Disclaimer: You've heard it all before.

Author's Note: For her birthday, LJ user Neocloud9 asked me for an UndertakerxRachel drabble. As if I didn't spoil her enough throughout the year, I decided to accept the challenge such a coupling presented. X3

Warnings: This is my first time writing for Undertaker, so I apologize if it sucks. XD; In other news, this is based off of the manga, where Undertaker was, apparently, an 'evil noble' and an associate of Vincent's.

XXX

Sweets

XXX

"Well, well, if it isn't Little Red Riding Hood…"

The gurgled giggle flutters through the shifting darkness, bouncing off of embalming jars and half-constructed skeletons. In the doorway, the festive figure pauses. A black leather glove peeps out from beneath the shadow of a flowing scarlet cloak, passing garlands of ornamental holly and minute golden bells on its way up to her hood. She needn't have bothered; only one woman ever comes to his shop alone.

"If I'm Little Red Riding Hood," Rachel teases, rearranging her mussed, blonde locks in the wake of her velvet drapery, "does that make you Grandma, or the Big Bad Wolf?"

The Undertaker grins, bowing her inside from his home in the gloom. "Who knows? But perhaps you'll find out if you venture within..." Long arms sweep majestically backwards, a welcoming gesture that puts a frown on his guest's porcelain face.

"Then perhaps I shouldn't."

A taunting leer. "Don't you wish to know?"

"They say that curiosity kills the cat," she retorts, even as she closes the heavy door behind her. A bell tinkles; neither notices. "Please realize that I have no such death-wish."

"Ah, then why journey to an establishment such as this in the first place?" Undertaker cackles amiably, gliding closer with a rustle of midnight-colored robes. Like the door, he jingles too— hips glinting with charms and tokens of the departed. Unlike the door, Rachel notices (savors) each tinny ring of these pseudo-bells. "Please, Lady Phantomhive, don't be shy! Wouldn't you at least like to try one of my new deluxe caskets? They're sinfully snuggly. I'd even allow you to take a quick 'cat-nap' inside of one. A test run, of sorts. I promise, you'll never experience a deeper, more soothing sleep…"

A bubbled chuckle; it starts high and ends low. And the young woman can feel each sliding note of the pleased melody: the musical resonance tingles beneath her skin, as if black-tipped nails were whispering down her arm. Then again, perhaps they really are…

"What if I'm not tired?" she inquires, her naive tone at odds with her devious leer. The obvious dissonance only serves to add further fuel to the fire; her glossy lips twist into an enchanting sort of 'v,'—all sharp edges and cloying sweetness.

The jingling has stopped.

The Undertaker returns her alluring simper with a sneer of his own: Cheshire-wide and trembling, a crumbling mask which barely contains his chortles. "There are ways to remedy that, my dear."

Thick lashes flutter, the same flaxen gold as her luxurious curls. "Such as…?"

"Chamomile tea, perhaps?"

Game over.

Rachel beams, head tipping in innocent happiness as the Undertaker's smile nearly splits his face in two. "That sounds lovely," she then decrees, lifting the woven basket that dangled from the crook of her arm. "And that reminds me, I brought you a Christmas present. It should go spectacularly with a warm drink."

"Oh?" The Undertaker guffaws conversationally as he hands the young woman a beaker of gently-steaming liquid, prepared earlier and set aside for her anticipated arrival. Rachel accepts the refreshment with a murmur of gratitude and immediately makes herself at home within the displayed and crushed-satin insides of a large, lacquered coffin, crossing her booted feet like a small child. "I am flattered to have been thought of, Lady Phantomhive. Is it Bourbon?"

The blonde laughs, with genuine affection, as she rearranges the linen napkins that cushion the contents of her wicker container. "Far more innocuous, I'm afraid," she apologizes, tipping the basket carefully forward so that he can scrutinize its innards. (He does so enjoy examining the insides of things, after all.) "I thought it would be nice to gift all of my husband's associates with a small token for the holidays, something more heartfelt than a store-bought trinket. So I made everyone their own batch of cookies."

"Hmmm?" Behind wispy bangs of silver, the taller man seems to cock an eyebrow. "Bone-shaped biscuits from the family of the Queen's guard dog? How delightful! I do find irony deliciously funny…"

"What? Oh, no!" The young woman's expression shifts from confusion to surprise to amusement, even as she rapidly shakes her head. Always energetic, that Rachel… "No, they're not bone-shaped because of the Phantomhive's title, silly! They're shaped like that because of your job. You know, since you deal in the dead and the all that. You see?"

The Undertaker considers this, still snickering behind his sleeve. "Are you suggesting that I eat my pretty clients?"

Rachel's answer is a grin— another cantarella-flavored 'v.' "It wouldn't be the first time," she reminds, lightly resting her chin atop the handle of her basket. The gesture makes her look like a lovely doll; a china mannequin; a recently decapitated corpse: what with her wide blue eyes and vibrant red cloak, and the wavy, tempting curtain of her fair silk locks.

The Undertaker's eternal laughter gains a soft, husky edge. "Ah," he then purrs, sliding over to join his lover in the warmth of the open coffin. "But you're a special case, my Lady."

XXX