Bring Me A Dream

"Master, I think I'm in love."

"Not with me, I hope," comes the immediate response, delivered rather dryly by a youthful, green-eyed man. 'Man' being a loose term, but Harry isn't concerned much with semantics. Not anymore. "No offense, but you're not my type."

Beside him, the cloaked figure gasps a laugh, which is quite impressive given her lack of lungs. He laughs with her.

After the rattling noise fades into the abyss, she says, "Don't flatter yourself, it doesn't suit you."

"Love doesn't suit you," he retorts shrewdly, eyes sharp and humor gone. "If I'm not mistaken, Death has no business favoring one being above all others."

Death tilts her head, calling her scythe into existence. He feels oddly like a voyeur as she strokes the handle intimately. He shifts away uncomfortably. "And what would you know of my business, young Master?"

The air between them grows cold with tension, with the blatant challenge, but Harry isn't so easily cowed. He's become inured to his companion's temper tantrums, rare though they were, so he won't waste the energy getting worked up over nothing. Casting her a flat look, he dispels her tool with nary a thought - she takes it in stride, clasping her suddenly empty hands together reservedly.

"I know enough."

"Naive," she scoffs, equal parts fond and sorrowful, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. She can be incredibly dramatic, in her own way, and he thinks this whole 'love' thing may be a part of it.

"Perhaps I am," he allows, staring off into their realm. "But you still answer to me."

Turning empty eye sockets towards him, Death gives him what he thinks is meant to be a long-suffering look. "How troubling that you should have ultimate power over me."

"Didn't ask for it," Harry replies, and there isn't too much bitterness biting his words. Huh. Must be a good day.

"Be that as it may, you are Master," the primordial being slithers closer, attitude shifting towards something sly. Her movements are smooth and coaxing as she approaches him with a lithe grace he could never mimic, nevermind his modest athletic build. Remarkably, he successfully refrains from flinching when she lays a cool, skeletal hand on his arm, all but purring her enthusiasm. He dreads what will follow. "As such, you may grant me passage to the mortal realm."

"Why would I do such a thing?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

Death's grip tightens on his arm. "So that I may meet my beloved for more than thirty seconds at a time."

It's odd, the way she phrases it, so Harry directs a questioning glance at her. What sort of mortal has the ability to meet with Death in her own realm, regularly enough to capture and maintain her interest? He knows that several mortal realms have variants of humans with special abilities, his own world of wizards included, so it isn't that much of a stretch to assume that her mortal is superhuman. Even so, the only way a human could visit Death is if they actually die, super or not. So his assumption is moot.

As if she hears his thoughts, which isn't entirely out of the question, she bares her teeth in a parody of a smile. "He dies enough that we've gotten to know each other. Sometimes, he visits me simply because he misses me."

Harry stares for a moment, letting it process that, apparently, there's a human who repeatedly dies and doesn't stay dead. He should know about that sort of thing, right? Perhaps there's some merit behind Death's calling him naive. Then he pauses, blinking as his mind registers her last sentence. "He commits suicide. To see you."

"Yes. Isn't that romantic?"

He chokes back on a hysteric laugh, unsure why he's surprised by her definition of romance. "Well, at least you haven't fallen for that Thanos fellow. Bit obsessive, isn't he?"

Death visibly recoils, intoning crisply, "That fool lusts for my power - I'm not so superficial to accept his 'gifts' as the tokens of devotion he claims them to be. No, the only one who truly appreciates me is my sweet Wade."

"Of course," Harry nods sympathetically, nurturing this new-found bud of kinship with Death. After all, he's no stranger to people becoming enamored with his potential, rather than his scrappy, cheeky personality. It was their loss.

"So you'll allow it?"

It's a decision he really shouldn't make lightly, but Harry finds himself faltering beneath the weight of hopefulness that colors Death's tone. They have a strange relationship - certainly not one befitting of the traditional master-servant bond that his job description implies - and it wouldn't be the first time he's indulged in her passing whimsies, if only because his latent paternal instincts insist that her personality is nearly identical to his daughter's. Both of them share an unparalleled serenity, even during times of challenge and mass despair; a witty, if dry, sense of humor that compliments his own; and an uncanny ability to push his buttons. He wonders whether he should be concerned that his daughter and Death would likely be great friends.

"Master?"

Harry sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Are you certain about this?"

"Yes," she says simply, and that is that.

She's serious about this human, whoever the unfortunate lad is. He silently vows to find a punishment worse than death, should this Wade person dare to break Death's heart. That is, if she doesn't get her bony claws into him first.

"Alright," he decides, elegantly dropping to the ground to lay on his back. Tucking his hands beneath his head and staring up at the illusion of a sky, he beckons Death to join him, smiling patiently. "Tell me more about him."