[closed] Let me up on the stand

[thelast]

who: Death and Peter Quill
what: Making a compilation.
when: Early August, following this.
where: Floor 13
warnings: N/A

[Peter's floor remains uninterrupted even though Death follows through on what she said. As soon as she switches off the feed of her device she looks up from her seat. Not the one from her room, but the one on the balcony of the thirteenth floor. Like she had been there all along.

Black boots made themselves at home on the edge as she starts writing down songs and artists in a small black book. Anyone else passing by wouldn't notice her unless they were looking for her specifically. No, she was here to see Peter.

Every once in a while she glances over her shoulder through the glass door to see if she can catch his eye or have to resort to knocking.]

Comments

[thelast]

[The lingering look she gives him might have taken a tiny eternity, but her eyes go downcast as she continues softly petting the giant fish.]

There's nothing anyone else can do. He might choose to be reincarnated and live here again, or not.

[The palm of her gloved hand stop on its dorsal fin, her eye brows lift ever so slightly when she looks up to him again.]

Thank you. [It was as if she had read it from a book. Then she smiles and her usual tone comes back.] Not many get a final visitor, Peter.

[nostalgiabomb]

[ He fidgets under the look she gives him, and when she finally speaks, her answer doesn't quite sit right with him. But it's not like Peter's, like, a fish biologist or a fish doctor or a fish whatever. Old age gets the best of everyone, he knows, and if that's it, he supposes that's just...

... it.

Peter frowns again, his hand still smoothing back and forth in the wide expanse between the whale-shark's eyes. The words of gratitude are met with a shrug. ]

I mean, you kinda brought me here, so.

[ "It's not like I had a choice," is the implication, though his voices holds no resentment for it. ]

What happens now?