Chapter 9

~xox~

Once they arrived back at the Undertaker's shop, Vincent climbed out of the carriage, feeling calmer after the ride back. But they still had the assassin to deal with before he could truly relax for the evening, preferably with Undertaker himself.

Undertaker hopped out of the coachman's seat, propped the door to his shop open and went around to the back and opened up the carriage. He climbed in and smiled sunnily at Vincent, seeing that there was no sign of a disturbance.

"I hope I didn't put the chap's lights out for good when I knocked him out," he joked—though he would have sensed it if the prisoner had died. "Let's get him inside, and I'll take him out of the coffin and put him into the basement."

With Vincent handling the other end of the casket, they maneuvered it out of the vehicle and carried it into the building. The reaper dropped his disguise then and he shut and locked the door, before liberating the assassin from the coffin and carrying him downstairs to be chained up in his laboratory.

Vincent followed Undertaker's lead to the basement and sat down in a wooden chair at a work bench, "What now? we wait for him to wake up?"

Undertaker considered the man that was now chained securely to the ceiling. "Let's take a break and have some tea. If he doesn't come too in an hour...well, I've got ways to wake him up fast. He'll go nowhere fast if he wakes while we're upstairs, and I'd like to change into something more comfortable."

"But it looks good on you." Vincent smiled, walking up behind him and slipping his arms around his waist, "I wouldn't mind you in it longer."

The reaper grinned and put his hands over the Earl's. "Then maybe I'll wear it for a while longer...at least until it's time to interrogate our friend."

Smiling, the earl took his hand and lead him up to the main floor. "Lets take advantage of it, then."

~xox~

Undertaker sat down in his small parlor with Vincent, and he loosened the tie around his throat and removed it. "Sorry, but that has to go," he muttered. He draped the item on the arm of the loveseat and looked at his companion. "I don't s'pose I'll ever get used to dressing this way. If it gets me a bit of sugar from you, however, I'd say it's worth it."

Vincent smiled and moved to straddle his lover, pressing a kiss to his lips, "You have something against ties, dear?"

Undertaker put his hands on the young man's hips and rubbed them slowly. "They're too tight," he complained in a murmur, "chafes my scar."

He traced the pale, thick tissue of the old battle wound encircling his throat with a long black nail, having allowed it to emerge with the others again now that his gloves were off. He lightly scratched the material of Vincent's trousers with his other nails. "Fancy kissing it better for me, love?"

"Poor old man," Vincent teased, leaning forward to plant soft kisses along the scar, letting his lips linger longer each time until he found himself sucking lightly at the scarred flesh with a moan.

"It feels a bit better," whispered the reaper, "but it could use a bit more..."

He grinned, loving the feel of Vincent's lips on his throat. He was a little surprised that the Earl was so willing to play; what with being trapped in the coffin and the unsavory business they were sure to get up to with the man in the basement and all. Still, they hadn't been together since the birth of his son and Vincent had toughened up. The short, brief intervals they enjoyed when they both had time couldn't really hold a candle to a night of full-on snogging.

"I've missed you," confessed the mortician as he tilted his head back to allow greater access to his throat.

"I know." Vincent smirked, running his tongue along the thin scar, "I've missed you, too." He had known once Ciel was born that he'd have less time to spend with his ancient lover, but he still felt he had been unprepared for just how little time they would have. And true, he was still a little shaken from the coffin, but this evening was a rare treat he would not let go to waste. Slipping his arms around Undertaker, he furthered his attack on the slender neck of his lover, nipping at it playfully.

Undertaker purred low in his throat, his pale lashes fluttering as his eyes shut in response to the kisses and nips. He stroked Vincent's dark hair and he completely forgot about the man awaiting their judgment in the basement. He allowed his free hand to wander over the nobleman's body, caressing and kneading the toned form beneath the layers of clothing.

Unfortunately, their play was interrupted by the muffled shouts of their captive. Undertaker sighed as the noise reached his ears. Nobody on the street would hear it, but it was going to be damned distracting in the shop. He looked up at Vincent as the straddling lord paused his seductions and cursed under his breath. A smirk found its way onto the Undertaker's pale lips.

"Business before pleasure, eh?"

"Always," Vincent huffed with an irritated sigh, "But I had hoped, for once, it'd be the other way around." he ran his fingers down along Undertaker's cheek, jaw and neck, "Assassins ruin everything."

With a smile, he pecked Undertaker's smirking lips before pulling back and standing up, "Lets get business out of the way then, shall we, Undertaker?"

"Absolutely," agreed the reaper, his tone betraying his conflicting desires for lovemaking and vengeance. He arose from the couch and together, the pair went down into the basement to interrogate their "guest".

~xox~

"Let me out of here," cried the prisoner—or at least, that's what he attempted to say. The gag in his mouth made it come out as a muffled, incoherent babble. He heard the door up the stairs creak open and he tensed as the Undertaker came down, appearing to glide like a ghost rather than walk like an ordinary man. He was still dressed in his footman refinery, looking eerily dashing despite his long, shaggy silver hair and scarred visage. He grinned cheerfully at his would-be assassin as he approached, and the prisoner recoiled instinctively. No man should have survived what he'd done in the hedges, and yet this ghostly old man—who in truth looked to be no older than thirty in what could be seen of his face—had.

"Hullo, chap," greeted the mortician. The sound of light, booted feet came from the stairwell as a second "walking corpse" came down to join him. The Earl of Phantomhive stepped up beside his tall companion, his handsome features cool and unreadable in the dim light.

"What do you want?" the prisoner tried to demand.

Undertaker put a hand to his ear. "What was that? Oh, dear me...how rude of us." He turned to his companion and spoke in a conspiring tone. "We aren't going to get a lot of coherent answers from this get while he's gagged, my lord. Did you close the door to the basement on your way down?"

"I did." the earl said with s curt nod. his gaze hard-almost cruel as he turned it on the gagged assassin. 'The Queen's Watch Dog', also known as 'The Evil Nobleman' to some. Those were also titles he had inherited from his father. The latter hadn't ever appealed to him, but this man had not only but his wife and child danger in his attempts on his life; but also took his lover away-or would have if Undertaker was mortal. He would not take that lightly, and finally, he saw the appeal in being 'The Evil Nobleman'.

He knew he had the means to live up to the title. He had, after all, before made his father proud with his ways in school. Manipulating the other, powerful students around him to serve his needs. And now-he had real reason for it.

Vincent stepped over to the man, reaching up and nearly smirking at the look in the man's eyes as he reached up and none-too-gently ripped the gag from his mouth. The dirty cloth falling limp in his gloved hand.

As the man opened his mouth to spew words of protest and likely, insults and threats, Vincent held a finger up to his lips. "I'd be incredibly careful in what you say, if I were you."

Undertaker left his companion to it, trusting him to deal with the prisoner in his own way. While Vincent interrogated him, the reaper went behind the curtain to change clothes.

"No matter what I say, I'm sure as dead," replied the assassin.

"There are worse things." Vincent responded in a calm, menacing tone, "And it is not below me to go that far. I found you, did I not? I have the means and resources to do as I promise." He leaned in closer, "But enough of that. Lets cut to the chase. Who hired you to kill me?"

The captive glared sullenly, his hazel eyes flicking to the Undertaker as the reaper stepped back out in his usual attire. Undertaker lifted his eyebrows and plopped his hat on, before tilting his head and crossing his arms over his chest. His fingernails had elongated again, and he drummed them absently over the material of his long sleeves.

"The man asked you a question," supplied the mortician. "The polite thing to do would be to answer it."

"Go to hell, you ghastly freak!"

Undertaker covered his mouth with one hand and coughed into it, chuckling. "My, my...someone's a sore loser. It seems I'll have to get out my tongue loosener."

With a wink at the Earl, Undertaker went to the opposite side of the room and turned a crank. Chains rattled as something came down from the ceiling, and he walked back over to the prisoner and turned him around so that he could see it. The assassin's eyes widened at the sight of the giant meat hook, and he began to struggle as the Undertaker reached up to free the manacles holding his wrists over his head from the chain in the ceiling.

"You can survive for quite a while, skewered like a carcass for butchering," assured the reaper. He grunted when the man kicked out with his knee and hit him in the ribs. Fortunately, the manacles binding his ankles weighed his legs down and weakened the hit. "Of course, your lungs will start to fill with blood after a bit, and that will make it difficult for you to answer our questions. Not impossible, though."

"Wait," begged the assassin, "Th-the one who gave the order didn't give me his name, but he said it came straight from the Queen! He...he had a letter with her seal and everything!"

Undertaker stopped, the grin vanishing from his pallid lips. He looked over at Vincent, not entirely surprised to hear that Her Majesty was involved. "The Queen, you say?" He looked at their guest again, his cold death's grin returning. "You wouldn't lie to us about that, would you?"

The assassin shook his head convulsively, his terrified gaze fixated on the meat hook. "It's the honest to God's truth! It weren't nothing personal...I was just doing as I was told!"

Vincent sighed. The Queen. this may just be the proof they needed that the queen had already deemed him too knowledgeable about her and her dealings. The thought almost made him let out a curse.

He held it back though, and grabbed the man's hair, forcing him to look at him. "And what did this letter say? I assume you destroyed it? It would have been stupid of you not to."

"Th-the letter had the royal seal on it," stammered the assassin. "I don't know what it said!"

"Then how do you know you were even meant to kill Lord Phantomhive?" Demanded the Undertaker with a frown.

"Because he told me so!"

Undertaker looked at Vincent, and he sighed before addressing the prisoner. "Something stinks here, and it's not just the fishy smell clinging to your clothes."

"I was ordered by the messenger to take care of the Earl," insisted the man. "He paid me half of the fee, and he said I'd get the rest after the job was done. He said his orders came from Her Majesty. Find him and you may find the letter!"

"Strange you would take a man on his word and not insist to read the orders yourself. A seal can be forged." Vincent sighed and glanced at Undertaker, "Tell us, what did he look like? This isn't going well for you, by the way. You best find something to catch my interest. I don't think I need to tell you how my associate can be in this situation."

Undertaker cracked his knuckles and grinned maniacally.

The man going by the name of Jimmy looked between the two of them, and he licked his lips. "I can't read," he admitted.

Undertaker's brow lifted. "I somehow doubt that. The royals would never hire an illiterate bum to take down the Queen's own guard dog. That's a nice yarn you're trying to spin, though."

"You don't need to know how to read to shoot a weapon or stab someone," insisted the prisoner.

"But keeping track of your quarry without the ability would be a chore, without it," reasoned the mortician. "Keep trying to convince us if you want to, though. I think it's time we hang you up."

The man cast a look of sincere dread at the meat hook, and he shook his head. "He...he had dark hair! The letter said something about in the interest of the Crown and Her Majesty, Lord Phantomhive must be eliminated. Maybe it didn't come directly from the Queen, but one of her advisors...I don't know! I just know it had the seal on it."

"You'll have to do better than that, chap," advised Undertaker. "There are hundreds of dark-haired men in this city. What did his face look like? Was he old? Young? Middle-aged?"

"Middle-aged, I think," answered the prisoner. "Said to call him Phillip, but I'm sure that wasn't his real name. He had a French accent. Maybe he wasn't really from the Queen...maybe he was a spy sent to get rid of one of her vassals...I don't know!"

Undertaker had to give him credit: that was a plausible theory. The Queen did have enemies in neighboring countries, after all, and the Phantomhive name had gained a reputation all through Europe. He looked at his lover and he jerked his chin toward the stairwell. "My lord, a word alone, if you please. Be a dear and put his gag back in before we go up...we wouldn't want his cries drawing attention from the street while the door is open, even briefly."

Vincent hesitated, but nodded and took his advice before following him. "Do you think he's telling the truth?" he asked once they were upstairs in the hallway.

"I think he's accustomed to bending the truth to suit him," said the reaper. "While torturing him to bring it out would be a barrel of laughs, it's going to take time and we can't be certain how much of it's honesty and how much is fabrication. There is one way to find out immediately, of course. I haven't suggested it yet because...well, I'm sadistic."

"You know as well as anyone the real title my father left to me. It's about time I live up to it. It may save Rachel, Ciel, and you from harm if I prove that I'm just as capable as my predecessor. I'm not a school boy anymore, I'll do as is needed."

Undertaker chortled with laughter. "Actually, I didn't suggest it right away because it would be too quick to suit me, but what I'm actually hinting at is that I can retrieve the information we need through his cinematic records. I can access them without killing him, if you prefer—leave him alive to suffer whatever punishment you see fit. I'll leave it up to you whether he goes to the Yard or leaves this place in itty bitty pieces, but the best way to glean truthful information about the nature of his contract and who put him up to it is through my death scythe."

"We may have to. And either way, I want to make sure he could never target another life. Like I said. there are worse things than death." There was an uncommonly cruel edge to Vincent's voice as he glanced back to the man, "He could have poisoned Rachel instead of you that evening. His bullet could have hit her. I'd hate to seem heartless to you, but she is my wife and the mother of my son. She should not be put in danger because of who I am. I need to make an example of someone. If he dies and leaves here in bits, no one would know."

"So it's to be maiming, then?" Undertaker nodded in approval at the thought. "We could cut off his hands and gouge out his eyes, but I'll leave that bit up to you to decide."

He took a step back, and he manifested his formidable scythe. "My task is getting the truth out of him before we take out our insurance on his body parts. You can either join me as I make the cut, or you can sit this out and wait for me to get what I need. Either way is fine with me, love."

"I'll come with you. I find what you can do with that thing...interesting." Vincent thought back to when he first saw Undertaker release a person's records, "You're face looks so calm when you do it."

The reaper chuckled. "Well, I've been doing it for a bloody long time. A body gets used to it, after a while." He gestured at the door leading to the basement stairs. "After you."

Vincent nodded and slipped back down, rounding on the would-be-assassin, "I'm afraid we can't take you at your word, and will have to employ other means to get this information from you." he said simply, tugging his gloves on tighter, "Then we shall see to your punishment."

The assassin stared between him and the Undertaker, eyes widening at the sight of the deadly, skull-topped scythe in the mortician's hands. "What are you doing," he tried to yell around the gag. He struggled against his bonds desperately as the pale, grinning, silver-haired man approached him with the scythe. Dampness spread over the crotch of his pants as his bladder failed him, and a scream rose in his throat when the tall mortician stood before him and lifted the weapon.

"Messy chap," scolded the Undertaker, nodding at the stain of urine on his crotch. "Have some dignity, would you? This will only hurt a lot."

The scream ended in a choked sound as the reaper cut right through the prisoner's shirt and into his stomach with the tip of his scythe. Undertaker ignored the man's writhing, and he caught hold of the reel of life events that spilled out with the cut, examining it with interest. He found the event he was specifically looking for and he narrowed his eyes in concentration, paying special attention to it. The man had indeed been approached by one of the royal staff; Undertaker recognized the face. He'd seen the man before in Buckingham Palace, and he knew he was one of the Queen's advisors. He watched him hand over a handsome pile of currency to the assassin, and he saw the envelope with the royal seal in his hand.

Undertaker watched several more moments of the cinematic record, until he was satisfied that he had all of the information he needed. He stepped back and nodded at the Earl, finished with his handiwork.

"He's all yours, my lord. I have the information we need."

"Good." Vincent said, removing his simple brown jacket, vest and shirt. He hadn't expected the need of doing something messy, and brown wouldn't work in hiding any blood. So, half naked, still in his brown trousers and black gloves, he borrowed one of Undertaker's black work aprons he had hanging on the wall, and used it to protect his slacks.

Selecting one of Undertaker's larger surgical knives, he held it up, the candlelight glinting off it's blade and successfully catching the man's attention.

"I've never had to do the dirty jobs myself before..." he said in a dark, smooth voice, "I had hoped to stay innocent a little longer, but you came close to killing my pregnant wife a couple of times in your aim to kill me... I see no shame in becoming the man my father expected me to become because of that." he turned to face the man, "Don't worry...you shan't be killed. but you won't be able to pose a threat to anyone after this night, either." He looked at Undertaker, "Can you lower him so I can reach his hands more easily?"

"Absolutely," agreed the reaper. When the prisoner began to struggle and shout in protest, he clicked his tongue and retrieved the discarded gag to fit it back between his teeth. "A coward on all accounts. You ought to try to put at least a little effort into maintaining some dignity, chap."

He reached up to adjust the fitting mechanism on the chains and he lowered them a bit, allowing the man's shackled feet to touch the floor, while still keeping his arms secured over his head. Satisfied that he was in position, Undertaker turned to his companion. "There's a stepping block over there that I use to stand on, when I need to reach high places. You can use that while you work to give you added height."

He looked at the instrument that Vincent had selected, and he walked over to his tray and unwrapped a few others. Selecting the bone saw, he brought it to him. "I'd recommend this for your intentions, my lord. Otherwise you'll wear out your arms trying to cut through the bone. Use the surgical knife when you want to cut through soft tissue and sinew."

Vincent felt his cheeks heat slightly, "Thank you..." he mumbled to the reaper. He didn't know the inner workings of the human body, and he had assumed that the wrist would have been a weak spot. But Undertaker likely did know what he was talking about, given his age and chosen profession. So, he took the saw and stepped up on the block to boost himself up a bit more, looking down at Undertaker as he found himself suddenly just a little taller than the man. He then turned to their assassin and took hold of his trembling hand to hold it still as he got to work, blood running down the man's arms as the blade sliced into flesh at the wrist, and muffled screaming filled the dimly lit basement.

Undertaker stood back and watched with a critical eye as his lover hacked the assassin's hands off at the wrists, bit by bit. There was a grimace of determination on Vincent's face—which was getting splattered by the blood that spurted as he cut through the arteries. He was getting through it quickly enough for a novice, but the more practiced reaper suspected their victim would go into shock rather quickly. He avoided saying anything to the Earl, letting him finish that part of the job until the man fell free of the overhead chains, landing in a wretched, writhing heap on the floor. His hands remained dangling in the manacles for a moment, twitching. One of them fell sideways and dropped to the floor next to its previous owner.

"Cauterize the wounds," instructed the Undertaker, "or he'll bleed out and we may lose him." He nodded at the stone hearth in the corner of the room, where he'd left a cauterizing iron heating while waiting for the prisoner to wake up. It looked somewhat like a giant, thick spatula, designed for the flat part to be pressed against bleeding wounds to seal them. He would ordinarily rather employ pressure techniques and antibiotics to treat the living, were he trying to save them, but this man didn't deserve that courtesy.

With a grim, serious look on the young earl's face that had he seen himself would have reminded him of his father, Vincent retrieved the tool and did as he was instructed.

Part of him couldn't believe what he was doing, but he knew he had to if he was going to protect his family. It was for Rachel and Ciel's future. Not his own. If it were only his life at stake, then he'd simply have the man killed.

More tortured screams emerged from behind the gag as Vincent took the hot tool by the insulated handle and scorched the flesh to cauterize it. His reaper companion watched, nodding silently in approval with a grin of satisfaction steeling over his face. He dropped his ghastly smile when Vincent turned to put the tools back, forcing his face into an expressionless mask.

"Anything else you'd like to do before we toss him out, my lord?"

Vincent crouched down, grabbing the man's hair and forcing him to look up at him, "That depends...on how loose his tongue may be once we hand him over to the Yard."

The prisoner whimpered, blood trickling from his lips from biting his own tongue in his agony. "I...told you...everything I know! Please...no more!"

Undertaker considered reminding Vincent that he'd already gotten the information from his cinematic records, and it more or less matched up. He was enjoying the assassin's pain and fear too much to bother, however, so he left it to his lover to decide how far this went.

"That's not what I meant. We have what we need from you. but the Yard..." he leaned in closer, "We don't need you telling them so much. Could you hold your tongue or should I remove it for you?"

The mortician felt like a fool for failing to consider that, and behind Vincent's back, he face-palmed. He'd gotten so caught up in his delight over the assassin's torment that he hadn't even thought of the Yard hearing the gory details of how this man lost his hands or what he knew of the Queen's plot. While he was fairly sure most of the Yard weren't involved in her plotting, there was a chance some of them were and it wouldn't do for word to get back to Her Royal Highness that the Earl knew she'd sent someone to kill him.

"I...I won't say anything," promised Jimmy.

"And how can I trust that?" Vincent asked.

Undertaker crossed his arms over his chest, a tiny smirk adorning his pale lips. "I don't think you can, my lord. He was quick enough to betray details of the contract he'd made to finish you off."

"Won't...tell anyone," slurred the assassin, groggy with pain and shock.

"The Earl has a wife and child to think about," reminded the mortician relentlessly. "Seems a shallow promise to make to a man you've already tried to bury twice. Wouldn't you agree, my lord?"

He looked at Vincent calmly, giving him complete autonomy over the situation. He didn't want to see that innocence in him die completely, but he needed to know he could be as ruthless as his enemies were, when he had to. His enjoyment of the assassin's predicament faded, and inside, a part of him began to mourn.

Vincent fell silent, looking down at the man as he thought. True. He did have his family to think of. and any story the man may weave, even if he isn't trusted, would reflect upon he and his family. and if the Queen should hear? No. he had to keep the man silent.

"...Hold his tongue." he said in a monotone, regret dulling his eyes.

Quietly aching for him even as he applauded his resolve, Undertaker went to the instrument tray and picked up a pair of forceps. The victim was pleading now...sobbing and swearing he'd never talk. Undertaker watched not him, but Vincent as he approached the crumpled amputee and grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing his head back. He pried his jaw open roughly and he ignored the screams as he inserted the forceps into his mouth and caught his tongue, despite its efforts to escape the probing instrument. Keeping it firmly grasped, Undertaker nodded at the tray where the surgical knife lay waiting.

"Quick is best, unless you want to draw it out a bit to make him suffer," said the mortician.

Vincent shook his head, "This is just to protect my family, not to punish him further." he admitted, picking up the knife and bringing it to the man's tongue. He paused, closing his eyes and taking a breath before opening them and in one swift movement, severed the muscle from the man's mouth. he then tossed the knife back on the tray and turned away, trying to tune out the man's cries of pain. "Do we need to do anything to stop the bleeding?"

"I'll take care of cauterizing it, Earl," said the Undertaker. "You executed your task perfectly. Leave the cleanup to me, and then I'll arrange for our 'friend' to be dropped off at the Yard. What happens to him after that is of no consequence."

Vincent nodded and removed the apron and washed his hands in the sink before picking up his discarded clothes, "I'll make use of your bath, then." he said in a strained tone, "I'll be out shortly."

Undertaker watched him go, and he resisted a sigh. There went the last shred of Vincent's innocence, and he'd played a large part in it. He only hoped that it wouldn't corrupt him—that Vincent's strength of character would win out and not die with that innocence. He looked at the wreck of a man gagging on the floor, and he went for the smaller cauterizing tool waiting in the fireplace. The sooner he got rid of the assassin and cleaned up the mess, the better.

For convenience sake rather than mercy, the mortician measured out a syringe of sedative and he injected the assassin with it, quickly and efficiently. The miserable sobs died and the eyes glazed over as the drug did it's work, and Undertaker was able to finish up without any resistance or noise from his captive.

~xox~

The young earl sighed, washing the blood off himself. What a mood killer the evening's activities had turned out to be. And he regretted it and hated what he'd forced himself to do so coldly. No matter how justified he was in his actions, he couldn't help but mourn over what he'd become.

And he wondered if his father and grandfather before him had also felt the same when they had finally embraced the title of 'The Evil Nobleman'. He hoped so. Because if he was the only one then maybe he was weak.

Once he was clean, he lifted himself from the warm, red water and toweled himself dry. He slipped back into his clothes and emptied the tub before walking back out to see his lover. Maybe Undertaker could help him forget for a time...help make it easier to face Rachel later when he returned home.

~xox~

The Undertaker finished helping his associates to load the unconscious man into the cart, and he glanced up and down the dark, London street. "Take him straight to the Yard; no pit stops. Tell them you found the bloke in this state and you don't know how he got that way, just as I told you."

The driver nodded, and his companion hopped up beside him in the front. "Right, sir."

Undertaker slapped the side of the wagon and they were off. He watched them vanish into the fog rolling in from the harbor, and he looked over his shoulder at his shop when they were gone. The Earl could probably use a spot of tea, right about now. The amputated bits would go straight to cremation and get dumped in a flower bed. The man himself...well...he'd likely wind up a beggar in the end, if he didn't starve to death. Those once in his circle would hear of his misfortune, and they'd think twice about taking a contract on Vincent Phantomhive.

It wouldn't take a genius to guess how he'd been maimed, to those who knew his real trade. He couldn't tell the Yard what happened to him, either through words or writing, and his associates weren't likely to come to his rescue now that he was a cripple. The Queen would likely have the matter investigated, though, and that was where Undertaker's new trick came in. He snickered at the thought. When Her Majesty's spies found the maimed assassin—and there was no doubt they would—they would interrogate him as best they could, to find out what he said to whom about his contract.

Of course, Undertaker had taken the liberty to...play...with the man's cinematic records a bit. He'd replaced himself and Vincent with two of the Queen's men that he'd seen the assassin interacting with in the unblemished records. He'd recall the entire, agonizing event, but as far as he knew, the man who gave him the letter and contracted him was the one to maim him...and in Undertaker's place was a palace informant who had asked him how the job was going, on more than one occasion. This would lend the impression that he'd been maimed by the Queen's own for his failure, not only as penance but to keep him from talking to the wrong people.

He hadn't told Vincent as much, though. He wasn't sure he could do that with the cinematic records until the idea came to him while preparing the man for transport, and it was very important that the Earl be willing and able to be as ruthless as necessary to protect himself and his family.

The reaper sighed. He wished he could have spared Vincent that task; wished he could have done all the dirty work, altered the victim's memory and sent him on his way without his lover ever having to pick up a knife. The flashes of imagery came to him again, and he shook his head, tucking his pale hands into the long sleeves of his garments. It was too late. What was done was done, and if nothing else, tonight had proven to them both that Vincent was indeed capable of getting his hands dirty, if he had to.

"Tea," reminded the ancient to himself. "And biscuits. Time to put the unpleasant business behind us and look to the future."

Adjusting his top hat, the mortician went back inside and locked his door up tight. He heard Vincent finishing up in his bathroom as he heated the kettle, and he called out to him. "All finished, love. You can relax in the parlor while I prepare the tea."

"I'd rather not..." Vincent said, slipping into the kitchen and walking up behind his immortal lover, "I've been left alone to my thoughts long enough."

Undertaker turned to look at him. Forgetting about the tea for now, he reached out to stroke his dark, still-damp bangs from his eyes. He could tell him he did what was right by him. He could remind him that the world was a cruel place and good folk often got caught up in having to do bad things to survive—but he could see by the look in his brown eyes that he wouldn't be telling him something he didn't already know.

"How can I make it better for you, my dear?" whispered the reaper. "Comfort isn't my strong point, so tell me how to give it to you."

In a display of what most would say was weakness, Vincent flung himself into Undertaker's arms, hugging him close, "Just...be here for me." he whispered.

The reaper staggered slightly under the sudden embrace, and he smiled and returned it, stroking Vincent's back. Perhaps that compassion that drew him to Vincent hadn't died in the basement, after all.

"My dear, kind noble," he whispered, rubbing his cheek against Vincent's. "Whatever is a reaper to do with you, hmm?"

He pulled away just enough to look Vincent in the face, aching for him through his smile. "And whatever have you done to make this old fart give a toss? I'm at a loss for it. You've survived, though. You've made it through your test, and the thing that makes you 'Vincent' is still there. I'm...proud."

"It doesn't make me weak?" Vincent asked, tilting his head back to look up at the reaper, "Even if you are the only one to see this side of me?"

"You're strong where it counts," assured the mortician. "You show the world one face, while keeping the truth inside."

Undertaker placed an ivory-pale hand flat over Vincent's chest, peering at him through the cover of his bangs. "A weakling wouldn't have been able to do what you did down there, and still keep hold of who he really is."

"It wasn't what I had expected." Vincent shook his head, "Not that I knew what I expected-but not that."

"It never is," mused the reaper. "Mind you, my memory is faded in some places, but I remember my first reaping well...oh, yes."

He sighed and stared off into the distance, his voice changing to that deep, dulcet murmur it fell into when abandoning his mortician guise. "Granted, it's not entirely the same thing, but similar enough. You go to your task with expectations, imagining what it's going to be like when you do it; but once you actually get down to it, what you had planned is nothing like what actually happens."

He shook himself out of it and he took his hat off, dropping it on the rack by the curtains. Undertaker kept hat racks throughout his shop and home for convenience. He shook his bangs out of his eyes and he cupped Vincent's chin, lightly running his thumb over his jaw.

"It will stay with you, my dear. Probably until the day you die...but always remember that you had a purpose behind it; one that you needed to fulfill. You didn't know your own mettle for sure, until you did that."

The earl gave a small nod, "I did it for Rachel and Ciel...and any other children Rachel and I may have in the future. I did it for my family. That is the only thought that let me actually go through with it." he paused and studied his lover's face, "I did it for you, as well. You may be an immortal being, but you are my lover. If something happens to me before my old age, you would suffer; and so it was to protect you from that, at least."

The reaper smiled. "You know, you're the first person who's tried to protect me from anything in...well...a very, very long time."

He closed the distance between their lips, bending his head to kiss Vincent softly. He spoke in a quiet murmur against Vincent's mouth as he broke the kiss. "First you arrange a funeral for me, and now this. Of course there's the nipper and the Lady Rachel too, but I've got to bask a little in the effort to include me in who you want to protect."

"Why wouldn't I include you? Rachel would want me to as well," Vincent whispered, snaking his arms around Undertaker, "You are a part of our family."

"Right, I'm the 'funny uncle'," teased the mortician with a grin. He returned the embrace and gave Vincent a little squeeze. "I s'pose I'm just not used to being thought of that way, darlin'."

"That's what makes it all the more special." Vincent smirked, already starting to forget that evening's activities and starting to enjoy the moment. He pulled himself up to reconnect their kiss, only to be interrupted by the whistling of the tea kettle.

"Ah, bugger," grumbled the reaper. "Hold that thought, love. I'll get that."

Undertaker went over to the kettle and he lifted it off the cast iron stove, putting it on the stone cooler. "Are you still not in the mood for tea, Vincent?" His usual smile had returned in his relief to see that his Earl was still...well, his Earl.

"I never said no to tea...just to waiting in the other room alone with my thoughts." Vincent pointed out, moving to get out two cups from the shelf above the sink. "I intend to spend my time with you tonight as we haven't had the chance in quite a while. Rachel knows my intentions of not being home tonight."

Undertaker nodded, quite happy to have him all to himself for the night—even though he wished the circumstances were less grim. He poured the tea into the cups Vincent sat out on the counter, and he put the pot back on the stone disc. "Of course, my dear. Your company is always more than welcome."

He took out the sugar bowl and lifted the lid off of it, before getting a spoon from a drawer. "I'm all out of cubes, I'm afraid, but it's all still sugar to me. You don't have my sweet-tooth, though." He grinned at the Earl, who had often teased him about rotting his perfect white teeth out, if he didn't cut down on the sweets.

"Yes, well, I'm surprised your teeth aren't all gone by now." Vincent goaded, scooping one small spoonful of sugar into his cup.

The mortician waited until he finished, before scooping three heaping teaspoons into his own cup. "Fortunately for me, tooth-rot isn't an issue with my kind." He gave a deliberately smug look. "I can have all the lollies and sugar my black little heart desires, thank you very much."

"Well, aren't you lucky." Vincent said, picking up his cup in one hand and taking the reaper's hand in the other to lead him to the sitting room.

"Not so lucky," mused the reaper, suddenly feeling a morose sweep of reality. "I linger on, while those I dare to love...well, that's neither here nor there, right now."

He followed Vincent into the sitting room and took a seat on the couch beside him, crossing his booted legs. "Enough doomsaying, tonight. I think we've both had our fill."

"More than our fill." The earl agreed, settling down on the sofa and forgoing the idea of being proper as he slouched back and when Undertaker joined him, he leaned over against the man, "At least for me."

The mortician stroked Vincent's drying hair with one hand, while holding his cup with the other and sipping from it. He could have apologized for his part in the Earl committing an act that would likely cause him nightmares for years to come, but that would be useless. He did have something else to apologize for, though.

"Sorry I forgot to tell you about the safety switch on that coffin, love. I didn't realize we didn't cover that particular detail until after the fact."

"Yes...that would have been ideal to know." Vincent agreed, "Should have tested it as well." he sipped his tea and shifted to look up at the reaper, a teasing tone drifting into his voice, "But I hope that it satisfied any desires to see me in one of your custom coffins."

Undertaker snickered lightly, dropping an arm around the Earl's shoulders to give him a squeeze. "It did indeed, m'lord. It did indeed."

~xox~

-To be continued