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Title: Tradition
Author: Syn
E-Mail: veruca_werewolf@hotmail.com
Fandom: Dead Like Me
Rating: PG-13
Content: George/Rube friendship
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: George, Rube and a college prank gone awry.
Author's Note: Yes, I ship George and Rube, though this story isn't terribly shippy. This is also my first Dead Like Me fic. I hope I got the character's voices down.
Feedback: I'd appreciate it.

This is the reason I quit college.

Well, one of many. But mostly because of this.

I hate bullshit group traditions. What's the point of stuffing people into a phone booth anyway? To give the little geek on the bottom permanent claustrophia so that when he's fifty and homeless because his Internet company went under, he can't even live in a box without freaking out?

Maybe that's over thinking it a little. But it is a bullshit tradition.

"Coffee, Peanut?"

I turn to look at Rube, standing at my left. His eyes are glued to the group of rambunctious collegians hopped up on ecstasy and school pride as they attempt to maneuver themselves into the crush inside the phone booth. In his hands are two Styrofoam cups of steaming hot coffee. Black, no sugar. "Take it already, my fingers are melting."

I obey, taking a cup from his hands, hot liquid sloshing over the sides and dribbling down my fingers. His dark eyes glitter in the streetlight as he watches the scene. I struggle to find something to say.

"So...why are they doing this?"

Rube turns his attention me, a small smile on his lips. "Tradition and pride, I guess."

"Why are they proud of this, though?"

"Its not the act of stuffing themselves into the booth, its the fact that they care enough to do it. Its for good luck. The Westmark Rams never lose a game, or so I hear." He says, taking a tentative drink of his coffee. He grimaces at the bitter taste and tosses it away with a splash. I glance down at my own cup warily.

"So...a stupid football team wins every year because a bunch of idiots stuff themselves into a phone booth?" I ask as I dump my own cup out in one of the tree planters that line the street. About twenty feet away, the students manage to weave one more person into the rapidly filling booth.

"Nail on the head, Peanut."

"That is so lame."

"Maybe so, maybe no." Rube says in his dismissive way. "Sometimes tradition is all we have."

"Is this going to turn into a metaphorical speech about my duties as a reaper? Cause if it is, I'd like to pass."

"Take it however you want."

I know exactly how he meant it. This is the part where I do some soul-searching and find meaning in what he's saying. Forget that.

"We got a couple minutes." Rube says, glancing at his watch with a business-like shake of his head.

"Oh, goody." I say sarcastically, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets, the crackle of the yellow post-it notes an instant reminder of why we're here. I've a Grim Reaper for a while now, but the shock of what I have to do is no less than it was the first time.

I kill people. My stomach churns.

"So, how are you and Daisy getting along?" He asks out of the blue. It always touches me that he cares so much. I shrug and scuffle my feet on the wet pavement.

"Better now. I still think she's nuts. She stole a car!" I wail, as if to drive home my point. Rube's tiny smirk twitches in amusement.

"Heard about that. She's definitely a character. She still pushing you around?"

"No."

He glances sharply at me, as if not believing me. I look away from his glittering, dark stare and bite down on my lip. Why does he always make me feel so small compared to him? Like I'm constantly trying to be good enough and not disappoint him. I'm not sure why I care so much though. Why should I? It's just a stupid job and he's just my stupid pseudo-boss.

Rube watches me for a second, his hands in the pockets of his dark slacks, a warm, fuzzy sweater making his arms look bulky and a little muscular. "Don't let her run you down. You were here first."

"Not according to her. She has been undead since the thirties."

"Yeah but this is your territory. Now you've got to mark it and let her know she's on your turf."

"What? You want me to piss on a dead body or something?"

"If it makes you feel better." He says with a shrug, and then glances at his watch. "Show time."

My stomach gives a little flutter. I hate this part.

Rube walks forward, wading into the laughing crowd at the corner of Westmark Avenue and College Row, all of them attempting to find a space inside the phone booth. There are about seven or so in there--from what I can see. The inside is all fogged up from everyone's breath. Talk about carbon monoxide poisoning. Huh. Maybe that's how they're gonna go...

"Excuse me! Hi, yes." Rube says, taking on that commanding, no-nonsense voice he's so good at. He walks forward, holding up his hands and attracting attention to himself. The students stop what they're doing, glancing up at him. "Hey, how are you doing? I'm a reporter from the Sun-Times and I'm doing an article on the Rams' rather impressive winning streak. I wonder if I could interview everyone involved in this wonderful little tradition?"

"Dude, that's totally cool!" Says some blonde surfer reject with "male-slut" written all over him. "Sure you can!"

"Good, good." Rube says, turning to me and I, like an idiot, am like a deer caught in headlights. "Milly, you wanna take down everyone's names? For the article?"

"Uh...sure. Yeah." I mumble, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a stolen Happy Time pen from between the folds of the post-it notes. Immediately, I go through the motions of being Rube's assistant, shaking hands, reaching into the cramped, body-warmed phone booth to touch arms and legs, verifying names and trying not to look at faces while Rube does the same. There are thirty people here, ten post-it notes and only seven in the booth...

I've always been good at math and I know something doesn't add up. After shaking the last hand while Rube does the same, I see it.

Dark, brownish/grayish/black, changing, gnashing teeth, small beady eyes and a terrifying disposition. It moves like a snake, like a monkey, like a demon across the coffee shop to our right.

If Rube sees it, he ignores it and keeps talking, pretending to write the article, always willing to keep the act up. I stop what I'm doing and watch, always interested, strangely fascinated to see how its going to happen. Who knew death could be so perversely entertaining?

The graveling snarls, makes its little noises and leaps onto the phone booth. Imperceptively, it rocks on its concrete foundation, the pavement cracking little by little. The strange little creature jumps again, pounding into the side like some weird, pissed off spider.

It rocks again, a small tremble, as another student attempts to climb in, curling his legs up like one of those roly-poly bugs I used to find in my mom's garden. Someone else goes low, legs weaving into the throng, head hanging out slightly. That's nine. One more to go...

The graveling rocks the booth one more time as Rube comes up beside me. He glances at his watch with a grim expression on his face.

Unlucky number ten, the blonde surfer male-slut who likes to speak for everyone, walks forward. The ground beneath his feet cracks wide, like the San Andreas Fault. His hands touch the frame of the narrow door and it happens.

The phone booth, used for thirty-odd years to bring luck to the Westmark Rams, has had enough.

It topples like a tower, concrete cracking into huge hunks, dust spraying, glass shattering and people screaming. The blonde male-slut falls backward as the booth crushes him to the ground. I flinch as it comes to a rest, half-on the street, half-off.

Rube's hand slides into mine out of nowhere. I glance at him, but he's watching the scene with an impassive expression on his face. It's so hard to read him sometimes. He squeezes my hand and I find the strength to turn back to the phone booth.

Half in the street and half on the sidewalk isn't the best position ever. Just about everyone in the booth is still alive and I know something, something is coming.

The graveling comes out of nowhere, ramming into the exposed bottom of the phone booth. It slides over the crushed mess of the blonde surfer and into the street before any of the other students watching in horror can move.

The graveling gives a morbid smile and disappears in a whiff of smoke just as a speeding garbage truck rounds the corner at College Row. Screams fill the air and the surging crowd of students cuts off the sight of the phone booth being smashed to bits under the garbage trucks wheels.

"Holy shit." I manage around the lump in my throat.

"That was different." Rube says with a nod.

"What the hell happened?" The blonde asks at my left and I jump, still not used to that hazard of the job.

"The Rams' good luck streak just ended, I think." Rube says, gathering all the shocked participants of the prank.

"That totally sucks! We were gonna beat Amesbury's ass!" He says, pumping his fist in the air. The rest of the students follow, pride and tradition even in death. I flinch at the sound of them cheering over the shocked screams of the students left in the wake of the accident.

"Come on, Peanut. These guys have places to go." Rube says, letting go of my hand with a wink. He starts to walk forward, but the blonde grabs his arm.

"You're not gonna put this in your article are you?"

"No. But I bet there'll be something in the obits. Come on, son." Rube says gently, leading them all away with me trailing behind, my hands stuffed in my pockets. The post-its crickle-crack against my fists, little guilty sounds that make my heart thump in my throat.

I don't know how Rube does it with such confidence, such assurance. It doesn't seem to bother Mason at all or Roxy most of the time, though I know she isn't as unaffected and distanced as she'd like me to think. Betty had always done it with a smile, like she really, truly cared for them. Daisy could give a crap less. As long as she doesn't break a nail, she's fine with it.

Why am I so different? Why does this get to me?

I swallow hard and watch as each soul finds its place, the lights dancing across my eyes, dazzling me, and making me homesick for some reason. Rube stands at my left again, and, as each light disappears into nothing, he wraps his arm around me, bulky sweater a soft cushion.

I look up at him through my bangs and he smiles tight-lipped. "Let's get some waffles."

I manage a smile just for him and push my guilty feelings into a little ball in the pit of my stomach. I won't let this get to me.

Just for him.