Work Text:
Golden Hour Writing Challenge of July: Day 6
Prompt: You Look Happy
Ship: Grell x Undertaker (Platonic) ((?))
HSBAYABSUABDXIANSL I LOVE UNDERTAKER BRO WHY DID I DO THIS TO HIM 😭
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The London air was stale and damp, dirty and mixed with fumes and smoke from factories, it reminded the tall man of old water, how it tasted of damp earth and forgotten things. It clung to Undertaker’s heavy coat like dust on an old desk, feeding the sharp, burning pain that had plagued him as a headache for the past five years or so. A long time had passed since the young Earl’s departure, or rather, his descent. Sebastian had taken him, a final, grim curtain call, leaving behind only the ghost of a manor and the hollow ring of silence where laughter and sharp words once resided.
Undertaker no longer laughed, or really even spoke. The sound that sometimes escaped him was more a cold, hollow huff reminiscent of his hysterical giggles. His steps were quieter now, less the theatrical stride of a showman and more the aimless drift of a spectral presence. He still tended to his grim clientele, of course, the dead waited for none and knew no master, but even his former passion was little more than a chore now.
His parlour, once a place of peculiar and morbid delight, had become a tomb. A place where memories, sharper and more cutting than any scalpel, carved new lines into flesh. Both literally and figuratively, the faintly red lines on his already scar-mottled arms served as proof. He’d spend hours there, sometimes, just sitting in the dark, fingers idly tracing the contours of a bone or cold flesh of a new guest, relishing in the cool curve against his palm.
Tonight, the fog was particularly thick, painting the oil-fueled lamps with halos of sickly yellow, almost bruise-like in their coloration. Undertaker found himself on the shore of the river and watching the oily blackness of the Thames swallow the reflections of the distant city lights. The river was a mirror of his own existence – the very same place he had taken his own life, the day he started this miserable immortal existence. He imagined Ciel, perhaps even a long-dead Vincent there, a stubborn face reflected in the current, forever out of reach. That thought, a familiar ache, pulsed behind his ribs. It wasn’t painful, not anymore. Just… there. A constant companion.
A shrill, almost bird-like laugh pierced the quiet, cutting through the fog like a rusty blade. Or rather, a rusty chainsaw. Grell. Of course. Only Grell would stalk the same desolate corners, seeking something that might still resemble the chaos she craved. Undertaker didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He simply continued to gaze at the water, his long silver hair, now dry and dull, catching the faint glow of the lamp behind him.
"Undertaker! There you are, you silly old bat! I've been looking all over for you, darling! How ARE you? Still pining over that Phantomhive boy?”
Grell’s voice, usually laced with dramatic flair, held an uncharacteristic tremor of… something. Concern? It was rare for her to show anything but her own self-serving desires or irritatingly consistent lust for a certain demon, yet here she was. A soft sigh, barely audible, echoed across the freezing water. He didn’t turn. There was no point. Grell would just circle him like a vulture, picking at the scraps of his silence.
The red haired reaper was walking up to him, her shiny leather heels clicking sharply on the damp cobblestones. How annoying, he’s hoped to stay alone, all by his lonesome to complete the depressing scene. At last that would match the raging grief that still consumed his thought, barely giving him a moment to relax.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant clatter of a carriage and the mournful hoot of an owl. Undertaker felt a strange, almost physical tension in the air as Grell hovered. She was waiting for a reaction, a cackle, a cryptic, grotesque joke, even a creepy anecdote. Any of the above could have been his usual response. But there was no response, there had been none for half a decade now.
Then, the click of a heel faded, and a softer sound replaced it, like someone settling on the mossy stone nearby. Undertaker groaned quietly, burying his head in his knees and trying to ignore the quiet intake of breath, signaling Grell was about to speak, probably some monologue about how unfortunate it was that Sebastian was gone. She had sat beside him. Unexpected.
‘It’s funny, you know. Sometimes… sometimes I think about him. The Earl. And I remember the way you used to laugh around him. Not your scary laugh, but… a real one. Like a bell, almost. That day with the barrel of salt was the last time I really saw you smile. Not until the Campania.’
Undertaker’s spine stiffened almost imperceptibly. A bell. He hadn’t thought of it that way. But it was true. Ciel had a way of cutting through the centuries of his existence, piercing the layers of morbidity and despair, and finding a raw, exposed nerve that sometimes, just sometimes, vibrated with genuine amusement at the young boy’s constant exasperation at the old Reaper’s incessant antics.
A ghost of a memory flickered behind Undertaker’s eyes. A cold afternoon in the manor, a ridiculous, oversized dog, and a very, very young Ciel’s furious, indignant face smeared with mud after a particularly disastrous attempt at a game of fetch. Undertaker had chuckled then, a deep, resonant sound that truly had been full of mirth. He remembered the furious blush that had crept onto Ciel’s cheeks, the way his lips had twitched, fighting a smile of his own. A small, human moment amidst the grand, dark tapestry of their lives.
He felt the corners of his own mouth pull, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor, a distant echo of that old amusement. It wasn't happiness now, not truly. It was the ache of something lost, tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that it had, indeed, once existed. It was the memory of warmth on a perpetually cold skin. A phantom limb of joy.
"Would you look at that, I made the legendary reaper smile. You seem happy. Not the same as your old smiles, but happy.’
The words were a whisper, almost lost to the fog. They startled Undertaker, pulling him abruptly from the fragile thread of memory. He hadn’t realized Grell was watching him so intently. His face was hot with embarrassment, a rare feeling for someone as ancient as himself, who had over 530 years to experience every incriminating moment one could
He turned his head slowly, his long, silver fringe falling over his empty eyes obscuring any hint of emotion. Grell was gazing at him, her crimson hair a splash of defiant colour against the grey background, her expression uncharacteristically subdued compared to her usual enthusiastic, violent pallor. There was genuine curiosity there, and something else… a shared understanding of profound sadness. Grell, too, had mourned in her own fashion. She had lost her beloved Angelina, her Madame Red, a chaotic, forbidden passion.
Undertaker opened his mouth. No cackle. No cryptic riddle. Just a dry, rasping sound, like sandpaper over bone. His voice was raspy from disuse, lack of water over the past few days caused the words to scratch horribly at his throat. Suppose even Shinigami needed to drink sometimes, it was a terrible feeling in and of itself.
‘Happiness is a fragile thing, little reaper. Like a mortal's soul. Here one moment… gone the next.’
He looked back at the river, the dark water flowing ceaselessly onward. The phantom warmth of the memory faded, leaving behind only the familiar chill. His hands, long and skeletal, clasped together so tight his knuckles went white from strain. The brief flicker of an old, real smile was gone, replaced by the quiet, unsettling stillness of a man trapped in his mind for far too long. Grell didn't argue. She didn't push or complain, she simply sat there, beside him, silently watching the river.
The weight of the younger’s sigh was an uncharacteristic quietude from the flamboyant reaper. It wasn't warmth, not exactly, but it was an absence of the usual consuming chatter. A different kind of companionship in the vast, empty space that Ciel had left behind. He knew he didn’t look happy. He hadn’t been truly happy in centuries, perhaps not since before he’d cast aside his scythe an defected from dispatch, sending Middle Management into a spiral. But for a fleeting moment, the memory had been vivid enough to fool even the sharp-eyed reaper beside him, that, in itself, was a bittersweet testament to what had been.
What could have been.
And it all started because of that damned fire.
But for now, with nobody else around but a former enemy, an outcast, much like himself, the weary old god allowed himself a chuckle.
Not hollow, not manic, like the night Ciel gave himself away, tired.
But happy, happy that if even for a few minutes, he could rest.