Undertaker[My Boy Builds Coffins]

{A/N: This fic contains the slur g*psy. I'm sorry to all my Romanian readers. Enjoy the fic!}


[My boy builds coffins with hammers and nails.
He doesn't build ships, he has no use for sails.
He doesn't make tables, dressers or chairs.
He can't carve a whistle cause he just doesn't care.]


Of many of the morbid hobbies the ladies of London acquired, The Undertaker's Funeral Home was one of them. He wasn't just an excellent funeral planner, he was a master coffin crafter.


And he did free sketches of anyone who came in.


Each touch of lace, each pillow, the wood, the stuffing; everything was just part of his interpretation. One girl, who was partial to gothic styles, was given a red velvet lining sketch. Black wood. Black lace. A beauty.


Another girl came in, one who was quiet, maternal, but rather boring. He chose simplicity, with angels and scripture of God carved into the wood. It was graceful, as she was.


When you and your friends came in, he could not draw anything.


"What do you mean?" You had remembered asking him.


"Usually, a face is easy to read, and a personality is even easier," he said while drumming his nails against the counter.


"Are you saying I'm a difficult person?" You asked.


"I'm saying you're a fun one."


It wasn't long before you began visiting him more often. The Undertaker never gave you his name, never anything about his past.


But he told you things that you yourself would never tell anyone. And in turn, you did as well.


[My boy builds coffins for the rich and the poor.
Kings and queens; they've all knocked on his door.
Beggars and liars, g*psies and thieves,
They all come to him 'cause he's so eager to please.]


There was one day that you walked in when a duke had come to acquire his father's coffin.


And you, a simple lower upper class girl, you were pushed into the street, a sword to your neck. You felt not only scared, but confused. Who did this man think he was? To be slinging swords in the middle of Victorian England without a care? It was social suicide.


Undertaker, of course, de-escalated the situation rather quickly. He defended the "one-sided rudeness," even though he never declared which person was the rude one.


They went back inside, after Undertaker made sure you were all right, and they never came back out. Not that you saw. But The Undertaker opened the door again and invited you inside.


He had explained that they left out the back, in order to avoid confrontation. It made sense. In hindsight, it probably wasn't the best idea. You probably shouldn't have trusted him.


But he made you tea. He made you tea and kept you company. He made you happy, even though he was quite older. You had never really seen his face, but you knew he was handsome. Intelligent.


"What will be the last coffin you make?" you asked him, taking your time on your tea.


Undertaker was always one to work while you play. He would show you his latest progress. Right now he was carving the details of the footing. A beautiful, clean cut through of angels.


"My own," he said, wittling off the last bits.


"That seems like a boring answer," you said, giggling softly. "Besides your own, who will be the last person's coffin you make?"


"Probably...." He took a step back and admired his work. Then he ran a hand through his hair, pulling his bangs back. For the first time, you saw the entireity of his face. His green-gold eyes. Every shadow and chisel of his face.


"Yours."


You felt your face heat up and you finished your tea, "I should go.... It wouldn't be proper of me to stay for so long."


"Well as my lover-"


"How petulant!"


"As my lover," he continued, holding a hand up. "I think it would be fine for you to stay."


"Sir, I hate to say this...."


"Why so formal?"


"But," you said, "I am of old money and you are of new. There is no way our.... relationship will be sactioned."


"I am of a standing business. And even though my clothes do not show it I have a greater fortune than the Phantomhive's. I am of even older money, and my funeral business is just a hobby."


"Why then?" You asked. "Why me?"


"Because you're the only one I haven't figured out yet."


[My boy builds coffins he makes them all day,
But it's not just for work and it isn't for play.
He's made one for himself,
One for me too,
One of these days he'll make one
For you.]


When you found out that Undertaker, had not only sold coffins, but also sold lives-you could imagine your reaction.


Slightly terrified, slightly concerned. But mostly, you were too wrapped up in Undertaker's arms to care. He would always dismiss your answers and replace you words with giggles or idle chat or anything but things that jeopardized your legal marriage.


He loved you more than he should have. The way he killed people for you. It was not charming per sé, but it was his way of showing his love. All of their previously beating hearts, they were now stagnant and dead, ripped from their host.


It had started with just anyone who was crude to you. Then it was those who dared look at you.


You were locked away, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was there was a coffin for you, when Undertaker deemed it fit to take your life. And a coffin for him, when he took his own.

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