's grin remained firmly in place. "If your department stops asking favors of me, certainly. You can start any time now, Mr. Spears."

William sighed again, cleared his throat and assumed the position. "The complete flame in our chests shall not be extinguished by anyone. We are The Phoenix!"

Undertaker predictably burst into laughter and clapped in appreciation, but Grell's laughter was slightly more contained, this time. After all, William T. Spears was a dignified man and he'd been his superior for roughly three decades. He had also put himself at substantial risk to spare Undertaker from the fate originally intended for him, and Grell was beginning to feel sorry for him. Red-faced, the Dispatch supervisor fell out of the pose and looked uncomfortably at the laughing ancient.

"Does that satisfy your demands, sir?"

Undertaker nodded, gathering control of himself with difficulty. "It does. I assume you have a gymnasium of sorts to train in? Otherwise you may end up with a lot of reapers catching cold or being struck by lightning."

"Yes, there is a training facility for fledglings one block from here," answered William. "I'm afraid these sessions will be all-day affairs. Not only will you be tutoring young recruits, we wish for you to train some of our more seasoned reapers, as well. There will be breaks between classes and we will of course provide refreshments. There are also full bathrooms on the grounds for showering, and a locker room for changing."

"Hmm, maybe I should have asked for more than one Phoenix pose," mused Undertaker, scratching his chin.

"You've already agreed to the request," reminded William uncomfortably.

His dread alone seemed to be enough to amuse Undertaker. The ancient chuckled again and shook his head. "Relax, chap. I'm a man of my word. I'll begin tomorrow."

William frowned. "But the war could come to us at any time."

Undertaker nodded. "True, and if it comes tonight, a few piddly hours of training with me won't make a bit of difference for your warriors. Allow me one night to get my lesson plan in order, and I shall train your fighters to the best of my abilities."

William deflated and nodded. "Fair enough. I will relay your answer to management."

As they walked away from the office, Undertaker toyed with his new communication device, absently poking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. "And now I save," he muttered after entering Grell's number. When the number vanished from the screen instead of saving under contacts as intended, he frowned. "Damn."

Grell's phone began to ring, and the redhead looked at it and chuckled. "You called me," he explained. "You must have pressed the wrong button."

Undertaker shrugged. "If at first you don't succeed…"

He pressed the red key to stop the call and he tried again.

"Undertaker, I need to ask something of you."

"In a moment, love," said the ancient, concentrating hard on what he was doing. "Just let me work this contraption out, first. You won't best me, you silly piece of technology."

Grell waited patiently and Undertaker stopped walking. He finally got Grell's number stored in his contact list and he grinned in triumph. "Ah, there now. What did you want to ask me?"

"I would like you to stop bullying Will."

Undertaker's brows shot up. "Bullying?"

Grell shrugged, grinning at him. "You keep singling him out. Are jealous of him, my love?"

Undertaker raised a finger to make a point, but damned if he could come up with a decent rebuttal to the accusation. He sighed. "A little bit, yes. I'm driven as much by the desire to avenge the wrongs he's done to you, though. What's a bit of humiliation, compared to the many times he's smacked you around—both verbally and physically? You know my feelings on that, my dear."

Grell nodded. "Yes, I know, and you're right; he abused his power and struck me knowing I couldn't strike back without repercussions. He hasn't done that at all since you confronted him about it, though. He hasn't even put me down…much. I'm fine with William's contempt for me, Undertaker. I've lived with it for years and it's simply part of our relationship. I tease him to distraction, he insults my personality and work ethic. It's a push-and-pull we've been engaged in from the beginning."

Grell waited until they got inside the elevator to speak again, and when the doors shut, he put his arms around the taller man and gazed up at him. "I appreciate why you do it, and I'm flattered that you feel jealous of him, but it needs to stop. Will isn't as bad as you think. He's the reason you aren't branded now, if you'll recall."

Undertaker sighed. "Yes, I'm aware."

Grell put his arms around his neck and kissed him softly. "Then lay off of him for a bit. If you want someone to do the Phoenix pose for you again, pick that stuffy Mr. Jacobs. I know you dislike him even more than Will."

Undertaker snorted. "He's so stiff, he wouldn't be able to pull it off. I'll humor you, though." He kissed him back and gave him a squeeze. "My schedule is going to be mightily booked after tonight, love. I think we should spend the rest of the day in bed, once we get back to the apartment."

"I think that's a fabulous idea," grinned the redhead.

First they had lunch, and they sat down together on the sofa to watch the telly as they ate their sandwiches. The strongest signal they could get was the Shinigami news channel. The storm outside had picked up again, and hailstones were blended in with the rain. Grell looked up at the ceiling with a frown as a boom of thunder made the building tremble and the overhead light sway. Undertaker put an arm around him and offered him a bite of his sandwich. Grell took it and grinned, returning the gesture.

"Reports have come to us from all over the mortal realm," the anchorman said. "The dead have begun to rise, in some parts of the world. Reaper agents from global dispatch departments have confirmed that these risen dead have already been reaped in the past, according to their records. The undead are in varying states of decay, and they seem to hunger for the flesh of the living."

Grell's brows shot up, and he looked at Undertaker. The ancient shrugged as best he could and gave him a look of one wrongly accused. "They can't pin this one on me, love. I've been right here with you."

"Of course," agreed the redhead. "Forgive my mind for immediately going there."

Undertaker chuckled. "I think I can let this one slide, on account of my recent past."

"Mortal Police forces in all affected areas have been attempting to deal with the risen dead and protect the citizens," the reporter on the television went on, "but the only things that seem to stop them are dismemberment, beheading, destruction of the brain or incineration. Humans that suffer bites from these creatures sicken and die, only to rise again later as one of them. These humans don't make it onto reaper death lists, as theirs is an un-natural death, brought about prematurely. Dispatch agents in Italy have attempted to collect the cinematic records of newly risen victims, only to find them corrupted. Souls of those who die in this manner cannot be catalogued for the library, unfortunately. Two agents lost their lives in the attempt, so far."

"Ew," Said Grell with a grimace. "What a horrid fate."

"Which?" asked Undertaker, "being reanimated as a zombie, never having their souls collected, or being killed by corrupted cinematic records?"

"All of it," sighed the redhead. He looked at his lover with genuine dread in his eyes. "You know I tend to hold mortals in contempt, but they deserve some dignity in death. I once saw William nearly succumb to the cinematic records of a mortal, and I can tell you now, that's no way for a reaper to die. They get dragged into the memories of the mortal. Will actually seemed to think he was the deceased, for a moment."

Undertaker nodded. "I've seen it before. I came close to being a victim of it myself, once. Some souls cling harder to life than others, and I imagine these newly raised undead do so ferociously. So what happened to dear William, when his reaping attempt backfired on him?"

Grell shrugged. "I saved him."

Undertaker smirked. "I'll bet that stuck in his craw."

"It did." Grell chuckled. "He was fairly humiliated to be rescued by me, but it did form a bond between us that I used to hope would lead into something more."

"Mm, but you don't still entertain that hope."

Grell smiled. "No, I don't. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again; Will is no threat to my love for you."

"I'm afraid I need some physical proof of that." Undertaker leered at him.

Understanding the game for what it was, Grell snuggled closer. "After lunch, my delectable darling. I'll provide you with all the proof you need."

"I suppose I'll have to be patient, then." Undertaker fed him another bite of sandwich, and his gaze went to the television. "I do hope young Phantomhive is safe."

"Hmph, that brat has more than one way out of a fix," assured Grell. "Besides, he has Sebby. I'm sure he'll be fine. Can't you tell if his death is approaching, anyhow?"

Undertaker frowned. "Ordinarily, I can sense the approaching death of a Phantomhive when it draws near. It's part of my contract with the family, you see. Unfortunately, I'm not on the mortal plane and therefore it's unclear to me. I sense his danger, but I can't predict his survival chances."

"Well, you shouldn't fret over it. As I said; your precious little Earl has his hunky demon butler to protect him—not to mention his bizarre servants."

Undertaker grinned. "He's also got my gift to him. Grandmother Phantomhive will be very cross indeed, should someone try to gobble up the little lord."

Grell gave him a perplexed look. "I beg pardon?"

Undertaker rubbed the tip of his nose against his. "Nothing to concern yourself with, kitten. Here, finish it off."

Grell opened his mouth to accept the last morsel of the sandwich, and he fed his last bit to Undertaker in return.

-To be continued