Death's Problem Is Harry's Problem
The air thins around them.
"I didn't know that was going to happen!"
Innocent bystanders start choking.
"How was I supposed to know your touch was deadly? It didn't do anything to me."
Cold, coal-black eyes stare at the corpse.
"I said I can fix it, and I will, so there's no need for such dramatics, really."
The bystanders try crawling away, faces purpling.
"He should be coming back soon anyway, right?" Harry tries to reason, feeling a bit of apprehension mix in with his guilt. Just how long does it take for this man to revive? Does it matter that his cause of death is Death herself? Surely that wouldn't make it permanent.
He's becoming less sure of it the longer they stand there, staring at the mercenary, no hint of life forthcoming, and a useless apology gets lodged in his throat. He doesn't think it'll be appreciated.
Nervously glancing between Death's unnaturally still form and Deadpool's body sprawled out on the sidewalk, he thinks he'd better retreat to some deep, dark hole in some deep, dark dimension where he can hide for the next century or so. That ought to cool her temper a bit, Harry hopes silently as he takes slow steps away from Death.
But then -
"Urrrrk," the mercenary thankfully gurgles, fingers twitching.
"Oh merciful Merlin," Harry exclaims in relief, bounding up to Death and nudging her arm. "See, he's fine. No damage done, eh?"
Death gives him a look of such disdain that something shrivels up and turns to dust inside him. He tries not to take it personally, considering her 'one true love' is currently drooling all over the pavement as his motor functions return to him, but he knows how wrathful Death can be when she wants to be. And she certainly looks like she wants to decorate this dimension with his ashes.
"What I want," Death says, pinning him in place with her dark, simmering gaze. "Is to touch my beloved without killing him."
Harry winces, nodding quickly, and summons his magic for a quick diagnostic. While that's going, he gently takes one of her tattooed arms, inspecting the dark, swirling runes branded there and tries to make sense of the elegant lines. Runes has never been his best subject, even now, and he knows this is one of the pitfalls of performing magic with nothing more than intuition. Trying to unravel what he'd done instinctively would take some time... "Yes, right, I'll just have to -"
"Wooowza!" Deadpool slurs, head lolling as he heaves himself onto his elbows. Harry lifts an eyebrow at the loopy grin that stretches across diseased skin, wondering how the man could possibly find this situation at all pleasing. "What kind of supernatural smooch was that? Because hot damn, lady, I'm ready for another hit!"
Ah, a masochist.
Death sends him a flat look and Harry abandons his mental shields because, obviously, they're useless at the moment. He's too distracted with trying to make sense of these blasted runes, he can't concentrate on keeping his shields in place.
"Allow me to make it easier," Death intones, shaking off his grip with ease, and glides over to the downed mercenary.
Scoffing, Harry watches her kneel by the man's side, very pointedly not touching him, and she begins whispering in a soothing tone he's never heard before. He watches as something lights up inside her, her features coming alive and warm, a soft smile gracing her lips for the ridiculous man who whispers back with a besotted aurora about him. They only have eyes for each other and, absurdly, it makes him nostalgic about his own wife - he remembers what it's like to look at someone like they're the only thing that matters, like they complete a part of you you didn't know was missing, like they're the moon and stars. Looking at them, at how brightly they shine together, Harry knows it would be a crime to snuff out such a deep, innocent love.
Try as he might, he can't help the fondness or the protectiveness that buds in his chest for them. Of course, as he'll come to learn, such sentiments don't survive very long in the presence of Wade Wilson.
"You mean we can't bang?" Deadpool whines. "No sexy times?"
Harry takes a breath and resists the urge to strangle the man.
Death solemnly shakes her head. "No, my sweet."
"How about Netflix and chill, or some aggressive cuddling?"
"No."
"We could polish the unicorn's horn, or slam the clam!"
"I'm afraid not."
"No adult nap-time? Peeling the banana? Poking the Wookie? Oh, wait, you know you wanna ride the Bony Express! Come on, baby, let's get biblical!"
"Not until my master has gotten rid of this abhorrent affliction," Death gestures to her skin, then throws an accusing look Harry's way. Following her stare, the red-spandex man rolls his head around to give him a sharp grin that holds the promise of pain, and, if that wasn't enough, his voice comes out gravelly and dark.
"Master, huh? Sounds kinky, but I'm not angling for a threesome with discount Radcliffe over here."
Raising an eyebrow at that, and the violent and possessive thoughts being broadcast rather loudly, along with an extra voice or two, Harry looks down at the mortal with all the weight of his disinterest. "You needn't worry about that, Mr. Wilson, I assure you." Turning to Death, he softens and sighs for the umpteenth time. "It may take a bit of time, but I can fix this. I promise."
"How long," she states more than asks, but at least she seems mollified.
Opening his mouth to respond, ready to reassure Death that it shouldn't take too long, Harry catches the hopeful way Deadpool is holding himself. A terrible idea sinks its claws into him before he can stop it. His lips curl mischievously. "Can't say. I'll need to do some research. Could be months. Maybe even years."
"Oh come on," Deadpool groans, dropping back onto the pavement with an audible thunk.
Harry smiles.