Chapter 2
In a blink of an eye and a whoosh of colors, they teleport out of the skating rink and into an unfamiliar bedroom. Peter first takes note of another wardrobe change—this time into his regular civilian clothes of jeans and a nerdy t-shirt—then scans the room.
It's spacious with a large, flat-screen on one wall. On the adjacent wall is a window that expands from the floor to the ceiling, giving the room a glorious view of the sunset glistening over the city.
His eyes stop on Mr. Stark's figure sitting at the end of the bed.
This must be his room, Peter deducts, glancing around at the clothes strewn over the furniture and the overflowing trash bin by the bed. It's messier than I thought it would be.
He looks closer at Mr. Stark and feels his chest constrict as he notices his shoulders are curled in, his face in his hands.
Peter has never seen Mr. Stark so . . . so vulnerable before. The only emotions the man expresses around him, besides happiness, are anger and frustration. It feels wrong to be watching Mr. Stark in such a state without him knowing.
"Mr. Stark?" Peter whispers, tentatively stepping forward.
Death—also in her normal, dark outfit—watches with a calculating gaze as Peter sits beside the man. His hand reaches out just a little to offer comfort, but he places his hands back into his lap when he remembers 1) Mr. Stark doesn't like physical affection (or any displays of affection, really)) and 2) Peter can't touch people.
It sucks. Peter knows Mr. Stark is probably blaming himself for Peter's—temporary, but real—death, and there's nothing he can do about it.
Wait.
That's the whole reason why he's there, to talk to him. He can tell him he's fine.
Peter's eyes search the room for a notebook, or a pen and paper, or something.
"Do you see a pencil anywhere?" Peter asks, pushing himself off the bed to wander around the room. "Or something to write on?"
Death turns each direction, scanning, and pauses. Peter follows her line of sight and ends up staring at the large window.
It takes a second, then it clicks.
"Can I breathe on the glass?" he wonders aloud, stepping over to the window.
"You can try."
He leans closer and, opening his mouth, exhales. By some miracle, the glass fogs. Peter sends an excited look over his shoulder at Death.
"Get his attention! I'm gonna write him a note."
Peter turns back to the glass, fogs it up some more, and then starts writing with his finger. He stops mid-word when Tony makes a pained noise behind him.
Looking over, Peter spots Death standing innocently to the side with Mr. Stark rubbing the back of his head. The remote to the flat screen TV rests on the bedsheets behind him.
"Did you throw that at him?" Peter asks, incredulous.
Death shrugs. "It was more of a toss."
"Can we refrain from hurting him—and anyone, for that matter—please?"
Death narrows her eyes, then says, "Okay. Keep writing your note, I'll get him to look your way."
He nods and focuses back on the task at hand. He has to breathe against the glass some more to continue writing the message.
MR. STARK, DO NOT FREAK OUT
He starts to write out that it's him, it's Peter, but he freezes at the sound of Mr. Stark gasping.
Whipping around, Peter nearly comes face-to-face with Mr. Stark. Peter's heart shatters at the redness of his eyes. Being this close, he can see the exhaustion rooted deep into his features.
Mr. Stark is looking at the glass. His eyes are scanning it, flickering back and forth from beginning to end.
"Well?" Death prompts from beside him, crossing her arms. "Keep writing, tell him it's you."
Peter doesn't move. His eyes stay locked on Mr. Stark, who is slowly getting closer and closer to the glass.
"I . . . I think he knows."
Mr. Stark turns his head slightly. He's almost looking right at Peter, his eyes shifting in the empty space in front of him. In a broken, hesitant voice, he whispers, "Pete?"
"Yes," Peter chokes out, a grin making its way onto his face. "Yes, Mr. Stark, it's me, I'm okay!"
"He can't hear you, keep writing the note," Death urges.
Peter doesn't hesitate. He wipes the perspiration away, breathes on the glass some more, then writes a new message. Mr. Stark's glossy eyes follow every stroke.
THIS IS PETER. DO NOT SLICE MY BODY OPEN.
Mr. Stark lets out a choked laugh that sounds like a half-sob. "Got it," he says, voice thick. "No slicing or dicing."
Peter's shoulders relax. He wipes that message away and starts new.
THANKS. COMING BACK SOON.
"Coming back?" Mr. Stark repeats under his breath. He looks around the room, eyes filled with something almost comparable to insanity. "What—where—what's going on? Where are you, kid?"
IM OKAY, JUST LEAVE MY BODY ALONE PLS.
He wipes that away after Mr. Stark reads it and writes more.
I WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING LATER
Mr. Stark purses his lips, then nods. "Okay. Okay, fine, just—stay safe, kid. Aunt hottie misses you, so come back soon." There's a beat. Then, in a whisper, he adds, "Please."
Death's head cocks to the side. White, vacant eyes shifting between Peter and Mr. Stark, she observes, "He cares for you."
Peter glances at her before returning his attention to Tony. A slight blush heats his cheeks. "I-I mean, yeah, I'm his responsibility."
"You're like a son to him."
"Son is a strong word," Peter argues. Voice lowering, he murmurs, "He doesn't feel that way towards me."
Why would he? Why would Tony Stark—billionaire, genius, Iron Man—think of Peter Parker—some poor kid from Queens who happens to have sticky fingers and usually just gets in the way during missions—as a son?
It wouldn't make sense.
And besides, Peter knows that Mr. Stark doesn't see him as so. Sure, he claps his shoulder and tells him he did a good job, but he also brushes him off, makes sure he knows he's still a rookie, reprimands him for the slightest mistakes during missions, and treats him like a little kid. You're not ready for that yet, he said about a drug trafficking ring that turned out to be run by some terrorist group Peter went after once. You're a kid, so act like one, he said when Peter skipped prom to patrol.
Tony is nice to him, but he isn't fatherly to him.
There is a big difference.
Before Death can argue further, Peter fogs up the glass to write one last message before they leave again.
SORRY ABOUT ALL THIS. GTG NOW.
He doesn't wait for Mr. Stark's response. Something tells him that if he stays for any longer, he won't want to leave. Instead, he turns to Death and says, "Okay, we can go."
Another snap, another whoosh of colors and air, and they're suddenly standing in the middle of . . . a living room?
No, this is Ned's living room.
What the heck are they doing here?
Peter looks down at himself. Yet again, he is wearing something else: pajamas, this time. He's in comfy sweatpants with a loose-fitted t-shirt and Ewok slippers.
Like Peter, Death is wearing pajamas, too. Hers are pink fuzzy pants and a loose black long-sleeve shirt with a white skull on it. She flops back on the couch behind them and closes her eyes, letting out a relaxed sigh.
After a beat, one of her eyes pop open, then the other one follows as she stares at Peter expectantly. "Are you going to sit down, Peter Parker?"
He glances around. "What are we doing at Ned's house?"
"You said you two played video games together," Death replies. "I would very much like to try it out, seeing as it brings you entertainment."
"Right . . ." Peter frowns. "But we'll get caught moving stuff around, and someone will hear the game."
Death grins. "The house is empty."
"Really?" Fear spikes his chest. "Wait, that doesn't mean you killed them too, right? Because I thought we—"
"I did not kill them, you have no reason to fret," Death assures. "The Leeds family just left to visit your aunt, we have at least an hour before they return."
Skeptical, Peter nods. "Okay." They probably heard of Peter's death, then. He hopes Ned isn't too upset, and that he'll forgive him when Peter explains everything.
Death leans forward on her knees. "So, how do we play video games?"
A smile quirks his lips. He can worry about Ned later. "I'll get it set up. I think you'll love Mario Kart."
And, as expected, Death does. Honestly, who doesn't like Mario Kart? Peter picks his usual character—Luigi—and Death picks Bowser. At first, Death can't steer the race car in the right direction. Peter has to stifle his laughter at her clear frustration.
Once she gets it, though, she gets really competitive. It awakens Peter's inner competitor and he starts to get into the game just as much as she is. She nudges his elbow a few times to throw him off.
"Hey!" Peter yelps, frantically getting his race car back on track. "That's cheating!"
"It is merely weakening the competition."
Peter starts to nudge her elbow, too, when she tries to turn. Their banter and laughter carries through the empty house.
It must look odd: two floating controllers and the game playing on the TV. Peter trusts that Death will make sure they leave before Ned and his family get back.
During their fifth rematch—Peter keeps winning and Death is adamant on changing that—Peter's mind starts to wander to Ned again, then to the Avengers and Aunt May.
Death kidnapped him to have fun, and they're all grieving him while he's away playing games and roller skating. It makes a pool of guilt grow in his stomach as he loses focus on the video game.
The thing is, Peter is having fun. Not only is he glad that he's helping Death, he's also enjoying hanging out with her. She's cool, and despite her dark aura, she's actually somewhat nice. She doesn't deserve to spend eternity all alone.
But he doesn't like how, in order to be happy, his friends and family have to grieve him. If anyone knows grief, it's Peter. And he knows it sucks. When his parents died, he was young and confused and wondered when they'd come back. He went to bed disappointed every night for a long two years when it was Uncle Ben and Aunt May who tucked him in and read him bedtime stories. Even now, twelve years later, Peter feels his parents' absence. He can't remember his mother's voice, his father's laugh, the smell of his mother's perfume, or either of their faces. There's a hollow feeling in his chest whenever Mother's Day and Father's Day pass.
Peter felt real, painful grief when Uncle Ben died. He had his powers at this point, so he locked himself in his room to isolate himself from Aunt May and Ned and everything. He worked on a suit and web-shooters and web solution. Then, the pain and grief drove him to search the streets for other people to save from the pain he went through.
Losing someone is hard.
Hopefully, Mr. Stark will tell Aunt May that Peter's okay and will come back soon. She has lost a lot already, and if Peter actually died, then she'd have no one left. He regrets not telling Mr. Stark to assure his aunt that he'd be okay first. That should have been the first thing he said.
"You are unhappy."
Death's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Blinking, he realizes that the game is paused and Death is turned to him with a furrowed brow.
"I'm not unhappy," Peter says, sighing. "I'm just . . . thinking."
"About what?"
Peter sets his controller down and runs a hand through his hair. "About my friends and family. I know how it feels to, to lose someone, and I don't want them to go through that."
He looks at Death, knowing that she doesn't understand loss but hoping that she at least gets what he's trying to say.
Death nods. "Yes, I suppose you are familiar with loss, for it has taken claim of multiple family members in your young life." She pauses. "I have a proposition."
Peter turns to face her more, crossing his legs in a pretzel. "What is it?"
"Although we have not spent more than a full earth day together, you have granted me great enjoyment and company. In return, I am offering to take you to the afterlife of one of your loved ones who have passed."
Peter straightens. "What, like, to visit them?" His heart races. He could . . . he could see Uncle Be again? Or maybe his parents?
He doesn't remember their faces or voices or scents or mannerisms, but this is his chance. He could apologize to Uncle Ben, hug him, inhale the smell of pine on his flannel as they hug. He could explain why he was moody and acted out and angry that day he ran out, then apologize for not doing anything to save him from the gunman. He could tell his parents about everything they've missed out on: Academic Decathlon tournaments, ruined Homecomings, meeting his childhood heroes and working alongside them, all the A+'s, all the honor rolls. He could thank them, and Uncle Ben, for loving him.
But it just doesn't feel right. It's not the natural order of things.
"I don't know," Peter murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, I really appreciate the offer, Ms. Death, but it wouldn't feel right. They're—they're dead, I've already mourned them. I still miss them, but that's . . . that's just life, you know?" He lifts his gaze to meet Death's. "When someone dies, you can't see them again. That's how it is supposed to be."
Death's eyes trail over Peter's face. It feels like she's holding him under a microscope. Finally, after a few silent moments, she leans back against the couch cushion and purses her lips. "You are a very respectable individual. Eternity would like you."
Peter's heart flutters a little at that. He's never met Eternity, but being liked by him sounds like a good thing.
"I know you have expressed your concerns about the toll of grief on your loved ones, so I shall not keep you from them much longer," Death says. "However, there is one more thing I would like you to help me with before you return."
Peter sits forward, excited for both going back to his tangible body and for hanging out with Death some more. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"
Death's pale face flushes and she looks away. "It is quite embarrassing, but I have no one else to confide in." She looks back up at Peter, studies him for a moment—probably contemplating whether or not to continue—and then lifts her hand between them with her pinky extended. "Pinky promise me you will not laugh."
Peter interlocks his pinky with hers. There's another slight burning sensation at the contact, but it starts to fade as soon as they let go.
When they both drop their hands, Peter's to his lap and Death's to her side, she confesses, "I have developed what humans call a crush."
Peter's eyes widen and he leans in slightly. "On who?"
"I'm sure you know of him." Death pauses. Reluctant, she says, "He is called Loki."
Peter's mind malfunctions. "He—You—What?!" he sputters, eyes widening even further. "Loki Odinson, Thor's brother? The one who tried to invade New York in 2012? The one who stole the Tesseract? That Loki?"
"Yes, that Loki," Death sighs. She runs a hand through her choppy black hair. "I knew you would not approve for he has shown to be twisted in his ways and to cause mischief, but he has been one of the only individuals whom I have encountered. He has not come close enough to actually meeting me, but he has been close on numerous occasions."
Peter frowns. "Yeah, but why do you like him? Not that I'm judging you, I swear I'm not, I just don't understand." He pauses. “Wait, isn’t he dead?”
"No, and I am afraid I do not understand it, either," Death admits with a small pout. "I have never felt this way before towards anyone else. He just . . . He's misunderstood, I believe, just like me."
Peter nods, then a slow smirk makes its way on his lips. "He has pretty nice hair, too."
"He does, indeed."
"And nice eyes," Peter continues, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Green is a pretty color."
Death hums in agreement. "Green is a nice color, yes." She stares at the wall, evidentially picturing Loki, but then snaps her eyes to Peter.
Peter looks close to laughter. If he hadn't pinky promised not to laugh, then he would be. He's fairly confident Death would literally snap both of his pinkies in half if he breaks it, though.
"Are you making fun of me?" she asks, eyes narrowed. Her tone wavers between intimidating and playful.
"No, no," Peter assures, grinning, "I'm just teasing. it's something friends do all the time, don't worry."
Death's wary gaze lingers before she tears it away, looking down at her nails. Her forehead wrinkles as she falls deep into thought. At first Peter worries he said the wrong thing or made her upset, but then she asks, "You consider me a friend?"
"Yeah, sure," Peter chirps. "I mean, we've hung out all day, so." He shrugs. "You seem pretty chill, and you're fun to hang out with."
It's true. Peter never thought he'd be able to say that he's friends with Death, but look where he is now: playing Mario Kart with Death herself.
A smile touches her lips. "I am honored to be considered your friend, Peter Parker."
Peter reflects her smile. "I'm glad you chose me to hang out with you today."
Yes, it kind of sucks that he's dead, but who else can say that they've hung out with Death? And who else can say that they've befriended Death? Man, Ned is going to freak when Peter gets back and tells him everything.
After cleaning up the video game and setting everything to how it was before, Peter and Death leave the Leeds residence and stroll down the road as Death recounts her semi-encounters with Loki. The contrast between her pale skin and the blush on her cheeks is like blood on snow. It's charming, really, how deep her infatuation with Loki is without ever speaking to him. It reminds him of his crush on Liz Allan last year.
Peter tells Death about his old crush, which spirals into a story of homecoming night when he was crushed by a building and then clung onto the side of a airplane while it crashed into the sandy beach.
While they walk and talk, cars zoom through them. Peter still flinches or holds his breath every time, but at least he doesn't fall flat on his bottom again.
The sun set a while ago, around the time Peter had visited Tony, so Peter would guess it's around nine or ten o'clock when Death stops walking in the middle of the street and turns to Peter.
"I believe it is time for you to return," Death says, although she sounds disappointed. "I appreciate your company and your willingness to help me."
Peter shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "It's no problem, I'm glad I could help make you feel less lonely." Jokingly, he adds, "A heads-up before you killed me probably would have been nice, but yeah, it was fun."
Death chuckles. "Yes, it was fun." Her smile fades. "I shall miss you, Peter Parker."
"You can just call me Peter, if you want."
That makes Death's smile return. "Then I shall miss you, Peter. Thank you for your kindness and entrainment."
Peter watches as Death lifts her hand to snap her fingers. As soon as she does, they're whisked off with the colors and the invisible force blowing through his clothes and hair.
Next thing he knows, Peter's standing in the dimly lit library of Death's home in his suit sans mask again. This time, however, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and alarms blare in his head so loud it makes his head throb.
Peter whips his head around to find the source of the danger, but all he sees are the endless bookshelves.
Death casts Peter a curious look. "What is it?"
"Something's wrong," Peter mutters, frowning. "Someone's . . . I think someone's here."
Death's brow furrows. She turns, eyes searching the space, but then she stills beside Peter. When he notices her tense from the corner of his eye, he follows her line of sight.
From behind a bookshelf a few yards away, a dark, ominous figure emerges. Around them are moving wisps of darkness, almost like black smoke. It cradles and twists and swirls around in the air around the figure as they slowly walk out from behind the shelf. The more they emerge, the more intense the alarms and throbbing in Peter's head gets.
The tall figure has fully stepped out and stands before Peter and Death. Peter winces at the severity of his headache and has to blink back dark spots in his vision that threaten to make him faint from the pain.
It is a man, but Peter can't make out any of his features, not even his eyes. Even the space around him where he stands is darkened by his presence. Peter doesn't have to see his eyes to know that he's staring straight into his soul.
Standing at his left, Death crosses her arms and says, "Oblivion."
The figure's head tilts. In a deep, thunderous voice, he replies, "Sister."