#realciel

“Now what would a thing like you doing here in my parlor?” Undertaker asked, crouching down beside it, offering a long-nailed finger for it to sniff.

The puppy did so, cautiously as it could, though fear still gleamed in its eyes—the black robes, unnaturally long, grey hair, which more often than not covered his eyes, and the stitch-like scars weaving their way across his skin, not to mention the usually twisted smiles on his face, were enough to make anyone a little uneasy. The animal, however, seemed to come to the same conclusion that most people did; Undertaker was an odd fellow, but wouldn’t go so far as cruel.

“If it’s a nice funeral you’re looking for,” amusement lined his words as he circled his finger in the air to reference the shop, “you’ve come to the right place.” He sat down beside it. “That one there,” he knocked on the puppy’s current sanctuary, making it shy away, “is made from a very rare wood. I’d need a first-rate laugh for it. Though, I do admit,” he gave that signature, high-pitched laugh, more like a twitch at the corner of his mouth, “it might be a bit large for you.”

The puppy only shivered, neither caring, nor understanding his sense of humor. Though few could tell when he was joking, and most found their faces in a constant awkward grimace around him.

Undertaker sat up and frowned, his too-green gaze flicking to the door to his shop, which was open, just enough to let the cold—(not that one can feel the cold when they’ve been dead for centuries)—and apparently other things, in.

“Must’ve been me last customer,” he reasoned softly, “Fellow lost his son. And so close to Christmas too. A shame, really.” He shook his head. “Told me he was a nice boy.” He smirked. “They all say that, though. ‘Nice’ doesn’t last forever, you know.”

Undertaker paused, looked at the pitiful creature, putting a robe sleeve to his chin, “If you’ve not come for business,” he returned to the subject, “you’d best be on your way. I’m not particularly fond of tending the living, ya see.” He held up a finger. “Too much on the upkeep.”

He stood back up and strode over the door, holding it open. A gust of wind tossed his hair. The animal wouldn’t budge.

“Well, if you’d rather have a bit of fun,” his grin became more maniacal, and he held his nails in front of his face, “that can be arranged.”

The puppy seemed to get the idea, and gave a yelp, pattering over to hide on the other side of the coffin.

“That’s what I thought.” He inclined his head to the door.

Still, it wouldn’t oblige.

Undertaker sighed, putting his hand on his forehead. “You are a stubborn fellow aren’t you?”

Despite it not leaving, he headed into the back of his shop, where all things deemed not-fit-for-the-eyes-of-the-living occurred. He left the door to outside open a crack, hoping it would get out with nothing else getting in in the meantime.

Laying on the slab in the back was a boy, no older than fourteen, his skin pale and waxy, his limbs stiff in his clothes, a boyhood smirk still on his face. If Undertaker had been alive he may have worried about catching the fever that killed him. But being dead, he ran his hand gently along the boy’s arm. “Better this way.” He murmured. “At least now he can be a child forever.”

There was the sound of little claws on wood; the puppy had followed him, and was peering from behind the curtain that divided the sections of the shop.

Undertaker lifted his head “Persistent, aren’t you?”

“Are you forgetting that there are many things I could do that might just make you rethink your decision to stay?”

He held a bunch of tools from the table between his fingers like a magician, giving that creepy grin as the blades glinted in the candlelight.

The big, fearful brown eyes reflected the metal.

Undertaker rolled his eyes, setting them back down. He didn’t have any intention of hurting the thing, still it’s presence was a bit of a nuisance, and scaring it could prove for a good laugh.

He sighed. “Well, if you if you insist on staying—” He picked up a skull from the corner of the room, poked his head out from behind the curtain and threw it at the door, shutting it. Then he strode over to a shelf where he kept little ‘souvenirs’ from his guests, and dragged down an old, moth-eaten coat—(the poor man’s wife could barely contain her tears)—and made a little nest against the wall.

“Can’t have you interrupting my work, now,” he wagged his finger as the thing stumbled over to the makeshift bed, before mocking, “Would you like any refreshments, my lord?”

It curled up in the coat, it’s tail beginning to wag.

“Don’t be forming any attachments to me, now. It’s off to the pound soon as I get a decent break.”

The puppy lowered its head and stopped wagging its tail.

After working for a while he turned to see it was fast asleep.

He smirked. “Poor thing doesn’t even know what’s good for it.”

Once finished with his present task, he put his tools away, blew out the candles, and attempted to escape, when the creature appeared at the door again, as if it had a sixth sense about things about to leave it.

He chuckled low, grabbing his hat off a nearby coffin, and held the door open wide, letting a flurry in, gesturing for it to leave.

Those eyes looked up at him unknowingly. The ex-reaper clicked his teeth and flung open the door, gliding out through it.

The patter of little paws sounded against the floorboards, it squeezed its little body through the gap as the door closed, landing on its bum in the snow, shaking the flakes off its floppy ears.

“I don’t suppose you plan on following me all day?”

The puppy tilted his head to the side, wagging its tail a little.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, the puppy running circles and zigzags around him as he walked, leaving little pawprints in the snow around his own steps.

It smelled like Christmas; the cold always has a sort of smell, but the food stalls nearby added gingerbread and peppermint aromas to the winter air, the sweet sent of pine drifting about, as the Christmas trees made the world a museum for their decorated corpses.

Kids ran about in fluffy hats and scarves throwing snowballs and making angels. One bumped into Undertaker, and ran away fearfully, nearly bursting into tears when he picked her up and put her back on her feet saying, “You be careful now, we wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you hitting her head.”

He was examining a snowman they made when he noticed a familiar face across the street.

It would have been easy to just walk up to him, to say ‘hello, good afternoon, sir’ but if he had done that he wouldn’t have been Undertaker.

No, instead of acting like normal person, he darted behind the nearest decorative poinsettia, and proceeded jump from bush to bush—(the puppy wagging its tail inquisitively at him, wondering what sort of game this was)—until he was right beside him. Then he snuck up and whispered in his ear, “Penny for your thoughts, my lord?”

Most people would have screamed, grabbed the nearest available weapon and proceeded to whack him over the head with it, but this man was not normal himself. Instead his face broke into a smile.

“Undertaker,” he tipped his hat to him, “It’s good to see you.”

“Vincent Phantomhive.” He twirled his hat off his head, bowing too low, “Now what’s a rich fellow like you doing coming down from his castle?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m ashamed to say I haven’t quite finished my Christmas shopping.” He held up a bag which was allegedly full of Christmas gifts. “Rachel would be furious if she found out I was finishing up days before Christmas.”

“You willing to pay for my silence?” Undertaker sidled up beside him.

Vincent shoved him back. “You willing to do something nice for a friend?”

“Oh so we’re friends?”

Vincent scoffed, about to say something, when he stopped to look up at the sign on the shop beside him.

“She mentioned there was a brooch she wanted—Oh!”

When they’d stopped the puppy was able to catch up, and had made its presence known by pouncing on a loose lace of the earl’s shoes. “And who might this fellow be?”

“Just a beggar who wandered in to my parlor earlier today.”

Vincent smiled and crouched down to rub its chin. “He—is it a he?—is rather friendly, isn’t he?” he scratched behind its ears, and the puppy ate up the attention like a decadent chocolate cake. “Does he belong to someone?”

“More likely the product of a few strays. And people can’t resist a cute face—You wouldn’t know anything about that now would you? Probably fed him and made him grow accustomed to people.”

Vincent waved him off.

“Well don’t get too attached to this one, I was just on my way to take it to the pound.”

“Oh must you?” the puppy’s tongue was hanging out, his little tail whirring like an engine. “I’ve heard the kinds of things they do to dogs there. A little thing like him wouldn’t last a week.”

“You can dispense with fellow human beings with ease, but a Heaven forbid a cute puppy meet the same fate.”

Vincent glared at him.

“No you’re right,” Undertaker added sardonically, “why I don’t just open my parlor to every stray that walks in?”

“You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what other options are there? Turning him back out to the street isn’t much kinder.”

Vincent set down his bag and picked up the dog, who proceeded to lick his face. “You know, Rachel and I have been talking about getting a dog. For the twins. You know, like a guard dog.”

“You think Licky over here is a good candidate for guarding your home? I thought you noblemen were all about the purebreds.”

“What’s that saying about teaching dogs tricks? He’s young, with a little love and perseverance I’m sure he can be taught.”

“You do realize it could carry all sorts of…unsightly maladies.” He grinned like that would be fun to see.

“Well, I do think it would be much more lethargic if it were sick, don’t you?”

Undertaker shrugged. “Some things that are sick don’t show it till the whole house has it.”

Vincent frowned, looking at it more critically. “There’s a veterinarian around here, isn’t there? We could have it checked out.”

“We?”

“You.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well it won’t be a surprise Christmas present if I bring it home tonight, now will it?”

Undertaker put his head in his palm. “Even if he was willing to do that—which, I’m not—Would your wife would be alright with you bringing in a stray?”

“Oh she loves dogs. And, well we don’t have to tell her he’s a stray, do we? We can get him checked out, clean him up, feed him. No one will ever know the difference once he’s all dressed up.”

“What a tangled web you weave, dear Earl.”

“I just think he would be a lovely Christmas present, that’s all.” he held out the puppy—which looked like he was about to explode with joy—as if admiring a fine work of art.

Undertaker stared at the puppy with something akin to a grimace.

“You will take care of him in the meantime, won’t you?”

Undertaker stood there with his mouth half open.

“I assure you, you’ll be compensated most generously for your troubles.”

“You must have multiple first-rate laughs up your sleeve if you think I’ll agree to this.”

Vincent nodded, grinning. “You know I always deliver. …So it’s decided, you’ll bring him around, all cleaned up, checked out, and fed on Christmas.”

Undertaker stared at the puppy. “This sure is a lot of work for a mutt.”

“For the smile it’ll bring to the twins’ faces? It’s worth it.”

******

This wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t normal for Undertaker to take care of living things; when he had said he wasn’t in the business of doing so, it was meant to be a rule, not just a nice notion.

Each time he had to remember to feed it, to clean up after it, he wondered if Vincent had paid enough.

It also wasn’t normal to drive a hearse to something other than a graveyard or church, much less to carry something living.

And lastly, it wasn’t normal for him to make house calls, much less to take the aforementioned living thing to a friend on Christmas evening.

Undertaker arrived at the manor, stepping down from the hearse to retrieve the puppy from the back.

It—he—was much happier now; over the past few days, Undertaker had cleaned him up, bought or made him food, and today had tied a red bow around his neck, just for flair.

“What do you think, little one?” he asked, as he opened the back, throwing the puppy a dog biscuit from the container he was carrying—he baked a batch earlier—which he jumped up and caught, chowing down happily. He wagged his tail, glancing eagerly from the house to the Undertaker.

“You’re lucky,” Undertaker mentioned, biting off a piece of dog biscuit himself, leaning against the side of the hearse, “Not every stray finds a home at Christmas.”

After finishing the biscuit and setting down the container, he took off his hat and scooped the now clean and presentable puppy up into it, making his way up the path to the manor.

The snow was coming down more densely today, the wind attempting to brush the hair from his eyes—though didn’t matter if the wind and the white saw those green, green eyes.

Tanaka greeted him properly, then let him know his master would be with him shortly and went to collect the earl.

“Merry Christmas, Undertaker,” Vincent remarked, smiling as he walked down the stairs to the front door.

“Is it merry?” Undertaker asked.

“Is it not?”

“Well I have no doubt that it is, for you.” He chuckled, “But I also don’t doubt that I’ll still get customers today. All a matter of perspective.”

“I suppose so,” Vincent mused as he reached him, “Now, where is the little rascal?”

As if on cue, the creature popped its head out from inside the hat.

Vincent beamed at the sight of him, reaching out his hand to let him sniff his fingers—at which the puppy brightened, tried to jump out of the hat—then scratching gently beneath his chin.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, little one. You look so charming.”

“Why thank you,” Undertaker twirled a strand of his hair around his finger.

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Thank you for all you’ve done, really, I couldn’t have done this without you. …Please, come in!”

Vincent motioned for Undertaker to follow, guiding him through the house to the living room where his wife sat watching the twin boys play with their assortment new toys, barely old enough to walk, bumbling around at their mother’s feet.

“Ah, hello! And Merry Christmas!” Rachel exclaimed happily, getting up and curtseying.

Undertaker gave a little bow.

“Boys,” Vincent put his hands on his knees to speak to his sons, “this man has one last gift for you.”

One of them toddled up and clung to his father’s pant leg, staring up at Undertaker inquisitively, the other hid behind their mother, holding onto her dress, looking fearfully from the creepy-looking stranger to each of their parents.

Undertaker crouched down and held out the hat for them see the gift.

“Oh!” Rachel exclaimed softly, putting her hands on her face standing. Her face broke into a smile, giving a perfectly gratefully look from her husband to Undertaker, “A puppy! How wonderful! What’s his—is it a he?—name?”

Undertaker shrugged. “The name’s up to you, my lady.”

Rachel took the puppy out of the hat, who licked her nose, wagging his little tail.

“What do you think Vincent?”

“Hmm, we never got around to talking of names, did we?”

Rachel crouched down to show their sons their new pet.

“Look boys!”

The toddlers really had no idea what was going on, and looked at the creature apprehensively. One of them eagerly toddled up to pet it, while the other stayed a safe distance away, not leaving his mother’s side. The puppy licked the more adventurous boy’s hand, who giggled.

“What about you boys? Any ideas?”

The puppy got overzealous, knocked the shy one over, making him cry. She picked him up while Vincent held the dog and the other boy—who was now very interested in the creature—in each arm.

“He’ll need a strong name, don’t you think?”

“Certainly! Hmm…what about George? Edward?”

“Too…Well…Hmm…” Rachel mused, bouncing the shy boy, and petting the puppy between the ears, “I’ve always liked the name ‘Sebastian.’”

“What do you think boys? Do you like that name?”

The shy one sneezed.

“‘Sebastian’ it is!” He beamed at his family, before turning back to Undertaker, “Where are my manners? Please, Undertaker, stay for dinner!”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Undertaker began, putting his hat back on his head, and his hands in his sleeves, backing up. “Didn’t I tell you I’d be getting customers today? After all, Death doesn’t take the day off for Christmas.”