Icy tendrils spread upon the glass, swirling and reaching out its frozen arms in search of a sturdier surface in which to cling. Its misty cloud shrouded the object two polychromatic eyes were staring longingly at. This had become the new routine for the one standing before the glass. One of the objects they came to see oh, so often was not the display in the window, but it was rather the dress on a mannequin on the other side of the store.

The simple, placid design was accentuated by the beautiful, ruby-jeweled necklace that it came with. He could imagine the crossing, thin straps holding the awfully plain, silken dress to his body cursed with masculinity. That sparkling, gorgeous necklace would frame his thick Adam's Apple and abnormally long neck, and the dress's long length would hide his thick, shaven legs as a pair of black, opera gloves may help to hide his toned arms. Perhaps, wearing the dress may temporarily shield his alien deformities.

A loud 'dong' broke the silent London air, ringing through the distance over the sleeping tow. It tore Grell from his thoughts, and he leaned forward to press his red lips to the chilled glass. The cold surface was the closest thing he would get to a kiss most of the time. Compared to the rare kiss sick with the musk of drunkenness, he considered the glass to be the better. At least, it couldn't beat him until he shattered in a mess of tears. It couldn't drive him to insanity with words, resulting in the nightly painting of his wrists in the color he oh-so-loved. It couldn't leave him alone in the night wondering just what he'd done wrong. It could only reveal his true self.

Grell stood there, ignoring Ben's cry telling him that the time to return home was now.

The dress became a foreign object in the background, falling out to the reflection of his undesirable self. This ghastly appearance that met his gaze seemed far from beautiful. He could distinctly recall the hours he would spend 'beautifying' himself every morning before work for a man that had never had interest in him only to now realize it was all for naught. It wasn't worth his time. He wasn't worth his own time. This window was his truth.

He turned his back to the window, and he could feel the window's sadness behind him as he began to depart. The window loved him and his reflection, and it always seemed to shine more when he came to visit it. Grell loved to make the window happy. At least the window appeared to like his presence-unlike everyone else.

His hands buried themselves in the deep pockets of his trench coat, his body shivering at the frigid, January air as he slipped out from under the balcony and into the gentle fall of flakes. Dual-colored eyes flicked up to the sky where the stars and moon cowered behind the clouds. They didn't want to see him either; they didn't understand like the window.

A shaky breath flowed from his dry, crimson lips, fanning out in rolling clouds akin to the swirling mist one may picture in a dismal graveyard. The thought reminded him of a certain funeral director known fondly as the Undertaker. He scoffed. The insane man, one who seemed to belong to belong in Bethlem instead of his mortuary, didn't appear as distantly mad anymore. If anything, they became more alike as the years passed. Perhaps, it was the job he worked (and Undertaker once worked) that sent them both in a downward spiral to absolute lunacy.

With a shudder, his eyes looked down the dark, empty streets of London. The gas-lit lampposts that were tasked with the illumination of the night were put out by the constantly falling white, leaving the world many knew in complete darkness. The only exception were the candlelit homes of those still awake, likely catching up on work they had procrastinated for the last minute or getting ready for bed after a late night of drinking at the local pub. His boots sunk in the deep field of ivory, crunching and mixing with the gentle whistle of the winter wind. A clenched jaw tried to dampen the sound of chattering teeth, a body so cold that it nearly spasmed with its shivering. Grell tried to ignore the cold, his hands that were frostbitten through his gloves well inside his deep, coat pockets.

Usually, he loved winter. It had never quite bothered him before. Not even fire had been much of a hassle when he marched through it to get to his reaps. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel absolutely frozen in the chill of the early February air. He had always thought of winter as his favorite season because it reminded him the most of the man he had chased for so long. It was so quiet, withdrawn and barren of emotion. It killed most living things that it touched, and it was the reason that many would hide when it came marching through. William only spoke when required, staying in his office majority of the time. He had killed Grell's truest emotions, and all those in the Dispatch would hide as he came through in fear that he would plague them with more paperwork than they had to begin with.

Grell smiled slightly at the thought of William before tripping over a snow drift. He let out a most unwomanly yelp as he stumbled and fell to the ground. His hands were quickly pulled from his pockets, trying to break his fall as he fell face first in the snow. He hiccupped, getting up to his knees as he tried to wipe away the snow sticking to his face. An unhappy sniff and the tightening of a chest threatened Grell with tears. He felt like a six year old, crying so easily from a fall that hadn't hurt him at all...physically. Emotions deeply wounded, Grell slowly stood to his feet and wiped away the loose clumps of white on his coat. He didn't have to fight any tears, as they had frozen on his lashes before they could fall.

Shaking his head, he refused to cry. He wasn't weak! He would prove to him all that he wasn't-

"My dear, you seem to have gotten yourself in a bit of a situation. Do you get my drift?" came a voice, followed with a voice that could not ever be mistaken.

"Oh leave me alone, you bloody git. Go fuck yourself, cockchafer," cursed the redhead with a huff, stomping one foot in the snow and when he tried to take a step, he realized that his heel had been forced into a path of ice under the snow and had gotten stuck. He slid out of his boot and took one step into the frigid snow. "Ow! Fucking gotta be shitting me! God! MOTHER FUCKING-!"

"Now, now, that's not proper language for such a delicate flower."

"I'M NOT DELICATE!" he snapped, toes curled up to try and relieve the cold from his feet. He hobbled back to his boot, sliding his foot back in it for warmth and then trying to pull the heel out of the ice. "Go mind your own fucking business!"

Undertaker stood on the street corner, his hands well inside his long sleeves as he grinned with a chuckle. "Hehe, my shop is closed for the day, madam. I have no business right now-only mild amusement."

"Well move your fucking amused ass somewhere else!" He remained unconcerned with others around London, not caring if any children were to hear his outbursts in the dead of the night. What was a little cussing now and then anyway? It wasn't as if London were a sheltered utopia.

"And leave you stuck? I was about to offer my help, but I see you're too busy." Undertaker shrugged, turning to leave with the same amused smile on his face.

Grell huffed, giving up on pulling himself out and sulking. "Fine. If you want to fucking to do help, do something more than just stand there."

With a delighted giggle, Undertaker spun back around, nearly prancing over to the redhead and summoning his long-handled scythe. "Now, hold still, m'dear. Wouldn't want to lose a leg, would we~?"

"Wh-what?! What the hell?! You're fucking insane!" Grell nearly screamed, desperately trying to tug his boot out of the ice as he clutched the red leather with his gloved fingers and pulled. His eyes were wide in his skull, focused on the blade being swung over the Undertaker's head and then lowered in a downward stroke. "Holy fucking-!"

CRACK!

The ice shattered below Grell's boot, freeing the heel just as the redhead gave one last, hard pull. He stumbled forward, landing face-first back into the drift he had previously tripped over.

With a frustrated huff, he spit out a mouthful of snow, scrambling to his feet and whirling around with his teeth bared. "YOU FUCKING, BLOODY, COCK-SUCKING, BOOT-LICKING, MOTHER-FUCKING, SON-OF-A-BITCH! I COULD HAVE LOST MY FOOT BECAUSE OF YOUR FUCKING MAD PLAN! I'M ALREADY TOO FUCKING SHORT! I HATE HOW-"

Grell went on with his rant, approaching the Undertaker with his head lowered like an angry bull. The Undertaker only laughed, leaning heavily on his scythe for support at the sight. The redhead looked so angry that his face put his hair to shame, and steam seemed to billow from his ears. To the madman watching in sheer delight, it was awfully humorous sigh. To the angry red Shinigami, it meant the end of the cray man laughing at him.

However, his anger seemed to dissipate like melting snow, wavering before he could strike the Undertaker. Tears pricked his eyes, pride deeply hurt. Even the lunatic was laughing at him. They all were...

Undertaker's laughter faded when he heard the vicious insults become silent, replaced with a low sob. He couldn't see very well, but it wasn't hard to make out the blob of red on his knees in front of him, weeping quietly to himself.

"Oh? My, my, what a sorry sight to see...Now, now, why the tears, m'dear?" The mortician stooped to Grell's level, wiping away a tear from the redhead's cheek with his long, black nails. "It's unbecoming of a lady to cry, y'know~"

"Oh, fucking shut up," Grell hissed, slapping his hand away and abruptly standing up. "The air is just too dry, so I was tearing up. Besides, I'm cold, and I just want to go home. So move your pretty little ass out of my way, bloody git."

"Oh? You think I have a pretty ass, do you? It's been a while since someone last told me that, hehehehe~!" Undertaker grinned ear to ear, tapping his long nails against his white teeth nonchalantly.

"Don't let it get to your head," he huffed, storming past the crazed loon.

"I believe you're going in the wrong direction, m'dear. Last time I checked, your home was that-a-way," he said, pointing in the opposite direction Grell was going.

Grell stopped in midstride, eyes wide before his cheeks flushed and he turned around. Marching past the Undertaker, he said nothing. It was pointless; he'd just be made fun of even more.

The Undertaker watched for a moment longer before deciding to follow the stubborn Shinigami. "The storm will be picking up soon, y'know. Do you think you'll make it in time?"

"I'm sure," he growled, glaring at the following madman out of the corner of his eyes.

"If you so wish it, I will lend you my shop for the night. You can sleep in one of my cozy coffins~" he offered, giggling as he easily kept up with the other. "It's only a few blocks away."

"I don't care. I'm going home."

"Suit yourself~" he sang, stopping and allowing the other to walk off. Besides, he knew what would happen soon enough...

Grell's teeth chattered, the tip of his nose red enough to rival his hair. True to the Undertaker's words, the storm had picked up into a full-blown blizzard. It seemed as if he had been walking in circles-unable to see more than five inches in front of his face. The stinging needles of snow blasted his bare face, and he tried to nestle himself as far into his coat as he could.

Oh, why didn't he take that man's stupid offer?

Curse his pride.

A glowing light suddenly broke into his vision, and his eyes widened. A light might mean a home. If he could manage to break in, he may be shielded from the storm. If he cloaked himself, the mortals wouldn't even notice!

He broke into a dead sprint, pulling his frozen hands from his pockets and racing toward a lit window. He searched the snowy surface around it, desperately feeling for a door. His heart raced, fluttering as he found a small ledge that could only mean the edge of a door, and he nearly squealed in delight when his frozen fingertips found contact with the cold steel of a door handle.

He burst through, the door flying open with a gust of the blizzard, and he stumbled forward before turning in an attempt to shut the door. Pushing with all his might, he managed to close the door, and when it clicked into place, he sighed and slid down the wooden surface.

At last, he'd finally found shelter. He shook his snowy coat, sitting in melting snow in the cold air of a dimly-lit room. Only after he managed to brush off the snow on him that he realized just where he was in mute horror...

He surveyed the dim room he had stumbled upon, and with a small stab of dread, he gazed upon the coffins that lay upon the grey walls, all in various stages of production. They ranged from dusty plywood boards stacked in neat rows against the walls, to fully finished, polished, cushioned coffins that simply needed a "customer" as a finishing touch.

Grell looked down with the speed of someone who'd just heard the distinctive sound of a rattlesnake and realized with growing horror that he was sitting on a cold, stone floor covered in not only the new layer of wet, sticky snow, but thick, grey dust; specifically, ash, which was usually indicative of cremated remains when one was in a place such as this.

He scrambled to his feet, trying to brush away the leftover ash and snow from his behind. He failed to notice that one of the larger, sturdier coffins was propped against the wall, and it suddenly began to shift, the top slowly sliding to one side as the yellow glint of a certain Shinigami's eyes made itself known to the redhead who had lifted his head at the sound of the sliding, wooden door and stared in mute terror at the other. Undertaker stepped out, suppressing a yawn, and then grinned like the Cheshire cat at his guest.

"Well, well! How kind of you to stop by," said the older Shinigami cheerily as he glided across the room toward Grell, who simply pressed his back against the door just a little bit harder, not the least bit eager to get any closer to the man at all. "It's almost as though you knew I wanted some company~!"

The Undertaker was an intimidating sight right then, to say the least. He was several inches taller than Grell, even when he had his favorite heels on, and his eyes were always hidden, which had made Grell wary of him, as it made it far more difficult for Grell to predict his next move. The dark drapes the Undertaker always wore contrasted very much with Grell's slightly darker crimson locks of hair that flowed down his back.

"It's not as if I meant to show up!" he snapped, the taller way too close for comfort in such a small room.

"Ah, but fate works in mysterious ways~" he sang, tapping the ends of his fingernails together as he leaned in a little closer. His breath reeked of ginger and old spice, crumbs stuck between his oddly, perfect white teeth. From this short distance, the glitter of inhuman eyes could be seen between the crevices of his white locks.

"Get out of my face before you lose yours," threatened the shorter, baring his shark-like teeth in response and body tense as it couldn't press any harder back against the door separating him from the blizzard howling outside.

"Now, now, that's no way to treat a host. After all, I am the one providing you with shelter from the storm outside. Or would you rather wander along outside in the cold?" Undertaker asked, backing off with that same eerie grin plastered on his face like the cheap wallpaper on the mortuary walls.

Undertaker turned his back to the other who fell silent behind him. He dug out a jar from one of the many shelves on the walls and set it on his table-like counter. "Hungry? I suppose I could spare a few cookies to share, hehe." Reaching inside the skull-shaped jar, he pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit between two, bony white fingers and held it up in question.

A snicker and a disgusted snarl was his reply as Grell crossed his arms, refusing to move from his spot in front of the door. "No."

"Oh well, more for me~" he giggled, tossing the cookie in his mouth and allowing the corner to stick out from between his pale lips as he set the jar back on the shelf. "Can I interest you in some tea to warm your bones~?"

"No."

"Now, now, you can't just stand there in front of my door all night lon-"

"Yes I can," Grell replied stubbornly, his body still shaking as his clothes were soaking wet, chilled with the ice that had once covered him head-to-toe and then melted. "Watch me."

"Hehe, perhaps I underestimated you, Miss Sutcliff. Your hard-headed 'tude is quite famed, after all. However, I would highly advise against it. Please venture forward, m'dear. I will scrounge up some clothes for you to wear comfortably tonight and some tea." With a tip of his decrepit top hat, the Undertaker pranced off into the secluded hallway of his shop and disappeared from sight.

Relaxing, Grell let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment and allowing himself to let out the shivers he'd been holding back. Truth be told, he couldn't feel most of his body. Although fire couldn't burn him, and he couldn't die of hypothermia, he was still very uncomfortably cold.

He looked around the chilled shop again, admiring the rather large bookshelf filled with medical selections so dusted that it appeared they hadn't been read since...well since the Undertaker could read. Thinking of which, he had likely already memorized each and every single one of the volumes on these shelves. Only one appeared to have been used recently, and the title of such a book was illegible. He gently placed a finger on the top of the spine, applying pressure to tilt the book back.

Pulling the book off the shelf, a careful hand brushed away the light dusting over the cover. It appeared to be some sort of book on...

A hand snaked over the redhead's shoulder, hot breath stirring the locks surrounding his ear. "It's not nice to snoop, you know," whispered a deep voice, followed by a low chuckle.

Grell squeaked, the book tumbling out of his hands, and it hit the stone floor with a dull thud. His spine straightened, muscles tensing.

"What? It seems as if you've just seen a ghost," giggled the mortician as he pulled away, grinning even as the other spun around with pure fury written across his face.

"Don't laugh! It isn't funny!" he snapped.

"Oh? Why do you care if others are to laugh at you or not, hmm?" asked the eldest, tilting his head to the side only slightly to prevent his hat from falling off. "It shouldn't matter to such a prideful little thing like you."

"I-I don't care!" he huffed, cheeks a flaming scarlet. His eyes narrowed before he turned his head away and crossed his arms again stubbornly. "Just where is my fucking tea?"

"Why, it is waiting for you in the kitchen of course, silly~!" sang the Undertaker, giggling as he turned and walked into the dark hallway to the back.

Grell frowned deeply, looking away for a moment longer before reluctantly following the other. For all he knew, he could be in the process of being lead to his death. Perhaps there was a torture room of sorts in the back, or even a room filled with corpses and coffins. However, he was pleasantly met with a rather homely kitchen of sorts. Three chairs circled a wooden table, a fireplace where the tea kettle whistled bringing extra light and warmth to the small room. Pots and pans hung off the walls, and a rather long cabinet above a wooden counter top held spices of every kind along with a few odd boxes and bottles here and there.

On the table, there sat two waiting tea cups and a saucer of more bone-shaped cookies. The Undertaker was bent over, fetching the kettle from the fireplace and standing only to pour the contents into each of the cups. "Feel free to help yourself to the sugar over there. I have plenty to go around~"

Hesitantly, the redhead sat down at the table, grabbing the small container of sugar in the center of the table before spooning two teaspoons into his cup and gently stirring. He said nothing, watching Undertaker cautiously out of the corner of his eye. There was no telling what he put in the tea or what he would do to prank him when he was trying to drink it.

When Undertaker finally sat down beside him at the table, Grell scooted his chair further away and plopped back down with a huff. He took a sip of his tea tentatively, eyeing the other warily still.

"Hehehe," giggled the other, running one of his long nails along his lips in order to stifle his laughter. "You know, you don't have to be so cold~!"

He fell into a mad laughter, his heavy head plopping onto the table with a loud thwack and causing his top hat to roll off his head, across the table, and onto the floor. "C-Cold! Ahahahahahaha~!"

Scowling, Grell grit his teeth and held back a scornful remark. Instead, he focused on sipping the tea that had apparently not been poisoned.

"Ha-ha...ha...ah...yeah, that was a marvelous laugh~" he giggled to himself as he wiped his drool off on his sleeve. "Oh? Why the long face, m'dear?"

Grell threw him a glare, saying nothing as he tapped his manicured nails on the porcelain of his tea cup.

"Hmm, what have I done to deserve such a rude response to my generous hospitality?" inquired the mortician, licking his top lip before raising his cup to gently sip.

"You exist," Grell growled under his breath, glaring at the miniscule contents of his cup before a gasp escaped him.

His chest was met with a hard force, his head being painfully pulled backward by the hair as he was forced to meet the dual-colored irises of the mortician who seemed to have teleported in front of him with such a speed. A smirk was glued to his face, eyes narrowed slightly as the grip on the ribbon the redhead wore tightened considerably. "Now, now, that's no way to treat a host~! I'd be careful with that little tongue of yours...if I were you. Scythe forbid it have a dreadful...accident whilst you sleep so comfortably, little red reaper." Long, ebony nails reached up to thread between soft, strands of scarlet tresses to bring them to his nose and smirk even wider. "To think...marring such a lovely countenance. Not even I could find the humor in that..."

With that, the crazed mortician pulled away with a giggle, and two of the four legs of Grell's chair met the ground again. He hadn't even known he'd been tilted back, to be honest. His heart still pounded, eyes still wide in mute horror. The shaking of his body was no longer of the cold, but instead fright.

"What, cat got your tongue?" giggled Undertaker, winking as he stood and popped a cookie into his slyly smirking smile. He loved the terrified look he'd brought out in the other, but more so, the pleasure of being so close. The scent of vanilla and cherries was still fresh in his mind, and he could still feel the soft, wet strands of hair threaded between his bony fingers. It was the closest he'd been to anyone in oh, so long...

Grell stared blankly at him for several moment before blinking and gritting his teeth. "I'm fine, thank you." His body still shook despite himself, hiding the tremble in his voice by swallowing. This old man was a complete lunatic, and his adrenaline was still going a mile a minute from the close proximity they had shared.

"Oh, was that a: thank you, I heard?" he teased, giggling as he clasped his hands together inside his long, robe sleeves. "You are very much welcome. Now, up, up. Time to go get your clothes. I had them set aside for when we finished."

The mangosteen of reapers watched Undertaker more warily than before, slowly rising from his seat and eventually, reluctantly, following the retired reaper to the front room. It was there that the other had set aside a pair of rather...pink pajamas on the table-counter. He snickered, raising a skeptical eyebrow at them. At least...pink was a shade of red, right? Perhaps, it would be much better if he stained them red with the mortician's blood...

The thought made him a bit happier inside. It was a pleasant thought.

"Will these be suiting for you? I apologize if they are a bit too big for you," he giggled, holding up the two-piece outfit. "I shall finish up cleaning up our little snack while you change. I promise not to peek~!"

Grell watched the other leave skeptically, and he didn't move from his firm position several feet from the dreadfully ugly pajamas. Whomever they once belonged to...it was obvious that their owner had poor taste.

Reluctantly, he stepped behind a coffin on the wall away from the hall to the kitchen. For some reason, he just didn't trust the other to hold true to his promise, and he made sure that there was no way for the other to look as he changed.

The entire time, Grell snickered and sneered and spat at the distasteful clothing, grimacing as he put them on and wanting desperately just to sleep in his wet clothes. However, he knew how dreadfully uncomfortable they would be to sleep in, and he came to the grave understanding that these were likely more comfortable than any of his own clothing. They were just ugly. And perhaps it was that knowledge that just made it that much more terrible to the redhead.

It was just when he had finished that the mortician waltzed back into the room, giggling and picking up the bundle of folded, wet clothes from the table-counter. "Do they fit all right for you, m'dear?"

"Wonderful," he grumbled, scowling at the other.

"Glad to hear~!" he chirped, a bright smile that contradicted the hateful, murderous glare he was receiving on his face. "Now, for your sleeping quarters. I apologize that I have not a bed in which to sleep. But feel free to choose a coffin in which to slumber in~! I have plenty to select from!"

An ugly grimace lined the contours of his lips as the redhead looked at the coffins. He'd have to sleep in those? No, they weren't…uncomfortable, but it wasn't something he liked to make a habit of. He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to put himself back together. It was just one night. It shouldn't bother him too much; after all, he was already dead.

"I don't care. Just give me one," he huffed.

Grinning, the mortician skipped over to a mahogany casket, pausing after he pulled off the lid. "Oh? Would you prefer to stand or lay?"

Knowing that if he were to lay down, he would become susceptible to anything that the mortician would do, he simply said, "Stand."

He scooted to the side, allowing the ginger some room and giggling as he winked at the other through his long, white bangs. "Sleep tight, m'dear."

"Go fuck yourself," he snorted, refusing to step into the coffin until the other left.

His message was clearly received as the other stepped into his own coffin, pulling the lid over himself to hide his figure from the other's view.

At last, the geezer was gone.

A deep sigh fell past the redhead's lips, and his shoulders sagged as he tentatively walked forward into the coffin. It wasn't too terribly uncomfortable. In fact, it was the softest thing he had every 'laid' on. Unfortunately, he couldn't sleep standing up, and he only stood there with a scowl upon his face.

That old man was more of a lunatic than he would have guessed. However…he was incredibly generous…offering his food and home to the other without hesitation. He was likely just a lonely mortician. After all, who took time out of their day to visit a crazy old man obsessed with cadavers? No one—that's who.

Grell bit his bottom lip gently, careful not to slice it on his razor-like teeth as his mind formed a rather peculiar thought. What if they were both on the same page? What if they were both tired of spending every night alone? Closing his eyes, he fought the odd sense of guilt. He shouldn't have treated the Undertaker like that. He shouldn't have said the things he said. He knew that even though the Undertaker had that huge smile on his face most of the time, there was no guarantee that it was real at all. Likely, he was doing the same thing that Grell did every day; they were both brilliant actors.

The thought of an unlikely friendship took form in his mind, and he didn't realize that he'd dozed off until he received a rather rude awakening…

"Up, up, up, m'dear~! It's morning, yes~!"

Grell groaned at the boot that nudged his ribcage. Somehow or another, he'd managed to fall asleep on the floor in front of his coffin. His arms served as a make-shift pillow, his glasses wonky, and pajamas covered in soot. "Mmm?"

"Come on~! Off the floor with your pretty little head~!" he sang, clapping his hands together.

This early in the morning, Grell had not the patience to deal with the loud, obnoxious voice that was grating on his nerves like cheese on a grate. "Shut the hell up…"

"Now, now, come on! It's nearly eight o'clock! Everyone's up except for you! Surely the others are worried, are they not? After all, you've been missing all night. I've seen them wandering around the streets looking for you~!"

"Hmm? Looking for me…" It took a few moments for the red reaper to realize what the older had said before he bolted upright with wide eyes. He'd been in the creepy old mortuary all night…and he was late for his shift.

William was going to kill him!

"Oh crap!" he cursed, trying to untangle the chain of his glasses from his hair in a rush. His hands were shaking in panic, breath going faster than a freight train at full speed.

Steady hands gripped his own, a rather unusually gentle smile replacing the mad grin of the Undertaker. "Relax, m'dear. I'll have it taken care of. I've already washed and dried your clothes for you, and breakfast is on the table. I'll send word to Mr. Cold Ass Spears for you, and you need not worry your pretty little head." The hands gripping the redhead's pushed them away, gently untangling the chain with a few, swift movements. "There. All better."

A bright blush lined the cheeks of the proud Shinigami, blinking twice before taking a deep breath and relaxing for the first time in the other's presence. "Thank you…"

With a giggle, a long fingernail pressed against the tip of Grell's nose. "You are very welcome, m'dear. Now, come; we wouldn't want such a nice meal to get cold, now would we?"

Lacking hesitation, Grell followed with a small smile, stopped only by the taller's gasp.

"Oh! I almost forgot! Can't have you staying in such dirty clothes, can we? Your uniform is on the table over there, m'dear. Go ahead and dress while I get your tea together, yeah? Hehehe~!"

The breakfast Grell was greeted with was a generous helping of bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding and toast with a small glass of milk to wash it down. He smirked slightly, sitting down and speaking as he rolled up the sleeves. "You seem to be quite he cook."

"It's just a hobby of mine, hehehe~!" he cooed, sitting down at the opposite seat from the redhead.

Taking a bite of sausage, Grell beamed with a satisfied hum, color coming to his cheeks. "Oh! This is amazing~! You are~ quite the chef!"

A deep chuckle filled the room, overcoming the distant crackle of the fireplace. "You overestimate me, m'dear. I am but a humble host, but thank you for the kind compliments. They are most appreciated."

"I beg to differ! You could be a great chef if you weren't a mortician~!" he cooed. "I may have to take you home with me~!"

"You'd be in much trouble, m'dear. I wouldn't suggest that, but it is nice to have someone appreciate my cooking. It has been a long time since it last happened…" he said, his smile faltering for a brief second.

'Undertaker, your cooking is splendid! It even rivals Tanaka's! Surely, you must cook for me again!'

'Of course! Any time, m'lord.'

Undertaker brushed the thoughts aside, hiding the somber tone in his voice with a hearty laugh filled with forced enthusiasm. It couldn't be changed now. Even death could not be undone…not yet, anyway.

Grell narrowed his eyes in thought as he fell silent and ate, carefully watching the other reaper that did the same. There was something not write about the mortician. His laughs and smiles were forced. He knew it from experience. The only reason he had done nothing when he first saw him…was simply that he felt something out of the ordinary. He felt a connection. Then again, the only thing he could be mad about was the way he'd scarred his lovely countenance once and caused him more paperwork than he could handle. There was a sense of pity that weighed him down every time he stood in his presence. The question was: why?

Undertaker could feel the other's eyes on him, feeling a heavy weight on his shoulders and heart. Could he see through his façade? They were so alike in many ways, that he found it hard not to laugh. Perhaps, it was that connection that forbade them from hiding much from the other. They hardly knew each other, yet they understood one another perfectly…

"Undertaker…" Grell began as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin, "how did you know there was going to be a blizzard last night?"

"Ah, call it my intuition. The clouds were looking mighty suspicious last night. Perhaps, my old bones know a thing or two about the weather, after all," he giggled, a Cheshire grin splitting an ancient, scarred face.

"I apologize for last night. I should not have taken my frustration out on you. Thank you for your hospitality…"

"Oh? No, no, no need to thank me, m'dear. I'm just an old man willing to take company where he can get it. Thank you for staying."

Grell blinked in surprise for a moment before blushing and standing. Undertaker did the same, reaching across the table to take the crimson-clad man's plate before walking over to the counter. The dishes were laid haphazardly on the counter without a care in the world, and the mortician then turned to the redhead.

"Come, I suppose it's time to go. Your coat is by the door," he said. "I apologize; I am not one to usually push a guest out the door, but it is getting late, and I would hate to get you in any more trouble, m'dear."

"It's fine."

Walking out into the main part of the shop and standing beside the door, Grell slipped on his coat with a small smile. He didn't expect a pair of foreign hands to grip his recently combed hair gently, pulling it up so that it wouldn't get in the way. His body tensed, muscles rippling as they froze in place. Blushing, the redhead slowly looked over his shoulder to see the gentle smile that greeted him—a smile wanting to be met with his in more than one way. Swallowing, he buttoned his coat with shaky hands and eventually turned when he'd finished. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr…"

"Please, just Undertaker will suffice," he chuckled, waving off the gesture of respect that Grell hardly gave anyone as he took a step back and grinned at the other. "Take care, m'dear. Wouldn't want you getting caught in any more blizzards, now would we?"

Grell considered it for a moment, and the thought of being stuck with the old man another night didn't seem so bad anymore. Nevertheless, he giggled and shook his head despite himself. "No, I suppose not."

Blowing the Undertaker his signature, flirtatious kiss, the redhead opened the door and stepped outside into the frigid air. The snow came up to nearly the top of his boots, and he had to trudge himself past the drift at the Undertaker's front door. He'd managed to get only ten feet before he paused, looking back and blinking at the odd sight.

He hadn't expected the Undertaker to still be standing in the doorway, watching him leave. And he didn't expect the solemn frown that had banished the grin that was supposed to be there.

His gaze softened, and he looked at the gloves he wore for a moment before smirking…

Undertaker clucked his tongue with a dreadful sigh, watching the blurry sight of the redhead slowly walking away. His company had been welcomed and even desired last night despite his malicious attitude toward him at first. It was more attention than he'd gotten over the course of a month. His shoulders slumped, and he allowed a frown to form on his pursed lips.

If only there had been a reason to make him stay a little longer. The blizzard had been nothing but his luck and experience with the weather. There wouldn't be another one today or for a while…

He sighed, turning away from the reaper and moving to close the door to keep his little mortuary warm before a gust of breeze ruffled his robe and silver tresses. He had the urge to look back, and he was met with a black blur being blown toward his face. Raising his hand, he snatched the small garment caught in the winter wind, and a grin split his face.

"Oh, you crafty little devil…How…amusing…"

With a grin, Undertaker watched the Shinigami walk away, knowing that even though he couldn't see it, there was a grin on the red reaper's face that matched his own, and once the other was out of sight, Undertaker slipped back into his humble mortuary with a glove and a reason for a particular Shinigami to come back.

Xxx

Author's Note:

Hey! This work was a rather long time in the making...it took an entire 3 days of actual writing XD But then again, it was really just an hour a day on top of my regular schooling classes and working on a farm, and blah, blah, blah.
Life...we love it...only half the time.
Anyyyyyyway, I'm glad to have this finally up, and I promise that there will be more to come in the future. Just see this as a teaser for my giant Halloween collection! :D I'm so excited to get to publish that, and I think I'll leave my 9/11 piece to post just a bit before that because I feel like I can't just post it without a tad more research. It is a very serious event, and not something I would want to offend someone with. So, patience is a virtue, and just wait a little longer.
As for When You're In Paris, I really, really want to post the 3rd chapter, but I've run into a roadblock with part of it, so you'll have to bear with waiting for a little longer.
A small Sascha x Rudgar short I am writing with Transistance (I'm sorry if it's Transistence, I always get their name wrong! XD )) will be coming out soon too! There's a whole bunch of stories in the oven, and I hope they all come out baked on Halloween. I might even post all of my new works on Halloween all at once! Because Halloween is just that awesome.
Remember to leave a comment below! It's the only thing that makes me want to post my stories faster! ^_^ And really, it just makes my day.