Work Text:
William T. Spears was content. Anyone else would have called himself happy, but the filter with which William T. Spears constrained his emotions would admit nothing more than mild contentment. His desk was almost clear, all reapers scheduled for that evening had reported in and were currently proceeding to their assignments and, at the end of this shift, he would begin a long overdue vacation. A vacation that had been scheduled for months earlier, but had been put off by first a typhus epidemic in the north and then by a smallpox outbreak in London. Finally things had settled down and he was given permission to take his leave.
The human world was smelly and messy and rank with disease and decay, but even William admitted that some corners were charming. Such as the cottage in the Lake District where he intended to spend the next two weeks with a pile of his favourite books. He permitted himself a small smile as he thought about relaxing walks in the clean country air and simple good food. Peace and quiet, no paperwork – and no Grell.
He would have sighed if he were the sort to give vent to such violent expression of emotion, but contented himself with pursing his lips with annoyance as he contemplated the file that remained on his desk. To be fair, and William prided himself on being scrupulously fair, Grell had been remarkably well-behaved since his Death Scythe had been restored to him. There had been no outlandish incidents or disgraceful transgressions. He had even turned in his paperwork after only two or three reminders.
But such paperwork! Where on earth had he found pink paper and violet ink? He had better not try to claim it on his next expense report – not when there was plenty of plain white paper and good black ink to be had at the Office. Still, remembering some of the tales told by Seniors in the Office of items claimed by Undertaker over the centuries, he told himself to be grateful that he rarely had to deal with anything more outrageous than a bottle of red nail lacquer.
William forced himself to concentrate on the messy handwriting on the page before him. Grell refused to use a typewriter, claiming it would ruin his nails. He was vaguely surprised to note that Grell had been granted leave as well, also starting tomorrow. He tried not to wonder how he would pass his vacation. He wouldn’t put it past him to go to Paris and spend his time in the cabarets, performing as a dancing girl.
Grell’s holiday plans certainly were not his concern, but tonight’s reaping was. He recalled the details when handed the schedule earlier this week. He had decided, at that time, that this was not a job for him. Who knew how he would behave? The potential for trouble, mountains of paperwork and overtime, overtime that might cut into his own vacation, was overwhelming. And yet, somehow, this job had been assigned to Grell.
A good reaper had no emotion about the task he was given, but even the best reapers admitted that some were more difficult than others. Most were shaken the first time they took a child, but the Will of Higher Up was impenetrable and implacable and not to be questioned. He should leave things alone. When Grell went mad, as he almost definitely would, the Council could deal with him. He might even return from his vacation to find a thorn permanently removed from his side.
But… with the exception of young Ronald, Grell was barely tolerated by the others; he was an embarrassment to the Shinigami. No one would speak for him; he would be judged and condemned without a thought and, given his past misdeeds, the punishment would be harsh. Not to mention that an enraged Grell, rampaging through London, would endanger many innocent lives.
He glanced at the clock. There was still time if he acted quickly. That Grell had been sent on this assignment was an oversight on his part. It might reflect badly on him, William told himself as he adjusted his glasses and left the office. Compassion had nothing to do with it.
XXXXXXXXXX
Grell picked her way across the cobblestones of Spitalfields. She was familiar enough with this part of town; Mary Jane Kelly had met her end only a few hundred yards from this night’s destination. The stench was appalling. She narrowly missed stepping into a pile of dung. Probably human, she thought in disgust; the creatures who lived here were practically feral. Barely restraining a shriek as a rat scuttled before her, she spied a figure crouched under a staircase. Not her target, but from the looks of him, she wouldn’t be the only reaper on this street tonight.
It really was cruel of William to keep sending her to this part of town. He seemed to delight in making her revisit the scene of her past “crimes.” She couldn’t even move along the roof tops. Not after that embarrassing incident last month. Surely she didn’t weigh that much; no doubt the shoddy construction of the dwellings here was to blame. But she couldn’t help giggling at the memory of the shock on the faces of the inhabitants when she plummeted through the roof and landed on their table.
A snarling dog blocked her path. Grell bared her teeth and glared at it. It ran away whimpering. Why couldn’t she be assigned a job at a luxurious manor for a change? She had been so good lately. Showing up on time, performing all her assignments without incident and never complaining. And all without so much as a smile or encouraging word from William. Would it hurt him to say, “Well done” once in a while?
At least he had returned her Death Scythe, which reminded her that those ridiculous little scissors she’d been issued were still in her coat pocket. She’d better return them before her vacation; Heaven only knew what William would do if he knew she hadn’t brought them back – demote her to a letter opener most likely.
She was almost there. She could hear the shrieks of laughter and shouting from a public house adjacent to where she would be doing her work. What a dreary, depressing job! Died in a fight, the file said. Ugh! Now she was going to have sit through some drunken scuffle. When this was done and her leave began she was going to enjoy herself. Maybe she’d pay a visit to the Phantomhive estate and torment darling Sebastian. He couldn’t spend every moment with the little earl. Surely the brat had to sleep sometime. Perhaps she could drop by Undertaker’s queer little shop and attempt to get another look at those amazing eyes. There had to be a man somewhere, who wasn’t oblivious to her charms.
This was the right spot; it was nearly time, but there was no one about except a woman sprawled on the pavement, face down in a puddle of vomit. Several passers-by had walked by without a second glance. Grell could hear their mocking laughter. Still, the woman had abundant red hair and wore an obviously expensive scarlet gown. It would be shame to ruin that dress, Grell thought. She would give her a little nudge and send her on her way before the imminent brawl spilled from the tavern.
It was a wig, she realized as she stood over the woman, but who wouldn’t want red hair? She tossed her own back and leaned down, intending to give her a poke in the shoulder.
Something was wrong here; the shoulders were far too broad. Grell’s heart began to hammer as she turned the silent figure over. The face was battered beyond recognition, but the stubble was plain enough. Instinctively, she knew. Knew what she would find under that dress, tucked and bound painfully out of sight. Knew that this was no dock dolly, catering to a particular taste. And, from hideous experience, knew what had happened. She didn’t have to view the record; she knew the desperation that drove her, dressed thusly, to this part of town, away from the comfortable merchant’s home outlined in the file. She knew the disgust and fury on the assailant’s face when the deception was revealed and knew the brutality that bore her to the ground to leave her choking on her own blood.
She began to shake as the red haze of rage descended and summoned her Death Scythe. He would pay; they would all pay. She would watch the record carefully, commit to memory every sneering face, every scornful word and look and every blow and kick she had endured and she would make them all suffer.
The eyes had glazed over. It was time.
“Oh my dear,” Grell whispered, stroking her hand, “I am so sorry.” She glanced at her Death Scythe, reluctant to inflict more violence on the poor creature.
“Would you like me to do it?” said a voice from behind.
“William!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Preventing you from doing something foolish,” he replied. “It was a mistake to send you here. I’m – I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Why William,” she said softly, "that is very kind of you.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Kindness had nothing to do with it,” he stated uncomfortably. “You are part of my department. Any misbehavior on your part reflects badly on me. I shall reap this soul myself and you can be on your way.”
“No,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “I’ll do it.”
She retrieved the small scissors and gently divided the soul. The cinematic record spooled forth much as she had expected: the boy who always felt wrong, the beating when he was discovered wearing his sister’s dress, the abuse at school, the desperate attempt to conform and self-loathing when he failed. Everything was there: the forbidden pleasure of drawing on silk stockings, the gut-churning anxiety of venturing outside and the hopeless yearning that, this time, she would encounter a man who would understand. And the final moments: the pain, the fear and the knowledge that it would end this way.
It was over. Calmer now, Grell stamped the file. “I’ll hand it in tomorrow, before I leave.”
“Be sure you do. And sign those scissors back in. It’s a serious offense to keep Office property without permission. I shall check when I return from my vacation.”
Struggling to regain her equilibrium in the face of William’s unexpected sympathy, Grell exclaimed, “Oh sweet William! We should vacation together. We could let a dear little cottage and sip tea in the garden. We could lie together in a field of flowers and read poetry to one another in front of the fire.”
“Indeed,” he replied, his face carefully impassive. “I’m very pleased with the way you handled this job. I shall make a note in your file when I return.”
William was being kind to her? William was praising her? Maybe she would try to forget the faces in the record she had just witnessed. But her good intentions were forgotten as a man stumbled out of the pub. Him! She could see the blood spattered on his clothes and bruised and torn knuckles. Her eyes began to gleam.
“Grell-“ William began.
Grell’s lips fell open, baring her teeth in a wolfish grin. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth and her Death Scythe appeared in her hand. She was panting harshly.
William took a step back, summoned his own Death Scythe and raised it – to adjust his glasses. “Only him,” he said sternly. “Just this once.”
“Oh thank you darling!” she cried, flinging her arms around him. “I’ll be so good when you come back. I promise. I’ll work double overtime for a month. I’ll hand in all my reports on time. I’ll even learn how to use a typewriter.”
“I intend to hold you to that,” he said with a slight smile, extricating himself from the other’s embrace. “Enjoy your vacation and, if you really wish to see a charming little cottage and fields of flowers, pay a visit to the Lake District.”
He watched Grell leap onto the roof and disappear from sight. He had better return to the Office and prepare the paperwork. It wouldn’t be that bad; that particular individual was on next week’s list. He was supposed to spend most of the next few days in a drunken stupor before being run over by a cart while passed out on the street. No great harm would be done to the Higher Up’s grand design.
Did he really just invite Grell to join him on his vacation? What if he took him up on the invitation? What if his world of black and white was suddenly splashed with crimson? Would that be such a bad thing? He didn’t know, but suddenly realized that he was grinning from ear to ear as he heard the man’s cries, the roar of the chainsaw and Grell’s shrieks of glee in the distance.
Oh well, once in a while, a girl was entitled to have some fun.