L. Parsons
Back of Henley Street Pub
9:10 p.m.

Across town, down a side street, and through an alleyway, Rube was leaning back against a roughened brick wall, eyes to the sky, and a dead hooker across from him. The sky had just closed up; taking the soul of the deceased Lisa Parsons with it into whatever otherworldly delight she had waiting for her on the other side. Rube always said he wasn't curious, that he could care less what they saw when they went into the light, but the truth was that once in a while he really did want to know.

Once, very briefly, in the breath of a second, he had pondered pulling a Betty and jumping in after a Reap, just to see what he would find, or if he'd find anything – anything better than what he was doing now, what he'd been doing for a long time now. But he'd settled into a routine, and the only thing that kept him going was occasionally indulging his curiosity by doing the little things that no one else saw him do.

Things like trying to lure Death into his home, to have dinner with Him, just to see what He was like. Naturally the offer had been turned down – rather harshly - but he'd tried, and that was what differentiated between Rube being a brick wall, and Rube secretly being a real person behind the sweaters and the deep frowns. He wasn't such a hard ass, really, and everyone was aware of the fact but no one dared to say it, because Rube was still intimidating whether he was secretly a softie or not.

Shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, he began to walk, and pondered over the Reap of Lisa Parsons. Rube had taken Lisa's soul just before she'd gone into the alleyway, when he'd given her back the purse she'd dropped – she'd extended him a half-price invitation that he had characteristically refused as politely as possible, and then she'd gone on her way to her death.

It hadn't crossed his mind that he should accept it, save her from a horrible fate, because he knew she would die anyways. No matter what way it happened, she would die. There was no sense messing with the way it was supposed to happen, but at least taking her soul beforehand had ensured it was pain-free.

She'd been young, only thirty-two, and she'd had a rendezvous in a back alley with a John she'd barely spoken to before leaving with him; the man had got aggressive along the way, and then he'd got violent. Now she was dead in a back alley.

It was cold outside now, given that the fall was ending and winter was fast approaching, so even at this time of day people were shivering in their coats, and their breath came out as fog; as a rule, Rube's didn't.

He pondered doing something other than going home and working, but as always, he ended up going home anyways, bypassing the park he could have gone to in order to watch the horizon or the kids play. Not like he was missing anything though, he didn't really like kids that much anyway, and sunsets were no good alone.

Rube was just outside his apartment building, about to go inside when he heard it; a long, slow drawl:

"Ruby."

He frowned, and took a step back, just enough so he could see the mouth of the alleyway alongside the complex. Sitting beside the trash was none other than Mason, and it didn't take a genius to know what his glassy eyes and dim smile meant – he'd been drinking. Heavily.

"Ruby," Mason said again, and spread his arms out as though trying to hug Rube from several feet away. A three-quarters finished bottle of Overproof dangled from one of his hands.

"What are you doing out here Mason?" Rube asked.

It seemed to take Mason some effort to really think about this, so he must have had a lot more than what was in his hand; Reapers had to drink five times as much as the living to get really hammered.

"I," Mason said, arms still spread, jerking his left one towards the dumpster beside him, "Am sitting with my kin."

He smiled dimly,

"My brethren," he said, and gave the trash a fond pat. "And in the morning, they'll toss me in the back with all of the other shit no one wants, and I can live in the belly of the beast, under mountains of more shit that no one wants."

"Garbage disposal doesn't come for another two days." Rube said, after a long silence.

"Fuck off, don't ruin my dreams." Mason said, dropping his arms back to his sides, the bottle clanking against the pavement; he looked at it as though he'd just remembered he was still holding it, and took another drink from it.

"I think you've had enough," Rube said, and approached the other man.

"Don't come any closer Ruby," Mason said, and stuck a foot up in the air, as though to fend Rube off with his sneaker, "Or I'll have to use my ninja prowess."

Unfortunately for Mason, even when he was sober Rube wasn't so sure the Englishman's 'ninja prowess' was anything to fear.

"Come on, Mason," Rube said, putting a hand out for the other man to grab onto. Mason merely stared at it like it was some foreign object, a strange thing he'd never seen before. After this went on for too long, Rube lowered his hand and sighed.

He'd carried Mason before.

He could do it again.

"What're you doing, Rube?" Mason asked as Rube knelt down beside him, plucking the unfinished bottle of rum from his hand, "You proposin' to me? I dunno if I can, Ruby. Is that legal here yet?"

"Come on, we're goin' for a ride." Rube grunted and lifted Mason unsteadily into his arms, cradling him like he did that day the other man had overdosed.

"A 'ride'?" Mason repeated, "This isn't a ride. You're Rube. Not a ride. Well, you could be ridden I guess, but I dunno. Is that legal? Riding Rube? Is that legal here?"

"Do us both a favor and stop talking." Rube said, dropping the Overproof into a garbage can as they went by it; it shattered on the bottom of the metal bin, and Mason looked wistfully after it,

"Bye, rum." He said, waving at the bin, "I'll see you soon."

Probably at the bottom of a toilet bowl.

The ensuing journey consisted of Rube getting through the front door with Mason in his arms, and getting to the elevator without dropping him. It was like a replay of the time Rube had carried Mason during his overdose, but this time it was much sadder – because this time, the damage had been done on purpose. When Mason had shoved a large quantity of cocaine up his ass, he'd done it with the intentions of eventually removing it intact and getting rid of it. But this time around he'd put the toxins – the alcohol – in his body willingly. There had definitely been no intentions to get it out.

Rube kept an uncannily straight face when the elevator slid open and his neighbor-across-the-hall, Mrs. Jacobson, was standing inside; a spry, seventy-something woman with white hair, big glasses, and currently a very surprised expression.

Rube stepped in, the doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent.

"It's Rube, isn't it?" she asked finally, looking at him like she'd never seen him before. Which she hadn't; not really, anyways. Rube came and went at odd times, he never stopped to talk to anyone, and he made a point of not being seen as often as possible – he was the topic of many discussions between the tenants in the same hall as him, mostly because all of them had their own story about him.

Mr. Belmont, a forty-something bank clerk who lived to the right of Rube's apartment, had theorized Rube was government-affiliated. He worked strange hours, had a dangerous job, and it was simply a bad idea to associate with anyone in the case they became a target for criminal activity.

Ms. Delaney, thirty-five, blonde, busty, and a gym teacher, lived to the left of Rube's apartment, thought that Rube was on the run; he had moved to Seattle to get away from his old life and start a new one. She had decided that he was probably very well off and that she thought he was really very good-looking. On several occasions she had tried to catch him outside of his apartment, and once she had managed to slip in a 'hello', and much to her dismay, that was all he slipped in too.

Mr. Rodman, a retiree, lived three doors down to the right, thought Rube was actually a hit man, and he was working late hours so he wouldn't be caught sniping down Seattle's rich and elitist members. He figured Rube was gone so long because he had to travel a lot to find his targets. People tended to ignore this theory.

Mrs. Jacobson, however, had always thought Rube was formerly a patient at a mental hospital, and he'd just recently been released into the public again and was having difficulty integrating with everyone again.

Of these theories, Mister Rodman's was the closest, but Rube would never know about any of these theories, and if he found out, chances were he still wouldn't really give a damn.

But it might have cleared a few things up.

"Yeah," Rube said simply, "It's Rube."

"Oh." She said, because she'd apparently expected a different answer.

"This is Mason." Rube said, "Say hello to the nice lady, Mason."

"Damn, you're old." Mason said, and then turned his head towards Rube's chest and nuzzled it a little, adding faintly: "They should make riding Rube legal."

"Just shut up, will you?" Rube asked, and then the doors opened, and Mrs. Jacobson got out quickly. No doubt the new rumor would be that Rube was actually a homosexual-government-affiliated-runaway-mental-patient-cum-hitman.

With some effort, Rube managed to get down the hall to his door, unlock it, and get inside before anyone else could see them and get in the way.

"You're nice and warm." Mason said, fingers curling under Rube's jacket, "Have you been working out? It feels like – oof!"

Rube dropped him.

On purpose.

Onto the couch, at least, but he still dropped him.

For a long moment, Rube looked at Mason sprawled out like that, and Mason looked up at him.

"Get some sleep, Mason." Rube said, and left it at that.

He'd take care of this in the morning.