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Peter was rather familiar with Death.
It’s not like he wanted to be. He supposed that for some strange reason, it had pointed at him and decided he’d be the perfect person to torment. And it had. And it did.
Death seemed to follow him around everywhere he went, whether he liked it or not. It would trail it’s way onto the subway, would randomly poke at his headphones, would laugh in his ear every chance it could get, and sometimes, when it was late at night and he couldn’t quite sleep, it would scratch his back till his eyes lulled.
Peter was six years old when his parents had died. He didn’t know what happened. He had only thought they were going on vacation. But after a while he noticed it was going to be a very long time until he saw them again.
Peter remembered Aunt May crying on the couch when he was supposed to be in bed. He remembered Uncle Ben hugging her tight and whispering things to her. He remembered catching Ben’s eye and the two of them staring at each other in a mutual silence. Peter didn’t know what was wrong but he knew it was bad. He didn’t understand what happened to his parents until a few months later. Even then, it was hard to process.
But even after that horrible event, Peter wasn’t too scared. He hadn’t really noticed that Death was playing hopscotch with him at recess or breaking his crayons while he scribbled in his coloring book. Peter wasn’t scared of Death in the slightest. Until years later. Until Ben.
Uncle Ben’s death was all a blur for Peter. He didn’t remember much of it and that struck him in the heart because "Shouldn’t I remember? It was my fault, afterall. Shouldn’t I remember every detail perfectly?"
And Peter believed that something was wrong with him for it. He thought of himself as a horrible person for not remembering an event so life shattering as that. The only thing he did remember was the nights he would lay in his bed, heaving for air as salty tears poured from his eyes as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to wake Aunt May up. She had gone through enough because of him.
Peter didn’t remember the funeral. Only the bit where he had scuffed his new expensive dress shoes with dirt and grass and smeared snot on his suit sleeve.
After that, Peter was rather terrified of Death and all he seemed to notice was the looming, devious presence of it. Death had seemed to grow with him but at a speed a million times faster than Peter ever could have. Death was much older now and much more mature; not that little child it once was. Perhaps the same could be said for Peter.
Once Ben had died, Peter was insistent on making sure Death didn’t strike not only his, but others lives. He’d risk his own for someone else’s. And countless times, he did. He’d jump in front of a gun, would follow deadly heists to make sure that Death didn’t go destroying things and wreaking havoc as it always seemed to. And at that point, Peter had hoped that Death was scared of him and that that horrible fear of his loved ones being stolen from him would fade away. And for a while, it almost did.
But then Thanos had come and Peter had been taken away and, somehow, he’d come back. And Mr. Stark had hugged him tight as could be and then… but then… Death had different plans. Peter had gone too long without a little jostle, and taking another perfectly good person, a perfectly good parental figure was the exact thing Death wanted to do.
So Death did. And Tony was dead. And another funeral was attended. And Peter had once again lost someone very near and dear to him.
Death seemed the most apparent it had ever been. It would put things in Peter’s way to remind him of everything that happened and would whisper in his ear saying, “Look, Peter. Don’t you see a pattern? You won’t ever be good enough to save the people you care about most”. And when this would rip at Peter and his stomach would be in knots and his breaths would become much too shallow and labored, Death would rub his shoulder and listen to his cries with an unknown sympathy and compassion.
Months passed, more deaths occurred, including Quentin Beck’s. That had struck Peter like a knife whether he’d like to admit it or not. Even if he was a villain, was death really the answer?
But now, as Peter lay in his twin sized bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling of his and May’s apartment, he couldn’t help but wonder where Death was now; for it had vanished in the blink of an eye the day Mysterio had died.