Mr Death Or Something 1: The Salmon Mousse
Title: Mr Death Or Something
Fandom: Supernatural (S5 onward)
Characters: Death (Supernatural), OFC, mentions of Lucifer
Rating: I dunno... PG? Cause I always cuss.
Disclaimer: Not responsible for readers spewing stuff on their screens, keyboards, or family members whilst readin' this fic. I don't own anything but the OFC Jules (who, scarily enough, I'd named before I knew who played Death on SPN...)
Summary: Death makes a buddy.
a/n: I wrote most of this a couple of years ago, worked on it in spurts here and there since, and now, yeah, 'publishing'. Set around the end of Season 5 of Supernatural, when Death is still under Lucifer's control.
This fic was actually part of a bigger universe, which at one point included Gabriel/Loki. Not sure if I'll post those as well, but some of the stuff I've written in THIS fic has references to THAT fic... i'll figure it out later I suppose.
Written because Death needs more fandom love. And a thorough feeding. And because Monty Python is the shit.
Oh, and I mostly pull this stuff outta my ass so don't take it seriously :) I'm out of practice so... yeah, all errors, just ignore em. LOL
http://archiveofourown.org/works/7631797
The Salmon Mousse
***
Jules studied the thin man in front of her as she pondered what he’d just said. He’d already proven that yes, he was Death. The Death. Death Death. So she didn’t completely discount what he’d said. Pissed about her jade plant though. Poor thing.
She was dead.
Dead? From what, an aneurysm?
“I don’t usually make personal visits, but this one caught my interest.”
The fuuuuck?
“Yes, it is disconcerting to have the Grim Reaper appear and tell you quite casually that you are dead.”
“Next you’ll tell me Englishmen don’t have any balls…. Oh… oh, as if!” Jules’s brain went kerplooey at the very idea that… no. “Noooo way. Uh uh.”
“Yes.” The man’s dark eyes sparkled in amusement, and that clinched it.
“For fuck sakes.” Jules didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “The one time. The ONE time I try to make it.”
“You didn’t use canned salmon, did you?”
“I’m so dreadfully embarrassed.” She quipped back instantly, helpless to resist despite the horror she felt that her cooking was really THAT bad.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe this. I don’t even like fish.” she flailed, half giggling, half flabbergasted.
The Grim Reaper, dapper with his cane, tilted his head curiously. “Then why did you make it?”
“Wanted to see if it was worth six people dying for. And it was for a company party and I drew the short straw.”
“And was it? Worth dying for?”
Jules shook her head emphatically. “Nope. I imagine it’s what a can of smashed assholes would taste like if assholes were made of fish.”
“Descriptive.”
“Thank you.”
Death stood and observed quietly, thinking as Jules paced. At her third time past her living room window she noted the gorgeous white Caddy parked in her spot. Unf. Oh fuck. Is that his car?! Well, gotta give it to him, dude has good taste.
Speaking of taste...
“Can I have one last wish or something?”
Death had heard that one before, she could tell. “Possibly.”
“I don’t want to go out with the taste of frickin’ salmon on my tongue. Better a cup of coffee and a smoke.”
Death looked amused. “Done.”
Huh. Awesome. “Want a cup?”
“Please.”
That’s how Jules found herself grinding up her best dark roast, shaking, afraid, resigned and stupidly a little star-struck. According to shit she read after that… incident, there were plenty of reapers, demons, whatever out there… this was DEATH. The only one out there as powerful was God, and she doubted he existed at all. Death, well, was in her living room, browsing through her books. He was real. Oh fuck I hope I hid my porn!
“How do you take it?” She called out, thinking too much too fast so when Death appeared next to her like magic (which it likely was), the spoon she was holding flew backwards over her shoulder and into the sink.
‘Three points!’
Death took up the sugar bowl and poured.
“Not happy til the spoon stands straight up, hmmm… good man.” She barely stopped herself from giving him a friendly shoulder punch and fled the kitchen, mentally laughing and facepalming at the outright ridiculousness of this whole ordeal.
Death in the meantime was struggling not to smirk.
They spent the next few moments stirring coffee, lighting cigarettes (Death frickin’ smokes! And the skinny bugger even mooched one! Not like he couldn’t pillage cancer-ridden bodies for leftover ciggies… oh god stop thinking!), and eyeing the fridge, the whole time Jules was trying very hard to banish lines from the Meaning of Life movie from her head. And the harder she tried, the clearer it ‘broadcast’. She finally burst into hysterical giggles when she had a vision of tomorrow’s news headlines: ‘Local woman found poisoned by salmon mousse. Mr. Death-or-Something (local hedge trimmer) had this to say, ‘You’re all so fucking pompous!’’
The grim reaper actually snorted his coffee and dug in an inner jacket pocket for a silk handkerchief. After he dabbed the last drop of coffee from the corner of his mouth, he finally smirked. “Your mind is a strange place.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not.”
~!~!~
Jules crushed out the embers, trying not to be annoying by drawing it out, even though everything in her was screaming to flee or do whatever she could to squeeze out a few more seconds of life. Though seconds didn’t really matter at this point.
Oh fuck, the coffee pot. OFF.
She grinned to herself, amused that at least there was prep time. Wouldn’t do to mix burnt coffee smell with eau de bloated corpse.
Ugh.
Death appeared next to her, placing his empty cup on the table and refilling with a spark in his eye.
Well then.
“In the interest of offering some modicum of comfort, I must say that so far this visit ranks in my top ten for entertainment.”
She studied his face. He wasn’t lying. Well, at least I ain’t boring. Mom would be proud of my Death Hostessing skills.
And he had a surprisingly comforting voice. Like a funeral director telling the family how sorry they were, but he actually seemed to mean it.
“Thank you.” she said, and meant it. “Doesn’t change anything but…” she paused, instinct taking over. “Hey. I hate wasting food. Cinnamon bun?”
It was a deep seated habit. Her gramma fed everyone, her mom fed everyone, now she fed everyone. Everyone also applied to Death himself, apparently. But he was thin and frail-looking and Jules liked fattening people up.
“We can take em with us, if you’re in a rush…”
Death quietly sipped his coffee and looked over the still warm buns she’d baked just that morning. Silently and with delicate fingers he took one and wandered into the living room, not a care in the world.
Jules had to swallow some more hysterics before she joined him.
The bun was mostly gone by the time she got in there, with a sated looking Death lounging on her lazy-boy, eyeing up the plate. She yoinked one before placing the plate on the small table next to him so he could eat his fill.
“Well, I always said I’d take this recipe to my grave.” She quipped, plopping herself on the couch with her bun and coffee mug, lighting another smoke. Not like she had to be afraid of cancer anymore, right?
Death snorted lightly.
“Thanks.” She said around a mouthful of bun.
He placed his cup on the table and took his third gooey bun, fingers brown and sticky, a question in his eyes. Better get the Grim Reaper a napkin. Oh for fuck sakes, don’t laugh.
“This isn't exactly ideal, dying right now.” She huffed a laugh. “But at least it’s a good way to go. No cancer, no monsters eating me, no dumb-ass swan-dive off a balcony. Just sitting here, listening to Cohen, with good strong coffee and pleasant company.”
“I’m here to kill you and I’m pleasant company?”
“You’re not being an asshole about it. I count that in your favour.”
***
He didn’t mind sitting down for coffee. Despite Lucifer’s spell, he had some control over his actions after all. So between ‘assignments’ he went leisure-reaping, and amazingly, found a death from his own personal mental bucket list. He couldn’t resist the whim to pick her up himself. And now that he was here, he was quite enjoying her company as well.
And she made terrific coffee.
After somewhat careful consideration mixed with heavy cinnamon bun belly influence and plain old spite against Lucifer’s control, he made his decision. One per decade, and he liked this woman. She was just too damned strange. The last one was Keith Richards and he’d never regretted that one.
Which reminded him, he simply must pay him a visit. It had been a while since he gave Keith a good fright.
***
The plate was empty and her cup had dregs. And Death smoked her last cigarette, the bugger. It was probably time to go.
She took his cup (an inch away from touching his hand ohmygod) and empty plate (dude’s a frickin’ food vacuum!) and took them into the kitchen. Dirty dishes for whoever found her.
She didn’t want to go. But… well, Jules was glad that she was going like this. It could have been some long, painful shitty death. Instead she got to relax a bit, have some food and coffee and, strangely enough, decent company. He scared her, hell, he terrified the shit out of her, but he was pleasant, polite, and she could imagine listening to him talk for hours. And she could feed him.
Jules grinned stupidly. Maybe if she asked nicely he’d take her for a spin in that sweet-ass Caddy before she had to endure perpetual Christmas.
“Not just yet.”
‘Well, there goes the plates’ she scoffed, frowning down at the shattered pieces in the sink. ‘Okay, do NOT give Death shit for startling you. No. No no no.”
He winked at her, swung his cane about and strolled out of the kitchen, but not without a parting shot as he looked at her over his narrow shoulder.
“Good work, sleep well, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”
Oooh, oh no he didn’t. Jules stood stunned in her kitchen watching his coat-tails disappear around the corner, then burst into hysterical laughter when the front door clicked shut.
Oh man, okay, that guy I like!
Wait. He left. And I’m still breathing.
She ran to the window and watched his car back out and drive down the alley. Is he coming back?
Fuck?
The leftover salmon mousse immediately hit the garbage. Fuck the company party.
***~***
Hopefully i'll have some more quickyshortchapterthingies done within the next 6 years hahaha