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Ronald’s brow wrinkled as he stared up at the gold plaque on the door to William’s office. Oh, to have one of these! His eyes traced every line of the text engraved upon its polished surface. As his thoughts drifted, he repeated the name upon it internally - one known to every Reaper at the Dispatch.
William T. Spears.
A man so private, so reticent, so guarded that even his middle name remained unknown. The plaque gleamed in the watery afternoon light that streamed through one of the window’s partly open sashes into the otherwise dingy office.
This afternoon was a taxing one indeed. He, Grelle, Alan, Eric, and Othello were still poring over the reports from the previous evening. Only the seemingly endless supply of piping-hot coffee and their shift's end being near continued to fuel their resolve. With four hours left, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander.
Had he not, he'd have died of sheer boredom already.
Grelle, still at her workstation, seemed to share his sentiments. She was reclined in her chair, heeled feet propped up on her desk, painting her nails a bright crimson reminiscent of freshly spilled blood. Alan blearily rubbed at his eyes, taking yet another swig of coffee. Stubborn as ever, the last thing he'd do despite his exhaustion was take a break - especially not with so much left to do. Othello's mind seemed to be adrift as well. He was leafing through a newspaper from the human realm, absently taking notes with his other hand. Eric, however, was entirely immersed in his paperwork, eyes narrowed in thought as he worked.
Ronald looked towards at the door again.
What was the "T" for, anyway?
This rather trivial question was the subject of much speculation among the Dispatch. Despite numerous attempts and guesses, none of them knew. And naturally, given the nature of boredom, even the most inconsequential matters piqued their interest. He absently found himself voicing his musings out loud. ‘I gotta admit I’ve always wondered what the “T” stood for, I have…’ He gestured to the door as Alan and Othello looked up at him.
‘As have I,’ Eric glanced up from his paperwork, peering at him over his spectacles. ‘Not somethin’ to worry 'bout when you got all that paperwork waitin’, though.’ He pointed to a pile of papers atop Ronald’s desk, which - as per usual - was most terribly cluttered. Ronald cringed inwardly as he surveyed the mess: rainbow-hued sweet wrappers, glossy photographs of scantily clad women, and an abundance of pens and paperclips that he'd let accumulate over time. He’d often tell himself he’d clean it all up - yet he seldom did.
If only he could live up to his word. But what was he to do when other daily engagements proved to be obstacles?
‘I…’ Damn it.
‘Don’t gimme tha’ look, I saw you walk past and leave it all on Alan's desk.’ Ronald attempted to respond, only to sigh again, wilting beneath Eric’s gaze like one of the many oft-neglected houseplants back at his flat. Promising himself he'd prune and water them after returning, he usually ended up collapsing onto the couch and falling asleep before changing into his pyjamas.
‘Ya got me.’ Ronald sighed. ‘I’d finished my share yesterday - and seven more hours of overtime. Seven! With these humans droppin’ like flies, I’m not gonna get a moment’s rest.’ Even the damned deserved some reprieve - but that was something none of them would have anytime soon.
‘So it’s only fair I had some, well… assistance. Besides, this is the fifth day in a row I sent in my daily reports on time. And that only shows just how much I’ve improved. I do try, y’know.’
The look on Eric’s face, however, was most unimpressed. ‘Mere prattle without practice, Knox. Mere prattle without practice.' Somehow, he could've sworn he'd heard the exact same phrase before... 'Haven’t sent in yours today, though... have you?’ he asked, an eyebrow raised.
Ronald glanced at Othello wordlessly, still grappling for a comeback. When he faced Eric once more, his ears burned with shame.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is an accusation which is not only unjust, but also untrue. And for goodness sake, you sound exactly like Mister Spears!' So much for his attempt to remain in denial.
‘And you sound like a child.’ Eric returned to his paperwork.
Ronald turned to Othello, lowering his voice to a whisper. 'And how d’you deal with him? How?’
Othello only shrugged, reaching for another piece of liquorice from the glass jar upon his desk. He popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘After spending that much time around these two,’ he gestured to Eric and Grelle, ‘you’re all but accustomed to it.
‘Thus, to quote my Shakespearean namesake,’ he continued through a mouthful of liquorice, ‘my heart is turn’d to stone: I strike it, and it hurts my hand.’ He slapped a hand against his chest for emphasis, giving Grelle a wry smile. ‘Especially as she, ever the termagant, shall never spare me.'
Grelle gasped, feigning indignation. ‘Darling, I’ve been nothing but agreeable ever since I returned. Is this how you still regard me?’ She brought a hand to her chest, feigning hurt. ‘I, for one, expected better from you.’
‘Alas, I continue to disappoint.’ Othello's smile remained jocularly rueful.
‘Now,' Ronald said, 'where were we? Yes... what's the "T" in the boss's name stand for, anyway? Been wondering for lord knows how long, and I know the rest have, too.'
Grelle tapped a red-lacquered fingernail against the edge of her desk. 'I'd rather do anything but paperwork right now, and I'm sure it's the same for you… so let's see which one of you three guess correctly first, shall we?’ She swivelled around in her chair to face them fully. ‘Take note, Ronnie - nothing adds to a man's appeal like a sense of mystery.'
'Right.'
Othello nodded. 'I, as per usual, already do know too - but I can't help but wonder about everyone else's speculations.'
'You do?' Ronald's eyes widened. But this was Othello, after all - he knew far more than he usually let on.
Grelle chuckled. 'Now, it'd be most amusing to see you try.'
Ronald drummed his fingers against his desk, racking his brain for an answer. ‘I’d say… Tiberius.’
‘Oh, heavens, no!' Grelle snorted. 'There's no man who's less of a Tiberius than our Will.’
‘Timothy?’
Alan shook his head. ‘More of a Theodore to me.’
‘Thomas. It’s gotta be Thomas,’ Eric said. Can’t think of anythin’ more fittin’. Conventional, jus’ like the man himself.’
'Wrong, wrong, wrong, and…’ Grelle paused to examine her impeccably painted nails. ‘Wrong again.’
Alan gave her a pointed look. 'Amusing as this was, I still have paperwork left over. Now, I'll need to spend even more time trying to get it all done.'
'It's almost four, anyway - lot more left to finish for me as well.’ Eric glanced at the clock upon the wall. 'Besides, he's kept it secret too bloody well for me to think he likes it.'
'Indeed.' Her face split into a grin. She reached for the file upon her table, thumbing through it idly.
'And, for the record, it's Tybalt. William Tybalt Spears.'
Tybalt?
Made sense, though... he vaguely recalled something she once nonchalantly said about Spears's father being a Shakespeare buff. During that very moment, all he could envision was William’s icy stare; all he could hear was that one line in his clear, frigid voice: turn thee, Ronald, look upon thy death.
Heck, that surely could've been him the day before, when he'd shown up at Ronald's desk to chastise him for yet another overdue daily report.
He never expected to be able to envision Will quoting Tybalt Capulet. That would be something for Grelle to do instead.
One may ask what’s in a name, but this was a most fitting one indeed.