Old Friend
Soul Stone
Vormir
Circa. 2014
He’s going to die out here. All alone. With nothing but the howling wind to ease him under.
Steve has always been aware of his inexorable death, in the distant way that all people are. Of the way their time is slowly trickling out, closer and closer to the moment their last breath meanders through their lips.
Recently, this acceptance has morphed into something sharper, more painful. It’s the all-encompassing pain of the super-soldier serum burning through his veins. The weight of a target on his back in the form of a shield.
Death doesn’t bother him much anymore, dulled by the contemplation of many sleepless nights. But faced with the sudden reality of ceasing to exist drives Steve into a state of numb panic.
The wind shrieks again, clawing at the plane like it’s not already falling out of the sky. A plane full of bombs that will never see a drop of civilian blood. He’s made sure of that.
He licks his lips, the bitter taste of loose ends and cut dreams invading his mouth. It sours further as he murmurs false promises, makes foolish plans he knows he’ll never carry out. But oh, he wants to more than he thinks he’s ever wanted anything in his life. The yearning pulses with his every heartbeat, speeding up like it knows it’s time is drawing to a close.
The plane collides with the ice in a groan of shrieking metal and sputtering engines. Frigid water comes flooding through every crack of the machine. Then he’s drowning and freezing alive all at once.
Steve thinks he can feel his blood crystallizing in his veins, his heart slowing down to a stop. But he definitely can’t feel his hands, or his feet, or...anything at all, really.
He drifts off in a bed of ice, soothed by the whistle of Death’s haunting melody.
He blinks.
The silence is mocking him.
Because there is no wind, no water rushing to his feet’ edge. Only snow, and stone, and the icy chill pervading through his soul.
Steve’s thoughts are sluggish, halted by the cold. Vormir, returning the Soul Stone. Right.
He sets off to do just that, but his feet refuse to obey, leaving him standing there, shivering. The chill immobilizes him, freezing him in his steps.
Steve Rogers hates the cold. The aversion stems from long winters with heaters always running with a death rattle, or not running at all… and also (just maybe) traumatic plane crashes. Usually, he’s okay, with his friends by his side and their lively chatter in his ear. He’s okay.
But now, he stands alone. And Steve thinks he might be hallucinating. Or having a panic attack. Or both.
Returning the Soul Stone should be easy, which is why he put it first on his list. He just hadn’t thought Vormir would be so goddamn cold. But he still has a job to do, so he centers himself and trudges on.
The wind starts up again.
He’s done it. He’s reached the top of the godforsaken cliff. The whole way plagued with fragments of memories better forgotten. Always there, lurking at the corner of his eye.
“Bucky, take my hand!”
“NO!”
Tears seared his icy skin, a shadow of grief decades old.
Sanity is no longer a constant, so when Steve catches sight of the Red Skull, he chalks it up to another one of his visions. Until his personal demon addresses him.
“Welcome.” The Red Skull continues his monologue, but Steve can’t process the words. Can’t even process the sight before his eyes. Because he’d died to save the world from them, from the Red Skull, from Hydra. Turns out he never could do things right.
Just a few feet away stands another testament to his failures. And Steve just gapes. A million questions are roiling and bouncing in his head, but in the end he blurts out only one. Perhaps the most important of all.
“Do you know who I am?”
His guide looks blankly ahead, then repeats in a drone, “Steve, son of-”
“Sarah, I know. That’s not what I asked. Do you know me? Steve Rogers, Captain America.” His voice cracks on the last word.
Silence. Not even a flicker of recognition lights up the Skull’s blank stare. In the soul-sucking hush, Steve’s shock mutates into fury. Anger that has been sitting for a century with nowhere to go. Well, it’s all racing out now, thrumming through his body, and Steve feels the most alive he’s felt in years.
“Bucky. He was abducted after trying to stop a shipment of your weapons. Turned into a weapon and a murderer against his will,” Steve says, eyes stinging. “Howard Stark, murdered in a ‘car crash’,” he continues. “Countless innocents killed by you, millions more murdered in your name. By Hydra.” His words puncture the quiet so abruptly even Steve himself flinches a little. He plows on, descending further with each uttered phrase.
“Do you know their names?” No response.
His breathing is ragged, chest heaving with uneven pants. The Avengers had always labeled him as level-headed, the only rational one in their midst. In truth, the Captain was. The Captain, the leader, had to be strong. For the team. Now, there is no team. And Steve is falling apart at the seams.
“Answer me!” he cries desperately.
“No.” The Skull’s tone is the same as ever. Cold.
Steve steps back as the response sinks in. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair the Red Skull could forget, could find peace, when he hadn’t managed either.
His teeth ache as he clenches them, and his eyes burn hot. In a split second, he makes a decision. Being level-headed is overrated, anyway.
Steve lunges at the Red Skull.
Only to topple over as his body slams into nothing, goosebumps racing across his skin. The rock stings his palms as he goes sprawling, and he lies there as his adrenaline fades, leaving nothing but a pounding in his head and an emptiness in his body. Now weariness seeps into his every pore. Because his enemy is invincible, incorporeal. And he is not.
Steve hauls himself up, a recreation of every battle he’s ever fought. But this time, he gives a little. He’s just so, so tired. “I’m here to return the stone.”
The world is loud. People are constantly bustling about, too busy to look beyond their own noses. It’s easy enough for Natasha to slip through the cracks, footfalls ever so soft.
Death is quiet. There is nowhere to hide. And the silence makes her feel more exposed than judgment ever would.
Insanity lurks in the void.
My name is Natasha Romanoff. I’m an Avenger. I died to retrieve the Soul Stone.
My name is Natalia Romanova, of the Red Room. Prepare to die.
“So to replace the stone, I just drop it off the cliff?” Steve assumes the silence means yes. Something doesn’t seem quite right though. With all the grief required to obtain it, shouldn’t returning a priceless artifact be more...flashy? Not that I’m complaining.
Steve does as instructed, gingerly fishing the stone from its case. Then he dutifully leans over the edge, prepared to throw-
Natasha still lies there, broken.
A blood-red ledger finally clean, but no one’s around to care.
The unexpected sight brings him to his knees, bile rising at the back of his throat. Tears of grief return, blazing hot trails across his face. Except this time he’s overtaken by rage. He raises his eyes, still streaming, and stares the Red Skull down.
Emotion finally curls the Skull’s face. He smirks. “Enjoying the view?”
“You sick bastard.” Steve’s not trembling, though he feels he should be. Instead, his anguish is honed into a sharp edge. Cool and efficient.
Again, Steve swings at him. The Stone, clutched forgotten in his fist, makes sure it connects this time. Steve is sure the shock in the Skull’s face is reflected in his. But the wonder gives way to a frenzy as Steve keeps hitting. It’s almost like the mindless routine of a punching bag, except his target is very much alive now. Yet he doesn’t care.
This. This is the one who stole seventy years of his life, being driven closer and closer to the edge. The Red Skull tries to counter, but all Steve feels is mist on his face with each blow. It feels like justice.
Then, at last, the tipping point. Where so many victims once stood, desperately praying for life yet receiving death all the same. Now stands the Red Skull, indifference shattered at his newfound mortality. The universe is balanced, and revenge always finds a way.
The Red Skull opens his mouth, perhaps to whisper one last plea, before Steve’s fist connects with his face, letting the Stone go in the same moment. The Red Skull’s dramatic black robes billow as he falls, an expression of disbelief forever etched on his face.
He hits the ground.
“For Natasha," Steve whispers.
“кто, черт возьми, Наташа?”