Chapter Text
Before passing exams, Alan had never been invited to a “lads night out.” In the two years since then, he's found that he suddenly has the opportunity to be more social -- less rules to memorize, more free time. He isn't sure about he feels about free time; it's been a relatively foreign concept up until recently.
Following his promotion to junior reaper, he's been assigned a mentor -- Eric Slingby -- who, for all his confidence and swagger, hasn't actually been a senior for very long. At least not in comparison to Senior Sutcliff and Spears.
"You know, Alan, darling," Grell Sutcliff interrupts his thought, sidling up next to Alan with a twist of his hips, smiling with those sharp teeth Alan still doesn't know what to make of, "if you're ever interested in some real entertainment, I may just know the type of...locale you’d enjoy."
"Sutcliff," comes Eric's voice, as he walks up to Alan and Grell, "don't frighten the new blood."
Alan is sitting at the rough wooden table, his back rigid and straight, an untouched pint in front of him. Grell, on the other hand, is loosely and almost lewdly draped over a chair with a glass of white wine in one hand, his other still gloved.
"Oh, Eric, don't be so suspicious. You know I'm all sweetness and light, my dear," Grell says, looking at Eric lazily, the same way a cat does before it pounces -- relaxed, fluid, and full of deadly potential.
Eric just gives a disbelieving hmph, and when Grell adds, "You dastardly handsome man, Eric," he shoves his hands into his pockets and raises an eyebrow.
"You'll never quit, Sutcliff," he replies, but his eyes are on Alan, studying his reactions to their conversation.
"Not a chance, my darling," he retorts immediately, pulling out the empty chair and taking a seat. "But you’re no gentleman, I must say, with that terrible hairstyle you refuse to change and most of all, not offering a seat for a lady who's been made to stand."
"I'm sorry," Alan blurts out, his face reddening suddenly.
Eric and Grell both turn to look at him in surprise as their bantering conversation is interrupted.
"What ever for?" Grell asks, taking a sip from his glass, watching Eric watch Alan, a small almost indiscernible smirk on his face, though he looks genuinely curious about Alan's comment as well.
"I should have gotten up to assist," Alan says, staring at his glass. "Seeing as how...you're a lady...and my senior."
"Sutcliff is not a lady," Eric says in a flat voice.
"Eric Slingby, how dare you!" Grell shrieks. "What an absolutely terrible thing to say!"
Eric actually does look contrite for a moment, and then takes a step back before saying, "I didn't mean--"
"It isn't as if you have good taste in women to begin with," Grell interjects, his voice completely back to normal. "In fact, I'm quite relieved you don't view me as a lady, as your definition leaves something to be desired."
Eric's face reddens.
"And Alan dear," Grell says, turning his gaze back to Alan, "I do prefer you leave your ranks at the door. There are many things you may leave at the door in fact," Grell says, giving a lecherous smile and draining his glass, "such as your clothes, your inhibitions, and your--"
"Sutcliff, don't terrify the new blood! It's hard enough finding another lad to come out for nights like these," Eric says, crossing his arms. But then he grins and fixes Grell with a look. "Besides, you're a lady. You're not even supposed to be on 'lads night out.'"
"Oh honey, please," Grell says, standing up and stretching with a luxurious motion, his red hair vivid against the black frock coat. "You couldn't even begin to understand what I am, and what a shame."
He gives a disapproving, albeit amicable, shake of his head and looks at Eric's hair.
"Honestly," he says, staring sadly at the braids, and then turns to Alan. "And Alan, do think about what I said, my darling. The living world is absolutely ghastly, but does offer some pleasures."
And with that, the enigma that is Grell Sutcliff walks away as Eric sits down, and Alan faces him with a hesitant look.
"Loosen up, Humphries," he says gruffly, looking at his glass. "There's plenty of entertainment to be had. And don't listen to Sutcliff... What did he tell you anyway?"
"Well," Alan says, trying to follow Eric's advice and taking a sip of his drink, "he said something about...a 'locale' and 'type of entertainment' I might enjoy."
Eric does a double take at Alan, who looks somewhat baffled; a moment of silence follows, and then he laughs. It's a warm sound, and Alan offers up a small smile and loosens his bolo tie slightly.
"He really doesn't ever quit," Eric says, shaking his head and draining his pint glass.
Their conversation is interrupted suddenly just as Alan is about to reply by the rowdy voices of two other senior reapers.
“Slingby!” one of them says, hand clutched around a pint and tie loosened. “What are you doin’, mate? Don’t you have a bit of bird to fill by evening’s end? That girl from General, eh?”
Alan doesn’t even try to stop the blush from creeping up his cheeks as he drops his eyes to his glass again; Eric just rolls his eyes, but offers Alan a friendly smile before getting up.
“Don’t let Sutcliff scare you,” he says, emptying his glass in one gulp and plunking it down on the wooden table. “He may be a bit mad, but he’s not an entirely bad sort.”
With that, Eric turns away and Alan just stares at the empty glass, feeling a bit lost in the sea of other reapers that all seem to know each other, are attuned to intuitive social graces...and then him, the recent graduate, only known at this point for his triple A average, even after two years...
“So you’re the one who’s intended to bring a bit of shine to our humble division?” Eric asks, raising a critical eyebrow and crossing his arms. “Bit of light in the dark, mate?”
“I was assigned here as per my examiners,” Alan says, standing up very straight and wrapping a calm hand around his scythe. “And you are my mentor. I’m pleased to meet you, and will try my very best to absorb your instruction, Senior Slingby.”
Eric holds up a hand with a grimace, the other one clutching his head.
“First of all... Humphries is it?”
“Yes, Senior--”
“Don’t call me that. It’s Eric, and only Eric. Got it?”
Alan gives a puzzled expression, taken aback, before he replies, “I … ‘have’ it... Eric.”
“Secondly,” Eric adds, dropping his hand when Alan doesn’t offer up any other painful formalities, “the first thing I’m going to teach you is about the pub we frequent. The pub is important. I’m also going to teach you about General, and its perks.”
Alan’s eyes are rather wide now, and Eric smiles at him.
“And then,” he says, “you can show me how good you really are at using a scythe.”
Alan lets a smile slip before he can help it, and Eric’s smile widens as he claps Alan on the shoulder.
“Just relax, Humphries.”
“Slingby!” comes the loud, drunk voice again. “If you don’t go chasin’ after that tail right now, then I will!”
Eric is out the door with his raucous companions, and then Grell appears again to settle delicately in the chair across from Alan.
“Ruffians,” is all he says, sipping from a new glass. “My William may be a bit dull, but I will say that at least he’s a proper gentleman.”
Alan has been warned not to talk to Grell Sutcliff about William T. Spears, or vice versa, so he just busies himself by taking a rather long sip of his nearly full beer.
“What ever are you drinking?” Grell exclaims in a horrified voice, as if seeing Alan’s glass for the first time. Then he lets loose a rather calculated smile. “Shall I guess, then? Dear Eric ordered it on your behalf?”
Alan would rather not blush in front of Grell. Grell, at times, might be mistaken for a predator; but he’s not so much a predator as a creature of pure intuition, instinct and desire, with absolutely no regard for common sense. But Alan feels lucky when Grell’s response is a benign, tsk, and there’s no further commentary on Eric.
“I’ll fetch you something more suitable,” Grell says, standing. As he goes, he takes Eric’s empty glass with him, and something twists in Alan’s chest.
He feels very alone suddenly; though he has to admit, Grell isn’t as bad as he’s made out to be by some of the other junior reapers. This also might be because most of them are terrified of him.
So when Grell returns to the table with a glass of red wine for Alan -- he’s correct in his guess about Alan’s taste -- Alan finally relaxes.
“Now,” Grell says, sitting across from Alan primly and adjusting his glasses, “in regard to what I was saying before, darling...”
Alan swirls the wine in his glass idly and watches it move, trying not to tense his jaw in trepidation.
“Yes?” he finally asks, looking up to meet Grell’s eyes.
“If I’m not mistaken, dove,” Grell says, keeping a careful eye on Alan, “you don’t have many hobbies. One of my least favorites, personally, is bird watching.”
That catches Alan off guard and he frowns in confusion. “Well, I... I suppose I should develop some?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and looking at Grell strangely. “I only recently graduated and am still acclimating myself to--”
“Darling, you’re missing the point.”
Grell just stares at Alan for a moment with a look on his face that says he’s clearly considering whether Alan actually is a dolt, until Alan blushes rather substantially.
“It’s relatively obvious I think,” Grell says, primping his hair luxuriantly, “that I prefer a good cock fight...oh, so manly!” He he presses both hands to his heart and shivers. “Terrible really, but the blood and the--”
“You're correct," Alan interrupts flatly.
“Very good,” Grell says, clapping his carefully manicured hands together with a delighted smile. “But poor dear Eric...” he adds, shaking his head.
“What?” Alan asks with a concerned expression.
“I think he was holding out for another... ugh, how does he put it?” Grell says, rolling his eyes in distaste with a flippant wave of his hand. “Another ‘lad’? Another layabout ruffian not interested in any of the true ladies in the division!”
Grell has demonstrated unexpected insight on many occasions; but on this one, he's not entirely correct in his assumption about Eric.
The infamous pub is in the living world to Alan’s surprise; but Eric explains to him that although they generally stay on their own plane for entertainment, it’s akin to taking a bit of naughty vacation, and most of them find it amusing...grim reapers drinking alongside unwitting human flesh that will eventually die.
Alan has nightmares about the dark joke -- that everyone around them in the pub, laughing and singing and often fighting, will die, and their souls will be ripped out by a scythe -- but he doesn’t tell anyone.
“That one’s a looker, eh?” Eric says, sitting with Alan at the bar. He’s pointing to a blonde woman who just that morning had given Alan a rather charming smile as she had given them their scythes.
“She was giving you quite the eye this morning.” Eric nudges Alan’s shoulder, and Alan tries not to pay attention to the fact that Eric is touching him.
“She’s...fit,” he says awkwardly.
Eric looks over and then turns to face him; there’s something in his face that Alan finds unsettling.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
The look is unsettling because it’s kind.
“I...” Alan looks down at his lap, embarrassed. Alan wants to be, what Eric wants him to be; he’s his mentor after all, and currently, his only friend. “I don’t...”
“Oh, I see,” Eric says, understanding finally dawning on his face.
It’s not terribly uncommon for male reapers to prefer other men, and such a preference doesn’t carry the same stigma it does in the living world -- the penalty being execution -- but to admit it to someone like Eric, who seems to be the antithesis of such preferences based on his reputation for swimming around the General Affairs staff as if it’s a lake...
“Well then, I suppose that’s more for me then!” Eric says, laughing. “No need to be embarrassed.”
Alan looks up in surprise. He’s used to being isolated, to hiding, to being alone...usually not for this reason, but for many others.
And Eric just accepts him for what he is, not caring that they’re so very different.
“I suppose so,” he finally manages.
When Eric goes to chat up the blonde he had pointed out though, Alan feels more alone than he has in a very long time.
“Well, I suppose some proper... ‘lad’ … will come along one day,” Alan says, shrugging a bit. His wine is almost gone, and Grell looks at him with a lazy smile.
“Alan, dear,” he says, “you are too rational. You need a bit of the devil in you.”
Alan’s eyes widen at the word “devil," since it's not solely a figure of speech in their world.
“Honestly darling, have you ever tried one? They’re delightful if used in the right way and then disposed of afterwards. Of course, you must have more than one scythe available, and in order to hide the extra one properly you--”
Alan coughs rather loudly and several people look at them.
“Well,” Grell sniffs, primping his hair, “I suppose it’s not for everyone.”
The smile returns after a moment though, when Grell notices that Alan’s wine is almost gone.
“Now,” he says, “forget all of that nonsense about lads and birds and silly, buffoonish behavior. I have somewhere I think you’ll enjoy far more.”
Alan’s eyebrows raise and Grell doesn’t let him protest.
“Let us leave this filthy establishment, and join the finer ranks of living society, my darling Alan.”
To his own surprise, Alan finds himself agreeing.