In This Hell ( V i o l e t ) [Kuroshitsuji 2] {Completed}

Chapter XII : A Reliable Companion

As your body remains.

"I have to leave."

Violet was wrapped up against the winter cold in a heavy grey cloak. Even in the watery morning light he looked aged, the bags underneath his eyes still slightly black with makeup stains. His hair had almost completely faded to white on one side, and the edges of his lips were cracked and raw from where he'd been gnawing on them. He was wringing his hands in their black leather gloves, his amethyst eyes fixed solely on nothing but me, worried for my reaction.

"Alright," I replied, staring out into the stormy weather. It didn't look very nice out there. Maybe that was why Violet didn't want to leave.

"Wrap up warm, Gregory," Undertaker said brightly. He was bent over a mortuary slab, making neat stitches down the side of an old man's chest. His grey hair fell like silk over his shoulders, toppling into the table in a waterfall formation. He appeared to be cheerful. "It's very chilly outside. You're the only one in this residence capable of contracting pneumonia - and neither of us are particularly up to nursing sick humans."

Ignoring Undertaker, Violet squeezed my hand. "I will be back as soon as possible - keep safe, and please don't go outside."

"Alright," I said again, looking down at our entwined hands.

"I love you."

"Have fun!"

Violet shot Undertaker a scathing look before pulling open the heavy wooden door and stepping out into the sleet, slamming the latch behind him.

"Sweetheart, you can sit in the corner and keep yourself out of trouble. Do not touch any of the pointy objects, okay?"

I nodded, and padded over the creaky grey floorboards. There were a row of dusty seats tucked away, and I assumed that he wanted me to sit down there. Was there anything dangerous? It was clear that my body couldn't heal as fast any more - the puncture wound was still fresh and glistening. It had been bandaged with a neat bow to prevent any more blood loss.

After some time, Undertaker looked up from his work, whistling.

"Almost done," he said, grinning down at the corpse. "Grace, my dear, would you like to help?"

"Do you require assistance?"

"Come on, don't be so dry. We can have fun." He held out a black-tipped hand. I got up from my chair and shuffled over to the slab, placing my fingers in his. "Even if you don't really feel. Although that means you can't laugh at my jokes."

Jokes? "My brother told me jokes, once."

"Really?" Undertaker grinned, pulling me down onto a stool. "Make me laugh."

"Uh." I tried to think back. Something caught my attention; the fuzzy outline of a blond boy. "What is the difference between a tube and a silly Dutchman?"

"I don't know." He leaned back over his latest visitor again, beginning his sewing again. "What?"

"One is a hollow cylinder, and the other, a silly Hollander."

The taller started to laugh, his green eyes squeezing shut into slits. He tilted his head back, throat choked with giggles.

"Goodness, that's terrible."

"My brother thought that it was funny, and he's supposed to be a clever boy."

"He has a rotten sense of humour, and that is nothing to do with intelligence," he giggled. "Alright, come here and take the needle. Make net stitches. Close together, like this."