Hello! Bit of a specific question, and you may have answered something similar to this already, but how would a scenario go if after being resurrected Death finally reunites with the reader only to find them much older than when he last saw them?
(Just turned 26 a week ago and have been waiting for this boi to come back since I was 12, so this ask is TOTALLY not inspired by that 👀)
Tysm for your time! ❤️
When Death felt the stubborn hammer of life come slamming down onto his chest, jerking him into the waking world once more, he was aware of only two things.
First, the Seventh Seal must have been broken. How else would he be lurching upright on the dusty ground with a raw and ragged gasp when - moments ago, it seemed - he'd been plummeting into The Well of Souls, his final glimpse of the world above centred on your face where you threw yourself to the ground at the lip of the Well, features frozen in a scream that pulled your expression taut with horror and anguish for a Horseman who'd never thought his loss would be grieved.
That was his second startling realisation.
You.
Where were you?
Last he knew, he'd appealed to the Crowfather's lingering soul, asking the Old One to return you safely to the Forge Lands and the makers who were likely waiting to envelope you into their fold with open arms.
Would you still be there? How much time had passed? And what of Earth?
All questions, he realised, that would sadly have to wait. Because War was suddenly looming over him, gauntlet outstretched, inviting their eldest to stand.
As Death grasped his brother's hand and used it to haul himself from the ground, he made a silent promise.
He'd find you, wherever you were. He didn't yet know how time had moved around him while he was 'dead,' but if you were out there, if your soul still remembered him, he'd find you and keep you as close as he had before the Well was opened.
It is, as you'd told him many times, what friends are for.
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You couldn't rightly say you know if the years have been kind to you or not. It's hard to gauge when you see yourself change so slowly, every day, little by little. More hairs growing in around your jaw, more wrinkles settling beneath your eyelids, the one at the corner of your mouth that betrays the side of your face you tend to favour when you smile.
You don't think you've changed that much. Not really. You're still the same human who made friends with a race of giants. You're still the same human who helped a dead man feel alive again. Who forced an angel to live with his crimes rather than die without ever getting the chance to mend them. Who looked a Prince of Hell in the eye and thanked him for the Demon Key.
Who called an ancient, eldritch Horseman 'friend.'
You still miss him.
It's been years... decades even, and there isn't a day goes by that you don't think of Death in some capacity.
So, it's no surprise that you're thinking about him today as you doze in your favourite chair, the one you'd lugged here from several streets over so you could position it to face the setting sun, casting golden light in through glass panes and warming you where you sit amongst the tartan cushions.
You're tired now. More tired than you were when you young. Tired of rebuilding, tired of being Humanity's mouthpiece when there's tension between the races. Tired of being dragged from pillar to post by cold politicians who think that they still have power just because they used to enjoy it in the Old World.
You're not tired of waiting though, not for Death. Perhaps because you know, sooner or later, in some unknowable way, you'll be seeing him again when your clock ticks over.
Your head begins to nod, your lap sun-warmed and comfortable, when there's a sudden commotion at the door to your home. You flinch at the loud 'slam,' like someone has just thrown it open and let the handle crash brazenly into the adjacent wall.
Your eyes fly open at the same time as your hand flies to the knife in your pocket, gifted to you by your Horseman all those years ago.
'In case of an emergency,' he'd said as he pressed the beautifully crafted dagger into your palm, it's blade borrowed from one of Harvester's jagged edges.
It's the cold that reaches you first, a bone-deep chill that sweeps into the room ahead of any entity. At first, you think it's just the autumn wind blowing through the open door... but then there's a dark shape slinking into the entryway, a pair of embers glowing side by side in the air as they duck beneath the wooden frame.
... And then you're dropping your knife to the carpet and letting out a loud, wet gasp, both hands shooting up to cup around your mouth.
You'd never seen Death without his mask before, but you'd recognise the Horseman in front of you whether he were wearing it or not. The translucence of his skin like that of a fresh corpse... The cold that rolls off his bulging shoulders in waves, as if warmth itself is trying to escape his presence... Long, matted hair pitched darker than oil... And his face, until this point, completely unknown to you, is as sallow and sunken as you always imagined it would be.
The bone-mask he used to wear now sits safely on your bedside table, entrusted to you that day he gave himself to the Well in exchange for the souls of humanity.
He's the most beautiful sight you've ever laid eyes on.
"Y/n...?" his gentle voice wafts uncertainly into the space between you, sending tears over the edge of your lashes to cascade down your cheeks and dip between your fingertips.
It strikes you that, of course he'd be uncertain...
You've... changed.
He's still him. Still Death, with all his wonderful imperfections that were always there from the moment you first met him.
Yours, however, are new. A different body, a different face, similar of course, yet... it isn't the You that he knew. Suddenly, inexplicably, you find yourself feeling just a little self-conscious as his golden eyes rake over you from head to toe, and you move a hand away from your mouth to scrape some hair behind your ear. It shouldn't matter to you, you scold yourself sternly. Your friend is alive. He's alive, and he's here and -
Death doesn't even wait for you to confirm that it is you. He'd know your soul even if you changed so much that you couldn't recognise yourself.
In two short strides, he's crossed the room and flung his sinewy arms out wide, swinging them around your back and wrenching you forwards into his chest with such ferocity, it knocks the wind out of your lungs.
"I... I-!" You can't find the words as he buries his face - his real face - into the side of your neck. You can feel the hard ridge of his nose sweep back and forth over your skin, pressing firmly against you as if he can't get close enough even with his massive hands clinging feverishly to the back of your jumper, anchoring himself to you like he expects you to disappear at any moment.
"Too long," he whispers harshly into your ear, "It's been too long..."
It's far more of a firm and unyielding statement than any kind of pleasantry. It has been too long. So, to remediate the error, Death is holding onto you like he never plans on letting any more time pass without you by his side again.
You try not to let that go to your head.
And then he's pulling his head away from you, and his fingers untangle themselves from your jumper to slide from your back and ghost shakily up your arms until he's clasping the sides of your neck and tucking his thumbs beneath your jawline, tilting your head backwards so he can stare down at you, starstruck.
For several, long moments, you're caught there, peering into his eyes as he lets his travel the new contours of your face. Only this time, you can see his thin lips, dark like a purpled bruise, stretch into a blindingly fond smile.
"Look at you..." he croaks thickly as a calloused thumb scrubs at the tear-stained skin below your eye, "I... I wasn't sure I'd be lucky enough to see this face again..."
Huffing out a wet laugh, you give your head a tiny shake and reply, "That's my line." And as you speak, you raise your own hands, guiding them around his wrists and edging them towards his exposed face.
You still have enough forethought to pause though, letting your trembling fingers hover just above the hollows of his cheeks before you ask, "Could I....?"
The Horseman only snorts, his grin inching wider as if he'd expected nothing less of you, and then he tips his head sideways, seeking out the warmth of your fingertips until you're cupping his head in one palm and using the other to carefully brush his hair away from his face.
In an instant, Death melts against you with a contented rumble from deep inside his chest, which really goes to show just how badly he's been missing you because there was a time you'd risk losing a finger if they wandered too close to his mouth.
"You stayed..." he whispers drunkenly, and for the first time, you have to wonder how long he's been looking for you.... You don't think you've ever seen the Horseman look this haggard.
"Stayed?" you ask.
"You're still here," he says, "You're still alive... I thought..." Heaving a sigh that you feel against your skin for the first time, he leans his pockmarked cheek more heavily against your hand and admits, "I thought I might have been too late..."
Bemused, you scoff, "I'm know I'm old, but I'm not that old."
"Hah," he chuckles breathlessly, his eyes hooded and admiring, "You could live to be a hundred, and I'd hardly consider you 'old."
"Well, no. But this is coming from the oldest man in the Universe."
For your cheek, you're rewarded with the soft bump of his chin where it knocks against your forehead.
The heart in your chest squeezes furiously, and your face crumples as you tip forwards into the Horseman, slinging your arms around his emaciated waist whilst he slides his hands down to the small of your back, unwilling to let any bit of him part from you for even a second.
"You haven't changed a bit," you tell him, voice muffled against his cold chest.
You feel the rumble under the Horseman's sternum travel up his throat before you hear him say, "Neither have you."
Admittedly, you blurt out a laugh. "Oh, are you kidding? I'm aging like leftovers."
Death’s abdomen jumps beneath you as he chuckles fondly and adds, “And what a privilege that is.”
“To age badly?”
“To age at all.”
