In the Light Between the Lines

As far as Peter Quill was concerned, there was only one thing worth doing in the Soul Realm, and that was finding Gamora. He started out over the gray wastes, determination in every step, jaw set and fists clenched. Drax and Mantis followed close behind. He didn’t need to look back or hear the steady tread of Drax’s booted feet against the strange, rubbery ground, to know that.

He was surprised, however, to find that the wizard had followed him. He paused, shielding his eyes as he turned toward the bright horizon. A tall, be-robed figure stood beside his two regular companions. He stopped, frowning. “What’re you doing here?” he asked—not intending to sound rude (well, not too rude), and mostly failing.

Dr. Strange (that was his name, right? Peter hadn’t really cared enough to remember) sighed. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I can see you won’t be dissuaded,” the wizard said, “and since it’s up to me to save the universe, and you happen to be critical to doing that, here I am.”

Peter straightened up slightly at this. He raised his eyebrows, processing. Then he pointed a finger at his own chest. “Wait, me? I’m critical to saving the universe?”

Dr. Strange made a face that suggested he’d rather lick a poisonous frog than admit to this, but he inclined his head slightly in agreement. “Yes,” he said grudgingly. And then, under his breath, “Unfortunately.”

“Dude!” Peter said. He grinned at Drax and Mantis. Mantis beamed back. Drax moved forward, and slapped him heartily on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over.

“Congratulations, Quill,” boomed Drax. “You always knew you were special.”

Peter felt like there might be an underhanded compliment in there somewhere, so he slapped Drax back. “Thanks, man,” he said, still beaming. And then something occurred to him—something big. Something epic. “Hey, hold up. If I save the universe, doesn’t that make me, like, I dunno, a Guardian of the Universe?”

Mantis nodded enthusiastically. “We could rename ourselves!” she said. “People would respect us even more!”

“Uh, us?” said Peter, just as Dr. Strange cut him off.

“First,” said the wizard, “no one respects you right now—remember, we lost the war and Thanos killed us all—and second, this isn’t about fame and glory. If we do this right, no one will even know it was us who put universe back on track.”

Peter was suddenly a lot less enthusiastic about this plan. But he wanted to keep up the illusion of heroism, so he put on a brave face and nodded solemnly. “I know,” he said. “But true heroes are people who do good stuff because it’s right, not because of the glory, or because they can make a lot of money doing it, or because it makes them really hot to all the—”

Dr. Strange cleared his throat, cutting Peter off again. “Good. Then you’ll respect the plan?”

Peter thought about this for a moment. “Well, I didn’t say that. If it keeps me from finding Gamora, that’s a solid ‘no.’”

Dr. Strange inhaled deeply. He let his breath out in a long, loud whoosh. “If I help you find Gamora,” he began, speaking through gritted teeth, “will you agree to do everything you can to help me save the universe?”

Peter looked at Mantis and Drax. Mantis was staring off at the sunset, and Drax seemed too zoned-out to realize Peter was trying to catch his eye. Rolling his eyes, Peter returned his attention to Strange. “Fine,” he said. He spit in his hand, then held it out. “It’s a deal.”

Dr. Strange stared at his hand in blatant disbelief. “Do I have to?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s up to you; you wanna make this deal official, or what?” It was almost impossible not to smirk at the horrified look on Strange’s face, and even harder not to laugh when the wizard stepped forward and (very briefly) gripped Peter’s hand. Strange winced, then stepped back and wiped his hand several times on his robes.

“Perfect,” Strange said, sarcasm dripping from every letter. He gave his hand one last wipe, then strode past Peter, away from the bright horizon. “You’ll find Gamora this way,” he announced. “In most versions of events, she ends up near the center of the Stone’s realm.”

Peter’s heart jolted. He took off after the wizard immediately. “Why?” he asked.

“Thanos likes to keep her close.” Strange’s voice was low. Dark.

Peter’s whole body lit up with rage. “Of course he does.” He inhaled deeply; it only fanned the flames burning in his chest. “That grape-juice-box-looking son of a bitch. Next time I see him, I’, gonna fu—”

“You’ll do nothing,” said Dr. Strange, “unless I tell you to. That was our deal.” He shot Peter a sideway look: a look of warning, and of judgement.

Peter gritted his teeth. He didn’t say anything. Yeah, he’d promised. But he wasn’t exactly known for his honesty. And if it came down to it, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to fall apart again. To throw himself, screaming and swearing, against Thanos like a wave breaking on jagged rocks.

The four companions walked for what felt like an hour before Dr. Strange suddenly stopped dead. He put a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him.

“What?” Peter said in a loud whisper. Instinctively, he crouched down and reached for blasters that were no longer there.

Dr. Strange pointed. Up ahead, glowing a dull yellow-orange, was a head-stone sized object floating in midair.

“What the shit is that?” said Peter. Drax and Mantis came up on either side, matching his battle-ready, crouched posture.

“That,” whispered Mantis, her antennae straining forward, “is a very ancient and powerful artifact. I can feel it… whispering… speaking…”

Dr. Strange shot her a look. “What’s it saying?” he asked, his voice sharp as broken glass.

Mantis closed her eyes. She looked pained. She shook her head, grimacing. “I do not know,” she said. “It is protected by something strong. An entity, not quite alive, but not dead. I cannot read it.”

Dr. Strange looked disappointed for a moment. Then he let his hand fall, and Peter took a step forward, standing out in front of the group. “I know what it is,” the wizard said. He sounded surprisingly calm.

Peter allowed three beats of silence to pass before he asked, impatiently, “What the hell is it, then?”

“A projector,” Strange said. “I’ve worked with them before. They’re objects, either physical or astral, that allow souls to briefly return to the physical world. They’re usually used to make pacts with spirits, or to resolve disputes between the living and dead. They’re very hard to use, and extremely dangerous if used incorrectly. Even I avoid using them most of the time.”

“What the fuck’s it doing here?” Peter asked, making a broad gesture around at the endless, seemingly unbroken gray plains. “How did it get here?”

Dr. Strange shook his head. There was wariness in his expression, and doubt in his eyes. “No idea,” he said. “Until I know, I suggest none of us get any closer.”

Too late, Peter thought. Mantis was already creeping closer, seemingly drawn by an unseen, attractive force. Meanwhile, Drax had apparently taken Strange’s declaration of the projector’s dangerousness as a challenge—he had risen to his full height and strode across the gray plains toward the glowing, floating stone with both hands outstretched like a B-movie zombie.

Strange and Peter moved to stop them, but they weren’t fast enough. They managed to restrain Drax, but Mantis slipped away. With shaking, outstretched fingers, she caressed the stone. And then, in a flash of bright green light that rolled out over the plains and crackled like lightning across the sky, she vanished into thin air.

Not too far away, Bucky stopped for the second time in what felt like days. The harder he ran, the farther away the horizon seemed. He’d been going in circles—he’d stumbled across what looked like his own prints after hours of running—and had to rethink his entire strategy. The nice thing about being dead, he thought, was that he didn’t ever have to eat, drink, or rest. He could run forever without tiring. And he would run forever, if that’s what it took. He would find his way back to Steve, even if it killed him.

Again.

He wasn’t even sure that was possible. Probably not, but if it were, he’d risk a million deaths for Steve. That had always been true, but now in a much more literal sense. It was clear as day to everyone who knew them (and even to many who didn’t) what they would give up for each other.

Everything. Bucky had promised everything if he just made it out of this hellscape alive. If he could see Steve one more time and finally, finally tell him the truth. The truth. The essential, burning truth that mattered more than life and death, pain and loss and grief. A force more powerful than the Infinity Stones—a force beyond time, space, mind, reality, power, or soul. The light between the lines, a power beyond power. A feeling that was a thousand feelings, moments on moments on moments like little waves on a sandy shore.

Bucky stopped, and braced his hands on his knees. He didn’t need too—he wasn’t out of breath, but it was comforting to act like everything was normal. Like he wasn’t dead, or trapped between worlds, or whatever was going on. “Okay,” he said aloud. He shook his head, running the fingers of his metal hand through his hair. Unlike the previous iterations of the appendage, the strands slid through his fingers without catching or pulling. He breathed in, exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

He took off again. This time, he headed away from the horizon. The orange glow caught in the liquid-looking surface under his feet. The farther he got from where he’d begun, the more the endless gray plains looked like an endless gray ocean. Ripples formed, mist dancing on little crests. Bucky felt like he was running on water. His tracks, previous deep and clear, faded moments after he made them. The mist curled around his ankles and climbed up to his calves. Briefly, he entertained the idea that the world around him was sentient. Alive, somehow. But then he realized how absurd that was and pushed the thought aside.

Bucky ran for several hours more. He wasn’t sure how many; time was a mystery in this place. He paused a few times to get his bearings—not that there were any bearings to get—but couldn’t decide if he was making progress or not. And if he was, progress toward what? What was there, other than gray sand and water?

He was just about to give in and take another break when something in the far distance caught his eye. It was a structure of some sort, with a broad, slanted roof and pillars in place of walls. He stopped dead. Narrowing his eyes against the glow of the horizon, he tried to get a better look at the structure. He took a step closer. Then another.

He was roughly a quarter mile away when he happened to glance down and see two sets of fading footprints beneath the gray crests: the long, slender booted feet of an adult man, and the smaller, more compact tread of a child.