Work Text:
Golden Hour Writing Challenge of July: Day 7
Prompt: Whisper
Ship: Grell x Undertaker
100% not projecting my dysmorphia onto these two
(I am)
. . . . . . . .
The air on the rooftop was cool, carrying the faint scent of chimney smoke and distant rain, an admittedly lovely contrast to the cloying scent of sweet lilies and the sharp, bitter smell of embalming fluid that usually clung to Undertaker’s coat. Below them, London began its slow surrender to evening, lights dotting the gathering gloom in the streets like flickering stars. Undertaker, perched on the crumbling parapet with unnerving ease, hummed a low, tuneless melody, his silver hair catching the last defiant rays of the sun, tinting with a glow like crown of faded gold. Grell sat beside him, legs dangling precariously over the edge, her crimson coat a vibrant splash of violent color against the muted stone.
‘However do you ever find such lovely places, love? One moment, we’re amidst your… delightful coffins, and the next, poof! Rooftop rendezvous. Just like in the fairy tails!’
Undertaker chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in his chest that made the other reaper’s heart flutter in the best possible way. It may have been his giggles that made her fall in love, the hysterical outbursts and the morbid humor, but his laughs, the real ones, are what kept her there even against her better judgement in arguments.
“A true showman never reveals his best tricks, my dear. Besides, even if I did, I doubt you would understand how an old cathedral spire can mean so much to an old man like myself. Ha!’
Grell leaned her head back against the rough brickwork, watching the flocks of crows flying too and fro from the autumn trees, the light falling in long shadows that tinged everything in a deep orange. For a moment, her usual effervescence was absent, replaced by a quiet pensiveness that even she could say rarely came along.
‘Well, if it’s crumbling old buildings that make you happy, I won’t stop you from visiting them. Just don’t come home covered in dust, it’s hard enough to wash that damn coat without a layer of dirt.’
Undertaker turned his head slightly, long bangs falling away from curious chartreuse eyes, tilting his head like a puppy introduced to a cat. That look — god it drove Grell crazy. It was a well known fact that Undertaker wasn’t exactly normal, but the little innocent smiles he would flash her from across the room made melted her to little more than a puddle of love for the eccentric man.
‘… Claudia never let me do that. She’s smack me over the top of my head and tell me a “Proper Gentleman” doesn’t sneak off to sit in nasty old churches for fun.’
Grell was silent for a long moment, lost in the shifting colours of the sky, the initial comfort of their shared quiet beginning to fray, replaced by a quiet flurry of memories that Grell could tell weren’t exactly welcome in what was supposed to be a soft, intimate moment between the two.
‘… did Claudia ever tell you she loved you? Did she ever make you feel safe?’
She whispered, more to herself than anybody else. Nonetheless. Undertaker’s smile fell, mouth pressed into a thin line that told the red haired woman all she needed to know about his response. It was no secret that the funeral director didn’t like to talk about his past with the Phantomhive family, but of course, she was a curious woman, and if he brought it up himself? Well, could she really resist asking?
‘No. Claudia never made me feel safe. She made me feel obligated to things that felt far too human, such trivialities like helping a woman out of her carriage seat. Why can’t she do it herself, eh? I’m a mortician, not some servant.’
‘Well, a woman is expected to be helpless so a man can feel better about himself. I know the feeling all too well, dear. It’s how I ended up in this immortal hell, I wasn’t allowed to be that woman, let alone be a strong one.’
She sighed forlornly, painted red nails digging into her thigh as she leaned her head on his shoulder. He wasn’t the best pillow, seeing as he was thin and bony all over, but it was better than nothing. And Grell couldn’t really be one to speak, seeing as she was the same. All bones and muscle, as were most of the reapers in dispatch.
‘Do you know? That I was born in the wrong body? I really do think god made a mistake when he was deciding how to create me. I should have been a fabulous girl all along.’
The Silver haired man remained quiet for a good moment, as if lost in thought. Or simply pondering over what to say, but Grell knew him too well to believe it was the latter, there wasn’t a moment that went by where Undertaker didn’t have an immediate answer on his tongue, crass or not.
‘I don’t think you were born in the wrong body, my dear. I think you were born in the body that suits you best, all women look different. And I wouldn’t care if you were born a woman or a man or anything else, I would still love you.’
‘Mm. Thank you. At the very least, thank you for letting me wear skirts instead of god awful slacks in town, they’re ever so itchy.’
‘Aren’t they? I tried to convince Othello that legging and coats like mine are SO much better for years, but of course, the man has no taste! And don’t even get me started on what your coworkers wear, how on earth can they move around in those suits?’
‘That’s what I’m saying! How you’re the only one who understands is beyond me, we can’t be the only ones who hate them! Besides, you look MUCH better in your coat. Or in nothing at all, I prefer the second option.’
Despite himself, a furious pink blush painted his pale, almost sickly cheeks that gave Grell a definite idea on what she’d be doing to him later that night, but for now, she’d stick to giving him silly little compliments.
‘Well I’m glad you think I’m handsome, dearest.’