A/N: we hope you're enjoying the story so far. ;u; leave critique, please! We aren't sure about Grell or Undertaker or Drocell's character. This is a small update, but ChaosLinen has been busy with German Classes and Moronic-Muffin is busy with derps.
The stars were already illuminating the sky above him as Grell stepped out of the ruins of the mansion. Keeping a firm grip on Drocell, he began to make his way along the path back the way he came. After trudging forward for a good fifteen minutes, he began to wonder what exactly he was supposed to with the limp, damaged body in his arms. Obviously, if he took him to any regular doctor, they would just go berserk and not do much good. Finally, he remembered a particular silver-haired person with a Cheshire-grin that might be able to help – the Undertaker.
By the time Grell and his new companion made it back to London, it was already well past midnight. The street lights flickered gently as he walked through the silent, deserted streets that would soon become bustling marketplaces and squares in a few hours as the dawn of a new day arrived. Finally, he reached the familiar street where the Undertaker's Mortician Parlour was located. He gently set Drocell, who appeared to be asleep or unconscious at the very least, down against the side of the building. Then, Grell tried to enter through the front door, only to find that it was bolted shut. He tried rapping gently, but there was no response. Then, when he had given up and decided to find a small alley someplace to stay for the rest of the night, the door suddenly started to creak open with a particularly unpleasant screeching noise and the smell of death and formaldehyde wafted out.
"Hello, my little dearies," crooned the voice in the darkness behind the frame of the partly-open door.
"Undertaker," Grell huffed, in his usual sarcasm-infused tone. "I need you to help me fix someone up."
"Why, yes, my dearie," giggled Undertaker. "Anything for you, as long as you give me my payment."
Some time later, Undertaker was bent over on the floor, rolling and laughing like a mad man.
"I met my part of the deal," Grell said a bit tiredly, "Now, you better keep yours, or I can introduce you to my lovely chainsaw."
"Yes, yes," replied the Undertaker, regaining his normal, slightly less loopy demeanor. "Right away. Who is that patient you want me to see?"
"Him." Grell gestured to Drocell, who remained as lifeless as a doll, lying against a coffin in the corner of the room.
"Ahh…" the Undertaker commented, "Well, he certainly does look torn up pretty badly, but it's nothing that I, the Undertaker, cannot fix."
Undertaker sauntered over to Drocell, lifted him up, and then took him into the room behind the counter. Grell followed, half concerned and half curious about what exactly Undertaker was going to do. Immediately, he exclaimed in disgust and pinched his nose. Then, he leaned against the furthest wall.. Undertaker lay Drocell down on a wooden table that looked as if it had been stained over and over with a particular dark fluid that had permeated through the surface. The now somewhat focused Undertaker bustled around, relighting some candles that had gone out, and grabbing some materials from various drawers and cabinets. Then, he brought all the materials he had gathered and dropped them on a small, rolling stand beside the table. He paused a moment as if he were examining a broken toy and considering how to fix it.
He picked up a scapel.
"First, we will have to cut him completely open and see exactly what's wrong."
Undertaker turned slowly towards Drocell, and then suddenly slammed the blade down into his chest without warning. The horrible cracking sound of porcelain resounded against the thin walls as what remained of Drocell's chest caved in.
Shocked and oddly, quite outraged, Grell jumped up and was about to grab hold of the Undertaker's unfashionable, tattered robes and strangle him when a wheezing sound began to come from the man on the table who was little more now than a fine, but shattered, work of porcelain. Grell paused.
"Hllll mmm," came the discernible voice, before his lace-adorned eyelids fluttered closed heavily.
"As I thought," Undertaker tutted, going back to work as Grell stood staring, agast, "The straw he was stuffed with is rotting, and… Goodness me! There are termites everywhere!"
Undertaker jumped back momentarily, brushing furiously at his hair and robes. He then took an exaggerated, slow step forward, as if preparing himself for some daunting task. He grabbed a trowel from the pile of tools and started, gingerly, to scoop the contents of Drocell's innards into a basin. At one point, when he had removed most of the spoiled material, the trowel clunked on something that sounded metallic. Undertaker reached in and found a small, silver pocket watch with an intricate, floral pattern engraved on the outside. He could feel it pulsating gently in his palm with each tick.
"We wouldn't want that to get misplaced now." he giggled. It seemed a little rusty, so to protect it he quickly snipped a piece of purple satin and wrapped it up before setting it back in. Then, he went to a large, mahogany coffin near the exit and opened it up to reveal a bed of dried red roses. He had saved the leftovers from all the coffins he had been asked to decorate and fix up for viewings. To tell the truth, Undertaker didn't have the slightest notion why he had saved all them in the first place. Perhaps, it was as a bit of sentiment. If Undertaker ever died, he would have like to been buried in a bed of roses, but he knew he never would. Regardless, that didn't matter anymore. Undertaker scooped up a bunch of the slightly sweet-fragranced petals in his arms and brought them over to Drocell. Then, he began to fill his body with the lovely things.
When the coffin was empty, and Drocell's body was at last full, Undertaker stood back for a moment to admire his own work. He grabbed some paints and quickly touched up on the chipped fleur-de-lis on Drocell's cheek.
"Hmm, he looks a lot better now. That seems to be all I can do for you."
"All you can do? What about that huge gaping hole in his chest? And his arms and legs?" exclaimed Grell, who was quite exhausted at this point and in need of a good nap.
"Ah, yes," answered the Undertaker. Then, he seemed to taken on a more serious, rarely seen demeanor. "Well, I simply fix broken things up a little and make then a little prettier, a little more presentable to the world. But I am not a doll or puppet maker nor a craftsman. It is beyond my ability to craft the porcelain pieces needed for his outer body."
"And knowing that already, you broke him apart even more?" Grell was enraged.
Undertaker reverted back to his usual drunk-like state and giggled a little.. "I am truly sorry~ For now, all I can do is wrap him up with a bit of these strips that I use for my patients that are missing a little too much to stitch right up. I will see if I can find you someone who can help you, but all you can do is try your best to keep him together. However, you must admit it's at least a little better that he's not rotting apart from the inside anymore, eh?"