A gentleman is defined by principles
*~*~*
"Coffee, tea or me?" And he does not bother to justify that with a remark, no, he instead just cocks a brow and hides his smugness behind an icy veneer when his underling pouts. "Honestly Will, I think the day you smile is the day your face cracks."
Grell pours him a mug of searing hot coffee, the aroma filling his office. Though Grell's talent in preparing tea was found to be (severely) wanting, he more than made up for it by proving he could indeed make good coffee. Hot, fresh and quite unlike the acidic grit William had the unfortunate fate of tasting in the 'modern' Tea Rooms that claimed to serve beverages from all over Europe and Asia.
"Will!" The coffee finds its way all over one side of his desk, upset from the mug it had resided in for but a few moments by the very man who had poured it in there. Ah yes, there it was. The irritating headache building as William glared at his Agent.
"Sutcliff!" The report was bleeding fine rivulets of midnight blue, mixing with the coffee washing over the parchment fibres.
"You've got a row of unraveled stitches on your sleeve!" Grell had crawled up onto his desk, heeled boots upsetting the perfect piles of papers William had arranged. "Right here."
He swats away the finger tracing said incriminating row of unraveled stitches, grabbing Grell's wrist and pushing him back.
"I know. One of the new Agents snagged my sleeve in the tip of his Scythe when he was running late for a mission." He frowns, inspecting the damage. "I have a meeting in ten minutes and I haven't the time to fetch a spare jacket nor have the tailor repair it."
"Give it here." There comes an indulgent sigh along with the order as Grell holds out his hand expectantly. "I can do it in five." A moment to hesitate and another just for good measure.
"This is Saville Row tailored Sutcliff. Be-"
"Careful. Yes yes. Now give it, Spears, or you're going to that meeting with an unsightly tear on your suit sleeve." And so he hands it over, unsure as to whether or not he has just lost his favorite jacket.
He tries to distract himself with cleaning his desk but his eyes stray constantly over to where the redhead sat by the window 'working his magic so stop looking William'. He sighs. The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes feel like hours and by the time he is satisfied his desk is spotless, Grell declares he is done.
"See? I didn't ruin it." A knowing look, a jibe at William's distrust as he returns the repaired jacket. "Run along Will or you'll be late!"
*~*~*
He is in a most dreadful dilemma. He does not wish anyone to notice it. Sutcliff notices.
"That crease to your brow isn't my fault." Grell declares, perched on the edge of William's desk as he files his nails. "So spill."
"Sutcliff. Desk. Off. Now." Which of course has an adverse effect as Grell lounges on his stomach, chin propped up by palm, heeled boots in the air as he stares at his increasingly irritated boss.
"Tell me."
"Or what?" A challenge in the tone.
"You'll tell me because you always do."
And he does, so he does.
"I have to attend the International Summit in five weeks to represent the London Bureau."
"Oh that? You'll do fine Will, you were made for boring speeches and paperwork." Grell waves a hand dismissively.
"The Summit requires all of us, naturally, to be in formal attire. I had hoped to commission my tailor for a new suit but he broke his wrist a week ago in Germany."
"Five weeks?" Grell sits up, frowning. "Too short notice to commission a new tailor, what with the Season coming up and a new tailor a complete stranger to your measurements."
"I am well aware of the problem, Sutcliff."
"Nothing else in your wardrobe besides repressed emotions and dreary Day suits?" The redhead teases. Unamused, he cocks a brow.
"Nothing acceptable for such an event."
He is stressed, as much as he was loathe to admit it, and he paces by his window to think of his options. His only formal attire had to be burned after he had plucked Sutcliff from another ridiculous, bloody situation. The others in the Management circle varied too greatly in stature- they were much older, taller, or stouter. Other tailors were booked for at least two months.
"Do you have a shirt and cravat already?" Grell asks, fingers curled by his chin.
"Yes."
"Do you have them at home?"
"Yes."
"Come on then!" The redhead hops off the table, snagging William's wrist and tugging him out of his office. "I'm going to need at least an hour to measure you."
"Measure me?"
"Measure you, Spears." There is a glint in those green eyes and a horrid sinking feeling in William's stomach.
Into a house with sparse decor, Spartanesque minimalism at best, into a bedroom that was private to the owner and now violated by the effeminate man ordering him around. Were the circumstances different- Ah but they were not, were they? And so he suffers the breach of privacy, he suffers the ordering about, yes he suffers it all because his pride refuses to admit defeat. He would rather lose his privacy than shame his city and post by turning up in something less than his best.
He expects teasing and lecherous touches but instead is asked simple questions his own tailor asks him, the touches brief and professional as a measuring tape is pressed against limbs and torso where seams would rest. Even when a warm palm is pressed to his thigh nothing lewd was voiced. Just Grell humming in thought before he scribbled numbers on a pad of paper.
"Halve my assignments."
"Consider them halved."
"We have a deal, William." Grell winks before gathering his measuring tape and notepad, blowing him a kiss and leaving.
*~*~*
He would never voice it, oh no. He'd find himself short of blood for a day and perhaps lacking in eyesight for a good few hours. Grell Sutcliff could never get enough of how fine William T. Spears looked in his tailored suits. Every line was perfectly arrow-straight, accentuating that tall frame and those broad shoulders he absolutely loved to drape himself over.
He pauses in his stitching to bite his lip, the heat in his cheeks visible by their rosy colour. Stiffling a giggle, he returned to handstitching the fine canvas lining that would pad certain suit pieces. Unknown to most, Grell was a fine tailor himself. Unhappy with the lack of seamstresses and tailors willing to blend styles, the redhead had taken it upon himself a century ago to learn the fine art himself. His wardrobe housed just as many outfits as they did folds of fabric.
Humming a tune, Grell holds up the beginnings of a magnificent frockcoat and smiles. Yes, he couldn't wait until he was finished and the fine coat rested on those fine shoulders.
*~*~*
Silence. Baited breath. Grell bites his lip, fingers folded together and held before his mouth as he watches William inspect his reflection. A brow raised in surprise as he discovers the perfect fit and the ease of movement in such a formal garment. A satisfied nod.
Sufficient, William wants to say but the garment surpassed that. A crease to his brow suddenly.
"There is something behind the left breastpocket." He presses his palm to it, compressing the fabric before releasing it and letting it spring back.
"Did I make the padding too thick?" Grell pouts, leaning forward and running along the outline of the pocket.
"No matter. The garment as a whole is fine." More than fine.
"I'll miss my William." The redhead sighs, piercing the lapel hole with the back of the pin and closing it with its clasp. A brand new pin bearing the Division crest made of cold, sterling silver. "Now remember to play nicely with the other boys and give the Americans reason to regret becoming independent."
"Thank you."
The two words hang in the air and catch the Reaper off-guard. He flushes, the color he so adores blushing his cheeks as he smiles awkwardly.
"Go on already."
So he leaves, his nerves thrumming with both anxiety and anticipation for the challenge ahead. He presses his palm to his left breastpocket, trying to smooth the fabric down. Somehow the slight weight, ever so slight, is enough to reign in his unease. Real enough to focus on, yet small enough to set aside.
Somehow it comforts him as he steps out and boards the awaiting car.
*~*~*
The man he succeeds is several centuries older than him, full of wisdom and admiration that his successor is the youngest man to ever achieve such a feat. William accepts the praise and hides his emotions behind an impenetrable wall. He touches his left breastpocket, smoothing the fabric self-consciously.
He releases a breath, relaxing slightly and mustering enough reserve to offer a polite not-smile to the next Agent who approaches.
*~*~*
"Turn down that ridiculous excuse for music, Sutcliff. I need to finish this report before the Welcome Dinner."
"It's called jazz William and it's modern music.."
"Noise."
"I'm trying to drown out all those awful men complaining down there." Grell purses his lips, fiddling with his cloche hat and the perfect curlicues of his now short, fashionable hair. "I don't want to go to war. So much fuss and bother I'd rather avoid a second time around."
The truth. William silently agrees, closing his office windows to muffle the sounds of unrest. Another world war loomed on the horizon.
"It will be worse this time around. All Reapers are called to fight." He does not look up as he writes, avoiding the expression he knows is on Grell's face.
"It won't be just a mortal war, will it?" Grell whispers, hands clenching.
"No it won't."
William presses a hand to his breastpocket, and the very real weight distracts him from the one caged in his chest.
*~*~*
Time was a mortal's enemy and a Reaper's friend. It was the only companion a Reaper could turn to aside from other Reapers. Forever was a long time to live afterall, but at least they had Time, just as Life had Death.
Time had worn away Monarchs, the Victorian era succeeded by the Edwardian era and then the Roaring Twenties, the Flirty Thirties... Things were lost, things were gained. Styles went out, new styles took over. Attitudes changed, morals changed, enemies changed. Technology advanced. Humanity, at times, regressed.
One war saw several Britons die, the next war saw Reapers die with it. The battleground for Heaven and Hell was Earth and as humans killed each other, so too did Reapers fight to keep Hell from invading Heaven. Evil longed to run rampant and it was up to Death's army to keep the balance.
William had gained several things over the decades. New workmates, a new office, a change to the uniform. He had lost things too, for it was inevitable that one would lose things over time. Part of the building was lost in a bombing, his old office with it. Files lost forever.
He had lost Grell Sutcliff to the second war. It was inevitable that Reapers died holding Hell back. He didn't think it would affect him, but it did. So vividly he could still recall the day he was signing the Death Certificates of his own deceased Reapers, placing the papers into corresponding folders with their corresponding photographs. And then he had come across a paper with the name 'Grell Sutcliff' typed out on the neat dotted line.
Grell Sutcliff.
And he had refused to believe it until he had run to the morgue and seen a tattered red coat peeking out from beneath a clinical white sheet.
Time wore on and he took comfort in the methodical ticking of the clock to signal time traveling beside him on his lonely, unending journey. Today would mark a hundred years since he had lost his only friend. A fresh bouquet of roses rested on his desk, on the edge where a redhead usually sat and grinned at him.
Never to be admitted, but it was there deep inside. He missed him. Life was so smooth, so calm, so monotonous without Grell causing disturbances to William's orderly world.
William wanted to wear the frockcoat Grell had made all those decades ago, but Time had worn it down too. The stitches were fraying, the fabric threadbare even after so much care. It had been damaged in one of the bombings and unskilled hands had tried to repair it. A shame, since the stoic officer had worn it to the few events he called 'significant' in his long life.
The International Summit, the ball to celebrate his promotion as the head of the London Bureau, the Reaping of Queen Victoria, the Welcome dinner the London Bureau held for another International Summit, Grell Sutcliff's funeral and the opening of the newly rebuilt wing at the Headquarters.
He sighed, tracing the raised left breastpocket of his precious frockcoat. The stitches fell apart at the touch, time having its way with the fragile threads. The cause of the slight weight revealed itself. Not extra canvas lining accidentally stitched together but a red felt heart.
Holding the slip of fabric between thumb and forefinger, William observed the neat blanket stitches along the edges. Perfect and neat, complimenting the rest of Grell's impeccable work in the frockcoat. On the flipside of the heart, the side that pressed against William's chest, were the letters 'G' and 'S' in burgandy embroidery.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, William closed his eyes to recompose himself. He slipped the red heart into the left breastpocket of his simple black funeral suit. The weight rested over his heart; familiar and comforting.
Perhaps time wasn't his only companion. Perhaps loneliness was not the only feeling that lingered.
"Coffee, tea or me?" And he does not bother to justify that with a remark, no, he instead just cocks a brow and hides his smugness behind an icy veneer when his underling pouts. "Honestly Will, I think the day you smile is the day your face cracks."
Grell pours him a mug of searing hot coffee, the aroma filling his office. Though Grell's talent in preparing tea was found to be (severely) wanting, he more than made up for it by proving he could indeed make good coffee. Hot, fresh and quite unlike the acidic grit William had the unfortunate fate of tasting in the 'modern' Tea Rooms that claimed to serve beverages from all over Europe and Asia.
"Will!" The coffee finds its way all over one side of his desk, upset from the mug it had resided in for but a few moments by the very man who had poured it in there. Ah yes, there it was. The irritating headache building as William glared at his Agent.
"Sutcliff!" The report was bleeding fine rivulets of midnight blue, mixing with the coffee washing over the parchment fibres.
"You've got a row of unraveled stitches on your sleeve!" Grell had crawled up onto his desk, heeled boots upsetting the perfect piles of papers William had arranged. "Right here."
He swats away the finger tracing said incriminating row of unraveled stitches, grabbing Grell's wrist and pushing him back.
"I know. One of the new Agents snagged my sleeve in the tip of his Scythe when he was running late for a mission." He frowns, inspecting the damage. "I have a meeting in ten minutes and I haven't the time to fetch a spare jacket nor have the tailor repair it."
"Give it here." There comes an indulgent sigh along with the order as Grell holds out his hand expectantly. "I can do it in five." A moment to hesitate and another just for good measure.
"This is Saville Row tailored Sutcliff. Be-"
"Careful. Yes yes. Now give it, Spears, or you're going to that meeting with an unsightly tear on your suit sleeve." And so he hands it over, unsure as to whether or not he has just lost his favorite jacket.
He tries to distract himself with cleaning his desk but his eyes stray constantly over to where the redhead sat by the window 'working his magic so stop looking William'. He sighs. The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes feel like hours and by the time he is satisfied his desk is spotless, Grell declares he is done.
"See? I didn't ruin it." A knowing look, a jibe at William's distrust as he returns the repaired jacket. "Run along Will or you'll be late!"
*~*~*
He is in a most dreadful dilemma. He does not wish anyone to notice it. Sutcliff notices.
"That crease to your brow isn't my fault." Grell declares, perched on the edge of William's desk as he files his nails. "So spill."
"Sutcliff. Desk. Off. Now." Which of course has an adverse effect as Grell lounges on his stomach, chin propped up by palm, heeled boots in the air as he stares at his increasingly irritated boss.
"Tell me."
"Or what?" A challenge in the tone.
"You'll tell me because you always do."
And he does, so he does.
"I have to attend the International Summit in five weeks to represent the London Bureau."
"Oh that? You'll do fine Will, you were made for boring speeches and paperwork." Grell waves a hand dismissively.
"The Summit requires all of us, naturally, to be in formal attire. I had hoped to commission my tailor for a new suit but he broke his wrist a week ago in Germany."
"Five weeks?" Grell sits up, frowning. "Too short notice to commission a new tailor, what with the Season coming up and a new tailor a complete stranger to your measurements."
"I am well aware of the problem, Sutcliff."
"Nothing else in your wardrobe besides repressed emotions and dreary Day suits?" The redhead teases. Unamused, he cocks a brow.
"Nothing acceptable for such an event."
He is stressed, as much as he was loathe to admit it, and he paces by his window to think of his options. His only formal attire had to be burned after he had plucked Sutcliff from another ridiculous, bloody situation. The others in the Management circle varied too greatly in stature- they were much older, taller, or stouter. Other tailors were booked for at least two months.
"Do you have a shirt and cravat already?" Grell asks, fingers curled by his chin.
"Yes."
"Do you have them at home?"
"Yes."
"Come on then!" The redhead hops off the table, snagging William's wrist and tugging him out of his office. "I'm going to need at least an hour to measure you."
"Measure me?"
"Measure you, Spears." There is a glint in those green eyes and a horrid sinking feeling in William's stomach.
Into a house with sparse decor, Spartanesque minimalism at best, into a bedroom that was private to the owner and now violated by the effeminate man ordering him around. Were the circumstances different- Ah but they were not, were they? And so he suffers the breach of privacy, he suffers the ordering about, yes he suffers it all because his pride refuses to admit defeat. He would rather lose his privacy than shame his city and post by turning up in something less than his best.
He expects teasing and lecherous touches but instead is asked simple questions his own tailor asks him, the touches brief and professional as a measuring tape is pressed against limbs and torso where seams would rest. Even when a warm palm is pressed to his thigh nothing lewd was voiced. Just Grell humming in thought before he scribbled numbers on a pad of paper.
"Halve my assignments."
"Consider them halved."
"We have a deal, William." Grell winks before gathering his measuring tape and notepad, blowing him a kiss and leaving.
*~*~*
He would never voice it, oh no. He'd find himself short of blood for a day and perhaps lacking in eyesight for a good few hours. Grell Sutcliff could never get enough of how fine William T. Spears looked in his tailored suits. Every line was perfectly arrow-straight, accentuating that tall frame and those broad shoulders he absolutely loved to drape himself over.
He pauses in his stitching to bite his lip, the heat in his cheeks visible by their rosy colour. Stiffling a giggle, he returned to handstitching the fine canvas lining that would pad certain suit pieces. Unknown to most, Grell was a fine tailor himself. Unhappy with the lack of seamstresses and tailors willing to blend styles, the redhead had taken it upon himself a century ago to learn the fine art himself. His wardrobe housed just as many outfits as they did folds of fabric.
Humming a tune, Grell holds up the beginnings of a magnificent frockcoat and smiles. Yes, he couldn't wait until he was finished and the fine coat rested on those fine shoulders.
*~*~*
Silence. Baited breath. Grell bites his lip, fingers folded together and held before his mouth as he watches William inspect his reflection. A brow raised in surprise as he discovers the perfect fit and the ease of movement in such a formal garment. A satisfied nod.
Sufficient, William wants to say but the garment surpassed that. A crease to his brow suddenly.
"There is something behind the left breastpocket." He presses his palm to it, compressing the fabric before releasing it and letting it spring back.
"Did I make the padding too thick?" Grell pouts, leaning forward and running along the outline of the pocket.
"No matter. The garment as a whole is fine." More than fine.
"I'll miss my William." The redhead sighs, piercing the lapel hole with the back of the pin and closing it with its clasp. A brand new pin bearing the Division crest made of cold, sterling silver. "Now remember to play nicely with the other boys and give the Americans reason to regret becoming independent."
"Thank you."
The two words hang in the air and catch the Reaper off-guard. He flushes, the color he so adores blushing his cheeks as he smiles awkwardly.
"Go on already."
So he leaves, his nerves thrumming with both anxiety and anticipation for the challenge ahead. He presses his palm to his left breastpocket, trying to smooth the fabric down. Somehow the slight weight, ever so slight, is enough to reign in his unease. Real enough to focus on, yet small enough to set aside.
Somehow it comforts him as he steps out and boards the awaiting car.
*~*~*
The man he succeeds is several centuries older than him, full of wisdom and admiration that his successor is the youngest man to ever achieve such a feat. William accepts the praise and hides his emotions behind an impenetrable wall. He touches his left breastpocket, smoothing the fabric self-consciously.
He releases a breath, relaxing slightly and mustering enough reserve to offer a polite not-smile to the next Agent who approaches.
*~*~*
"Turn down that ridiculous excuse for music, Sutcliff. I need to finish this report before the Welcome Dinner."
"It's called jazz William and it's modern music.."
"Noise."
"I'm trying to drown out all those awful men complaining down there." Grell purses his lips, fiddling with his cloche hat and the perfect curlicues of his now short, fashionable hair. "I don't want to go to war. So much fuss and bother I'd rather avoid a second time around."
The truth. William silently agrees, closing his office windows to muffle the sounds of unrest. Another world war loomed on the horizon.
"It will be worse this time around. All Reapers are called to fight." He does not look up as he writes, avoiding the expression he knows is on Grell's face.
"It won't be just a mortal war, will it?" Grell whispers, hands clenching.
"No it won't."
William presses a hand to his breastpocket, and the very real weight distracts him from the one caged in his chest.
*~*~*
Time was a mortal's enemy and a Reaper's friend. It was the only companion a Reaper could turn to aside from other Reapers. Forever was a long time to live afterall, but at least they had Time, just as Life had Death.
Time had worn away Monarchs, the Victorian era succeeded by the Edwardian era and then the Roaring Twenties, the Flirty Thirties... Things were lost, things were gained. Styles went out, new styles took over. Attitudes changed, morals changed, enemies changed. Technology advanced. Humanity, at times, regressed.
One war saw several Britons die, the next war saw Reapers die with it. The battleground for Heaven and Hell was Earth and as humans killed each other, so too did Reapers fight to keep Hell from invading Heaven. Evil longed to run rampant and it was up to Death's army to keep the balance.
William had gained several things over the decades. New workmates, a new office, a change to the uniform. He had lost things too, for it was inevitable that one would lose things over time. Part of the building was lost in a bombing, his old office with it. Files lost forever.
He had lost Grell Sutcliff to the second war. It was inevitable that Reapers died holding Hell back. He didn't think it would affect him, but it did. So vividly he could still recall the day he was signing the Death Certificates of his own deceased Reapers, placing the papers into corresponding folders with their corresponding photographs. And then he had come across a paper with the name 'Grell Sutcliff' typed out on the neat dotted line.
Grell Sutcliff.
And he had refused to believe it until he had run to the morgue and seen a tattered red coat peeking out from beneath a clinical white sheet.
Time wore on and he took comfort in the methodical ticking of the clock to signal time traveling beside him on his lonely, unending journey. Today would mark a hundred years since he had lost his only friend. A fresh bouquet of roses rested on his desk, on the edge where a redhead usually sat and grinned at him.
Never to be admitted, but it was there deep inside. He missed him. Life was so smooth, so calm, so monotonous without Grell causing disturbances to William's orderly world.
William wanted to wear the frockcoat Grell had made all those decades ago, but Time had worn it down too. The stitches were fraying, the fabric threadbare even after so much care. It had been damaged in one of the bombings and unskilled hands had tried to repair it. A shame, since the stoic officer had worn it to the few events he called 'significant' in his long life.
The International Summit, the ball to celebrate his promotion as the head of the London Bureau, the Reaping of Queen Victoria, the Welcome dinner the London Bureau held for another International Summit, Grell Sutcliff's funeral and the opening of the newly rebuilt wing at the Headquarters.
He sighed, tracing the raised left breastpocket of his precious frockcoat. The stitches fell apart at the touch, time having its way with the fragile threads. The cause of the slight weight revealed itself. Not extra canvas lining accidentally stitched together but a red felt heart.
Holding the slip of fabric between thumb and forefinger, William observed the neat blanket stitches along the edges. Perfect and neat, complimenting the rest of Grell's impeccable work in the frockcoat. On the flipside of the heart, the side that pressed against William's chest, were the letters 'G' and 'S' in burgandy embroidery.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, William closed his eyes to recompose himself. He slipped the red heart into the left breastpocket of his simple black funeral suit. The weight rested over his heart; familiar and comforting.
Perhaps time wasn't his only companion. Perhaps loneliness was not the only feeling that lingered.