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It was hard to tell with Rube sometimes – well, most of the time – well, always – but Mason thought he looked like he was in a bad mood. Well, even more so than he usually did. Mason knew several substances that could do wonders for Rube's disposition, but he didn't offer anything; that was one mistake he was never going to make again.
Rube slapped their post-its on the table like he was trying to kill a scurrying spider. George, slouched over her oatmeal, jumped at the sound and sat up straight, suddenly wide-awake. Mason felt like smirking at the sight, but he flinched himself a moment later.
"Assignments," Rube growled. "Now get the hell out of my sight."
"I live to serve." Mason attempted a mocking bow, but the booth got in the way. He reached for his post-it, eager to leave so they could all talk about Rube behind his back, but Rube pointed at him. Mason leaned back and held his hands up in surrender.
"You." Rube stood up, still glaring at Mason, who was trying desperately to remember everything he'd done recently that Rube might have found out about. "Don't fuck this up." With that fond farewell, he was gone.
"He always has to have a dramatic exit," Daisy observed disapprovingly, as though she didn't have the same fondness for getting the last word.
"Seriously," George yawned. "What could have pissed him off so bad this early in the day?"
"What do you think?" Roxy asked, waving her post-it in the air.
She probably had the right idea. Mason looked down at his post-it note, just in case he'd been told to kill Rube's favorite opera singer or something – he should be so lucky – and for a few moments, it didn't click.
"Oh, hang on," he snapped his fingers. "I know this address. This is here!"
"You're joking," George looked over his shoulder. "Any more deaths here and they're going to close the place down."
"Hush your mouth, Georgia, that's bad luck." Daisy kicked Mason's leg, though he figured she was aiming for George, since it hadn't hurt much.
"Let me see that," Roxy ordered, snagging Mason's post-it before he could reply. She became very still when she saw it. "Boy, this isn't just any old death," she said evenly. "This is Kiffany's name."
"No way!" George yelled, then glanced around hastily.
"Are you trying to get everyone's attention?" Mason demanded, snatching his post-it back from Roxy. He pocketed it quickly; the ETD wasn't until that evening, and he wanted to spend the rest of the day ignoring it.
He looked back up and saw Kiffany heading over to their table. With a slight yelp, he bolted out of the booth – ignoring George's protests as he slid past her – and raced out of Der Waffle Haus like it was on fire.
He could deal with this. Just – not right this fucking minute.
-
When he came back in the evening, George was waiting for him at their usual booth. She gave him an little half-wave and looked about as embarrassed as he felt. They'd tagged along on each other's reaps before, but when it was someone they knew, it felt – weird, voyeuristic.
Mason would be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for the company, though.
He grabbed a menu and hunkered down behind it. George stared at him like he had something written on in face in very messy handwriting and she was trying to read it. "Last meal," she drawled. "Better order something good."
"Ha bloody ha. It's not my last meal, is it?"
George shrugged, seemingly composed. This was one of those times when Mason missed little Georgie, toilet-seat girl and brand new reaper, who messed up all the time and made him look professional by comparison. "It's a last meal," she answered.
"Right." He retreated behind his menu again. They needed to make these things larger, or possibly out of bullet-proof material. He could feel George looking at him.
"Hi, there, what can I get you tonight?" Oh no. Kiffany was here. Mason checked his watch as surreptitiously as possible. He still had time.
"Just coffee, thanks," he heard George say.
"I'll have a waffle," he muttered. He was pretty sure he had enough cash to cover that. If he didn't, maybe George would take pity on him, given the extenuating circumstances.
He felt like he should say something nice to Kiffany, but somehow the words just didn't come to him.
-
Mason was long done with his food before it was time, so he and George nursed their coffees. Time dragged, and Mason started to regret showing up as early as he had. Of course, if he'd been late and screwed the whole thing up, he'd never have heard the end of it.
When it finally came time, George signaled for a refill on her coffee. "Last one, and then we have to go," she said pointedly.
"I know." Mason sighed and rubbed at his face with his hands.
"Me too," Kiffany nodded. "It's getting late; my shift's just about over."
"Hang on a minute," Mason said before she could leave. "I, er, I wanted to say thank you?" Out of the corner of his eye, he could see George making a face at that. He coughed at tried again. "I wanted to say thank you. For – everything you've done for me, over the years."
"You're welcome," she told him, smiling warmly at him. "Just don't go causing any of your trouble in my restaurant, that's all I ask."
"Right. Promise I won't." Mason smiled back at her, and with that, he patted her arm and took her soul.
Just in time, too; he could see a graveling prowling around near the windows, though with the distance and the dark and the rain he couldn't tell what exactly it was up to.
"How do you think it's going to happen?" George asked.
"No idea." Mason took a large gulp of his coffee to distract himself, though it worked a little too well. "Hot," he gasped.
"What were you expecting, ice water?"
Mason scowled at George. "Never mind." He sipped more slowly, watching Kiffany out of the corner of his eye. As she finally left Der Waffle Haus, he turned away, not sure he wanted to see whatever came next.
That put him facing George again, who was still watching Kiffany as she walked past the windows. Suddenly he wanted to run away from her more than he wanted to run away from his job.
"Come on, Georgie," he announced with false cheer. "Let's see this through to the end."
They stepped outside and, huddled under George's small umbrella, watched as the graveling set things in motion. A backed up storm drain; too much water on the road; a squeal of old brakes on an old car; and Kiffany, crossing the road.
Just another accident.
The street was mostly empty, but a few pedestrians saw the accident and rushed forward to check on Kiffany. Mason and George stayed where they were, and a moment later, Kiffany joined them.
"Is that really me?" she asked.
Mason nodded.
"Could have been worse, I suppose," Kiffany said. "At least I wasn't wearing anything embarrassing today or anything." She looked at them shrewdly. "And what are you two, angels or something?"
"Not exactly," George answered.
Kiffany shook her head. "I always knew there was something strange about you guys."
"Bet you didn't figure us for Grim Reapers."
Kiffany shook her head. "No, but I came up with some weirder ideas."
"Really?" Mason was intrigued. "Like what?"
"Mason." George was no fun. "Don't make her miss her window." She nodded outside, where they could see the soft glow of whatever came next.
"What's out there?" Kiffany asked, stepping closer.
"Your guess is as good as ours, darling," Mason patted her on the shoulder.
"It looks like a beach." A smile broke out across her face. "Can't you hear the waves?"
Mason couldn't. He couldn't see much of anything but a haze of brightness, and he doubted the haze would ever clear for him.
"It sounds nice," George commented. Mason wasn't sure whether or not he was imaging the wistful note in her voice.
"It does, doesn't it?" Kiffany smiled back at them and walked into the light. With the light extinguished, the street reverted to being dark and rainy and lonely.
Mason huddled a little closer to George under the pretense of adjusting the umbrella; he didn't think she minded much. "Well, since we're off duty for the rest of the night, I think this calls for a drink." He fished his flask out of his pocket, offering George the first sip – a gentlemanly sort of gesture. "To Kiffany."
Was that expression on George's face reproach, or amusement?
"I thought you were back on the wagon."
"That's what tomorrows are for, Georgie."
"Fine. I'll drink to that." She took a sip and handed it back to Mason. "To tomorrow, and the poor waitress who's going to have to take over dealing with Rube."
"Poor gal," Mason took a sip. "To waitresses and tomorrow."