Chapter Text
“Where’s your-" Peter mimes holding a scythe, and Doug rolls his eyes.
“Please. That’s so early medieval ages."
The boy's nose scrunches up, like he just caught a whiff of the tossed, expired cases of tilapia from the nearby takeout joint. Which maybe he did, assuming that particular sense of his is enhanced. Doug keeps his own expression neutral. He's spent enough time around rotting carcasses that it hardly fazes him.
Peter opens his mouth, shuts it again after seemingly thinking better of whatever it is he wants to say. The pair proceed to have a squint-off that lasts so long Doug's eyes start to tear up. He didn't even know that was possible in this realm. Feeling very suddenly tired of absolutely everything - or maybe just teenagers - Doug breaks first.
"Oh for Reaper 'sake," he growls, "what now? Spit it out. I have an appointment down the street in"- he glances at his watch - "seventy-six-point-three seconds, and it is not to be missed."
He doesn't bother to elaborate on what kind of appointment. If the kid can't figure that out by now, that's his own fault. The boy must know though, because even with that silly mask on, he manages to look oddly concerned.
"Can I stop you?" he asks, completely serious. Doug lets out a condescending snort.
"Not unless Spider-Man can stop a heart attack. Now speak up."
Peter sighs, that same semi-disgusted look making a respectable comeback. “It's nothing, just- a matching green tracksuit? For welcoming people to the next life or wherever? Don't you think that's a little, I don't know. Unprofessional?"
Immediately self-conscious, Doug looks down at today's get-up. Huh. Okay. Sure, maybe it’s outdated by a decade or four. Certainly not something he can even try to argue meets your everyday 'business casual' office requirements. But in his defense, nobody could ever see it before now, or at least they've never commented on it if they could; as best he's always been able to tell, the newly dead see whatever version of him brings them the most peace. And besides - it’s comfy.
He looks back up at Peter, pinching a bit of the polyester track jacket for emphasis as he proclaims, “I’ll have you know this was the height of fashion in the seventies."
“Whatever, dude. Wear what you want. But for the record, that outfit seriously ruins the effect." Peter tilts his head at him, somehow coming across even more scrutinizing than he was just moments ago during their staring contest. “You know, you’re actually kind of normal."
And damn if Doug's not curious against his will, now. "Normal? How exactly do you figure that?"
The kid shrugs. "I just would have expected... more, I guess."
“'More'?”
“Yeah. Like-” The boy lifts up his hands and waves them around in a frankly pitiful imitation of a ghost. “Whooo-eee! It is I, Death. Prepare to meet your doom!”
Peter lowers his arms, looking pleased with his performance. “More of that."
Doug blinks, just barely resisting the very real urge to smite the first living being that's spoken to him in centuries. A being that by his standards hasn't even made it past the fetal stage, at that.
Never mind being a Grim.
This kid is going to be the death of him.