Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man.

The Embalmer © Blob80

Epilogue

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The Conclusion, The Windup, The End,

Final breaths, blank steps, useless mends,

Heaven forsakes you now—but please open your eyes,

I'm still here, waiting for your cries.

Detachment was such a strange thing.

She knew what it was. Of course she did. Disinterest. Objectivity. Apathy. She'd felt it all before—or was seen it all before more accurate? No matter—she was sure of it. It was a vague certainty, but then again, everything was. Her memories were as blurry as the smoke that left that man's lips. It was terribly familiar. She recalled deep voices of the past, snippets of violence and love and passion, even a few restless nights spent in the company of dark humor and ash. The woman in her dreams was a tragically beautiful creature that donned dresses and pale skin. Her lips thinned many times. And more often than not, she was a numb little package that kept an even number exterior. But the few things she did feel were felt intensely. Powerful enough to leave anyone breathless.

But they were so far away. A far-off dream lost to the ringing in her ears and to that sweet voice dripping like caresses of poisonous honey. A man, she knew. Because his voice was deep and protective and loving. His voice was very kind. He always spoke softly. Yet was somehow able to remain in an invisible place past her reach. He kept his distance. Peculiar, for such a seemingly affectionate man.

And the pain, well that was distant, too—now.

It was still there though. It hurt. She, however, didn't cry out. The only sign of her agony were the hot tears that streamed down hollow cheeks long cold, falling across paleness that bordered on sickly. And she wasn't sure where she was. Where she came from. Only that it hurt. Everything hurt. And the man that whispered words of comfort was her only haunting constant, soothing her soul. Yet he blackened it as well. She didn't know how he did. But because that's all she was—a soul with a cage, but no body to hold her—she was able to see things through her haze. And one of those things was the steady darkening of the world around her. Or perhaps that was the man? She couldn't make out his features. The pain was a dull throb that blurred her vision.

Was he handsome? He certainly sounded like it. Funny, how one could tell so much from a voice. The man guarded her constantly. When he did leave, she didn't think it was for long. But the pain also spiked during those times, so time slipped from her. He'd talk a lot whenever he returned. She couldn't understand him, but his presence was enough. It distracted her from the scenes of that woman repeatedly playing itself in her mind.

An unending film of carcasses and draining blood.

She didn't fear those things—she was void of that. She remembered the thought of fear though. She knew what it looked like because of those scenes. The woman in her head companioned that particular emotion with an Earl's grin, purple hair, twin laughter, crunching lollipops; ashen gray skin that grabbed her from behind, pulling her hair in a hurtful way she never used to associate with the color. Hands with bruising grips that dragged her away from life, only to suddenly pull her back to its brink. But those weren't the same appendages, the woman knew. Because those gray hands were warm and gentle, as they cast her inside of a monster.

It wasn't pleasant.

Because that thing caging her never seemed to shut up. It poked and it prodded and it made her soul weep in its one and only display of emotion. And the scenes fizzled out there. She was sure there was a connection between that woman and her. Plain and apparent for all to see. But she couldn't link the dots. Even though all of the pieces were right there.

Just how long had this been going on? She didn't even know if there was something before this pain. But there must have been, right? She wished—a soul wishing, ha!—because that meant there would be an after, too. And she wanted that after. Because there was one thing she truly, without a shred of doubt, knew. Knew more than the unsmiling woman in her head, more than the warm darkness embracing her, and more than the seemingly distant hurt.

She wanted to die.

Please, she cried, kill me.

The man didn't seem to hear.

Monet was sleeping.

Again.

She did that a lot nowadays. She'd lay in bed like one of her clients. Her eyes closed to the world. Her face at peace. Her pale skin made even the white bed sheets in Tyki's room seem dark in comparison. But perhaps that was just his own biased sight fooling him. Yes, that was likely. Tyki usually played with a deck of cards to entertain himself. A habit he'd developed over the years. Now, it was just used to keep his fumbling hands busy whenever he was away. Because he'd find himself wanting to touch her and, more often than not, hurrying back to the mansion after one of the Earl's requests. The former craving, he happily indulged. Now that he was back here with her.

Tyki grasped her hands in his—her cold, cold hands—and he brought the tips of her fingers to his cheeks, smiling as he leaned fully against one of her limp palms. The action had long become familiar to him. His hair, which now sat in an unkempt ponytail behind him, whispered darkness along her thigh, as it slipped into her nightgown, as if it knew exactly what it was doing. Its dark hue provided a delicious contrast that he missed. Terribly.

Tyki also missed their casual conversations and the slight expressions that would grace her face when he did something to rile her. When he'd lean back on her couch and just stare. As he let himself relax and fall into a state that could only be achieved in her presence. Was Monet mad at him? She'd always been observant. Always able to understand him through those frozen eyes. Could she sense his envy for her human skin? Was that why she wasn't speaking to him? No. Tyki shook his head, the ashes of his cigarette drifting to the ground as he did so. He'd already sunken low enough to do the unforgivable. Just another victim of his untamable desire—for her.

It controlled him. It still did. He didn't mind. Not really.

Because now he knew of all of the sorry things that happened when he did bother to go against his whimsies. Tyki, though, wouldn't lose the little he still held. The little of him he could control. Like his realizations, for one. Monet had died. That was fact.

And he'd brought her back. Also, fact.

Tyki's hands dropped hers, carefully placing them in what he assumed was a comfortable position for her. As he scooted forward to brush his hands along her skin. Paler than death. But still beautiful. And he bent down to place a tender kiss above the dip of her collarbone. She'd lost the scent of a mortician. Instead, she was bathed in his. Blood, smoke, and something distinctly him—and now her as well. But that was to be expected, since she spent her days sleeping in his bed like one of those strange princesses with tragic stories. Monet wasn't a princess though. And he was tempted to wake her. But he couldn't do that. His aversions trumped his wants in that case. Because he didn't want her to look into his eyes, awaiting an order he didn't want to give. He didn't want her to blindly obey him or any of the other Noah. He didn't want to see her suddenly shed the skin he so adored, only for strange machinations to take its place. He didn't want his greed to chase what was left of her away.

He didn't want an Exorcist to cut her down.

Level ones were such pitiful things.

Tyki just wanted her back. He got that. It should have been enough. But, of course, it wasn't. When was anything ever enough for him? He wanted her back—fully, completely—he wanted her to grin wryly at him and make tasteless jokes. Only level two's, however, had personalities. Only they spoke proper words. Only they held emotions. He knew that. As a Noah, he knew everything about the Akuma. Suddenly, he wanted to laugh derisively at himself, but such bitter tones disappeared from him when he was in her presence. Because some part of him still wanted to play the gentlemanly demon that came to clean her home and offer her jobs, as he spoke to her with a needlessly polite tongue.

He could always bring her people to kill. But that was also an impossibility. And the other Noah didn't understand his fake smile enough to think him unhappy. So, at least they didn't interfere. The one thing he was thankful for. Because Monet's role was to clean and beautify the people he murdered. His was to keep her company while she did so. Forever thrilled by the fact that he'd never directly sully her hands. Tyki wouldn't go out of his way to stain them directly by bringing her people to slaughter. Because it was a game.

Their game.

Tyki couldn't just stop. Bend the rules, perhaps. But never so drastically. He had standards. And he loved their game too much to trample over it in such a way. Besides, some sick, twisted part of him actually preferred her like this. Because if she evolved and developed, she might be… different.

"How was your day?" Tyki suddenly asked in an effort to distract himself from his own traitorous thoughts. He looked down at her, placing feather light touches along her eyelids. As he carelessly dropped his cigarette on the nearby nightstand. "Mine was dreadful. The twins grated on me all afternoon with their childish insults. Can you believe they were actually reprimanding me for sleeping in late? Just because they woke up early for once. And Road's been asking about you. Which is a whole other problem in itself. Even my thoughts seem to be going against me today."

Monet didn't answer. Not like he expected her to. But that didn't stop the rush of disappointment when he paused for her out of instinct—and her lips remained still. Preserved little doll. Marionette. The word was so alike her name, he cringed. Because here he was, playing puppeteer. With his invisible strings of control he used to command all Akuma, except her, his favorite. Their game seemed to have changed along the way. He hated it.

Death always plagued him.

"I've been trying to revert into my light form, but I'm afraid I can't anymore. But being able to speak with you helps."

And that was the truth.

Filling the silence that consumed her helped. And surprisingly, it didn't bore him into slumber. So, he did it often. He liked to think he did it well, too. Despite its selfishness. Because once again, it was more for himself than it was for her. For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder if he could order her to have a personality. Perhaps things would go back to the way they were. No, of course it couldn't. That was no longer an option. Humans were such fragile things. The Noah understood that, but they didn't seem to understand the feelings involved when their loved ones turned them into Akuma. They didn't understand his feelings. His human feelings.

And his eyes widened then.

Human.

Bright skin. Dark eyes. Easy laughter.

Light.

So, he did retain something. And suddenly, he wanted to cry out. Laugh mockingly at himself, at his situation, at life. He'd envied her because of her form. Envied her because of her ability to go anywhere and blend in perfectly. Yet, she didn't use it. Because she had no need of anyone else but him. But of all the things to keep, why did it have to be these—useless—emotions? He would have preferred his white skin. Almost as pale as her own. And Tyki couldn't stop the spontaneous finger that trailed down her arm, slipping inside of her nightgown to adjust the falling strap back over one delicate shoulder. She was as fragile as he remembered. During that one breathy night spent wrapped in her sheets and legs, she was frail. Feeble, even. Perhaps even more so now. Too far gone to even move without shedding the physical part of herself that he adored.

If he ordered her to, would she wake? Would she be able to move, against all odds? Would she stand up and—beneath those no longer seeing depths—look at him like she used to?

Could he handle it if she did?

There was only one way to find out.

Tyki wore his best smirk and leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"Monet," he breathed, "wake up."

Her eyes snapped open as commanded. Her gaze unseeing, before it cleared and promptly turned to him. Monet's stare was a cold thing. But Tyki was heated by it. A fire lit in his stomach like magic—or like some pesky, unused Innocence hiding somewhere in his bed sheets—before spreading up his head and down to the soles of his feet. Her head was tilted to the side in a gesture that reminded him very much of the numb mortician he first met, the same one whose feelings he warmed. No. She was the same. And so were those unflinching eyes.

"Can you move?" Tyki asked. "I command you to move."

Monet remained inert. Though she tried. He knew she did—even if she didn't shift an inch—because a crack ripped her skin and darkness peeked through. Followed by light. Her eyes took on a different hue and Tyki shuddered as her body was wracked by screams. He didn't have to be a genius to know what was happening. His hands were immediately on her shoulders, pushing her down. As his lips swallowed one of her shrieks, before he replaced them with a finger in a fruitless effort to shush her. He knew she'd only be quieted by one thing.

"Shhh…" he hushed.

Her cries immediately ceased.

And Tyki wanted to vomit.

"Come now, I didn't mean it," he amended, wiping the tears that trailed down her cheeks. She was still again. The crack stopped growing. Her eyes were closed in peace. And he sighed, cradling his chin in his palm, as he watched her. "Don't you want to take a walk? Eat dinner? Work? Stay in this cramped room with me any longer and you'll ruin your lungs."

She just breathed.

"I won't force you."

She didn't hear him—no, ignored him was more accurate.

"But," he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against her own. Dark hair fell onto white skin in a way that should have tickled. Monet didn't even smile. "I miss you, Monet. Won't you come back to me?"

Nothing.

"Well…" he trailed off, grabbing her hand and kissing it. She was in pain. She must've been. He'd seen the endless torment the souls turned into Akuma went through so many times before. But he simply nuzzled his nose in her palm and plastered a smile on his face, despite his aching heart. He could easily ignore wrenching throbs. His own desires, not so much. He wasn't altruistic, nor did he ever pretend to be. And she knew that. She knew that very well. He knew she did.

He leaned back, hand still in hers, as he stole his prize from the nearby nightstand. His cigarette was mostly gone by now. But the relief he felt when he dragged it to his lips and watched as the slothful clouds blew over them both never diminished. At that moment, he was transported back to that night where she merely slept and he watched over her, both their chests drumming in satisfaction. She looked well. Healthy. Alive. Absolutely beautiful. And he gave the desire to run his eyes across her form free reign in a way that would usually make her stare icily at him.

"I suppose lazy days are okay, too," he muttered, taking another long drag, effectively finishing his coffin nail, as she once called it. The thought of when she did made him laugh. It just… fit her so well. He really had to stop laughing at tasteless jokes and bad puns. Especially when it involved her. "Though I will have to take you out tomorrow. We can't always do what you want, Monet."

Tyki swore she smiled.

He knew better though. It was just another trick of the light. An illusion of the mind. His eyes saw what they wanted to see because of those human emotions he so loved, yet somehow hated all at once. Like some terrible delusion. Her face was impassive. As it usually was. Still, it was brighter than anything else around him—somehow. And he promised himself he'd make it happen. He'd find a way to make a sleeping level one follow him. Talk to him. Ease him. Beautify those already dead. Even, eat. Like how a human would. Like how she would. He'd do it—he'd definitely do it—one of these days.

He certainly wasn't in need of test subjects. Akuma were born every day. All for his favorite marionette—no—his Monet. Until then, he'd sit contentedly. Tyki may not have had much patience, but he had time. A lot of it.

Besides, there was pleasure in presence.

I know of a place,

Somewhere between dream and awake,

You linger there now, but I'll drag you away,

With fingers of ashen gray,

Don't resist—I'll seize your hands,

Because I miss you, understand?

A/N: This is the finale. For real this time. Thanks to misminor for inadvertently giving me the sudden bout of motivation I needed to write the epilogue so quickly. I hadn't really planned to. It's a lot shorter than the other chapters, but I never planned on making it longer. Since it's just an extra scene. I loved this fic as I do all my others and am sad to see it end. But, alas, it's high time I start giving my other fics the attention they deserve.

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Blob80 Out.