So I see there's a trend of UndertakerXOC fics here. I'd like to try and give it a shot.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Kuroshitsuji, but I wish I could.

Their bodies were splayed on the soft, grassy prairie as they marvelled at the sky above them. Said sky was particularly bluer than usual. An almost cerulean shade was added to its likeness rather than the usual slightly depressing gray that looked like it was about to rain. The inviting sight that was casted above them perfectly contrasted to the feeling of the small sprouts of greenery gently poking their sides, accompanied by the scent of fresh flowers. If an onlooker were to witness the sight of the happy couple, the person would think they were trying to make snow angels, despite the spring-seasoned weather.

The girl instinctively sat up and began to flex her muscles and straighten out her bones. The man watched her with warm fondness, a small smile adoring his lips. They both felt the warm breeze pass by them, both their long, silver and auburn hair respectively drifting along with it. They drenched themselves in the feeling, closing their eyes for different reasons. For the girl, it was to prevent her eyelashes from falling into her corneas. For the Undertaker, it was his sentimental value of joy as of current. He was happy. For once in his existence, he felt genuine elation.

An inhale and an exhale has passed her lungs before she lied down and rolled closer to her beloved. She laced her fingers in-between the lusciously thick, silvery strands of his hair. He watched her mindlessly, almost boorishly, as she twiddled and played with each and every lock of silver. While doing so, he slipped his arms around her, his cape-like clothing engulfing her body like a blanket as she was wrapped with him.

Red met green as they stared at each other's eyes. Their gazes showed laziness, a hint of relaxation, and a smidge of silent laughter that was evident in their pupils.

"You look as stunning as usual, Wednesday." he managed to drawl out, his voice slightly inaudible and muffled by the fabric around them.

His reply was a small, satisfied whine, along with a hug. He held her tightly, but carefully as she placed her head underneath the crook of his neck. Tenderly stroking her auburn hair with his free hand, Wednesday slowly fell asleep by his soft affection. He felt her gradual breathing against his chest and the speed in her heartbeat decelerating. A slight chuckle went unheard by her as he watched Wednesday subconsciously snake her legs around his own. The grip he had placed around her waist loosened. Undertaker brushed his fingertips along the side of her face in a delicate manner, mesmerized at the sleeping beauty. While she was unconscious, he treated her with fragility, as if she were brittle and cracked, similar to that of papyrus.

In the deepest caverns of his heart, he knew that Wednesday was just as brittle. He winced at the thought of reminiscence on the events of her hospitalization. As a shinigami, Undertaker knew everything about her, a mortal. He knew about the sickness that she had ever since she turned 5. A disease that weakened her bones, Osteoporosis. He knew how she felt when her bones were too weak to support her weight, even with such a lanky frame. He understood the fearful sensation that coursed through her body and traumatized her mind when the doctors tried to understand her disease through vivisection-to no avail, there isn't much you can do to cure.

He reads those pages of her cinematic record every day. In fact, he reads her entire life all the time. Whenever he skims through the words, his hands almost always twitch with annoyance at the pages concerning her disease. At least once or twice, it has crossed his mind to erase that part of her, so she didn't have to live such a misery-filled life. But he never does it, because he knows that his beloved Wednesday could and wouldn't be the same person he was holding closely to as of the moment.

Even with such a cold, tragic past, Wednesday possessed warmth that she alone had. It sent tingles down Undertaker's spine every time he felt it, including now. The feeling remained constant all the time, once contact had been initiated. It never dulls after each touch.

It made him wonder which one of them had the colder past.

He remembered the time he first met her, approximately 3 years ago. She looked just as exquisite, just as eloquent, and just as lonely.

Undertaker inwardly smirked as he recalled that time. He had rounded the wrong corner of the street while chasing an enemy- be it a demon, an angel, or another shinigami, it didn't matter anymore. Those questions had been blurred out of his mind a long time ago. All that remained clear in his memory theatre was each and every feature of her face when he gave a swift glance to his left after losing sight of his enemy.

She looked pale white with terror as she stood in her stillness at him. But even with fear drenched into her wide, red eyes, he still found the time to stare at her eye-catching auburn hair, the tips of it ever-so-slightly bristling the edge of the floor. Hair that perfectly craned the sides of her rosy cheeks. Those pinkish-red cheeks that always made him think she had a fever. And the freckles that covered her skin like chicken pox. To this day, he still doesn't know why she looked so scared, or what scared her. He had asked her one time, 7 months ago, and she had replied with a witty yet vague,

'Well, I can remember I wasn't scared of you, that's for sure.'

His smirk grew even wider after rethinking the sentence she had said. That was another thing he loved about her. Her wicked sense of humour. To him, all of her jokes were top-class entertainment that could make him laugh up a storm. For more than one occasion, she scolded him for laughing too much, telling him to 'quit faking it already' or 'stop boosting my self-esteem', to which Undertaker would always reply with a 'but I'm not trying to fake it, Wednesday.' In-between uncontrolled giggles.

Most people who stumble past the pair whenever they walked together usually have their thoughts on the lines of Undertaker being a paedophile. He can't really blame them. He's lived centuries, while she's lived 2 decades. Her appearance didn't help either. Her height is drastically stunted thanks to her disease. The gap between them would at least be 7 inches. But that doesn't matter, to Undertaker, it isn't something he finds disgusting, and neither does Wednesday.

However, compared to majority of the census of women, Wednesday has something that he finds fascinating. The woman is like a walking lie detector. He occasionally brings her along whenever he meets a certain stubborn client on the job. To her, people are like walking dictionaries, each word equalling to a memory, possession, or secret. The funny thing is that people really do have books that contain their life stories.

Undertaker knows this, because in less than 2 months, she had figured out all of his darkest secrets. All of them.

She knows that he's a Shinigami.

And she doesn't give a damn.

He had asked her confirmation at some point, and she just shrugged it off with a careless roll of her shoulders, dictating, 'So? What's the difference?' the initial things she pointed out was that it didn't matter. There were frequent questions that had always been worked out curiously in moments of silence, but it was never specific. She would try to ask questions that were general, such as,

"How do the offices look like?"

"Oh, you wouldn't want to be there. Trust me, the walls are so white, I think the purpose of them is to blind your eyes even more~!"

"Oh, really then? Being a God of Death sure is more boring than I expected."

"Tell me about it~"

She never really cared about the difference between mortal and shinigami flesh.

All she cares about is if he washes his hair properly. All she cares about is if he cleans his hands after finishing his work. All she cares about is that he doesn't cover his eyes so he doesn't go blind, that he eats proper food aside from his doggie biscuits, that he sleeps in a bed and not a coffin, that he stays with her at least 2 hours a day, that he tucks her in at night before turning off the lights, that he says 'I love you' so she knows that it's not his last goodbye, that he-

It doesn't matter. He can't enumerate them all. He can only faintly recall the first few scrawls of a kilometre long list of things that she cares about. He's seen that list in her cinematic record, she had started writing it the week after they met and she started visiting the morgue, infuriated at all the things he does wrong.

She stopped adding to the list after a certain conversation.

"Do shinigami die?" she had asked.

He couldn't really answer her in simple terms.

"It depends on how you die. You can kill yourself, and the normal wounds and blood loss that can cause human death have same standard as shinigami. However, you can't die of disease, or old age. Well, aside from starvation."

"So... When I die...How long will you still be alive?"

How morbid. It was thought he didn't want to think right now.

"Who knows?"

Shinigami are just there to do the job. They aren't really the real "gods".

"Undertaker, if you can, can you make my death as painless as possible? Like, a death while I stay asleep?"

She wouldn't be the first person who'd wish for that.

"I'll try."

The silver-haired shinigami grimaced a bit. He forgot why he was here. His train of thought went far away from his mindset, but now it's back.

He whiffed out his authentic silver pocket watch to check the time. It read 3:19 PM. He silently cursed to himself before untangling his body from Wednesday's.

She was still vexed in a deep slumber, he duly noted, which was a good thing. He checked his record book, a thing he managed to snatch from under the Dispatch unit in London once.

Her death was to be executed today, at 3:23.

He shut his eyes in frustration as he snapped the book closed. He looked back at Wednesday, curled up into a peaceful ball just beside him. His mind was invaded with possibilities as to how she would die. The only reason he invited her out here was to make sure death was to be of the lowest of possibility.

3:22

So far, everything hasn't gone wrong, but he wouldn't want to jinx himself, so he prepares himself with the worst-case scenario.

3:23

"...Wednesday." he called her. There was no response. He nudged her shoulder a little to the side. "Wednesday?" he asked her once more, a bit softer this time while he checked her pulse. He couldn't feel a steady beat, or a beat at all, for that matter.

Her body did not move a single bit, he had to admit, her face looked less alive and more corpse like than usual. Her chest didn't heave up and down at random intervals, nor was there any signs of movement indicated. Not a flutter of her eyelashes, or a mischievous smirk pulling her lips up. It rested like one of a statue's posture.

And her warmth. It was nowhere to be found. Instead of feeling heated flesh, he felt cold-blooded skin. The colour in her cheeks were filled in pale white, it didn't seem like a proper shade to be on her face. At least her face looked like it was in solace, rather than in agony.

"You're dead, aren't you." He said to no one in particular, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ears, ears that can't hear anything he's saying. He doesn't cry, because he knew that she was going to die anyway. She was ephemeral; he knew that from the start.

Date of death: March 12, 1879. 3:23.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest.

Side notes: Apparently she forgot to take her vitamins in the morning.

This was the day that Undertaker finally agreed, that life was a bitch.

Not a one-shot.