Dustpan
"There is subtle," Angel says, "and then there is Spike."
"What do you mean? You don't think he-?"
A flash of determination lights up his eyes.
Fred takes a small step back. "Oh! You do think he."
"I do."
"But why? What would be in it for him?"
"Other than having one thing more to shove in my face and gloat over?"
"Yes. Other than that."
Sighing, Angel turns and moves to sit in his chair. There's a soft squeak of protest under his weight followed by the screech of leather against leather. Fred narrows her eyes.
"Well," Angel says. "I don't know."
"Least we don't have to worry about more paperwork for a deceased customer," Fred offers, shrugging. "Pain in the neck, that stuff is."
"I suppose." Angel lets out a heavy sigh and crosses his arms over his chest. "Though if he continues to bring it up at every chance he gets I'll be needing a dustpan."
Fred swallows and nods.
"And one of the forms for deceased employees."
fin.