Disclaimer: All characters belong to Yana Toboso. I just play with them.

Author's note: This is what one might call an AU story, playing with what might have happened after Chapter 60 of the manga.

Grell couldn't believe his luck. Out of the corner of his left eye, he saw Ronald swing his mower in Sebastian's path, forcing the butler to leap high into the air, giving him the precious few seconds he needed to reach the Undertaker. The rogue shinigami just stood there, smiling that maddening grin of his, as Grell closed in. He would reach him first!

However, Grell had not anticipated the Undertaker's next move. A black-taloned hand reached back, and a shimmering pulse of light glowed behind him. Before Grell could counteract the move, the Undertaker's other hand grabbed the fluttering red tails of his coat, and pulled. The accompanying flash of light disoriented the reaper as he felt himself being yanked forward, and suddenly his surroundings shifted.

They were no longer aboard the sinking luxury liner, surrounded by the walking dead, the demon butler, and Grell's comrade. Darkness enveloped him for several seconds until his senses finally adjusted. The expansive ballroom had disappeared, and Grell found himself instead enclosed in a dank, dusty office littered with coffins, urns, and grotesque instruments of a mortician's fare. He was in the Undertaker's shop.

A piercingly high-pitched giggle rang out as Grell landed on his knees; his death scythe grinding vainly into the hardwood floors of the timeworn little building. The Undertaker plopped down on the lid of a mahogany coffin, his black hat clutched to his chest as he doubled over in peals of laughter. Grell gritted his shark-like teeth and glared up at him.

"Can you imagine the looks on their faces after we disappeared through my portal? I almost regret having missed seeing them, especially that uptight butler's!" the Undertaker gasped in between guffaws.

Grell quickly found his feet and pulled his squealing scythe from the floor. Within seconds, he had the Undertaker by his throat.

"And just what the hell do you find so funny about that? Sebas-chan and poor Ronald are still out there! I should paint you red right here and now!"

Wasting no time, the Undertaker produced a sotoba, shielding himself should Grell follow through with his threat. All the while, he smiled.

"Come now, Grell Sutcliff. You know very well that your beloved butler is a demon, and would never risk putting the Earl in serious danger. If he had been truly worried, they would have been long gone hours ago. I'm quite certain that beast has his own escape plan. As for your other friend, well, he is like us. I trust he knows how to make his own portal in case of emergencies. Now be a good girl and put that thing away. I merely wish to speak with you, as one outlaw to another."

Grell paused, allowing the elder shinigami's words to sink in for a moment, then blurted, "You cut my face!"

The Undertaker sighed, "Yes, and I would like to offer my apologies. If you would allow me, I could try to fix it before anything permanent sets in. It would be a pity to allow a beautiful face such as yours to have a nasty scar."

"You're one to talk," Grell muttered, relaxing his grip and switching off his scythe before it dematerialized.

The Undertaker replied cheerfully, "That's better. Now, have a seat, and let's see what we can do."

"Alright, but only because I can't bear to have any more people see me like this!"

The Undertaker asked, "So you aren't going to leave on me, then?"

Grell spat, "The only way I'm leaving here is with you bound and gagged!"

"Ooh. I hope that's a promise," the Undertaker snickered.

Grell, never removing his eyes from the Undertaker, sat on the coffin and pondered his next move. He still didn't trust the mortician, but he was curious. Why did the Undertaker bring him along, when he could have just as easily escaped the Campania on his own? Besides, if he could indeed fix that cut, well, what harm would it be to humor his depravity for a little while?

The Undertaker fussed behind the main counter of his shop, opening and closing drawers while humming a haunting but childish tune. He at last produced a tray containing a bowl of water, a rag, a pair of scissors, a spool of black thread, and a small but menacing needle.

Grell barely had time to shudder at what the tools represented before the Undertaker was right in front of him with the rag. He brushed the red locks back from Grell's forehead and began wiping, ever so gently, at the blood stains that streaked down the reaper's face.

The Undertaker said, "You may want to remove your glasses. It looks like the biggest cut is right above your eye. That coat needs to go as well. If you haven't noticed, it is covered in gore."

Obediently, but with no less observance, Grell lifted the glasses from his ears and let them dangle at his chest. He had rarely needed to make use of the true function of his skull encrusted eyeglass chains, but now seemed as good a time as any. He wormed his way out of the scarlet coat and set it beside him. The Undertaker took the discarded heap of red cloth and hung it on a hook near the front door. He plucked a small brown bottle from a shelf behind his counter before offering it to Grell.

"What is that?" Grell asked warily.

"Only laudanum. It will dull the pain a bit."

Grell replied, "How do I know that you aren't trying to poison me? You drink first!"

The Undertaker shrugged, pulled the cork from the bottle, and swallowed. His smile grew even larger as he dangled the bottle in front of Grell's nose. Satisfied for the moment, Grell took it and brought it to his lips. The liquid burned as it ran down his throat, but the cloud that quickly covered his immediate senses was more than welcome. He tried to return the bottle to the Undertaker, but the elder shinigami shook his head.

"Hold onto that, in case you need more. Use some caution, however. I'm not certain what harm it could do to the likes of us, but I have lost count of the number of guests I've had to accommodate due to an overdose."

Returning to his seat beside Grell, the Undertaker lightly touched the area around the cut, drawing close to inspect it. He sucked in a bit of air with what sounded like sympathy, and commented, "Oh no! There are still a few shards of glass in there. Let me get rid of those for you."

Grell took another small sip of laudanum as the elder shinigami picked at the sliced flesh with his claw-like fingernails, drawing out what bits of shattered glass he could find. Grell couldn't help but marvel. This man was most definitely both crazy and dangerous, but when was the last time anyone had touched him with such gentleness? Not even Madam Red, on that handful of occasions when she'd drank too much wine and had insisted that Grell go above and beyond the normal duties of a butler, had been so careful. No, she had liked it rough, and he had been both amused and curious enough to oblige. But the Undertaker. . .his true agenda could be almost anything.

"Well, I am afraid that you will need a few stitches, my dear," the Undertaker breathed hotly into Grell's ear, causing a surprising shiver to rattle up his spine.

Grell swallowed, and with a hoarse voice, whispered, "Fine. But only if you tell me exactly how you edited the Cinematic Records of those abominations!"

The Undertaker let loose with his jarring, enigmatic laugh and replied, "All in good time, sweet lady. All in good time."

Grell crossed his arms and rolled his eyes in a huff. He had known that this encounter wouldn't be easy, but he was torn. He could attack the scoundrel right now, sacrifice his own beauty, and maintain his flimsy status within the shinigami rank and file, or, he could allow this gorgeous specimen to continue to work at his infirmity, flatter his countenance, and let out just enough rope to hang himself with. Besides, when the Undertaker properly addressed Grell as a lady, he didn't use a hint of sarcasm. That alone was enough to humor him.

Being a creature of impulse, Grell chose the latter option. He had noticed that the laudanum had begun to take hold, and his head was swimming too briskly for a real battle. He decided to bring out another weapon he held dear.

"Just be gentle. That's all I ask," Grell requested seductively.

The Undertaker paused, then broke into a fit of giggles.

"Oh, I'll be as gentle as I possibly can, my dear. You'll hardly feel a thing when I stick this into you."

Grell coughed uncomfortably. He wasn't used to people playing along with his flirtations. He smiled, anyway, and fluttered his eyelashes. He held his breath as the Undertaker leaned in closely, inspecting the cut. Of course he would have to get this intimate. Every shinigami was nearsighted, and as the Undertaker didn't wear glasses, his handicap would be more pronounced.

The Undertaker held the needle's tip inside the flame of his candle, and continued, "However, now that I have you here, there are some things that I'm just dying to know."

Grell stiffened at those words, having heard them enough from his fellow reapers. The questions had been the vulgar and intrusive inquiries of adolescents, and Grell had felt no obligation to answer them. Those brats were always asking snide questions about the hair, the makeup, the heels on his shoes, and his preference for his own sex.

"Just how old are you, Grell Sutcliff?" the Undertaker asked, as he lightly pierced Grell's skin with his needle.

Grell gasped and haughtily replied, "It is impolite to ask a lady about her age!"

The Undertaker chuckled, "Hold still! Keep in mind that I'm accustomed to my clients not moving when I operate. Be that as it may, I apologize for my social discrepancy. But, if I were to guess, I would place you at around a century?"

"Give or take a year," Grell answered reluctantly, keeping his good eye on the silver-haired shinigami in front of him.

The Undertaker replied, "Hee hee. That's what I thought. When I was your age, London was a stinking, muddy, overgrown hamlet crawling with Roman Soldiers. This was nearly a thousand years ago, and you know what? Humans haven't changed that much. Even then, they had but a few things on their minds. All they wanted was something to eat, a place to sleep, and a warm body to fuck."

"Oh, I am well aware of how boring and predictable humans can be, you vulgar creature! You still haven't said enough to pardon yourself," Grell uttered.

The Undertaker had allowed his bangs to fall in front of his eyes as he sewed at Grell's wound. Without thinking, Grell reached up and brushed a bit of the silvery hair behind the pierced ear of its owner. The Undertaker noticed, and winked a glowing eye at his patient.

"Please tell me," the Undertaker said, as he eyed the wound on Grell's face," why you feel the need to judge my actions so harshly. Did my Dolls bother you, needlessly?"

Grell struggled for a moment against the somewhat unwelcome thrill of the Undertaker's sweet touch, but replied, "Well, not really, I suppose, except for their grotesqueness! How can you not see the crime you have committed by reanimating the corpses of those properly deceased? You violated their records! It goes against the very nature of what we stand for! And seriously, horses? I can't even begin to imagine how you pulled that off!"

The Undertaker never dropped his smile as he picked up one more stitch.

"Hee hee. I wonder, Grell Sutcliff, what those poor girls in Whitechapel would have to say about your sudden fit of compassion?"

Grell choked, before blurting angrily, "We are not talking about my discrepancies here! Besides, who told you that I had anything to do with that 'Jack the Ripper' nonsense? Did Sebas-chan and his brat come running their mouths?"

"Hmm. Normally that sort of information would cost you up front, but as you are indisposed at the moment, I will put it on your tab. To answer your question, no one told me anything. I figured it out myself using deductive reasoning. For starters, I had you pegged as a reaper that day you walked in here with the Earl and his entourage. I said nothing, mind you, as I found your disguise quite well done and highly amusing. I even had my suspicions about your involvement then, seeing as you were in the company of a doctor who would have been more than capable of such handiwork. With Madame Red's death, the killings stopped, and you disappeared. It did not take much for me to put two and two together, my dear. Especially after seeing that she had been killed by a death scythe! Dare I even ask what brought that on?"

Grell scowled and narrowed his eyes. His silence was all the reply he would give on that subject.

The Undertaker merely raised an eyebrow and picked another sliver of glass that he had missed from Grell's cut. He startled when Grell grasped and grabbed his sleeve.

"Is something the matter, love? I know this has to sting, but I'm almost finished."

"Please! I need to know something else!" Grell pleaded, his voice quivering with anxiety.

"Another question? My goodness, but you are racking up quite a bit of debt, aren't you? Very well, what is it?" the Undertaker replied cheerfully.

Grell took a deep breath and begged, "Just please, for the love of whatever the hell you might hold sacred, tell me you didn't turn her into one of those things!"

The Undertaker tilted his head, and gazed at Grell sympathetically. He patted the top of his head, running his fingers back through the thick, red strands before softly rubbing his shoulder.

"Though she would have made a magnificent Doll, you have my word that I did not wake Madame Red's body from its rest."

Grell smiled in relief, and closed his eyes to concentrate on the hand at his shoulder. With every gentle touch of the Undertaker's fingers, Grell could feel his resolve against the mortician weakening. These light, friendly caresses were much better than the brute force of William's fists, and even wishing that Sebas-chan would handle him in any way besides violently was beyond reason.

The Undertaker resumed his work, brushing Grell's hair back once more as he plied his needle to the last inch of sliced skin. Grell said nothing, but watched the shinigami's hands with interest as they sewed gracefully. He reached out and grabbed the singular braid in the Undertaker's hair, and wrapped it around his gloved finger, admiring how the silver strands contrasted against his dark leather. These actions did not go unnoticed by the smiling mortician.

"I think that you and I are very much alike, Grell. From the moment I saw you, I thought, 'Now there is another reaper who is fed up with all of those infernal rules and regulations. That one longs for freedom.' I can't imagine that your wardrobe is a favorite amongst the higher-ups. They always gave me grief over my hair and earrings. I despise conformity, don't you?"

Grell smiled again and said, "You have no idea. I've been at this for a hundred years, and I've been demoted so many times I may as well be a rookie! William Spears is my direct superior, and we were in training together. I even had better grades than he did! The only reason he hasn't fired me outright is because I am so good at my job. I hate more days and nights than I don't, to be honest. If he hadn't caught me after the whole Ripper scandal, I may very well have gone rogue like you!"

The Undertaker giggled, "Oh, really? Well, there is still time, you know. There is much I could teach you. You merely need to say the word!"

With that, the Undertaker made a final stitch, tied it off, and cut the thread with his tiny silver scissors. Grell let out a squeak when he felt the Undertaker's lips on the now sewed-up cut, kissing it for good measure.

"There. I promise, it doesn't look bad at all. Your hair covers up most of it, and you should heal in no time. You won't be an ugly old bag of scars like me, at any rate," the Undertaker laughed.

"You're not ugly," Grell blurted, then added almost too quickly, "that is, er, your scars give you character!"

The Undertaker's lip curled slyly, as he returned the tools he had used to a drawer behind his counter. Grell gazed at him, all the while fighting an internal battle with his own conscience. He got to his feet, crossed his arms, and began pacing with aggravation. The Undertaker seemingly ignored him, and began removing his cloak. Grell bit his lip as the disrobing revealed a long black cossack covering what appeared to be a white silk shirt. He unbuttoned the cossack as well, and hung them both on the hook next to Grell's blood-smeared red coat. With that, he turned, and approached Grell, his smile still more particularly roguish than his usual maniacal grin.

Grell eyed him up and down, from his glimmering green eyes to the heavily buckled boots still laced up his legs. The sight made his lower abdomen twitch involuntarily, but he did not resist when the Undertaker took his gloved hands and squeezed.

"Let's get down to business then, shall we?" the mortician offered with a convincing sense of earnestness.