the soul world
Blurry.
Everything was blurry.
And kind of orangish. A warm orangish tint washed over everything in sight.
But most noticeably, everything hurt.
He was lying on something beige. What was he lying on? It was firm but comfortable. Most of all it was warm. Warm and comforting, like a hug. He vaguely wondered what it was.
But then the pain was too much.
And once again, he was gone.
A sensation began in his fingertips, slowly spreading to the rest of his body.
At first it felt like a harsh tingle, like a much more intense version of the feeling he got when his foot fell asleep.
Then it became progressively worse, feeling like a thousand needles were being shoved into his skin all at once.
Then it was a million knives, all tearing at his skin, fighting over him, all trying to take him away. And he didn’t want them to take him. He didn’t want to go. Not yet.
He was shaking all over. And it hurt to move. It hurt to stand still. It hurt.
Peter felt like every molecule of his body was being torn apart, and he tried so hard to stop it but it was too much. It was all too much.
“Mr. Stark?” He gasped, barely able to get air into his already-disintegrating lungs. “I don’t feel so good.” It was a harsh understatement. But he was Spider-Man. He had to be strong. Especially in front of Mr. Stark. He didn’t want to seem like nothing but a kid again.
But then the pain doubled. It took all of his willpower to not fall onto the ground.
Mr. Stark looked over at him, a look of terror and disbelief in his eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, he forced out the words “you’re alright.”
Peter stumbled forward. “I don’t- I don’t know what’s happening—“ there was ash all around him now and the worst part was that it was coming from him. The edges of his fingers were crumbling away now and all he could register was fear and pain. He stumbled forward and fell and Mr. Stark caught him.
And that was some sort of solace to him.
Maybe Mr. Stark could save him. But even as he tried to grasp the iron suit, his mentor’s comforting embrace began to drift away too. He tried to hold on but he couldn’t and he was so scared now because he didn’t want to die yet
And maybe if he held on, he would stay
Maybe if he held on tight then he wouldn’t crumble to ash
Maybe Mr. Stark could save him
But then his legs gave out and he couldn’t stand anymore
With every second that passed, he was fading.
With every second that passed, more and more of his body subsided, leaving behind only dust, only the shallow feeling of emptiness.
“I don’t wanna go.”
And Peter was crying now but he couldn’t stop it and he couldn’t stop himself from falling away into dust.
“I don’t wanna go.”
Peter knew that he was dying. And the mere thought of death suddenly petrified him. All the times before when he had come so close to death didn’t seem real in comparison because now he was here, at Death’s doorstep, and all he wanted was to go back, to turn around, but he knew that he couldn’t.
“Mr. Stark, please.”
He held on tighter, hoping maybe that even if he couldn’t save himself that maybe Iron Man could save him, because Iron Man could do anything, right? But as Spider-Man slipped away, he knew deep down that it was hopeless.
“Please, I don’t wanna go.”
Death slipped its cold hands around Peter’s throat and was choking him and he just wanted it to go away.
He just wanted to live.
Was that really too much to ask for?
Please, Mr. Stark. Save me. I don’t want to die yet. I’m too young to die.
“I don’t wanna go.”
And then he fell.
He was so dizzy.
He was so scared.
And everything hurt so much.
Too much.
It was all too much.
Mr. Stark set him on the ground, a hand placed firmly on his right shoulder which was slowly crumbling away with the rest of him.
And Peter tried to raise his other hand but it was shaking and then it was dust, it was gone.
He was fading.
He was dying.
And he didn’t want to die. Not yet.
Not yet please not yet.
And Mr. Stark looked at him, his eyes clouded with fear and desperation but he couldn’t say anything. His voice wasn’t working. He was too scared. Don’t die on me, kid. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t die yet. Please don’t go.
And suddenly Peter remembered what Mr. Stark had said to him that evening on the building.
“What if somebody had died tonight? Different story, right? Cause that’s on you. And if you die, I feel like that’s on me. And I don’t need that on my conscience.”
But it wasn’t Mr. Stark’s fault. Because Peter knew that if Tony could do anything then he would. He could see the sheer terror in his face and the tears framing his eyes and he knew: he doesn’t want me to go either.
But he also knew that Mr. Stark would blame himself. Peter knew what that was like. How could he help but feel responsible for Uncle Ben’s death? Because he had seen it happen, he was right there, he felt like he could have done something. And even though he knew he couldn’t have done anything he still felt like it was all his fault.
And he knew that Mr. Stark would feel the same way.
And nothing he could say would change that.
And he remembered earlier that day, when he had told Mr. Stark, “If anything, it’s your fault I’m here.”
But he hadn’t meant it. He wished he could take it back. God, he wished he could take it back but he couldn’t. It was too late. It was said and it was done and now his life was done too and he knew Mr. Stark would blame himself and Peter was filled with remorse.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and then that night came back to haunt him one more time: “Sorry doesn’t cut it!” But before he could say anything else, Death yanked on him one final time and his body crumbled away and he gasped and tried to breathe he tried to breathe but he couldn’t and he tried to stay because he didn’t want to go but he couldn’t do that either and then he was gone.
He was dust. He was just some specks floating in the air, reminding the cold dead planet that there was once a 16-year-old kid who didn’t want to go but didn’t have a choice.
And then he faded away with the breeze.
And he was just a memory.
Peter Parker woke up, gasping for breath, coughing and hyperventilating. He couldn’t breathe and his heart was pounding and pounding in his eardrums and in his head and his head was throbbing.
And that pain that he had felt, the one that had overpowered his body as he died slowly, was still there. He was in so much pain. It never left. But it wasn’t as bad anymore. It was kind of dulled. He could think again, since the pain was no longer so intense that it occupied his every thought. But it still hurt.
And everything was overwhelming. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know where he was.
And then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.
And his breathing slowed to a steady pace. His heart ceased its pitiless pounding. The fuzziness clouding his brain was washed away.
He looked at the unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, thankful for its strong and reassuring grip.
“Hello, Peter,” said a low, calm voice. He turned around.
Sitting behind him was an attractive man who looked to be in his 20s. His brown hair was about the length of Peter’s, bangs hanging loosely on his forehead. He had a cleft chin and hidden eyelids and a gentle gaze.
“Who are you?” Peter asked.
“My name is Bucky Barnes. It’s nice to meet you.” He shook Peter’s hand.
Peter then noticed the beige World War II soldier’s uniform on the man’s muscular torso. “Was I using you as a pillow?” Peter asked sheepishly. “I'm really really sorry i didn't mean to do that i just woke up there and i'm sorry and i—“
Bucky just smiled. “It’s ok. I didn’t mind.”
Peter swallowed. “Your name sounds familiar.”
Bucky‘s smile wavered a little but then he nodded. “I’m a friend of Captain America’s. You must not recognize me without my metal arm.”
Peter gasped. “That was you? Oh man, I’m so sorry for fighting you, I didn’t know—“
“It’s fine,” Bucky said again. “You don’t need to apologize.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve done some things, in the past. I have so much regret, even though I couldn’t control any of it. I guess that’s why I’m younger now, in this soul world, or wherever we are. It’s nice to be back in a time before I was broken.”
Peter nodded. He understood. He understood what it was like to feel remorse for something he was not responsible for. He understood why Bucky wanted to go back to a simpler time. He understood Bucky’s subconscious desperation to rid himself of that looming regret.
“Mr. Rogers told me about that. It wasn’t your fault, but I understand what it feels like to feel responsibility for something uncontrollable. When my uncle died... I felt like it was my fault. Even though I knew — know — that I couldn’t have done anything about it, I still feel like somehow i was responsible. Like I should have saved him, I shoulda been there, you know?”
Bucky nodded. He did know.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Peter broke it shyly. “I still think your metal arm is cool.”
Bucky laughed. “Thanks, kid. Me too.”
Peter reminded Bucky of Steve before the super-soldier serum, before he became Captain America. Talking to the kid gave him a pleasant sense of déjà vu and nostalgia. To Bucky, Peter was like another little brother to replace the one he had lost.
—
Peter tried to stand, but fell to the ground and groaned.
Bucky knelt down next to him, putting his hand on Peter’s back. “Are you OK?”
Peter nodded. “It just hurts.”
“What hurts? Are you alright?”
Peter turned and looked at Bucky. “Wait... you mean you don’t feel it too?”
“Feel what?” Bucky’s voice was laced with worry, which Peter couldn’t help but feel grateful for. It was nice to know that someone cared.
“You mean... you mean it didn’t hurt when you died?“
Bucky shook his head. “No... did it for you?”
Peter nodded. “Not too bad,” he lied. “Just kind of felt like I was being ripped apart.”
“You just contradicted yourself,” Bucky said. “I’m so sorry that you had to go through that; it sounds awful. Is there anything I can do?”
Peter shook his head. “Thanks, though. It’s getting better. I’m getting used to it I guess.”
Bucky put his hand comfortingly on Peter’s shoulder. He liked the kid already. He already thought of him like a little brother. And he hoped it would stay that way.
He knew it was selfish, he knew Peter had a right to know the truth, but he hoped Peter would never find out.