Chapter Twelve
A switch flicked.
Tony gasped, ripping his hand away from Tim's and cradling it to his chest.
"McGeewhatthefuckinghellwasth at?!" He panted out, starting a rough check-up of all vital organs. Tim pressed his lips tightly together, eyes far too weary for the age he looked.
Tony caught sight of the flowers on the table. They had drooped sadly, stems yellowed, delicate leaves shriveled and tiny. Velvety petals littered the table around the glass. A pang of sadness violently combined with a thrill of fear. A hand drifted into his vision and gently touched a stray petal, which blackened for a brief second at the place of contact, though didn't spread beyond that. Tony watched, heartbeat finally adopting a more normal pace.
"It was too soon. It had a few more hours at least." Tim noted quietly, and withdrew his hand. "I'm sorry, Tony."
"I asked you to show me all that, McGee. Don't be stupid."
"But I never should have actually done it. The eyes of the living were never meant to see that, to see what I see, and I knew that it could be cataclysmic! But I was frustrated, and…and I was afraid, and I was so damn tired." Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them, wide, until one could see the entirety of green orbs, pupils inhumanly miniscule; they contained a sort of hungry emptiness, void of any emotion, any reaction, snatching eagerly at anything that drifted close by, sucking it into their, deserted, unfillable depths. Tony immediately leaned away from Tim, blinking to clear the sudden vertigo, shoulders tensing and folding inward like the furling of wings.
Tim shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. His whole body seemed to sag.
"Sorry. Sorry."
"McGoo," Tony began. "I hate to be that guy, but, you're the damn angel of Death. Are you supposed to have…feelings?" His face twisted into the very uncomfortable expression of one who has just stepped into a retired minefield, where they aren't entirely sure they got all the bombs. Talking about feelings never was his area. It was so far out of his area that one would need a large amount of unmarked bills and a very shady man with a covered truck to get there.
Tim gave him a very lost look. "Michael was right." He said in a detached voice. "I've gone native."
He squinted at Tim. "Is that…a good thing?"
"Not for me."
"…Okay." Tony picked up his discarded fork and began to twirl it expertly between his fingers. "Let's pretend I know absolutely nothing about what's going on," Oh, wait. We don't have to pretend. "Use small words with me, McGee."
"I always do."
Tony attempted to give him a disgruntled look, but it missed the mark and belly flopped into relieved at some show of life from the McGee he knew and, secretly, and in a very manly way, mind you, loved. Tim gave him a flowerpot smile.
"I'm Death, Tony"
"I'm caught up that far, McObvious."
"I'm Death," Tim repeated pointedly ignoring Tony's remark. "I am The End." One could clearly hear the capitalized T and E. "I'm the Reaperman, and when the universe eventually dies, I will be there to reap it. I'm beyond Lucifer, beyond all the angels, all the demons, beyond even God, and when it ends, when Heaven and Hell collapse, I will reap them all."
"You're going to kill, God."
"I don't kill-" Tim started, indignation rolling off him in waves.
"Yeah, yeah, you take souls on a romantic dinner date, or whatever you call it." Tony interrupted and waved away Tim's irritation. "You're going to-" He flapped his hand. "-to God?"
The anger washed off Tim's face. "Yes."
After a minute or two of complete lack of any more explanation, Tony carefully tucked away his skeptical expression, he had a feeling that he'd be using a lot more tonight anyway, and leaned against the table. "Okay, fine. You're going to watch us all take a dirt nap. Great. Continue."
Tim pressed his lips tightly together in a hard line at the toneless quality of Tony's voice but didn't comment on it. "That's what I'm supposed to do. What I know I'm going to do. It's the purpose I now exist to fulfill. But I'm…Tony, I…" A contorted expression tore its way onto Tim's face, anxiety and indecision and anguish roiling horribly at the surface. "I'm having doubts!" He spit out, hands roughly balling the table cloth, eyes wide and pleading. The few patrons still eating at the restaurant so late looked up, startled. Tony glared at them until they turned away.
Tim didn't notice and shakily ran a hand through his hair. "Never, since the first day of this entire universe, have I ever had…doubts about what I'm doing, and then nine years living among humans, and everything goes belly up. Nine years. You know what that's like for me? It's barely a second, barely a fraction of the total amount of time I've existed!" Tim sounded frantic, almost in tears of frustration and desperation. It was as close to a loss of complete control that Tony had ever seen from him. "I'm the end. Without me, there can't be a beginning! If I can't do my job…then we're all lost."
"And that means…?"
"Without Death, there can't be life."
"…So, you're not sure what'll happen?"
Tim stared at Tony for a second before saying, rather helplessly, "It'll be bad. Worse than bad." He paused before adding, "Think, end of everything. Time and reality torn apart-"
"Human sacrifice? Dogs and cats living together? Mass hysteria?"
Tim gave Tony a look so sharp that if it were any sharper, Tony was sure he'd be in nice, evenly sized ribbons. "I'm not kidding, Tony. I wish I was." He said in an even voice.
"Okay," Tony said, relatively calmly. "We just need to get you your mojo back."
Tim shut his eyes. "…I don't think I can."
"You don't think you can." Tony repeated. "C'mon, I'm sure it's just like riding a bike." He paused. "Though if you don't know how to ride a bike, we may have a problem."
"You humans," Tim smiled, soft, fond, alien. He turned his head, and shadows raced across the crevices of his face. The smile turned into a grimace of pain. "Clever and cruel, violent and passionate, inventive and destructive. And I've…fallen for you."
"You've what?!"
"I've fallen for the human race."
Tony blinked. "McGee," He raised a hand that shook slightly and gestured the waitress over for the bill on their untouched food. "I hate to say it, but I'm way out of my league with this one." He glanced at the bill, gave it another longer, more horrified look, and decided that they'd split it. Tony set down the bill. "Okay, so your job is to kill people," He said slowly, tremendous weight in every word. "But now you can't because you've…fallen in love with the people you're supposed to kill." Tim didn't even bother to correct him on the killing thing, just allowed his face to lower into his cupped hands.
"Pretty much." Came the muffled reply. "Close enough, anyway. God, what am I going to do?"
"Are you asking me, or the Big Man?"
"Both." Tim roughly rubbed his face and inadvertently looked skyward. "But I'm not sure I'd like his opinion. No one likes to go to their parent and admit they were wrong. That they did something so stupid."
"Yeah, I've been there." Tony said, tight posture relaxing as they strode into a more familiar area. "So, God's your old man?"
Tim grimaced. "Yes. Sort of."
"Choosing a Father's Day gift must be hell." Tony commented lightly. A smile bloomed slowly across Tim's face. "What do you get for the man who created everything? A tie's probably out of the question." Tim laughed, it was a sad, stunted thing, but it was carefree and genuine. "Does God even wear ties? I mean, if I was…God, it'd be casual Friday 24/7." He paused and continued, quite seriously. "You know what, I'd go commando. It's not like anyone's going to tell you to go put something on." Tony joined in laughing with Tim, the last words breaking up under the onslaught.
The realization that they couldn't stop, dawned on both men at exactly the same time and they laughed even harder, levees broken. It was the kind of laughter that perched on the fence between actual amusement and hysteria, wobbling and swaying childishly to either side but not committing to either. Tony pounded the table weakly with a fist, and Tim bent double over, gasping for breath.
"Stop, stop, Tony…you're killing me!" Tim wheezed, a few errant chuckles escaping.
"Hypocrite!" Tony said thinly, and laughed again. Tim dissolved into soft giggles, head cradled in a hand, the other anchored to the table in a fruitless attempt to keep himself upright. "Do your own damn job, McGee." The moment the words left his mouth, Tony knew he had inadvertently touched a nerve.
The air seemed to solidify around them for a moment, leaving Tony's lungs burning, and Tim stiffened for a moment. Then his shoulders shook silently. Tony vaguely wondered if it was from laughter, sobs, or both. His own mirth quickly petered off.
There was a pause that contained an entire novel of information, and then, "I'm trying." The statement was soberingly emphatic. Tim didn't look up as he said it. His shaking shoulders stilled, and he finally raised his head, eyes very sad, but also vacant of anything relating to tears.
"McGee, I didn't-"
"I know. It's fine, Tony. Forget it."
Tony watched Tim seriously. "So that's it." Tim didn't meet his eyes. "The world's going to end. Just like that. And there's nothing we can do."
"No." The unspoken apology lay flush between them, and then dissolved.
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"I don't know. Very, very soon. Maybe even tonight." An examining pause. "Tonight. I can feel it." He raised his head. It was like the moon rising over the horizon, shining, pale and sad in the darkness.
"Fuck, Tim." Tony couldn't help the hopelessness that permeated his entire body, drowning his words in numbing pain, astoundingly resistant to formerly reliable methods of blocking. Of shoving it down, burying it, letting it decay. No, it sat heavy upon his tongue, in his lungs, swaying along to the beating of his heart. "Will we see it coming? Like…2012 kind of thing?"
"I don't think so. Everything will just…become undone. Like pulling a loose thread." Tim added, dream-like.
"Damn. It's pretty cliché, but I have to say it…I had so much I wanted to do." Tony gave an empty smile.
"I'm sorry, Tony."
Tim then silently retrieved his wallet to pay for the entire bill, expression utterly hopeless. Tony watched without a word. And really, what was there to say?
The waitress must have noticed their roller coaster of reactions throughout their oddly long meal, and watched them with an uncertain grin as they quietly paid her. The younger man gave her a smile messily strung together with dead dreams, and draped with rotting expectations. He then politely wished her a good night.
She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave, and watched as they departed together into the night, watched until it swallowed them whole, then watched a little while after. She wasn't sure why. There had been something about the younger man's eyes. They were green, a pretty shade really, intelligent and analytical, but odd, like…a fire. Like the act of burning a house down, the harsh scent of gasoline searing the nostrils, seeing the flames eagerly strip away everything, leaving only a skeleton behind, charred and fragile and…dead. That was it. There was no life, no spark of liveliness within their confines, they were just dead. Barren.
She tried to forget them. They didn't matter, just another nice couple. They were a bit…eccentric, but who wasn't? But the things they were talking about…she only caught a few words, but…
She paused at their table, and stared at the dead flowers draped sadly over the edge of their tiny vase.
They were fine a half hour ago.
She touched a soft, fading petal.
And tried to forget.