They made it back to the estate without anyone getting hurt, and Snake jumped off the back of the carriage to close and lock the gates behind them. They saw no sign of undead on the road out of London, which suggested that the phenomenon was localized to the city. Ciel was ready to come to the conclusion that it was indeed Undertaker's doing, and he reasoned that he might have done it for the expressed purpose of creating chaos for the reapers to sort out, which might give him and Grell a better chance to get away and get hidden.

It made perfect sense to Ciel, until the carriage pulled up to the mansion and Finnian came running out to meet them. The young blond man was covered in dirt, bruises and blood, and he waved his arms urgently. Coming out behind him was Tanaka, and Ciel's brows shot up when he saw that the old man carried a musket rifle. He climbed out of the carriage with Baldroy's help and he frowned at Finny when the gardener approached.

"What's all this?" demanded Ciel. Behind him, Baldroy was helping Elizabeth and Paula out of the carriage.

"Oh, sir, thank goodness you're home," exclaimed Finnian. "You'll never believe what's happened! It was terrible!"

"All right, calm down," demanded Ciel in a tone of shocking authority for one of his meager years. He could see that Tanaka was too winded and tired to give an explanation, so he kept his focus on Finnian. "Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

"We were attacked," answered the blond immediately. "At first, I thought it was an injured man seeking help! Tanaka and I were trimming the hedges, and he came stumbling up to us from 'round the back of the estate, where the family cemetery is—"

"The cemetery?" interrupted Ciel, and a terrible, sick feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

Finnian nodded, and one of the hairpins clipped into his flaxen bangs fell free, finally losing its precarious hold on his hair. "Something was wrong with him. He stank…badly. He was covered in dirt and his eyes were…well, I thought he was blind, at first."

"So what happened?" prompted Ciel impatiently, gesturing at Baldroy to get the ladies into the mansion. Mey-Rin had climbed out and she promptly went to Finny with a worried exclamation.

"I'm okay, Mey-Rin," assured the blond as the young woman began to check his injuries. To Ciel, he answered: "Well sir, Tanaka went to ask the fellow who he was and if he needed help, and he tried to bite him! I pushed him off of him, but he just kept coming. Then more people started to come from 'round back, and I…I recognized two of them as the agents that came and attacked the estate, not long ago."

Ciel sucked in a slow breath, feeling nauseous at the thought of the possibility that his own relatives could rise from their graves to attack them. That shouldn't be possible, though. They would have long-since decomposed, and it seemed that only the recently dead were rising.

"How did you stop them?" he asked, reminding himself to take one thing at a time. Now was the time for rationale and calm, not panicked theories.

"Well, I had to twist the head off of one," answered Finnian with obvious disgust. Behind him, Tanaka made a face. "Tanaka got another in the eyes with the trimming sheers. After that, we ran inside to get weapons and we finished them off. Th-they didn't even notice when we struck them! It didn't slow them down one bit, and I even hit one hard enough to send him sailing to the fence! The only thing that stopped them was—"

"Beheading or a direct strike to the brain," interrupted Ciel.

Finnian nodded. "I've never been very religious, sir, but wasn't there a part in the bible about the dead rising from their graves?"

Though he was hardly a theologist himself, Ciel had started to do a bit of research on the subject since these strange happenings first began. He nodded. "It was in Revelation, I believe. I hardly thought it meant that an army of zombies would rise to eat mankind, however. They're all over London, too. I thought it might have been Undertaker's work at first, but I can't think of any reason why he would resurrect the dead on my own estate. This is all connected to everything else that's been happening, and I doubt even Undertaker is powerful enough to be the cause of it all."

Mey-Rin grimaced. "What should we do, young master? There are more graves back there!"

Ciel looked toward the mansion with a frown. "We'll have the cemetery watched. The only recently buried bodies there were those agents, so we shouldn't see further activity. The…other remains…should be too decayed to do so. We also need to watch the perimeter of the estate. You will all take rotating shifts, and I will research in the study. Sebastian will be returning with news, soon. We may get our answers then."

"Pardon my saying so," Finnian said shyly, "but shouldn't you send for him to come back now, young master?"

Ciel shook his head. "He's…too far away for me to contact him, at the moment." He looked around at the grounds thoughtfully. "We should dig a trench. Finnian, I'll explain what I want done to you and I want you to finish it quickly. Baldroy will do the rest, once you've finished. Mey-Rin, you and Snake will be on watch on top of the roof. We don't know how long this situation is going to last, or how far the undead will spread out. Finnian, I'm sure you'd like to get cleaned up, but we need to get this done, first. You can rest afterwards."

The blond nodded and stood up straighter. "Yes sir!"

Ciel turned to the old man who once served as the family butler, before the disaster struck and Sebastian took over. "Tanaka, please go and see to the comfort of Lady Midford and her handmaid, while I oversee preparations. Once they've been seen to, I want you to begin researching in the study, until I can join you. Have Baldroy put the horses and carriage to stable, and inform him that I will speak with him when I've finished with Finnian."

Tanaka gave a little bow and went inside. Ciel looked to Snake and Mey-Rin. "You two freshen up, gather weapon rounds and pack up something to snack on in a picnic basket. I'm afraid you may be patrolling the roof for a while, so be sure to carry a tarp from the supply rooms, and something for warmth. If the weather gets too violent, you can move your posts to the attic and use the windows as your vantage point. Until then, I want you to remain on the roof—barring necessary shift breaks."

The maid and the footman nodded, and Ciel went with Finnian to gather landscaping tools and show him where he wanted him to dig. When they were alone together, Snake looked sidelong at Mey-Rin and he flushed, sticking his hands into his trouser pockets.

"You were," he said softly, "amazing…says Oscar."

She smiled from ear to ear at the compliment, blushing as well. "So were you, says…er…I mean, you were too!"

He smiled shyly at her.

Grell finished combing the damp silver bangs straight, and he reached for the red-handled scissors waiting on the tray on top of the counter nearby. He gave his lover an uncertain look as he closed his pointer and index fingers over the damp hair, and he lifted the fringe up a little to gaze into the dual-iris Shinigami eyes beneath it.

"Once more, are you sure about this, darling?"

Undertaker chuckled softly. "I have had haircuts before, love. A little trim isn't going to kill me."

"I know that," muttered Grell. His gaze flicked to the discarded hat and robes hanging from the garment tree, visible through the kitchen archway. "It isn't the trim that bothers me; it's the changes surrounding it."

Undertaker's grin softened. "Necessary changes, love. If I'm to take on this role, I need to find my way back to the reaper I used to be."

Grell frowned at that. "You don't need to change for them."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Undertaker gently took the scissors from his hand and he set them in the tray. He took both of Grell's hands and he squeezed them, peering up at him through the damp fringe of his bangs.

"Grell, the Shinigami don't need Undertaker the mortician. They need Undertaker the reaper. If I'm going to be of any use, I have to put aside the funeral director and go back to my roots; at least until this is over with. Both are a part of me, and trust me when I say that when this is all said and done, I fully intend to go back to my mortuary and resume my work."

Grell returned the pressure of his hands. "Funny, if you had asked me before we first brought you in, I would have certainly said that I prefer Undertaker the reaper."

"But now you prefer the funeral director?" Undertaker grinned broadly. "Why? I thought he was a 'creepy old fossil'?"

"That was before I got to know him," Grell said with a shrug, blushing. "Don't mistake me; Undertaker the reaper is surely a sexy beast, but I think I'll rather miss the grinning funeral director."

"I can still grin as a reaper, love," reminded Undertaker. "I'm grinning right now."

Grell released one of his hands to trace the grin in question, and his return smile was a bit nostalgic. "I know, but now everyone is going to see the way those smiles light up the rest of that gorgeous face of yours. I know that it's ridiculous because you wore your hair pulled back when we were in hiding, but that was different. We were in disguise, and in the presence of mortals. Seeing your face under any other circumstance felt like something special…something just for me. Now I have to share it with other people and I resent that."

"Aw, is someone jealous?" Undertaker giggled, sounding more like the eccentric hermit Grell knew from before. "Don't pout, my dear. Other people may be able to look upon my face after tonight, but my heart and my body belong exclusively to you."

Undertaker caught hold of the hand pressed against his heart, and he lifted it to his lips to kiss it. "Only to you, my love."

Grell's heart pounded fiercely in response to the romantic proclamation, and his blush returned full force. He pulled his hand out of the older reaper's grasp and he settled both hands on his knees to push them apart. He settled his hips between them as he retrieved his scissors, and kissed him deeply. Undertaker allowed his tongue into his mouth and Grell took a few moments to plunder him, overcome by a possessive thrill. As much as he adored having Undertaker's cock inside of him, he fantasized about reversing the roles sometime.

"Undertaker," he murmured against the animated, silken lips. "I…"

He faltered and lost his nerve. He had no remarkable experience with topping a partner—at least, not in the sense of penetration. He had only done it that way twice before, and both times weren't particularly memorable. Undertaker's hands settled on his waist, and he looked at him curiously.

"What is it, lovely?"

He could tell him anything. He knew that, but he honestly didn't know how to put this request into words. Given the circumstances, Grell thought it would be best to wait for a better moment—such as while they were already engaged in foreplay and he felt more confident. He shook his head and he retrieved the comb from the cup of water nearby.

"Nothing. Your bangs are half-dried. Now hold still while I trim them up and style them."

William checked his watch again, and he sighed. He looked over the organized groups of Shinigami, practicing their technique, and he shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know why I expected him and Sutcliff to arrive on time."

"They'll be here," soothed Ronald. "You've got to factor in the cruddy weather and the distance between here and Senpai's apartment."

As if to accentuate his point, there was a rolling boom of thunder outside that made the floor vibrate and caused the lights hanging from the high-domed ceilings to flicker. Some of the sparring reapers paused to look up, distracted by the ruckus.

"We may need to check the backup generator," William said with a frown, also looking up at the ceiling. "It wouldn't do for the power to fail in the middle of training lessons. Ronald, why don't you…Ronald?"

William frowned at his companion when he looked at him again and found that he wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to him. He was staring at something behind him, toward the double doors leading outside of the gymnasium. A cold, damp breeze wafted in as the doors opened in full.

"H-holeee shiiit," said the blond reaper, blinking. "Uh, I think our instructor has arrived, Will."

It his fascination, he utterly failed to address William properly. Unused to him slipping up that much in public, William turned to see what he was staring at—and he nearly dropped his scythe. In fact, if it weren't bound to his wrist by the strap, he probably would have dropped it.

There, standing in the doorway with Grell and Lawrence Anderson, was the Legendary Reaper—literally. It was if one of the statue monuments of him had come to life to join them. Undertaker was dressed in his old uniform: a white shirt beneath a long black trench coat, a black tie, supple black trousers and black boots. His bangs had been trimmed back and styled so that his face and eyes were no longer hidden, and he wore his half-framed, silver glasses. The scars and the long, black fingernails were the only difference between the man standing before them and the one immortalized in the sculptures and paintings.

Others took noticed of him as well, and the sounds of sparring died off. There was a dead silence as the training Shinigami stared at a piece of their history. Undertaker looked around quietly, his face an unreadable mask. William glanced at Ronald, nudged him out of his trance, and then approached. He gave Undertaker a bow of respect before greeting him.

"Welcome to the training facilities, sir. This group is ready for your instruction, whenever you would like to begin."

Undertaker's gaze flicked over him, before scanning the watching crowd. "You're a cool one, aren't you? Why are they all using training scythes? They don't appear to be fledglings."

"No, the fledglings train in a smaller gymnasium, not far from here," answered William. He was proud of himself for managing a level tone and calm expression. His heart felt like it was running a marathon in his chest. He felt like he was addressing a hero now, though his head reminded him harshly that this man was certifiably insane and technically still a criminal.

"It would probably be wise to have the fledglings continue their regular lesson plans," suggested Anderson. He glanced up at the tall, silver Shinigami beside him. "I don't believe Undertaker's training is…appropriate…for them."

Undertaker smirked and glanced at him. "You've got a good memory, friend."

"Your methods aren't easy to forget," answered Lawrence dryly. He looked at William as he retrieved his pipe from his vest. "May I?"

"Please," agreed the supervisor politely, nodding. He looked at Undertaker again, and he noticed out the corner of his eye that Ronald's mouth was still hanging open. The young man was staring at the ancient with rapt wonder, like a child who had just seen a dragon or unicorn in the flesh.

With an annoyed little huff, William reached out and placed a gloved hand beneath Ronald's chin, pushing it up to shut his mouth. "You'll swallow flies that way," he muttered. Ron looked boyishly contrite, and he blushed and looked away as he cleared his throat.

"To answer your question, Undertaker, they are using practice scythes to avoid causing serious harm to one another," William explained, returning his attention to Undertaker. "It is the safety policy of this organization for all sparring exercise on Reaper grounds be conducted with standard, unaltered training scythes."

"Hmm, I see." Undertaker began to pace back and forth before the awed assembly of reapers, and the hard soles of his boots tapped against the floor with his steps. "Tell me, what good does it do for them to practice with something other than their own custom scythes?"

"I've been wondering that myself," muttered Eric Slingby from the left. He was at the front of the assembly with his partner, and Alan nudged him meaningfully to quiet him.

"There have been accidents before," answered William, "and some deaths have occurred in the past. To prevent it from happening again, Senior Management implemented the policy that we not spar with true scythes. This policy has been active for over fifty years, now."

"Well, I'm breaking it now," Undertaker said. He looked over at the weapon wrack where the training scythes were stored. "Everyone, put away your training scythes and manifest your own."

William looked at him uncomfortably, while Grell—standing on Undertaker's other side, grinned broadly and called his chainsaw into existence. "Undertaker, could I have a moment of your time?" William requested, gesturing to the front corner of the room, away from the crowd.

Undertaker gave his redheaded companion a look, and Grell responded with an almost pleading expression. The ancient visibly sighed, nodded and joined William in the corner of the room. "What is it, Spears?"

"With all due respect, I think this method of training you've proposed is inappropriate," answered William frankly. His knees felt like they were turning to jelly as those pale-lashed eyes stared unwavering into his. He almost preferred the Undertaker's previous look. He really did have a piercing gaze. "We can't risk accidental injuries or death, at a time like this."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Spears," countered Undertaker in a low voice. "Now is precisely the time to risk it. If this fracas comes to us, those men are going to be facing opponents that won't show any hesitation or mercy, and the blades of angels are nearly as deadly to our kind as our scythes. The death scythe is more than a reaping tool; it is a weapon. These reapers need to train with the weapons specialized to them, to learn how to move best with them. Generic training scythes won't allow for that."

William couldn't really dispute that logic. "And if we lose agents in the process of training?"

Undertaker smiled crookedly. "Accidents can and do happen, but it would take a rather precise strike for them to deliver fatal blows to one another. I suspect the deaths you refer to in the past were more deliberate than you may think."

William lifted a brow subtly. "Entirely possible. Rivalries do occur within the ranks. Very well, sir. We will proceed as you have directed, and I'll inform the hospital to send medical staff to be on standby, in the event of injury."

"Fair enough," agreed Undertaker. "Will that be all?"

William nodded. "Yes, please carry on."

Undertaker walked away from him, and he couldn't help but stare at the way the shiny, pale length of his hair swayed with his motions. He had always had great respect for the man, but he was used to the unkempt, cackling funeral director or the darkly amused zombie master. He had to admit that he cleaned up nicely. Even his mannerisms had changed.

"Right then," Undertaker said as he stepped before the waiting assembly. Scythes of all shapes and sizes glinted under the lamplight, and Undertaker manifested his own infamous scythe, drawing low gasps and murmurs. "Now I need everyone to remove their glasses."

The murmurs grew in volume, and William frowned again. "Pardon me?"

Undertaker glanced at him. "The glasses. I want them off."

Alan Humphries stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "Pardon me, but may I ask the purpose behind this order?"

"You may." Undertaker smirked at him.

Everyone went silent, waiting. Undertaker kept smirking, and he appeared to be staring off at something in the distance. When he didn't respond, Grell lightly stepped on the toe of his boot, and Undertaker seemed to shake himself out of whatever thoughts were churning behind those lazy eyes.

"Ah, to answer that question, you all need to learn to practice using your other senses. In fact, I want blindfolds. Mr. Spears, I trust that can be arranged?"

William stared at him. "Blindfolds? You want them to use real death scythes against each other while blindfolded?"

"Are you questioning my methods?" challenged Undertaker.

"Yes," replied William without hesitation. "I am questioning it."

"Have they never trained with blindfolds before?" inquired the ancient. "These are seasoned reapers, aren't they?"

"The blindfolds are used for unarmed combat training," answered William. "Not with real death scythes."

Undertaker took a slow breath, appearing to gather his thoughts. He began to pace before the assembly again as he spoke. "What is a Shinigami's greatest weakness?"

People looked at each other uncertainly, and Grell answered the question. "Our piss-poor eyesight."

"Indeed." Undertaker stopped and smiled at the group. "We can take a beating that would shatter a human being. We can survive injuries that could cripple or kill even a demon. Our bodies don't age past a certain point and we could theoretically live forever, but we can't see a bloody thing three feet in front of us, without our glasses. Angels don't share that weakness, but you can bet your death list they know about it, and they're going to try to exploit it if they make it here to our realm."

He paused to allow that to sink in, and several of the watching reapers began to remove their glasses. "In addition," Undertaker said after a few moments, "the common angel can manifest divine swords capable of doing great harm to us, and to demons. A vital strike from one wouldn't be immediately fatal as it would from a death scythe, but enough wounds from one can kill a Shinigami. That's only the lowest choir, too. If they bring any archangels into the fight, we're in for an even bigger threat. Those flaming swords of theirs are just as deadly to us as our scythes, and you'd best hope there aren't any potentates in their ranks, let alone cherubim or seraphim. The rest of them aren't likely to be involved in this, but the ones I've listed are nothing to take lightly."

Several faces went pale, and someone called out a question. "Do you really think the higher choirs will be in on this, sir?"

Undertaker shrugged. "Not all of them. Some are peaceful sorts, others are akin to nature spirits, and some like the thrones are only concerned with carrying out the will of the Divine. From what we know so far, it seems the ambition to rebel and come take the Great Library out of Shinigami hands came from the lowest choir, and the conflict is currently happening on their plane. More likely than not, most of the upper choirs are either indifferent to it or curious to see where it leads. The upper planes aren't in any danger if they succeed, after all. Our realm and Earth will be the ones to be un-made, if those rebel angels bugger up the balance of the mortal afterlife."

When no further questions were asked, Undertaker smiled again. "So please, remove your glasses and apply the blindfolds as they are given to you. Mr. Sutcliff, if you would be so kind as to fetch them and pass them out?"

Grell didn't argue with him—which annoyed William a bit. Grell always had some cheeky remark to say to him, whenever he issued an order. With Undertaker, he just did it without question. He supposed it helped that they were sleeping together, but still…

"Ronald, take your place in the group," William said, putting aside his frustration with Grell and his doubts concerning this training method. He looked at Undertaker again as the blond complied. He was about to let a notoriously unstable reaper blindfold and train his officers with real death scythes. It made him wonder if he was going a bit mad, himself. "I really hope you know what you're doing, sir."

Undertaker's eyes met his, appearing serene and confident. "Don't worry so much, chap. I'm not going to send them in swinging at each other. We'll start with basic defensive maneuvers, and I'll break them down into groups of five and spend a little time with each of them. We'll move on to the harder exercises tomorrow—provided we aren't caught up in a war, by then."

Again, it seemed perfectly logical and reasonable. ~How much of his madness is genuine, and how much is an act? All this time he's been assumed to be insane, but what if we've all been wrong about that?~

"What are you waiting for, Spears?"

William came out of his troubled thoughts with a confused frown. "I beg your pardon?"

Undertaker smiled patiently at him and made a graceful gesture at the ranks. "You should be in there, too. Lead by example. Everyone can benefit from this, though I daresay of all your generation, you seem to have the concept of treating your scythe as an extension of yourself mastered more than anyone else."

William's mouth curved slightly in flattery. "Thank you."

"Don't let it go to your head," said the ancient with a smirk. "I still think you're a wanker. Now choose your group and get ready with the rest of them."

William sighed. It seemed there was still something of the unkempt, cockney mortician in there, after all.

~You're doing fine, old boy. Don't let it get to you.~

He kept telling himself that as he called out instructions and went through each individual group, helping them perfect their defensive stances and tutoring them on how to use their other senses. On the outside, he was the Legendary Reaper, a hard-ass instructor come to shape these reapers into better warriors. On the inside, however, he was still the curious old funeral director that wanted to understand everything about life, death, and how it all worked.

There was another part of him still, however, and that was the Romantic. He found himself fighting hard against that persona each time he came back to Grell to instruct him or test him. It was so very difficult to put aside his fierce love for him and be objective. In his efforts not to show favoritism, he started coming down on Grell harder than everyone else and he didn't realize it until the redhead muttered something to him as Undertaker adjusted his position.

"Was it really necessary to call me a maggot, you old fart?" whispered Grell, turning his head blindly where he thought Undertaker's ear might be. His lips brushed against the ancient's cheek as he spoke, which caused Undertaker some distraction and made him thankful he was wearing a long jacket as part of his uniform.

"I can't show favoritism, my dear," whispered Undertaker back, and some mischievous impulse made him nibble Grell's earlobe, provoking a little shiver.

"But you're being outright mean," protested the redhead as Undertaker guided his limbs and pressed close against him from behind. "Mmm, but this contact almost makes it worth it."

"Now, now," chastised Undertaker, biting back laughter. "Save it for the bedroom, lovely."

"Can we use a blindfold?" suggested Grell with a smirk. "I think it would be fun."

"Oh, absolutely," agreed Undertaker. "Now shush, before you make me forget my role here and drag you off to a utility closet for some satisfaction."

William was evidently close enough to overhear some of it, and he cleared his throat pointedly and tapped his watch. Realizing he was in danger of blowing his cover of professionalism, Undertaker left Grell a silent promise to think about in the form of a brief, enthusiastic pinch on the bottom.

"Ooh!" Grell released one hand from his chainsaw to rub the spot, and he was grinning like a fiend.

Fighting hard not to laugh, Undertaker decided it was best to move on. He approached Ronald Knox, and he tapped his fingernails absently against the snath of his scythe as he examined the young reaper's custom weapon of choice. He'd never seen anything like it before. He didn't get the opportunity to have a good look at it when he fought off the boy, Grell and Sebastian on the Campania, but now that he saw it up close, he was perplexed.

~Blast these younguns and their modern scythes. How can I be expected to train them, when they use reaping tools so far beyond my time?~

Aloud, he chose to simply ask about it. "Just what is that anyway, Mr. Knox?"

Ronald nodded and turned his head blindly in the direction of Undertaker's voice. "What's what, Senpai Undertaker?"

"Your scythe," elaborated the ancient. "What is it? I'm not familiar with the harvesting tool it's fashioned after."

"Oh!" The kid grinned and flipped the scythe up, twirling it with ease and narrowly missing hitting William T. Spears with it. "It's a lawn mower! We've been using them to cut grass and keep yards nice and tidy for years, now. I thought it would make a cool, fast-working scythe, so I talked this girl in General Affairs and—"

"Ronald," William said in a warning tone, "he didn't ask for your personal history, he only asked how your scythe works."

"That's quite all right," assured the ancient, coughing into his hand to cover up a snicker. He found Ronald's enthusiasm for his scythe rather entertaining. "Mr. Knox appears to have quite the bond with his death scythe, and that's a good thing. After all, that's why we are allowed to modify them once we've achieved officer status."

William nodded. "Indeed; that hasn't changed since your day. Personalizing them to suit our individual needs and mannerisms is the best way to ensure we do good work with them."

"Then let the boy have his enthusiasm." Undertaker grinned at Ronald, and he could see why Grell was so fond of him. "I'm afraid I can't show you the best defensive stance to use with this tool, Mr. Knox. We may have to wing it and test your current methods tomorrow, when we move on to the more active exercises."

"Sure thing," agreed Ron lightly.

Satisfied now that he'd interacted with each of them, Undertaker nodded. "Then I want you all to practice your stances when you leave today. We've got an undetermined schedule to keep, and ever moment counts. While you work on perfecting your stance, I want you to shut your eyes and listen carefully with your other senses. The key to blind fighting is to listen, smell and feel. The skin that covers your bones is one giant sensory organ, stretched out over your skeleton."

Ronald grimaced. "Does anybody else think skin suddenly sounds really gross?"

William looked like he really wanted to pop him. "Ronald, be quiet!"

Undertaker clamped his lips shut, and he snorted involuntarily as he again struggled not to laugh. When he felt he could speak again, he addressed the observation. "It may sound unappealing to you, but it's a simple, biological fact. You can actually sometimes feel your opponent's incoming move, if you're attuned well enough to your body and its senses. I'm not likely to have enough time to teach you how to fully utilize those senses, but you need to be aware of them, and you need to hone them as much as you can. It may save your lives, in the end."

He planted the bottom of his scythe on the floor and he leaned against it casually. "You may remove your blindfolds and wear your glasses, again. This class is dismissed."

They did as directed and they filed out, but William, Grell and Ronald hung around with Mr. Anderson to observe the next class. Grell winked at his lover as he took a seat on a bleacher and tugged his gloves off. "I do hope you don't mind me watching you work, darling. I'm such a whore for your authority."

"Honestly," huffed William in disgust. "Could you at least attempt to show some professional manners, Sutcliff?"

Grell frowned at him. "You can nag me when you catch me shouting pillow talk at him while he's training, Will. I for one don't intend to spend every waking moment reminding everyone of how badly our situation sucks, all right?"

"Both of you, quiet down," Anderson said. He puffed on his pipe and looked to Undertaker. "You may want to take this opportunity to refresh yourself for your next class, old friend. You have fifteen minutes."

"I think that's a brilliant idea," agreed Undertaker. He banished his scythe and started for the back of the gymnasium, where the restrooms and break room were. He glanced at Grell, smiled and offered a hand to him. "Join me, lovely?"

Grell put his nail file away and tucked his gloves into a vest pocket. "Gladly." He got off the bleachers and bounded happily over to him to take his hand.

"Please don't be late for the next class," requested William.

Undertaker looked over his shoulder at him and smirked. "I can't offer any guarantees."

William sighed and muttered something about inappropriate behavior. Beside him, Ronald was looking at him with a strangely exasperated expression on his attractive young features, and it wasn't the look one would expect an underling to give his senior. He saw the way Ronald patted William's tense shoulder, and he grinned again before turning to face where he and Grell were heading.

"So, that's it, eh? I thought there was something."

"Hmm?" Grell looked up at him cluelessly, and Undertaker lifted his hand to his lips to press a kiss against the top of it.

"Nothing important, love. I just realized I can relax."

Grell looked confused. "About what?"

He didn't want to tell him his suspicions until he was sure, so Undertaker settled for parting with another truth, once they were through the doors and into the corridor. "So how did I do out there, Grell? Honestly."

The redhead looked at him with surprise. "You really need me to tell you?"

Undertaker grimaced and stopped, leaning back against the wall as he looked down at him. Thunder rumbled overhead and the lights flickered, again. "I need to know if I was convincing. Bringing back the old me is a bit exhausting, to tell you the truth of it."

Grell's expression softened into one of sympathy. "As soon as we return home tonight, you can put on your hat. Would that help?"

Undertaker gave him an uncommonly tired smile, and he reached out to tuck a strand of red hair behind Grell's ear. "Possibly. It would give me the illusion of being the me I've become over the years, at least."

Grell stepped closer and put his arms around him. "And I'll give you other things to think about, too." He kissed him on the chin, then on the lips. "I think I'll bring my blindfold home with me. What do you think?"

"You want a bit of play then, do you?" Undertaker's smile became more genuine, and he returned his kisses and held him close. "I should warn you, I may be too exhausted to give you the rough treatment, if that's what you want."

"You don't have to do anything," Grell assured in a seductive murmur. "You can just lie back and allow a fabulous redhead to do everything."

"You've no idea how delightful that sounds, kitten," replied Undertaker sincerely. Grell knew how to move his hips, and thinking of it made the ancient start to get…attentive. Grell noticed it too, and his grin sharpened wickedly as he pressed closer to him.

"Does my gorgeous silver stallion wish to be ridden by his lady?"

Undertaker started to snicker, but he knew how much Grell adored the poetic pillow talk—even when it sounded a bit silly. He lowered his mouth to his and he paused just before their lips touched. "This stallion is always ready for his lady."

Grell blushed with passion and reached up with one hand to cup the back of his head, preventing Undertaker from withdrawing as he kissed him deeply. The doors leading to the gymnasium opened to admit Lawrence Anderson, and Undertaker was nearly thankful to the man for the interruption. He hunched a little to hide his condition as Grell pulled away from him, and he nearly laughed at the uncomfortable expression on the other ancient's face.

"Pardon me," excused Anderson. "I…didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's quite all right," assured Undertaker. "We were just…having a moment."

"So I gathered." Anderson's mouth quirked slightly beneath his mustache. "Please excuse me, gentlemen."

They moved aside to give him room as he walked past them, heading for the men's room. He paused at the door and looked back at them. "Oh, and Undertaker? Nicely handled. I know that can't have been easy for you. Just keep it together like that for the rest of the day, and you'll do fine."

Undertaker nodded, suppressing a grimace. So, Anderson noticed his occasional lapses. That meant Jacobs would likely notice them too, if he came to observe—and chances were, he would.

"What's the matter?" Grell asked softly when Mr. Anderson disappeared into the restroom. He reached up to fluff Undertaker's newly trimmed bangs. "You don't look pleased."

Undertaker forced a smile at him, and he tried to shut out the voices of the dead and the fates. "Nothing, love. We've just got a long day ahead of us."

Grell sighed. "Yes, we do. But tonight…" He trailed off and grinned, toying with the taller reaper's tie. "…tonight, I'll make you forget all about the strain of today."

"Is that a promise, my dear?"

Grell nodded. "Absolutely."

Undertaker's smile was a bit more genuine now, but inwardly he was very much aware that nobody—not even Grell—understood what it was like to never be completely alone in one's head. For a time, his fiery, passionate redhead made him forget about it. Grell sufficiently drowned out all of the other noise. Now, with Armageddon looming over them all, nothing seemed to drown out those voices.

-To be continued