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'You are here to learn, Steve Rogers,' the voice whispers, curling around him like silk, the word learn echoing and fading. 'Here to learn, here to see.'
“See what?” Steve shouts out, and the shadows flits past on his left this time, closer than before.
'Too many wars, too many battles,' the voice whispers, and it’s repeating itself, layer upon layer of voice threading through the air, wrapping around him and curling away, distant and too close all at one. 'When you learn, we will send everyone home.'
“What do you mean, home? Back to life?”
'You go back to your life when you have learned, Steve Rogers. The others go back to where they have earned the right to be, their place in death.'
And all at once the mist erupts in front of Steve, layers upon layers of blinding colour whipped up like a tornado, and he cries out and instinctively throws a hand up in front of his face. The wind is now tearing at his hair and clothes and SJ is clutching him so tightly, and he has to step forwards on one foot, bracing himself against the sudden storm, the deafening roar of the wind. He manages to open his watering eyes and he spots countless images dancing in front of him, like a thousand screens have been thrown up around him. Some tower above them like the buildings behind, some are no bigger than a sketchbook. Their edges are indistinct, the sound blurred and echoing like they’re underwater, the movements within speeding up and slowing down uncontrollably, and in the centre of each one is a Steve Rogers, a different Steve Rogers every time-
Through streaming eyes he spots himself in a blue uniform standing with Tony and Clint at a table, laughing and leaning forwards, blond hair hanging in his eyes as Tony throws his hands up in the air. The image twists and is snatched away, and then through the rush of wind and colour there’s another Steve in olive military dress, dancing with an aged Peggy Carter and beaming at her like she hung the sun, moon and stars. Another younger Steve, leaping into a river with a Bucky who can’t be older than fifteen, hollering and whooping. A navy blue Steve lying on his back on some grass, with a Tony Stark next to him, head on Steve’s stomach and fingers linked lazily together, faint smile curving his mouth. A Steve walking hand in hand with a blond woman, grinning as she swats him on the back of the head with a sheaf of files and then pulls him in for a kiss.
Back to their real place in death, the voice repeats in his ear, and Steve staggers back a step in the force of the wind, boots scraping across the concrete. Metal screeches and concrete groans; debris flies through the air around them and he puts a hand on the back of SJ's head, wildly hoping nothing hits them. He forces his eyes to stay open though, and he sees a Steve in jeans and a T-shirt hefting a child up into his arms, rolling his eyes at a blond woman across a kitchen table; another walking slowly and alone through a snow-filled forest; a Steve in full Captain America gear pressing a Tony up against a metal wall, catching his mouth in a kiss; a Captain America sitting in a booth in a diner, crammed in with the rest of the Avengers and falling asleep with his head resting on Natasha’s shoulder as Clint steals his fries.
"No," Steve chokes out, and he can barely stay upright anymore, keeping his eyes open is absolute agony but he can't look away. He holds his free hand in front of his face to try and shield his eyes from the worst of the wind, and he can feel it tearing at his hair, cold and stinging. SJ is screaming, and still the images come, the glimpses of a thousand other worlds.
There's the distant sound of swooping airplanes, roaring engines, and Steve sees himself in modern army fatigues, howling with laughter as a Bucky in the same modern military dress half struts, half staggers across sandy ground, a beer in his hand and slopping all over his wrist; now it's a Steve Rogers in civilian gear next to a Tony Stark in casual attire, and they’re walking through a corridor and there’s a small kid between them, clutching their hands and swinging his feet up off the floor; a Steve in nothing but a pair of sweatpants leaning across a bed to kiss Tony, popping himself up on his fists and laughing against Tony’s mouth as Tony grabs his dogtags and pulls him close -
And then the images are gone, wrenched away as if someone has pulled a power-line somewhere. The wind dies and the mist crawls back in, covering up the landscape around them, and Steve is gasping and sinking unsteadily to his knees, SJ still in his arms and clinging to him like he’s never going to let go. He’s sobbing into Steve’s shoulder, coughing and gasping, chest rattling.
“I saw Bucky,” he cries, and Steve raises a trembling hand to hold his head close. “Steve, I want to go back to Bucky and Tom and the others, we were, we were in the p-park behind the orphanage, I could see them-”
“I know, I know,” Steve tries to say, tries to comfort him. God, it’s not just him that’s not meant to be here, all of them have been plucked from their own spaces across the multiverse and shoved into this place for some reason, some goddamn reason that he doesn't know. All these versions of him should be in their own afterlives, with the people they loved-
“STEVE! SJ!”
He jerks his head up as he hears Seven’s voice, distant and indistinct.
“Here!” He shouts back, clambering unsteadily to his feet. “Seven! We're alright, over here!”
“Don’t move!” Seven bellows back, and then Steve hears him approaching, sees his silhouette form and break in the mist. He’s pale and shaking, looking like he’s just been knocked six ways from Sunday.
“Did you-” he asks, voice hoarse. He scrambles over, concerned eyes on SJ who is still gulping in unsteady breaths, coughing every time he breathes out.
“Yeah,” Steve replies, and he hitches SJ up and runs a hand up and down his back. SJ shifts as close as he can possibly get to Steve, his wracking sobs turning to shuddering breaths as Steve holds him close.
“We’re not meant to be here,” Seven says violently. “None of us.”
Steve nods, feeling a lump in his throat at the distraught expression on Seven’s face. Steve notices he’s got his wedding ring clutched in his fist, the chain swinging freely and glinting in the pale grey light. God, there’s no chance he wouldn’t have seen a version of him with Tony, and his heart must feel like it’s been torn out, realising that he’s here and not with Tony in his own afterlife, in his own heaven or whatever the hell those places were-
Steve takes a steadying breath in, composes himself. “So,” he says, voice rough. “Seems it’s not just about getting me home anymore, is it?”
Seven’s hand – the one holding the ring – jerks up slightly, his knuckles tightening. “No,” he says, somewhere between determined and distressed, and he’s got that look on his face that Steve knows all too well. “Not anymore.”
Tony stands next to Steve’s shoulder, reaches out and gently touches his shoulder. “I’ve-” he begins, clears his throat roughly. “I’ve got to go back to the tower. Paperwork, and legal stuff, and things I don’t care about. You know, the usual. Barton’s staying here, and I’ll be back when I’ve done with the whole multi-national company thing.”
He has no reason to linger, but he can’t make his feet move. He stands there uselessly besides Steve’s bed, eyes on Steve’s face, not wanting to leave even for the night because if he leaves and something happens-
Breathing out hard through his nose, Tony shuts his eyes and composes himself. He forces his eyes open and then without thinking about it, leans forwards and presses his mouth to Steve’s forehead. He pulls back just enough to gently knock his brow against Steves.
“Come on, sleeping beauty, seventy years was enough, now you’re being greedy,” he says, shutting his eyes tightly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He pulls back, and as he straightens up a gust of wind outside hisses at the window, the blinds stirring and the glass rattling slightly as the draft finds the miniscule cracks and crevices around the frame. Tony frowns over at the window as the blinds still again, the gust of wind apparently a single occurrence.
He waits for several long moments, but nothing more happens. Shoving away the growing internal struggle, he forces himself away and leaves the room without looking back.
Notes:
I'm going to dedicate this chapter to SilverShadows and pastaandscones, who were both a little concerned about the quality of the afterlife for the rest of the Steve's. FEAR NOT DON'T WORRY IT IS MOSTLY UNDER CONTROL. But seriously you two, I nearly burst trying not to spoiler the rest of it in response to those comments.
Chapter 4
Chapter Text
Feeling more exhausted than he thinks he ever has before, Steve bends down, shushing SJ as he coughs weakly, murmuring fitfully as he dozes against Steve’s shoulder.
“Shush, shush, just putting you down,” he soothes as he carefully lays SJ down on the bed, one hand cradling the back of his head. He folds the blankets over him, knowing how SJ hates being cold, then steps back quietly, rubbing his mouth with his fingertips. SJ coughs again but sleeps on, a small frown between his eyebrows and mouth hanging slightly open. Outside the sun is just starting to set, the sky turning a beautiful lavender colour as the last of the light draws away. It feels like weeks since Steve was watching the sun rise, walking through the quiet streets on his way towards the Brooklyn Bridge.
“We need to go,” Seven says quietly behind him, and Steve nods in acknowledgement. He can already hear voices on the floor below, footsteps on the wooden stairs as more and more people arrive.
He turns away and meets Seven’s eyes for a moment. He’s put the chain back around his neck, though the ring is lying on the outside of his suit, next to the star. Steve wishes he’d put it away; he’s seen more than enough evidence of what can happen between him and Tony in the past few hours, he doesn’t need any more reminders.
God. It’s so stupid; there’s a whole new level of intrigue and question been brought into the situation and the one thing he can’t shake is the way his alter-egos looked when kissing Tony.
He lingers for a moment, not really wanting to leave SJ. He’d fallen into a fitful sleep on the walk back, curled up in Steve’s arms with tears still clinging to his eyelashes. It’s breaking Steve’s heart, seeing how lost, confused and upset SJ is. He can’t help but feel guilty as well, seeing as he was the one that agreed to SJ coming with them today.
“He’ll be okay. Just exhausted.”
Seven sounds subdued and tired as well, voice quiet from where he stands in the doorway.
“I know the feeling,” Steve replies heavily, and then turns away and walks over to join him. Seven doesn’t reply, just reaches out and claps him once on the shoulder before they head downstairs and walk into the room where the rest of the Steves are assembling. The Commander is there, looking harried, so are Stephanie and Brooklyn and many other versions that he recognises. The Steve with the robot arm catches his eye even though he’s skulking at the back; his movements are so very different to the majority of the other Steves, some lingering shadow in his expression that Steve doesn’t understand.
Steve can’t spare much thought for working it out though; the room is quickly filled and they’re all looking at him and Seven expectantly. Most of them are frowning and Steve supresses the urge to cover his face with his hands, promising himself he’ll stop doing it as much when he gets back home. Maybe Clint’s jokes about patenting his disapproving look had been warranted after all.
“Tough crowd,” Seven mutters in an undertone, standing shoulder to shoulder with Steve.
Sighing, Steve reaches up to rub at his mouth again, pulling at his lower lip. “Did you ever do the USO show with the 107th?”
Seven pulls a face. “I tried,” he replies, and then the Commander is there in front of them, one brow lifted in question.
“Why the emergency meeting?” he asks, and Steve tries not to be irritated by the way the question is clearly directed at Seven, like he’s not even there. He’s the new guy here after all, the anomaly.
“We went looking for some explanations as to why this Steve is here when he’s alive,” Seven says, and the rest of the room falls silent, everyone listening hard. The only sound is their breathing, not even the shuffle of a boot on the floor or the rustle of clothing. “We went into the mist,” Seven continues. “And there was something or someone out there.”
A murmur goes through the room. “What the fuck do you mean?” asks a Steve in modern military fatigues, and Steve thinks helplessly of the glimpse of the Steve dressed like that, laughing with Bucky in that sandy camp somewhere, beer in hand and expression lit up.
“Something spoke to us,” Seven says, and the room is again so still they could hear a pin drop. “All we saw was a shadow, something moving, and it spoke-”
