Don't Fear the Reaper
Mason rang the doorbell, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sniffing. On rich blocks like that one, the air seemed to smell fresher, even when some could say death was on the horizon. Mason managed to still disbelieve the whole fate thing, even though he was a part of it.
He smiled at George, then looked down at the crumpled Post-It in his hand, scrawled in Rube's block letters.
R. Perlis
659 Cherry Tree Lane
E.T.D. 6:59 PM
Huh.
"Oh, look. The address and the time are the same. That's kind of ironic, isn't it?" Mason really didn't think anything of it. He was just making small-talk. He was nervous... Just because he was pretty sure he'd robbed the shit out of one of the houses on that block not even last week. But before he could get too nervous, the door was opening to reveal a rather young one in a devil costume. Mason put on his best No-I'm-Not-About-To-Reap-Your-Soul smile. "'Ello, little man, trick or treat!"
"What are you?" Came his little voice. Mason used to like kids. He saw them as moldable minds of the future, but now that he was a Reaper, kids made him nervous as shit. Really, everything made Mason nervous. Except for pie.
"Me? Well, I-- uh-- um..." He took a moment to think, looking over at George... who was no help. She was just along for the ride, after all. "Have you ever heard of a Brit?" The young whippersnapper shook his head. "Well, I'm a Brit." Well, he was.
A few moments of silence passed between the three of them with the tyke squinting up from the sun at the two Reapers.
"Sooo... you're a little devil?" Came George's voice on his right. She was digging for information, Mason figured.
"Yeah."
"What's your name?" Well, hell, Georgie. Didn't waste time, did she?
"Bobby." It sounded like a question. Mason was thinking he didn't much like questions.
"Bobby, is your dad in? Richard or Raymond or...?" Come on, little man. He was cute and all, but Mason had a reap to do and a shitload of candy in his bag and a bottle of Jamison waiting at Daisy and George's place. Which he supposed was his place. In a weird I-Can't-Be-Naked-At-Breakfast way. Pfft. That wasn't home. Home was where your dick swung, mate.
"He went out to get me some cough medicine." Sometimes Americans accented the weirdest words. You'd think he'd be used to it. He wasn't. And very much on purpose.
"Are you sick?" George, again. She seemed concerned.
"Yeah. No trick-or-treating this year." And then it hit Mason. The Estimated Time of Death was moments away and this was the location, and this kid was home alone. He wasn't reaping the kid's dad, he was reaping him. He didn't look like he was older than 8 or 10.
He looked over at George, whose mouth was agape at the tyke. Mason took a moment to wonder if she'd had to reap a kid yet, since the one she tried to run away from. There were no secrets in the afterlife, and Mason tried to take it all in stride.
"Shit." The word was out of George's mouth before Mason could even finish thinking it. No matter how long you were a reaper... no matter how many souls you'd popped, kids were the fucking hardest. Every time.
Mason put his head down, still facing George's now-retreating back. He wanted courage. No, strike that. He wanted a drink. A lot of drinks. That was exactly what he was thinking when he shifted in front of Bobby and got to his knees to level with him. There was no negotiating with death. No changing the appointment... and Mason just couldn't be arsed to bother with the consequences, anyway.
"Now, little devil," he began, Post-It held firmly in both hands, just to cross-reference. Just to make sure he wasn't wrong. "I'm thinking that sometimes maybe... your parents call you Robert." R. Perlis. In his mind, he fucking prayed the kid would say no. But he said nothing. "Robert Perlis, right?"
The kid smiled. He hated that. "Yeah." And Mason smiled back, his regret and a well-hidden apology pressed in that smile. He looked down at the Post-It, again. R. Perlis. Robert Perlis. This little fucking kid.
A beat, and Mason was looking up, again.
"You know what I'm gonna do for you, Bobby?" He didn't look away from the kid. Not for a moment. "I'm gonna open up my big bag, here, and I'm gonna let you pick anything, anything, anything you want. Seriously. Come on. Anything." Mason wrenched the trash bag that was already about half filled with candy and snacks open, watching as his curly little head peered into the bag. These were the moments when he was sure he couldn't do it. Any of it. All of it.
"I'm not supposed to take candy from people I don't know." Oh, that was just precious. Just look in the fucking bag.
"Come on, little man, you know me. I'm a Brit, I'm not a monster. Come on. Choose." He held the bag open and higher, and there he went, immediately picking out a bag of barbecued Lays. Good. Mason hated those, anyway.
"Now that is a bloody good choice, Bobby, now I'm telling you. Now, open your arms out. Here. Go on." And Mason took about three handfuls of candy and heaped them into Bobby's arms. "Can you handle all this or what? Here you go." He piled a few more candybars into the youngin's arms and then admired his handiwork, trying desperately not to think about the fact that he wasn't going to get the opportunity to enjoy any of it. That's what kids liked, wasn't it? Candy and snacks that rotted your teeth.
"Thanks!" The smile on Bobby's face got wider, and Mason knew there was no more time to dawdle. That was why he didn't wear a watch. Like he needed another painful fucking reminder.
"Come here," Mason said after a moment, and Bobby took one small step forward. With so much hesitation, Mason wasn't even sure he'd be able to lift his arm, he set his hand on young Bobby's shoulder, and he could feel his soul pop. "Happy Halloween." And with that, Bobby turned back into his house with one last labored cough into his heap of candy.
Mason couldn't stand for a moment. He took his time getting to his feet and grabbed his noticeably lighter trashbag of candy in one hand, and the full one in the other.
But when he turned, he wasn't on the street, anymore. He sure as fuck wasn't in Seattle, either. Unless Seattle was suddenly a beach, because that's exactly where he was. On a beach with the sun beating mercilessly down on him. He lifted a gloved hand to shield himself from the warm. That's what it was. Warmth. He was sure that he'd just reached his quota with little Bobby Perlis, and now he was in... whatever you went to after being a reaper.
It was a beach. A bloody beach somewhere else. And there were people all around. Living people.
"You've gotta be BLOODY FUCKING KIDDING ME!" Mason exclaimed. So this was the after-afterlife? A fucking island with more souls to reap?
One of the bags of candy thumped quietly into the sand and he looked down at it for a moment, considering it. Then, he reached in and unwrapped a bite-sized Tootsie Roll. He was trying to hold off on making sure the bourbon was still in his pocket. Because if it wasn't, he may have cried. That would just be mean.
[Summary: Mason meets Sunny, and is afraid of children, and manages to make her very sad by mentioning her mom, proving once more that Mason does not equal idea babysitter. Then, Maureen comes along and they share some sweetness, both sugar and kisses. Mason is pretty sure that will end with a slap in the face. Very much what he was looking for, Daisy Adair happens along him, and it marks the first conversation where it sinks in that Mason is on an island. It goes OK, with Mason perpetually pining, and Daisy perpetually loving the attention. Jim helps Mason find the compound and they get along strangely well, then Isolde scares the shit out of the confounded Mason, who looks an unfortunate lot like Isolde's husband. And finally, Mason happens upon his favorite sister-type, George Lass. He promises never to leave her.]
He smiled at George, then looked down at the crumpled Post-It in his hand, scrawled in Rube's block letters.
R. Perlis
659 Cherry Tree Lane
E.T.D. 6:59 PM
Huh.
"Oh, look. The address and the time are the same. That's kind of ironic, isn't it?" Mason really didn't think anything of it. He was just making small-talk. He was nervous... Just because he was pretty sure he'd robbed the shit out of one of the houses on that block not even last week. But before he could get too nervous, the door was opening to reveal a rather young one in a devil costume. Mason put on his best No-I'm-Not-About-To-Reap-Your-Soul smile. "'Ello, little man, trick or treat!"
"What are you?" Came his little voice. Mason used to like kids. He saw them as moldable minds of the future, but now that he was a Reaper, kids made him nervous as shit. Really, everything made Mason nervous. Except for pie.
"Me? Well, I-- uh-- um..." He took a moment to think, looking over at George... who was no help. She was just along for the ride, after all. "Have you ever heard of a Brit?" The young whippersnapper shook his head. "Well, I'm a Brit." Well, he was.
A few moments of silence passed between the three of them with the tyke squinting up from the sun at the two Reapers.
"Sooo... you're a little devil?" Came George's voice on his right. She was digging for information, Mason figured.
"Yeah."
"What's your name?" Well, hell, Georgie. Didn't waste time, did she?
"Bobby." It sounded like a question. Mason was thinking he didn't much like questions.
"Bobby, is your dad in? Richard or Raymond or...?" Come on, little man. He was cute and all, but Mason had a reap to do and a shitload of candy in his bag and a bottle of Jamison waiting at Daisy and George's place. Which he supposed was his place. In a weird I-Can't-Be-Naked-At-Breakfast way. Pfft. That wasn't home. Home was where your dick swung, mate.
"He went out to get me some cough medicine." Sometimes Americans accented the weirdest words. You'd think he'd be used to it. He wasn't. And very much on purpose.
"Are you sick?" George, again. She seemed concerned.
"Yeah. No trick-or-treating this year." And then it hit Mason. The Estimated Time of Death was moments away and this was the location, and this kid was home alone. He wasn't reaping the kid's dad, he was reaping him. He didn't look like he was older than 8 or 10.
He looked over at George, whose mouth was agape at the tyke. Mason took a moment to wonder if she'd had to reap a kid yet, since the one she tried to run away from. There were no secrets in the afterlife, and Mason tried to take it all in stride.
"Shit." The word was out of George's mouth before Mason could even finish thinking it. No matter how long you were a reaper... no matter how many souls you'd popped, kids were the fucking hardest. Every time.
Mason put his head down, still facing George's now-retreating back. He wanted courage. No, strike that. He wanted a drink. A lot of drinks. That was exactly what he was thinking when he shifted in front of Bobby and got to his knees to level with him. There was no negotiating with death. No changing the appointment... and Mason just couldn't be arsed to bother with the consequences, anyway.
"Now, little devil," he began, Post-It held firmly in both hands, just to cross-reference. Just to make sure he wasn't wrong. "I'm thinking that sometimes maybe... your parents call you Robert." R. Perlis. In his mind, he fucking prayed the kid would say no. But he said nothing. "Robert Perlis, right?"
The kid smiled. He hated that. "Yeah." And Mason smiled back, his regret and a well-hidden apology pressed in that smile. He looked down at the Post-It, again. R. Perlis. Robert Perlis. This little fucking kid.
A beat, and Mason was looking up, again.
"You know what I'm gonna do for you, Bobby?" He didn't look away from the kid. Not for a moment. "I'm gonna open up my big bag, here, and I'm gonna let you pick anything, anything, anything you want. Seriously. Come on. Anything." Mason wrenched the trash bag that was already about half filled with candy and snacks open, watching as his curly little head peered into the bag. These were the moments when he was sure he couldn't do it. Any of it. All of it.
"I'm not supposed to take candy from people I don't know." Oh, that was just precious. Just look in the fucking bag.
"Come on, little man, you know me. I'm a Brit, I'm not a monster. Come on. Choose." He held the bag open and higher, and there he went, immediately picking out a bag of barbecued Lays. Good. Mason hated those, anyway.
"Now that is a bloody good choice, Bobby, now I'm telling you. Now, open your arms out. Here. Go on." And Mason took about three handfuls of candy and heaped them into Bobby's arms. "Can you handle all this or what? Here you go." He piled a few more candybars into the youngin's arms and then admired his handiwork, trying desperately not to think about the fact that he wasn't going to get the opportunity to enjoy any of it. That's what kids liked, wasn't it? Candy and snacks that rotted your teeth.
"Thanks!" The smile on Bobby's face got wider, and Mason knew there was no more time to dawdle. That was why he didn't wear a watch. Like he needed another painful fucking reminder.
"Come here," Mason said after a moment, and Bobby took one small step forward. With so much hesitation, Mason wasn't even sure he'd be able to lift his arm, he set his hand on young Bobby's shoulder, and he could feel his soul pop. "Happy Halloween." And with that, Bobby turned back into his house with one last labored cough into his heap of candy.
Mason couldn't stand for a moment. He took his time getting to his feet and grabbed his noticeably lighter trashbag of candy in one hand, and the full one in the other.
But when he turned, he wasn't on the street, anymore. He sure as fuck wasn't in Seattle, either. Unless Seattle was suddenly a beach, because that's exactly where he was. On a beach with the sun beating mercilessly down on him. He lifted a gloved hand to shield himself from the warm. That's what it was. Warmth. He was sure that he'd just reached his quota with little Bobby Perlis, and now he was in... whatever you went to after being a reaper.
It was a beach. A bloody beach somewhere else. And there were people all around. Living people.
"You've gotta be BLOODY FUCKING KIDDING ME!" Mason exclaimed. So this was the after-afterlife? A fucking island with more souls to reap?
One of the bags of candy thumped quietly into the sand and he looked down at it for a moment, considering it. Then, he reached in and unwrapped a bite-sized Tootsie Roll. He was trying to hold off on making sure the bourbon was still in his pocket. Because if it wasn't, he may have cried. That would just be mean.
[Summary: Mason meets Sunny, and is afraid of children, and manages to make her very sad by mentioning her mom, proving once more that Mason does not equal idea babysitter. Then, Maureen comes along and they share some sweetness, both sugar and kisses. Mason is pretty sure that will end with a slap in the face. Very much what he was looking for, Daisy Adair happens along him, and it marks the first conversation where it sinks in that Mason is on an island. It goes OK, with Mason perpetually pining, and Daisy perpetually loving the attention. Jim helps Mason find the compound and they get along strangely well, then Isolde scares the shit out of the confounded Mason, who looks an unfortunate lot like Isolde's husband. And finally, Mason happens upon his favorite sister-type, George Lass. He promises never to leave her.]