Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.

Author's note: The narrative and timeline of this story will seem disjointed and confusing at times, however everything will start pulling itself together to gradually reveal the true substance of the story. Be patient, it will make sense soon.

Act I

Caroline Wallace was at the front desk today wearing that cream-colored blouse she seemed to fancy so much. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, dainty finger adjusting her glasses as she typed. The phonograph behind her was playing a rather mild movement of Tchaikovsky.

Her eyes wandered to the front for a moment and a polite smile came across her face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Suctliff," she said.

Grell thought he returned the greeting but couldn't be sure of that at this point.

Her polite smile calmed to a look of mild concern.

"Are you all right," she said. "You look a little peaked."

"A rough collection, that is all," he managed to say.

His eyes and path went straight down the corridor. He thought he saw Caroline look at him for another moment before he heard typing again.

Through his splitting headache and aching muscles just now realized he was still carrying his death scythe. All he could think of was taking a nap; every step was a labor and his eyes were already fluttering closed. Such as the price for doing a full day after not sleeping as much as he should. That last one was a bit more difficult than usual though he didn't want to think on the particulars.

Grell thought about going up to his room, but the plush couch in the lounge just a few meters away was just calling to him. Grell endured those last few steps down the hallway. Fortunately this particular area was commonly desolate, only a few storage and file rooms were behind those white painted doors. At last he was in the wide room; the paintings of meadows and castles contrasting with the few pieces of skeletal reapers and souls pouring up into the air. Ever the aesthetic of the reapers; he managed a weak smile at this thought.

A momentary glance around the small tables and ornate chairs showed no one was in there, though this was common for this area. This lounge was mostly used by those who worked at the front desk or had business in the lobby. It was a bit father removed from most of the offices and significantly smaller. Most of the people who came here came to gossip over tea.

The furniture somewhat older, though that plush leather couch seemed to be waiting for him like a naked lover. A moment's thought dismissed his scythe as he kicked his heels and fell back like a leaf, caught by the soft folds of leather and feathers that embraced his aching body.

Grell stared at the ceiling for a moment, studying tiles in the ceiling adorned with fresh coat of off-white paint and the stray piece of gum someone must have spit up there. The view darkened as his lids grew heavier and slowly closed completely. He heard a few stray sounds around the hallway, the usual passing of footsteps.

The sounds faded as he slipped deeper and deeper into sleep until it was only quiet; sweet, sweet oblivion.

"It is over, Grell Sutcliff. There is no escape for you now."

Blue flames pierced the blackness, illuminating Sebastian Michaelis' form towering over him. Sebastian was smirking, eyes glowing purple with black slitted pupils. His butler uniform was spattered in blood, gloves drenched in dripping red; oh how handsome he looked. The black sword sticking up from his own chest gradually caught Grell's attention. The grass cushioned his prone form, the sword him keeping him pinned in the ground. He only tasted the blood flowing from his mouth.

"Your position is nonnegotiable, you are going to die. You do know what happens to reapers when they die."

"They fall into a peaceful oblivion. That's what they say. It's a bit hard to be judged twice over, a reward for service. Bollocks to that, Grell, more of the bloody unknown."

Grell was standing in the infirmary now, watching Alan Humphries bury himself a bit further into his bed sheets. Alan bit his lower lip hard and tried to keep his face from contorting with the threat of tears. Grell just stood there and looked down at him in bed, he averted his gaze for a moment to the porcelain pitcher and basin on the bed table.

Alan's gaze slowly moved up, God how pale he was .

"I'd be lying to you if I said I wasn't scared of death," he said. "But maybe…maybe I'm just used to the idea. You can't be around it for this long without wondering what that last trip would be like for you."

Grell had no idea what to say in response. What does one say in a situation like this without sounding completely tactless?

Alans words rang trough his head as he looked up to see the massive black overhead in a familiar corridor, panels painted with cherubs were embedded into the sides. Grell noticed how lovelier the Renaissance-style paintings were spattered in blood; someone made quite a mess of things. He lightly ran the tip of his pinkie along the wall, seeing the blood stay in place like rich paint. Whatever had been done was done a while ago, within the past week he would say.

A rumble turned his attention forward, the canopy bed was a dark outline against the blazing sunlight. All he heard was a woman screaming, screams that faded into the cracks of a whip and the feel of stinging against his flesh.

Grell writhed against a stone wall, a set of chains keeping him in place. The pain was glorious; hard leather wielded so ably by the beautiful demon before him. Sebastian's leather corset wrapped beautifully against his muscular frame though revealing enough flesh to keep Grell happy. Black horns protruded from his long hair that whipped around with every able movement of his arm.

Grell flailed against the shackles holding him to the wall, feeling the cold stone against his naked flesh. He tried to scream out in ecstasy but his voice was quiet. Bassie stopped for a moment and stared at him with those cruel red eyes. Grell's own eyes trailed down that gorgeous body; he wasn't wearing any trousers. His massive manhood was waiting at the ready and getting closer to him.

"If you were so inclined you could call it a miracle, or simply medical science at its finest," a voice said.

Grell's eyelids twitched, opening slightly then closing.

"How is he now?"

That was Will's voice. Grell managed a sharp breath; such a pity he had to be woken up from such a lovely moment. Oh well, Sebastian would show up in his dreams again; perhaps maybe something better awaited him.

"We will have to monitor him closely. It looks as if the worst has passed for the time being, but we can never be too cautious."

Grell finally recognized the second voice, he would recognize that cheery Scottish brogue anywhere; Dr. Ian Sutherland, the chief physician for the London office.

"Though I can tell you just five years ago he would be permanently gone," Dr. Ian continued.

It sounded like they were in the hallway, Grell was in the perfect position to eavesdrop on some juicy gossip.

"I'm nothing short of amazed, a Voice attack at that distance should have killed him within an hour," Will said.

"He's a tough little bastard I can tell you that, though we got to him just in time," the doctor said. "The bleed was more manageable than even the scans showed. We relieved the pressure and stopped the bleeding easier than I thought we would, his healing is where it should be now. He just had so much in his favor."

Voice attack…bleed. Grell could picture the textbook in front of him.

The Voice of God, also the Voice of the Almighty; commonly referred to as "Voice Attack," or "Angel Blast." A special attack ability possessed by angels, utilizing the power of their voice to create a sonic blast. The blast creates pressure in the cranium of any humanoid creature, causing blood vessels to rupture with exact effects depending on the creature's disposition.

Frequency: Rare

Once used, the angel will lose that attack ability for a period of time estimated to be several days. It is used more as a last gasp effort when all other options have been exhausted.

Grell only remembered skimming this section, but he had been forced to go to enough meetings and discussions to hear new information over the past hundred years. The basic facts were still the same and very, very nasty; humans directly exposed to the blast would have their head explode, he'd seen photos of it. Allegedly demons were vulnerable to it too, though the instruction came with the warning that most demons were only stunned and would regroup soon.

The attack was just as lethal to reapers except slower and quieter. He had never known any reapers who had been attacked, but everyone always heard of someone. The stories were all the same; the reaper will appear fine at first but gradually collapse and never wake up. Apparently the blast caused an irreversible brain hemorrhage, though a few meetings mentioned that surgical procedures had been found to cut off the bleeding and allow the reaper to heal normally. Whether they worked or not was another matter, though was this such a case? Did a reaper just survive a Voice attack?

"He is showing normal brain function and reflexes," Dr. Ian said. "He will likely remain unconscious for the next few days, possibly going in and out of it. We will need to keep a close eye on him, watch for any seizures or any recurring bleeds."

He survived, but still Grell couldn't imagine the poor guy's current situation was very pleasant.

"Can he recover fully from this," Will said.

"If he continues this course I see a complete recovery. There is potential for slurred speech or difficulty walking, but that remains to be seen. He will need some physical therapy to get his muscles moving a bit more. He very well could come out of this perfectly fine."

"Should he recover from this, would it be possible for him to return to normal duties?"

"I don't see why not. Whether he'll be as quick on his feet remains to be seen, though he could still be able in his duties."

Grell listened for a name, but his focus was slipping fast into the beautiful blackness of sleep. Word had probably spread of this incident and it was likely the talk of the town by now. He would find out who the poor bastard was soon enough, right now he was bent over on a bed; Will was keeping him busy enough.

Those powerful hands slammed him against the wall, his knee connecting with the back of Grell's leg to gain a better footing to he could drive into him harder. Grell let out breathy gasps, feeling those hands pulling his hair at the roots. He could feel locks sliding out easily.

He slapped a hand out of the way, looking up and seeing Angelina leaning over him and glaring at him. She stopped her gyrations over him for a moment though he only smiled at her. She gave him a wicked grin and continued.

Oh how radiant Angelina looked radiant in the white gown she wore now; the bodice accentuated her shapely figure, but the ruffles gave her a gentle appearance. That gorgeous red hair was pulled back into a bun, a few strands of crimson falling over her beautiful face. He took her gloved hand and kissed the modest rings he was able to give her. Her hand reached up and caressed his own loose strands of brown hair, resting against the arm of his gold-rimmed glasses before leaning in for a gentle kiss. Her lips tasted like blood.

"Oh, so sorry to disturb," a woman's voice said off to the side with a small laugh. "Ciel just couldn't wait to see you."

They broke from the kiss to see Rachel walking toward them, little Ciel clutched to her skirt.

"Auntie An!" Ciel cried, scrambling to his aunt and wrapping his arms around her legs. "You look so beautiful, Auntie; like a queen."

"Oh thank you my darling nephew," Angelina said, leaning down to embrace the little boy.

Her white gown bled red with the force of his embrace, little red handprints dripping down the fabric. He looked over at Grell; that cold gaze from his visible eye accentuated by a wicked smirk for one moment, then to two wide blue eyes and the happy smile of a child.

"Wait, Grell you married my aunt," Ciel said. "Does this mean you're my uncle now?"

"It most certainly does, my dear," Grell said.

Ciel pulled from his aunt and walked over to him.

"Hello there, Uncle Grell," Ciel said with a little bow.

"Hunter's dead, Uncle Grell! My puppy's dead!"

The young man in front of him now sobbed hard, his face was as red as his hair, tears pouring from those supposedly stoic eyes.

"T-t-they found him by the barn. They said a fox just ate him up."

The dripping mess was practically falling through his hands, a few scraps of gold fur was the only thing keeping the torn carcass together. Blood poured down to the floor from the tears his filet knife left in the damn dog's body. Grell looked down at his knife, more blood pouring from the blade. The creature's yowls sounded through his head like a bloodcurdling scream.

Ciel was the only child in front of him now. Someone was screaming when he picked Ciel off his feet; no voices he recognized at the wedding party. Grell knew he only had a few steps to the French window. The glass shattered, Ciel's body flew through the window; a funnel of black and white feathers lifting him up into the air as he smirked. Grell could hear Ciel's voice in the air.

"Salvation? Don't make me laugh. I am beyond saving and the same will be true of you too."

Feathers flowed into the waterfall that poured from the mountain that rose in front of him. Grell adjusted his seat on the blanket underneath him and watched it in wonder.

"Oh William, this is such a lovely spectacle," he said, his voice high and dainty like a well-groomed lady. "You certainly know how to be romantic."

William sat across from her, lifting a small teapot from a basket.

"Only for you, my lovely," William said, gazing at her with the warmest smile.

Will's attention went back to pouring the tea, the fine cups resting in the woven basket tray. Grell reached into the picnic basket and took out a watercress sandwich. It was a little hard to reach that far over, the large bulge of her womb was a happy little obstacle.

"Oh, let me get that for you, dear," Will said. "You don't want to be straining yourself in your condition."

Grell laughed, Will's hands rested on the bulge encased in her red dress. She felt a little kick, Will must have felt it too; he grinned and laughed.

"I am so happy, my lovely wife," he said, gently taking her hands.

The bright surroundings went dark, Grell was standing under the archway again but light burst forth when he cleared it. Sunlight shone through the stained glass windows in shades of blue, green, and beautiful red. Grell took a glance at the designs, keeping half an eye on his surroundings. Scenes from the Winchester Psalter: souls writhing in the gaping Mouth of Hell, the archangel unlocking the gates. Christ blindfolded, tied to a pole, and whipped by a bucktoothed Pilate. He saw John the Baptist with his bloody head in his hands among the assortment of praying martyrs.

"The Judgment is upon us," a female voice echoed down the corridor. "And I have been the herald for the doomsday."

Grell took light steps forward, slowly raising his death scythe into position.

"The false prophets have been warned," the voice continued.

"Was that your intention? Though simple cold murder sounds about more accurate to me," another voice said, bearing the high pitch of a child yet the curdled scorn of a cold man.

The bright light faded to glowing ashes and the sear of a sword piercing his heart. The white sword staked him into the ground, blood ran from Grell's body like a river. He was cold, his vision fading; every muscle in spasms.

"You do not have long left, you know this," Sebastian said, fangs exposed with his cruel smirk. That gorgeous face framed with flowing black hair, eyes glowing purple. "You fought bravely against your foes. My master might remain silent on the subject, but he owes you greatly."

Sebastian touched the pommel of the sword; white bleeding with inky black and racing into Grell's dying flesh. Grell gasped; darkness, hatred, poison pumped into his veins. This wasn't dying; this was rebirth. The weak reaper's flesh transforming into something more vile; something more powerful. His body flailed with the pain, the ecstasy, the liberation of this new death.

"No, no, NO! Bloody hell don't do this please!" a familiar voice floated in the air: he could practically see the agony on Ronald Knox's face.

His flailing stilled as if his body turned to stone and crashed to the ground. He became light again, rising like a feather; his form now immaterial shadow hovering in the darkness of oblivion. This form needed a new shape.

High, red boots planted into the ashes, legs and forming breasts now encased in red leather, a black cloak flying in the wind. Black claws were fully extended, red hair whipping around black horns. Grell's pointed tongue ran over her sharp teeth. Her clawed hand ripped the glasses from her face and tossed them to the ground, the pointed heel of her boot smashing them against the rock.

"Come to me, my consort," Sebastian said.

She turned around, her demon eyes falling on the beautiful arch demon in black leather, black feathers flying all around him. Grell took her first steps toward him, extending her hand and seeing Sebastian grip it gently, putting it to his black lips.

Grell felt the warm press against his hand, strong fingers gently surrounding it. There was no smell of ashes and sulfur now, only clean cotton and a hint of cologne.

"How long have we known each other, Grell Sutcliff," Will's voice said through the blackness.

Those cold green eyes bore into his, though Will's expression was a bit gentler. Sad perhaps? Was that possible?

"The exact number of years means nothing to us now, but it has been over a century," Will said. "You've spent the past century annoying the hell out of me. Do you want to know the irony? I can't fathom the thought of losing that."

Grell had no words in response, he just savored the feeling of Will's hand over his.

"I'll admit it; you have been a good friend," Will continued. "We've been through a lot together. As much as I lament it, that devil-may-care scoundrel is who you are. It's your greatest strength; laughing in the face of things that curdle the blood of the rest of us. If you leave, if you fail this test, I will never forgive you."

Even through his broken glasses and swollen eyelids, he could still see Will's disappointed glare. After all the kicking and dragging Will had done from Whitechapel back to the office, that was the one gesture from him that stung the most. The renewed gush of blood from his broken nose only accentuated the point. Will only glared at him, then shook his head; walking out the door with Grell's death scythe in hand. The judgment of his superiors for his crimes didn't scare him nearly as much.

Eric Slingby suddenly shoved him into the wall; he must have been upright again. There was no blood, only the sting in his arm. Eric's hands were clearly trembling; it was the only thing kept Grell from finding a soft spot to kick him in.

"Sutcliff I beg of you, please don't hold this against him," Eric whispered in bullying desperation. "When he gets his attacks, he just loses control of his body. You haven't seen it as much as I have, he truly couldn't help it."

Dr. Ian told Grell his arm would likely ache through the night; any scythe wounds had that aftereffect, even the small slice he got when Alan dropped his blade in their close formation. It was a small slice across the upper arm, though it burned immensely. His momentary urge to punch Alan into the wall was tempered when he saw him writhing on the ground amongst the scattered charred corpses in the burning warehouse; face contorted and screaming in pain.

"Eric dear, there's no need to worry about me," Grell said, proud of how he kept his temper at bay while trying to get his arm in a more comfortable position despite the bandage and the five stitches. "It's poor Alan I'm more worried about."

Alan was a good enough guy; polite, friendly to a point if not a little uptight. He was tempted think he would have preferred Eric as the victim in this relationship; the sideways glares and brutish attitude did not make him one of Grell's favorite people. Still, he wouldn't wish the Thorns of Death on anybody; it was a slow, agonizing way to die from what he understood.

Eric closed his eyes and sighed hard, for once Grell held some sympathy for him.

"I admire how you care for him so," Grell said.

Their bodies looked so romantic laying side by side, united by their spilled blood, framed by a wall of rising souls from Eric's scythe.

"I just don't want to be useless to anyone," Alan was lying in bed again, he couldn't hold back his sob by this point. "Then I lose control, then I cut open my colleague with my scythe. I don't want to think on the worst I could have done to you."

Grell patted his hair, a finger wiping a tear from Alan's cheek.

"I'm so sorry Sutcliff. I just…I just couldn't control myself."

The sounds of a few footsteps in the hallway pulled his attention back to the room. He could almost feel tears building in his eyes. It was just a dream, only that. Grell focused more on the snickers a few meters from him.

"I'll tell you, I pity the poor sod who's in the same room with him when he sees himself."

End of Act I

Continues Act II