Chapter 1
The punch to the face is jarring, but not unexpected. The tingling at the back of his neck alerted Peter of the threat behind him—and considering he's quite literally in a battle field alongside the Avengers against these weird alien robots, he kind of assumed it'd be one of those things—but like the idiot he is, instead of jumping out of the way, he turned around in time for a robot fist to slam into his face. Too bad the mask doesn't do anything to cushion the strike.
Peter gasps at the pain and leaps out of the way of another swing. "That hurt like a mother—!"
"Language!" three voices—Tony, Steve, and Sam—chime in through the earpiece tucked in Peter's ear.
Rolling his eyes and webbing the robot to the ground, Peter says, "I was going to say trucker."
Honestly, the team should know that Peter never swears by now. He's used just about every curse word substitute in existence: fudge, frick, freak, heck, heckle, shoot, trucker, holy guacamole, etc. He's also made some up, which has definitely earned him the occasional odd look.
Before the alien robot can cut through the webs, Peter launches himself forward with his feet first and lands a forceful kick to the head. It comes clean off and clatters to the ground.
The team—made up of Peter, Natasha, Clint, Tony, Steve, Sam, and Bucky—is fighting in downtown Manhattan. It's a Tuesday afternoon, so technically Peter's supposed to be in school, but he couldn't just sit in class while his teammates were battling alone robots a few boroughs over from Midtown High. He already got chewed out by Tony as soon as he swung into action and connected to the comms but easily integrated into the fight. Through multiple other battles during the school day Tony has realized that there's no use trying to convince Peter to return to class when he has already showed up.
Peter can tell that they've almost won already. The number of robots are slowly declining, meaning Peter isn't constantly being attacked from every direction anymore. He doesn't even know why the robot aliens are there for or where they came from, but he didn't exactly have much time for a rundown before he was thrown head-first into the battle. Or, rather, before he threw himself into the battle.
After taking down a few more robots, Peter looks up, chest heaving as he catches his breath, and notices the others regrouping down the street. He brushes the dust off his suit and jogs over, avoiding rubble and broken robot parts.
"Hey guys," Peter breathes, slowing to a stop and setting his hands on his hips. "So we won, right? The fight's over?"
Clint snorts. Steve just smiles at the young hero and says, "Yeah, we won. You did good out there."
Thanks to the mask, Peter doesn't have to try to stifle the wide grin that brightens his face. Having Captain America compliment you is like the sun reaching down and giving you a big hug.
Peter doesn't think he could ever get used to it.
While Peter's still processing the compliment, Steve turns to the rest of the team and says, "We all did good—we neutralized the threat and got all the civilians out of harm's way efficiently."
Still in his suit, Tony raises a hand. "So no need for a debriefing?"
"I second that," Clint jumps in.
Normally Peter would agree; debriefings are boring as heck. It's also a time when the others make comments and critiques about performance, specifically Peter's since he's still a rookie. You didn't follow orders, you shouldn't have thrown yourself in harm's way, Sam had it covered, you took too long doing whatever, blah blah blah. Criticism is good, but Peter would be lying if he said it didn't feel like a punch in the gut. So yeah, Peter isn't a fan of debriefs, but he's actually somewhat looking forward to this one considering he doesn't know anything about the robot aliens they just fought.
Natasha rolls her eyes as Steve says, "We still need to debrief, it's protocol."
"Fine," Tony says, sighing dramatically as his suit's helmet recedes into the suit. His eyes shift to Peter and he points at him. "You're going right back to school afterwards."
"What? Why?" Peter exclaims. His voice comes out a little squeaky and he knows it makes him sound like a child. Well, at fifteen he technically is a child, but still.
"Because education is important and because I said so," is Tony's curt answer. He claps and addresses the rest of the team. "Alright, last one to the tower is a rotten egg."
Without another word, Tony's helmet covers his head and he's shooting up into the sky.
The others don't humor Tony's childish antics and head to the jet parked in the middle of the wide street. Peter happily trails after them. Upon boarding the jet, Peter finds an empty seat next to Bucky. The metal-armed man is kinda scary, but when Peter catches moments where his guard is let down and the hard look on his face softens, he has noticed how Bucky isn't an inherently scary guy.
The same could be said about Natasha. It could also be said about all of his teammates, really. working by their sides these past few months has revealed a side to them he hadn't seen before.
For example, Peter always thought that Clint was a serious guy from how stoic his face is. But then he witnessed the man start a prank war with Sam, who did not reciprocate the efforts. And Peter thought that Sam was a strict and emotionless soldier, but the man is a therapist for soldiers with PTSD on the side. Steve may be America's golden boy, but after listening to a conversation between him and Bucky, Peter has had a revelation that Steve swears like a sailor. And his birthday isn't actually the Fourth of July.
The one person Peter has drawn closer to amidst unofficially joining the Avengers team is Tony. After the events of his freshman homecoming, Tony has taken it upon himself to make more of an effort to check in with him. Sure, it isn't lab days at Tony's side while he tinkered or anything like Peter had dreamed of, but it is nice knowing that he can call Tony directly and he'll answer (most times, at least).
Peter makes absentminded conversation with Bucky—something about a teacher that has screwed his GPA over—until the aircraft lands on the roof of the tower. One by one they file out and head down to the conference room to have a video call with the new secretary of defense.
Leaving his mask on, Peter plops down in a chair next to Tony, who is pressing buttons on a device to connect a call with the secretary of defense.
Everyone else files in: Bucky on the other side of Peter, and Natasha, Steve, and Sam on the other side of the table while Clint leans against the wall.
The meeting goes by uneventfully. Steve highlights the main points and fills the secretary—and Peter—in on what the threat was, and then how they handled it. He reports the injuries (a bruised rib on Clint's behalf and some minor cuts and bruises amongst the team) and apologizes for the destruction they may have caused in the streets of New York while they battled.
All in all, boring yet helpful.
Peter leans back in his chair and taps his gloved fingers against the table. A dull tingle at the base of his neck slows his movements. He scans the room, and when he doesn't spot any threats, tells himself to chill out—it's probably just some extra adrenaline from the battle.
A tap on his arm makes Peter flinch, ready for a strike or another fight, but when he whips his head around it's just Tony giving him an odd look.
"You paying attention, Underoos?" he asks, low enough as to not disrupt the meeting.
Peter nods and sits up. "Yeah, of course."
"Good." Tony pivots his chair back to face the holographic secretary.
After about eight more minutes, the debriefing comes to a close and the call ends.
Steve starts to clean up the area, and Natasha steps over to Clint, asking how his ribs are. Clint grins and says, "Peachy."
Natasha's eyes narrow. She lightly jabs his side, eliciting a gasp of pain from the archer. Raising a brow, Natasha says, "I'm taking you to the infirmary."
"Bossy woman," Clint mutters under his breath.
Peter pushes his chair back and stands, already dreading returning to school just for last period, when suddenly his body loses all strength and he just flops to the ground with a resounding thud.
The weirdest thing happens next: Peter floats out of his body. Like, his body is still limp on the ground, his face smushed against the floor and everything, but he's . . . he just stands back up.
"What the heck?" he whispers, looking down at his hands and arms, eyes widening when he can see through himself. His eyes shift to his body still on the floor.
Everyone's head snaps to Peter's still form on the floor. Tony's up in a heartbeat, rushing forward and kneeling beside him, turning him over.
"What the hell happened?" Sam asks, kneeling on his other side.
Tony leans back on his heels, mouth bobbing open and shut. "I don't—I don't know? Pete, can you hear me?"
"I can hear you," Peter says, frozen in place as he watches Tony and Sam lean over his body on the floor.
When Tony doesn't react, Peter steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder. His see-through hand goes right through the man like air.
Stumbling back, Peter cradles his hand to his chest fearfully. "Wha . . .?"
The others crowd around his body with a nervous energy floating between them.
"Check his pulse!" Bucky snaps.
Sam sends him a glare, shouting back, "I will! I have to get the stupid mask off first!"
Tony takes it upon himself to actually take the mask off.
It's surreal, seeing your face without the help of a mirror or camera. Shivers run down Peter's whole body and he catches himself on the table. Surprisingly, he doesn't go through that like his hand went through Tony.
Peter's face—the one on the floor—is deathly pale. His skin is as white as a sheet, his features as still as a statue.
Tony rests two fingers against the tangible Peter's neck. Peter watches with baited breath.
Tony stills. His eyes widen in alarm. "No."
Sam looks up at Tony, frowning. "What?"
"No, no," Tony continues muttering, and Peter can hear his heartbeat pick up.
"I don't know what's going on." Peter's voice is high and tight. "Guys, I'm right here, I'm—I'm okay." But is he? Is he really?
"What's wrong?" Clint demands from the doorway beside Natasha.
"It isn't there," Tony says, voice barely audible. His hands are frozen, hovering over Peter's body. "I can't find it."
Realization dawns over Sam. He quickly presses two fingers against Peter's neck, his limp head shifting slightly, and when the man doesn't find a pulse, he lies his ear against Peter's chest.
"Son of a bitch," Sam curses. He straightens and presses two hands over Peter's heart. With vigor, he starts to do chest compressions.
"He's not breathing?!" Clint exclaims, shooting forward, but Natasha catches him from falling.
Urgency fills Steve's voice as he presses a button on the wall and demands, "We need a med staff in the conference room now."
Sam pauses compressions to pinch Peter's nose and breathe into his mouth.
Peter watches the whole thing go down. He watches Tony run his fingers through his messy brown hair—something the man has never done before. He watches Clint and Natasha watch helplessly, as Sam alternates between rib-crushing chest compressions and breathing into his mouth, as Bucky paces, as Steve waits impatiently for the medical staff.
"Was he injured?" Steve fires off, fists clenching and unclenching.
"His suit's automatically supposed to report any injuries to me," Tony rambles, brow furrowing. He pulls out his phone. One hand still trying to soothe the Peter by running his fingers through his hair as Sam performs CPR on him, Tony holds the phone up and says with a thick voice, "Friday, scan."
Confusion and fear rise in Peter's throat. He's see-through, and he's watching his team try to resurrect his lifeless body. There's only one explanation.
"Am I dead?"
"Only temporarily."
Peter squeaks, whipping around as his wide eyes land on a dark figure sitting in the chair beside him. Her long, smooth legs exposed by her black leather shorts are crossed at the ankles as she's lounging with her boots propped on the table. Her skin is so pale it's almost tinted blue, and her eyes are ringed with dark eyeshadow rings that make the eyes of her eyes pierce into Peter's eyes. She's wearing a black top that exposes her midsection and matches her leather shorts, a long cape attached to the shoulders cascading down the back of her chair like a waterfall of tar. Her short dark hair hovers above her shoulders.
Peter takes a step back. His spider-senses blare in his head like sirens. "W-Who are you?"
Black lips quirking into an amused smirk, the woman picks at her black-painted nails and says, "I'm Death, darling."
Death?
"Did you—Did you just kill me?" Peter squeaks. His eyes dart to his body sprawled on the ground with Tony leaning over him.
Tony's hands are shaking. He has a bad heart, he can't be under this kind of stress!
"Peter," Tony's whispering, carding a hand through Dead Peter's hair. Sam has given up with the CPR and turns to the others, defeated and devastated. The same look mirrors on the other's faces as they watch Tony break down over Dead Peter's corpse. "Kiddo, please, open your eyes. You can't leave Aunt May, you can't—you can't leave me. You can't."
Peter blinks back tears. He's never seen Tony like this before. And the fact that he's breaking down because of Peter . . .
"Yes," Death says, pulling Peter from the traumatic scene. She shrugs. "But you'll be back soon, don't worry."
Gulping, Peter asks, "What do you want from me?"
"Good question," Death says, and when she opens her mouth to continue, the door busts open with medics.
Peter spins around. His heart tears into pieces when the medics have to physically pull Tony away from Dead Peter. Steve sets a hand on Tony's shoulder but doesn't offer any comfort. They all just watch, helpless and devastated, as the medics wheel Dead Peter away on a gurney.
A cold, boney hand on his shoulder makes Peter jump and look over his shoulder. Death, who is now standing behind him, says, "Let's go somewhere more private, shall we?"
Before Peter can reply, she snaps her fingers. An invisible force yanks at Peter's body and, suddenly, he feels like he's free-falling. A mesh of colors and lights and shapes flash before his eyes.
With a blink of an eye, it's all over and he's standing in a dark, empty library between two towering book cases. It's silent, the only sounds coming from his own rapidly beating heart and the buzz of a flickering light a few bookshelves over. The cool air against the skin of his cheek alerts him that he's now maskless.
A shive runs down his spine. He turns.
There's a wall of glass that stretches four stories up to the ceiling and begins at the floor. Behind the window is darkness. No stars, no city, no woods, no light, nothing. It's a void, luring him to step closer.
Death sits at a circle table with four chairs in front of the window. She's leaning back, one arm slung over the back of the chair, her other hand in front of her face as she examines her long, sharp nails.
Lingering by the table, Peter shifts his gaze from the darkness outside the window to the woman. He can't decipher how old she is. Her pitch black hair and pale, smooth face reflects youth, but her aurora mirrors wisdom of thousands of years.
Without looking away from her nails, she demands, "Take a seat, Peter Parker."
Peter doesn't hesitate. Pulling a chair from the table, he quickly sits, eyes constantly shifting as he wrings his hands together.
"Relax," Death drawls, a corner of her lips curled. Her piercing white eyes lift to meet Peter's.
It's hard to relax when you're literally sitting next to Death. Not to mention the fact that you just died and watched your childhood heroes react to your death.
"Y-You," Peter says, but his voice is tight and weird, so he clears his throat and tries again. "You know me?"
"Of course I do," Death says. "I'm a cosmic entity, I know everyone." She lowers the hand she was observing and tilts her head at Peter, her short hair swishing to the side. "But I guess I do know more of you than I know of others."
Peter's brow furrows. "O-Okay."
"I've heard about you," Death continues. Her black lips purse slightly as she thinks. "I've met quite a bit of your family and acquaintances."
Peter's mind flashes to Uncle Ben and his parents. Swallowing around the lump in his throat and wiping his sweaty palms off on his thighs, he says, "I suppose so."
Death nods. "Yeah. Your uncle is a good man, and your parents—nice folks. I've also heard about you from others, though."
"Who?"
Death smiles, taps her long, sharp nails against the table, then tilts her head back to look at the ceiling as she lets out a soft laugh. "You wouldn't know them by name."
Peter frowns. Everything is hurting brain. "I'm sorry, but I'm so confused. Why did you kill me and bring me here with you?"
He tries to word us as to not upset her, but he's not really sure how to talk to a cosmic entity that embodies decay and destruction.
Death returns her attention to the wiry hero sitting across from her. Her gaze trails over him like slime. "Those people who have spoken your name have spoken highly of it. They say you have a way with advice, and sometimes just lending an ear. Is that true?"
Peter shifts in his seat. "Um. I guess so?"
Death considers his answer. Then, she nods. "Humble," she murmurs, smiling softly. She points a finger at Peter. "Ben said that you were humble. That's something he admires about you."
His heart aches at the mention of his uncle. Sometimes, when he's having a bad day, he feels guilty of his death. Sure, Ben didn't know Peter had his powers and Peter wasn't all that comfortable with them yet, but he still had them; he could've done something to protect his uncle against that mugger in the street. Knowing that Ben doesn't blame him sends a soothing relief to his core.
"Do you know where we are, Peter Parker?" Death asks, drawing Peter out of his thoughts.
Looking around the dimly lit, vacant library, Peter slowly shakes his head.
Death motions to the large space and says, "This is my home. Well, more like my vacation home. I usually don't manifest in physical form, but when I do, this is where I reside."
"It's very nice," Peter murmurs, wringing his hands together and looking out the large glass wall at the endless void.
Death smiles, but it falters. "Yes, it is nice," she sighs, "but there is no one around to converse with. I hear stories of interaction when I deliver individuals to Heaven or Hell, but I have no experience. I am not like my brother Eternity, who embodies life and growth, or our father God, who creates all things; I am unable to form someone to keep me company as I fulfill my duties as a cosmic entity. I just . . . kill everything."
Peter sits forward, his brow furrowed. "That sounds really lonely."
"I'm afraid so," Death agrees, forlorn. "That's why I brought you here—because I am indeed very alone, and after hearing from multiple sources what good company you, Peter Parker, are, I have sought you out and delivered you to my physical home."
Peter isn't sure what he was expecting as an explanation, but it sure wasn't that. Ten minutes ago, he didn't even realize Death had a consciousness, much less experienced loneliness. It makes sense, though, now that he thinks about it. He would consider himself an extrovert—an awkward one—so he can't even imagine being stuck as an entity of the lack of life. No one to talk to about anything; complaints, funny stories, interactions, crushes . . .
Does Death even get crushes? At this point, Peter isn't sure what to think.
He should be more upset that Death killed him just so she could have a friend, but Peter gets it. He's an extremely empathetic person by nature. So what if he's dead? It's only temporary.
"Cool." Peter sits back, glancing around. His eyes trail over the endless bookshelves. "So, you like to read?"
Death turns her gaze upon the books as well. "Those are not literary novels, they are books filled with the names of those whom I have passed on."
"Oh." Peter looks back to Death uneasily. "So they're . . . dead?"
"Yes."
"Like, everyone who has ever died," Peter clarifies, motioning to the shelves, "all their names are written in those books?"
Death's lips quirk. "Yes, everyone from Adam and Eve to Alexander Hamilton to you. Although, I will have to erase your name eventually."
"Is that hard?" Peter asks. If everyone's names are written in the books, he assumed it'd be in ink. But if she could erase them, then surely the names are written in pencil?
"It'll take some paperwork and a conversation with God," Death nonchalantly brushes aside. "But it is not impossible."
"Hm. Cool." Peter's fingers drum against the armrests. His mind wanders to different things he wants to talk to Death about, but stops in his tracks because he wasn't brought there to talk her head off, he was brought there to be a listener and provide company.
Death isn't making any moves to spark a conversation. She's staring at him, blinking every few seconds, and makes Peter squirm a little in his chair.
"So, what did you want to talk about?" he asks.
She blinks. "Oh. Yes. Talking . . ." Death looks away, and Peter swears he sees the slightest hint of red on her cheeks. "Forgive me, but I am not sure what to speak with you about. What is usually discussed during friendly interactions?"
"Well," Peter starts, "I guess it depends on the person. What are you interested in?"
Death's eyes narrow as her head tilts. "I am not following."
"Like, what do you like to do? Do you have any hobbies or anything?" Peter rephrases, using his hands in vague gestures as he speaks.
Death nods slowly. "I pull souls from failing mortal bodies and deliver them to their afterlife destination, although I suppose I don't enjoy it."
That sounds . . . terrible. No wonder she doesn't enjoy it. Heck, Peter would hate doing that, and Death has been doing it for who knows how long—the beginning of time, probably. But that's what Death does. Does she even do anything besides that? "What do you enjoy, then?"
"I am uncertain," Death replies, brow furrowed. "May I ask what you enjoy, Peter Parker?"
Peter enjoys a lot of things. "Sure. I like video games, and hanging out with my friend Ned, and I like being Spider-Man, um . . ." He counts the activities on his fingers. "Oh, I like science stuff, like chemistry, biology, biochem, and math. I used to be in my school's robotics club for a while; that was pretty fun."
Death's frown deepens. "I do not have a particular interest in those fields of study . . . You said you enjoy 'hanging out' with your companion called Ned?" When Peter nods, Death asks, "What do you two do together that creates enjoyment?"
Thinking back at his memories with Ned, Peter can't help the smile that touches his lips. "We do a lot of different things. Sometimes we play video games, sometimes we just hang out and watch movies. I always have the most fun when I'm with him," he admits. His face lights up. "Oh! I remember this one time—it's probably one of my favorite memories—Ned and I went roller skating. We both sucked at it, we fell a bunch and ended up going home with a ton of bruises."
Peter laughs at the fond memory, but when Death only looks confused, his laughter dies down and he clears his throat, unsure if he did something wrong.
"You enjoyed not being skilled and returning home with injuries?" she inquiries.
"Well, the bruises hurt for a while, but we still had a lot of fun because we were together," Peter explains with a smile.
Death considers this, then nods. "Very well." Raising a hand, she snaps with her index finger and thumb.
A whoosh of colors, muffled sounds, and blurred images flash before his eyes and his hair blows out of his face with an invisible force like a gust of wind.
A second later, he's standing in the middle of a busy skating rink, flashing lights and Party Rock Anthem playing over the loud speakers with the distinct smell of pore-clogging greasy pizza. He looks down and notices his feet are encased by chunky roller skates, then notices that he's wearing jeans and white t-shirt with a color block jumper over top.
He's still somewhat transparent. It's not something he thinks he's going to get used to anytime soon.
When he looks back up, he meets Death's stare. She's standing in front of him, also wearing roller skates and a change of clothes. Instead of the intimidating black coat and black leather skirt, she's wearing bell bottoms and a white t-shirt with orange hems around her arms and collar. She looks almost uncomfortable in the noisy and dizzying atmosphere as she glances around at the people around them.
He doesn't even question their new outfits. They look straight out of a 70s or 80s fashion magazine, which suits the roller rink theme, so it makes sense.
Sort of.
Not really, because Peter doesn't see a need for the change in clothes, but it's whatever.
A little girl with two thin braids and neon braces barrels towards them on roller blades. Peter braces for impact, but she skates right through him like a ghost.
Like a ghost.
"Am I a ghost?" Peter asks, eyes squirreling.
She gives him a once-over before glancing at the people speeding past. "Call it what you please. Now, how do I move as the others are? Is there a specific technique?"
"I don't know, you just kinda . . ." He picks a foot up to kick off with his arms out for balance. Slowly, the wheels on his skate glide him across the smooth wooden floor.
He looks over his shoulder. Death purses her lips and, sticking her arms out like Peter did, tries to follow his lead. As soon as she picks a foot off the ground, her body tilts and her eyes go wide. Peter rushes to her side and she clamps a hand down on his arm to steady herself.
"Woah," she breathes, letting go of Peter's arm. A burning pain where they made contact lingers before fizzing out. "This is proving to be more difficult than I have previously expected."
He peers down where she touched him with a frown. How was she able to touch him? He's pretty sure most things go through ghosts, if that's what he is now. Maybe the rules are different for Death. Also, why did it feel like her hand was made of fire?
"Here, let's get closer to the wall," Peter suggests, guiding Death—more like pulling her—over to the crowded wall where the little kids and occasional clumsy teen are clinging on for dear life. "I wouldn't have thought that Death wouldn't know how to roller skate."
"I do not get out much," Death defends herself with a biting tone. "I have cosmic duties."
"Right," Peter says, then frowns. "Wait, do you have time to be doing this? Aren't people, like, dying every minute?"
"Approximately 120 people die every minute on your planet alone," Death replies, indignant. "I am simply . . . taking a day off, if you will."
She starts to shuffle forward on the skates. Peter follows at her side, except he's actually skating and not just shuffling. Confusion deepening, Peter asks, "Does that mean no one is dying?"
"Essentially."
Peter's eyes bug out of his head. Death, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered.
"Never mind that," Death dismisses, "how do I do what you're doing?"
Peter stumbles over his words. "I, uh, you just—it's all balance." He knows she changed the subject, but you can't just casually mention that death all around the universe just stopped. "So, like, if someone was getting murdered, they wouldn't die?"
"Indeed."
"So they're just getting stabbed over and over and over, but they can't die?"
"Affirmative."
"Say someone was bleeding out—"
"They would not die," Death confirms, voice annoyed, but a twinge of her lips gives away her amusement.
Peter shakes his head in disbelief. "That's intense. Aren't there, like, rules?"
"Yes," Death replies, not meeting Peter's curious gaze, "and I will be reprimanded for not following them, but I do believe I deserve a day off after fulfilling my duties for centuries with no break."
Peter nods. "I guess so." He looks down at Death's shuffling feet and says, "You want to try pushing off again? It's not that hard, you just need to keep your weight centered."
Death looks skeptical but nods. "Alright. Care to demonstrate once more?"
"Sure."
Peter rolls ahead a little, and when he slows to a stop, he slightly picks up his left foot before gently kicking off the ground, pushing himself forward.
When a kid speeds right at him, Peter lets out a little squeak and tries to twist out of the way. He ends up flailing his arms like a crazy bird and falling to the ground.
The kid goes right through him. Peter watches, eyes following the speedster, with surprise as he remembers that, oh yeah, he's a ghost.
A laugh from behind snaps his attention to Death.
"That was quite amusing," Death comments airily. "Did you forget about your lack of tangibility?"
Peter rolls his eyes and pushes himself up to his feet. "I guess." A boy skates past, and Peter sticks his leg out. Unsurprisingly, the boy doesn't trip. Peter waves his arm through someone's head. "It's just—it's weird."
"Interacting with a mortal for so long is weird for me," Death says. She motions around the rink. "Being ignored is normal."
Peter's gaze softens. "It sounds kind of sad."
"It is not sad," Death omits, scoffing and crossing her arms. "It is my destiny."
That doesn't make it any less sad. Instead of challenging the cosmic entity, Peter sets his hands on his hips and asks, "So are you going to try again or not?"
"I shall attempt to skate," Death says, "but you are forbidden to find humor in my shortcomings."
Peter raises his hands innocently. "I promise I won't laugh." When Death's eyes narrow warily, he extends a hand, pinky out. "I pinky promise."
Death's eyes flicker between Peter's face and his pinky. Finally, she gives in and holds hers up as well.
"I do not know how the validity of the promise is affected from interlocking pinkies, but alright."
"You get to break my pinky if I laugh," Peter explains. "Although, I guess you already killed me, so I don't know what else you could do."
"Banish you to hell?"
"Uhh . . . Breaking my pinky will do."
Death smirks, then looks down at her feet as she tries to skate. This time, she doesn't almost face plant, and she actually manages to skate a few feet in front of her. Her movements are stiff and jerky, but she's moving.
And smiling.
Peter skates beside her, elated to see the smile on her glossy black lips. Based on everything he knows about her, Death doesn't smile often; she normally doesn't have a reason to. She's constantly delivering people—some old, some young, some good, some evil—to the place they're going to spend the rest of eternity. She sees their loved ones' reactions, sees the ugly, and Peter imagines she had to disconnect from her job in order to do it for as long as she has been. She's probably so distanced from herself that she lost who she is at her core.
Seeing Death smile—that makes him smile, too, because it seems like she found a piece of herself in this moment.
At first he was doubting why Death decided to pick him to keep her company, and while he still holds some doubt, he's glad she chose him. Sure, it sucks that he's technically dead and that he had to see Tony and the rest of the team freak out—just thinking about that makes his chest constrict and his stomach pool with inexplicable guilt—but he is glad to help Death feel less alone.
Peter's a sociable person. Awkward as heck, yes, but sociable. He loves people and loves knowing that he's got people there to support him, such as Aunt May, Ned, and possibly Tony and the Avengers. Death essentially has no one. She can't talk to anyone unless they're dead. Peter's surprised she hasn't killed more people so she could have some company in her large, ominous library. He can't imagine being alone for centuries. No one to talk to when you're sad, no one to joke around with, no one to randomly burst into song with, no one to rant to, no one to comfort you or support you or pick up your pieces or—or love you.
Suddenly, Peter is willing to be dead for longer than Death intended if it means that she won't have to feel so alone.
The longer they skate around in circles, the faster and more confident Death becomes. She picks up the speed to the point where Peter doesn't have to hold back so much. Then, Death starts going even faster.
"You're picking it up fast," Peter comments, picking up his speed.
Death laughs and looks back at him. "You were right, Peter Parker, this is not too hard. The concept it quite easy."
"Are you having fun?"
A strange look crosses Death's face like a shadow. Pulling herself from the deep thought moments later, she asks, "Is this what fun feels like? Like—airy, bubbly, and . . . light?"
Peter grins. "Yeah. How do you like it?"
"I do," Death murmurs, nodding to herself. "I am enjoying this light feeling in my chest."
"Then let's go faster!" Peter exclaims, bending slightly and pumping his arms as he skates off.
They race for a while. The amount of times they go around the rink is dizzying, but even the flashing lights and loud, pumping music can't turn their smiles upside down.
It isn't until they're at the point of literally knocking each other over to get ahead that Death decides she wants to do something else that's fun.
She and Peter sit at a sticky booth with pizza crusts and stains on the table. Peter didn't realize ghosts could lose their breath, yet here he is, chest rising and falling rapidly as he engulfs greedy gulps of air.
Death is only slightly out of breath. "What do you propose we do next?"
"I don't know," Peter breathes, shrugging. He thinks back at the things Death might enjoy, then the things he enjoys, which leads him to wondering what he'd be doing if he wasn't there. As soon as the present crosses his mind, his eyes widen. "Wait, what's going on right now? Like, with my—with my body?"
Death tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
"Like, is my body hooked up to a bunch of machines in the medbay? Are they trying to, to bring me back or something?" His heart stutters. "Wait, are they performing an autopsy and cutting me open?!"
"I would not allow that to happen," Death replies. Her demeanor is way more casual than Peter's.
"How?"
"It is simple," she says, lifting a shoulder. "I shall temporarily kill them, too, so they cannot do harm to your mortal body. God and Eternity may not be very pleased about it, but they will have to deal."
Peter chokes on his spit. "You—you can't just kill them!"
"It's only temporary."
"Still!"
Death sighs. "There is no other way for me to prevent them from performing an autopsy on your body while your soul is in limbo."
Peter frowns, then his face lights up. "I can send them a message!"
Now it's Death's turn to look confused. "What?"
"I'm a ghost," Peter explains, sitting forward and gesticulating. "Ghosts haunt people, right? I can—I'm able to touch objects and stuff, so I can write a note telling them what's up."
Death's brow scrunches. "They may not believe it is truly you."
"Then I'll pick up a pencil and write it in front of them or something," he suggests. "I mean, it's worth a shot, right? I'd really rather you not kill my friends, even if it is temporary."
Death looks away, mulling it over, then nods. "Very well, then."
She snaps her fingers.