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They had fought that night, Grell and Undertaker. It hadn’t been over anything that was very important or over anything they would bother to remember the next morning. Stressed from constant work and little time alone together, they were at each other’s throats over the smallest thing, and Undertaker was slinking off to bed early, fuming quietly.

They were not of the sort to bring fights into the bedroom. Undertaker was never forced to sleep on the sofa or in one of the guest bedrooms. As he heard Grell enter their room, opening drawers and rummaging about to ready herself for bed, he knew, at the very least, she would crawl in with her back to him, and sleep that way all night. Whatever they had fought over, Undertaker didn’t yet have the heart to apologize for. He stood by what he had said, wrong or not. His conviction got the better of him and he could tell Grell was bothered over it, as he lifted up off the bed just enough to gaze at her over his shoulder. She slammed drawers and harshly threw down her brush, fussing with the snaps or zips or buttons on her lingerie.

But this was not what he saw. He looked with fondness at the way her beautiful red hair fell across her shoulders, or the way that the waxing light of the moon brought such beautiful glow to her pale skin. She wore lingerie to bed every night, even when she was mad at him. And, regardless of the severity of the fight, no matter how much they had cursed or condemned one another, she still slept by his side. And he hers.

When she caught him looking, he smiled. “Come to bed, my sweet. We have some making up to do.”