Author's Note: Erk. Yes. I know! Long time coming, but it's here, and it's all downhill from this point. It shouldn't be long for the next chapter this time around.

Fucking bran muffins.

Fuck Daisy Adair and her fucking health food. Fuck. Fucking fuck.

"I want chocolate," George roared, and she wasn't the least bit surprised when no one answered, on account of the fact she was the only one in the apartment. She couldn't completely fend off the disappointment, however, that there wasn't even a fish she could tell her problems to. At least then she would be able to pretend there was someone listening and giving careful consideration to what she had to say, secretly dissecting her words and making an internal report on the goings-on of Georgia Lass' mind. It would be a very talented fish.

She slammed the cupboard shut, just because slamming something made her feel a bit better, and then settled on slouching on her bed and chewing on a piece of three-day old pizza.

The problem with being undead, or more specifically, being undead and female was that, despite the fact you got to quit doing most of the things you used to do - like having a family, a job, a social security number, a heartbeat – a woman still got what was dreadfully known as That Time of the Month.

And Georgia Lass' monthly visitor was currently raging and painful, and making her crave sweets with the sort of intensity that had created Frankenstein's monster. That's what she imagined others saw sometimes – a slathering, wild-eyed monster, snarling and drooling with her eyeballs rolling back in their sockets, walking stiff-legged with her arms straight out.

Sweeeeets, she would moan, and then go to town on some unsuspecting victim's brain; she was sure she could live with eating brains, if Daisy would let her.

And then the George-Monster would offer the Daisy-Monster some brain, and the latter would refuse because there were too many carbs.

Brain carbs.

The knocking at the door derailed George's train of thought, and she grumpily got up from the bed, ready to give the evil eye to the person on the other side. She was good at that, she narrowed her eyes with a hellish intensity just as the door was opened, but as it turned out, it just wasn't a good day for anger because what was on the other side of the door was very difficult to be angry at.

A scrawny, wide-eyed, wet, and dreary-looking Mason; his expression was enough to make her wordlessly step aside to let him in.

And with a second glance, George noted that Mason wasn't just wet - he was drenched. He was so thoroughly soaked that the water was running from his hair and onto his face, trickling steadily towards the floor.

"Georgie," Mason said, after a moment of staring at one another, "Georgie-darling, there's a problem."

"Besides the fact you're watering my floorboards?" George asked, sarcasm being a reflex; she winced and tried to correct it, "What is it, Mason?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then gave her a bobble-eyed look that made her think of the fish she didn't have.

"Mason, have you been -"
"If you ask me if I've been drinking, I will smash my head through that window."

Maybe it was sick, but George kind of wanted to finish her question to see if he would go through with it, but she decided she probably couldn't afford to replace a window that month.

"Um, why don't you sit down?" George said, and Mason sat down on the discarded piece of pizza but didn't seem to notice, so George pretended she hadn't either. The silence extended as it had done so many times in those last few days, and both of them tried to speak at the same time before falling silent again.

Mason tried again, and spoke very slowly, as though he was trying to pronounce every letter:

"I think," he said, "That there's something wrong with me."

George couldn't help the feeling that she was being set up, so she stayed silent and kept her sarcasm to herself this time around; she merely urged him to go on and didn't bother voicing the fact that there was, obviously, something wrong with him – like the fact he was dead.

And spent his time defacing property and stealing car meters.

And was dead.

"And it's beginning to bother me. So I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me honestly."

"Okay."

"In the time you've known me, have you ever suspected, even for a moment, or have I ever shown evidence of, um,"

"Yes?"

"George, do I seem gay to you?"

George must have frozen for a long time, because Mason's expression somehow became more strained.

"Huh?" she said finally, and realized Mason was actually expecting an answer, because he was watching her with wide eyes again, "Um. Gay? Are we talking 'bright and cheerful' here, or -?"

"Gay. Gay, as in ho-mo-sexual; am I a homosexual, George? Because lately, I've been feeling like a homosexual!" he said, and his voice got more frantic, "Because I had dirty man-thoughts!"

Mason put his head in his hands and swore, so George did what she remembered her family had done for comfort, and put a hand on his shoulder and patted it awkwardly despite the fact she wanted to get up and run.

"Had you been drinking?" she asked, and kept a grip on his shoulder so he wouldn't get up and use his head as a battering ram.

"I had a hangover."

"Why are you asking me this?" George asked suddenly; it had occurred to her just then how unfair this whole thing was. Why her?

"Because you're the only one who won't laugh at me. And you remind me of my sister."

"You had a sister?"

"No, but you would remind me of my sister if I'd had one."

"That makes no sense, but I think I know what you mean. You remind me of my hypothetical brother, too." She said, "My hypothetical bi-curious brother."

"George!" Mason crowed, suddenly on his feet, "Ah! Jesus Christ, why did you have to say that? God! Fuck!"

"No, wait, I'm sorry, stop freaking out, sit, you're my completely heterosexual hypothetical brother!" she said, trying to be heard over Mason's curses; she grabbed his arm and yanked him back down into something like a sitting position, but he was a lot bigger than her, so he just bounced off the edge of the bed and wound up on the floor.

Defeated, Mason hung his head and resumed looking pathetic until George couldn't stand it anymore,

"Look," she said, struggling to be the one to spout wisdom this time around; sure, she was great when it was within her own head, but when it came to being deep while speaking out loud – it never sounded the same,

"I totally can't say I know what you're going through, because we both know it would be a lie, but what I do know is that the only way to deal with this sort of thing is to confront it. Or ignore it. Whatever. But eventually it will come to you if you don't do it first, and by then it's probably going to be a lot worse."

George was pretty sure what she had just said was at least moderately relative to the topic at hand – and if not, maybe she could fake her way through it. Mason seemed to be considering his options then, or at least it looked like it, because he was sitting very still.

"Well," Mason said slowly, quietly, "What's the worst that could happen if I don't confront it?"

"It'll confront you at the most awkward time possible, and then Daisy will laugh at you."

"That's not so bad."

"And Rube will call you a fuck-up." George added, and Mason was suddenly on his feet, squishing wetly towards the door.

"I have to go now."