The desert floor is hot beneath Kelly's feet, radiating up even through the soles of his loafers.

He doesn't bother saying his feet are burning. There's no point.

He glances over at Scotty and Bashik, still slogging on beneath the pitiless Nevada sun. Sun's shining and it's a lovely day, the inane phrase runs through his head. Bah, humbug. What he wouldn't give for some good ol' stormy weather right now. Rain. Water. But he can't think of that, because that way lies madness. Beyond his burning feet, his burned and blistered face, is the all-encompassing agony of thirst – nothing tangible, just a cry for water that consumes his very bones, and nothing to wet it, no cool stream, no pool of water, no moisture to quench the dry scrape in his body, only heat and sand…

He hopes Scotty and Bashik, genetically slightly better-equipped than he is for this climate, are suffering less. But his partner's stopped sweating, he notes: a danger sign. Dehydration. If no-one finds them soon…

His feet shuffle through the sand, forced onward by his dumb mind, refusing to give up even though there's clearly no hope. He wonders what it'll be like if this really is the end. Not with a bang but a whimper. Not with a bang but a whimper. Thinking in circles; not a good sign.

Water. That fishing trip in Lake Tahoe. A lake of sweet water. Scotty diving in, emerging dripping wet, soaked. Should have jumped in with him. Had no idea how sweet water was, then. He knows now. Had no idea how much Scotty meant to him. He knows now. Knows, and regrets it. If it were only him, well, it's not an entirely unfitting end – not really unexpected or incongruous for him, Kelly, to meet his end at enemy hands, here in the Nevada desert. But Scotty – now that's a damned shame. He should have gotten out of this business, found himself a girl and a white picket fence. If anyone was made for the American Dream, it was Scotty.

He brings himself up sharply. No thinking in the past tense. They'll get back.

Half an hour later, Kelly amends it. Bashik and Scotty are going strong, but he's stumbled more than once. He's just glad Scotty's too far ahead to notice. He doesn't want his main man to mourn, to feel bad. He knows Scotty will, if he doesn't tell him he's made his peace, made his choice – made it years ago, really. He wonders if Scotty will heed a simple instruction like Get out of this job. Be happy. Probably laugh right in his face. Still, he has to try.

"Scotty," he grates. Nothing comes out, and he tries again. "Scotty."

Scotty can't hear him, and he closes his fool mouth, wondering what the hell he was thinking. He's going to fight till the bitter end, he knows it, but part of being a good agent means accepting death. He's accepted it ever since he first put that X on the ol' dotted line. Before, even. And now, he can see his man the Grim Reaper in the corner of his eye, walking alongside him… ten feet tall, larger than life—funny, that. Larger than life. Ha. But there he is, towering form looming large above him, the flicker of his scythe glinting in the reflections from the heat-haze… glinting…

"Hi, Mort," Kelly blusters, finding a grin. "I can call you Mort, can't I? Sounds better'n 'Mr. Reaper'." There's only impassivity in response. "Maybe not."

The figure stops and turns to face him, the hooded face in darkness.

Because I could not stop for Death—

He kindly stopped for Me—

Kelly blinks up into the sun. It's not hot any more, it's started to cool down. Perhaps it's the chill the Reaper's spreading with his presence. He ought to call Scotty over into the coolness—No, he doesn't want him anywhere near the Reaper. He wants to talk to Death alone. What was he saying? Talk to him alone, talk to him…

"Hey, man," Kelly whispers, knowing the Reaper can hear him. "Can I persuade you to hold off for a while on that guy over there?"

The hooded figure, no more than a shadow in the unholy glare, turns, staring.

Kelly knows that Death will not speak, so he continues, trying to sound persuasive. "He's got places to go, things to do. He's got a mom, a sister, a brother… He's gotta take care of them, you know. And his Mom wants grandchildren…" The image of Mom, crying over her son, makes him almost want to weep himself, only he has no tears. He looks impassively at death, shivering in the chill, trying to control himself.

Then he sees before him the image of the open casket, Scotty laid out, and terror loosens his tongue. "Don't, man. Don't take him yet. Look, I'll… I mean, if you gotta take someone…" He looks up at the dark figure with the scythe. "It's not like I don't know where… y'know… where I'm headed, guess you could say…" He gives a devil-may-care grin, shakes his head. "You gotta want to get back at me, man, all the years I've cheated you. There you'd be, just waiting, and I'd wriggle out of it. Again and again and again. Bet that hurts, huh?"

He's so tired; so tired. Somehow, during his monologue, he's sunk to the ground: there's sand underneath his body. It should be burning, but it's as cool as the air around him. That's a relief – it means the Reaper's still there, still with him, spreading his coolness. His eyes flicker toward Scotty again, this time in alarm as something occurs to him. "I know he's cheated you, too, but that's our job. We cheat Death. Just the breaks. You get that, don't you?"

The figure looming above him makes no sound, and he struggles to make him understand. "See, it's different. He cheats you because he wants to live. He's got something to accomplish in this life, a duty, he's gonna have kids, be… alive. Me, it's just cussedness. I won't go down without a fight. And I know how to win. You leave him, you're gonna get him, sooner or later, but when he's eighty or something, with a houseful of kids. Me, you get a chance to get back at the cat who keeps cheating you out of damn stubbornness. Right here, right now. So now's your chance, man. You got me where you want me. What'll it be?"

He looks up into the Reaper's eyes, bright and glaring like twin suns, wavering like a heat haze, and sees him raise his scythe. It comes down in a glittering arc, cutting through the air like chopper blades, and he knows no more.

The sensation of death is beyond compare.

Kelly's always thought it would be a relief, but he never dreamed it would be this sweet. No more thirst, no more fighting, no more hurting, no more struggling, just rest, and comfort. It feels like lying in a tender embrace, like being cradled in loving arms, like someone murmuring to you and stroking your hair. Like cool water to your lips, like cool water on your face, the sweet music of choirs of angels singing the Temple fight song—

Something's wrong with this picture.

As he shifts in the blessedly cool sheets, the gentle fingers withdraw from his hair. He searches a bit, locates his eyelids, forces them to crack open. "You," he says accusingly, "do not look like St. Peter."

The languid tones are amused. "Never figured you for one of those folks who believe St. Peter's gotta be a white man."

"You know perfectly well what I mean, wiseguy." Kelly blinks again. "Got no halo, for one thing."

"Huh. Knew I was missin' something."

"Nice try." He rolls his head back and forth on what must be Scotty's arm, and looks around: air conditioner purring along, modern, well-appointed room, drip running into his arm… "This the royal accommodations?"

"Nothing but the best for us dried prunes."

"Speak for yourself. I'm a dried apric…" Kelly swallows. "Anything a man can wet his whistle with around…" The cool water is already at his lips, and he luxuriates in its life-giving wetness. When he's done, he gives a sigh of contentment.

"That's good, don't talk," Scotty says softly, "just rest for a spell."

"Do I look like a magician to you?"

"Well, a comedian you ain't." His partner smoothes a damp cloth over his brow, and he sighs with contentment. "The doc said you shouldn't talk, because…" he waits a beat. "Because it might have an adverse effect on the mental health of those around, you, y'see."

"That's rich, coming from…" The word shook something loose in his mind. "How's the King?"

"Ol' Bashik? Fine and dandy. Done some growing up in the last twenty-four hours."

"Thanks to you," Kelly breathes.

"Both of us, man. Don't…" Scotty's voice darkens. "Don't sell yourself short."

There's something in the voice, but Kelly can't place it. "What's eating you?" he mutters.

"Nothing," says Scotty, impenetrable as a bottomless abyss. "Nothin' at all."

Kelly blinks, but is too tired to search for the root of the upset. Later, he promises himself. He shifts in Scotty's hold, trying to recapture what he was dreaming of just before he regained consciousness, but it's gone. "You okay, man?"

"Me? I'm fine. Don't worry about me." There it is again, that strange unhappiness in the tone. Kelly can't fathom it.

But he hasn't the energy to. He leans back into Scotty's arm and closes his eyes.

Mort hitches up the bottom of his black robe, trying to get some sun. Of course, his fish-belly-white legs will never tan, but the warmth is comforting, just the same.

"Aren't we going to get going?" whines the boy with him. "I want to be there for her when she goes!"

"She's not going anywhere till I get there," Mort rolls his eyes, "so you can just shut up."

The young Romeo falls silent and pouts, and Mort looks down into the room. He's glad it wasn't these men's time, yet. He wonders if it was cheating, to nudge the villains into getting a helicopter and going out to rescue, er, check on, their intended victims. Maybe, but it's not like he hasn't cheated a time or two, before. What difference does it make? They'll shuffle off this mortal coil in the end, and clear up some space so the world doesn't get overcrowded. No harm waiting a few years, letting them spread some love in the world. That kind of selfless love and joy is rare, and there needs to be someone maintaining the quota. Not something you can figure out with a calculator, and he doesn't care how good Gabriel is with his new-fangled adding-machine. Some immortals still like to do it the old-fashioned way, thank you very much.

And speaking of good energy, he can feel it in a palpable field coming from the room, even through the roof; there's something heartening about the way the dark man leans over the pale one, offering his life energy, his heart, his soul, his laughter, his love, all and more if it will revitalize this friend of his.

Mort smiles, a little sheepishly; he knows he shouldn't have nudged the white man to talk in his sleep, to repeat the offer he made Mort in the desert, but Mort wanted the man's friend to know about his willingness to make that sacrifice for him.

Only the friend doesn't look suitably awed, as most people are when they learn of such sacrifices; he looks… exasperated.

Huh. Mortals. He'll never figure them out.

AN: Stolen? What say you of stolen? Let me put it this way: This isn't a crossover with Terry Pratchett unless you've read Terry Pratchett.