#transgrelle

“Tell me you’re staying, and you can see it every day.”

William wanted that, more than he would have ever believed half a century ago, and more than he would have admitted until quite recently. In his time away from London, he had found himself missing Grell rather quickly. He had been stationed in the sparsely populated Westfjords region of Iceland, with only a single, small Dispatch servicing the area. The reapers there had been friendly enough, but William had not expected to have to stay very long and had kept to himself at first.

As months stretched into years, however, he had found himself lonely. The feeling was foreign to him. Though he had kept mostly to himself in London, as well, he couldn’t remember particularly wanting to seek out company. He hadn’t needed to, with Grell around. She had always been there to pop into his office with a coffee when he had been at his paperwork too long, to needle him into attending holiday parties, to simply try to strike up conversations with him.

The work loads at Westfjords were much slower than he was accustomed to, leaving William plenty of time to think over his situation. Problem: he missed having what small semblance of a social life he had formed in London. Obvious solution: begin socializing with agents of Westfjords. Less obvious: how to socialize without Grell’s prodding.

He’d always thought he hated her meddling, and perhaps he had in the beginning, but over the decades it filtered into his routine, a thing to be expected. There were, of course, others whom he had spoken to and occasionally socialized with due to professional obligation, but he hadn’t needed to seek them out of his own accord. After some consideration, he had settled on creating a schedule to begin with. He treated new interactions no differently than appointments. They were important, and necessary to his job and his well-being.

In small increments, he had integrated himself into the close-knit Westfjords team. He began taking breaks with other supervisors, eating lunch with Collections agents, going out for drinks with different groups on shared days off. Though he had been awkward and stiff at first, he had found himself able to engage with the others somewhat naturally with a bit of practice. It was…pleasant.

Still, it was lacking. He genuinely liked his coworkers, but they were not his. London had thrown a motley assortment at him once it was clear that he was the only one who had any sort of rein over Grell. He had even come to care for some of them, in his way. None were so difficult to manage as she, but Grell was always different. She burned brighter than any other reaper, and life was pale without her vital, red spark hovering in his periphery.

He had found himself wanting to speak about her often, only to realize how many of his stories involved him striking her, and how he continually ignored her pleas to be referred to and treated as a woman. It was a desperately uncomfortable feeling, suddenly knowing how little care he had given to someone who was such a large feature in his life. He had vowed that when he returned to London, he would do his utmost to make it up to her.

He had his chance now, with Grell finally standing in front of him again, eyes alight with happiness.

“I have no plans to be elsewhere,” he said, mouth twitching into a hint of a smile of his own.

Grell pressed a hand to her chest and stumbled back to brace herself against her desk. “Oh~! You smiled. I didn’t know you knew how–I may not survive this.”

“It would be very inconvenient for you to perish now. I had rather hoped that I might accompany you to dinner.”

She positively squeaked at that, face flushing scarlet. “I must be dreaming.”

“This is real, Grell,” he said. “I…have spent quite a long time awaiting the opportunity to see you again. It came to my attention while I was away that much of my behavior toward you has been inexcusable. If you will allow me, I would very much like to make amends. I want get to know you properly and prove myself worthy of your regard, and perhaps of returning your lo–your… sentiments.”

Grell sank to the floor, one hand pressed over her mouth, the other clinging weakly to the edge of the desktop. “Wait, what? William T. Spears, did you just say you love me?”

It was William’s turn to flush. He had spent a great deal of time considering this question and still had no clear-cut answer. Love was a slippery concept when one had no basis for comparison. “I’m not entirely sure about that, but what I feel for you is not something I have ever felt for anyone else.”