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natrogersfics · 4 years

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PREVIEW: All I Ask - Chapter 2

NEW CHAPTER: JUNE 20, 2020

There’s a crackle as Steve’s body collides with the ground, but whether it’s from the gravel he’s landed on or his bones cracking from the force, he’s uncertain. Between the pain radiating from the gash on his leg and the deafening ring in his ears, he’s unable to focus on anything other than how heavy his body feels. The desire to stay down and succumb to the darkness that’s lurking in his periphery washes over him suddenly, becoming far too tempting as he struggles for breath, and as his eyes begin to fall shut, it’s almost irresistible.

But staying down isn’t an option. He knows it’s not, even when it feels like he has nothing left to give. It takes a Herculean effort, so much so that he can’t stop the wince from breaking out across his face, but he wills himself to roll ungracefully to his side.

“In all my years of conquest… violence… slaughter,” he hears Thanos say from yards away. “It was never personal.” The Titan takes a pause, and when Steve looks up, the smile on the monster’s face is nearly audible as he continues, “But I’ll tell you now… what I’m about to do to your stubborn, annoying little planet… I’m gonna enjoy it very, very much.”

The ground rumbles with the force of thousands of footsteps approaching, of ships landing, and weapons being drawn. His gaze sweeps across Thanos’ army filling the other side of the terrain, and he swallows hard at the sight. On his flanks, Tony and Thor are still out cold, and he can’t bring himself to think about what else has happened to everyone else. Whoever else they’ve lost.

He lets out a groan, loud and guttural, as he forces himself to his feet. He huffs out a breath, gritting his teeth as he fastens the strap on what’s left of his shield and begins to limp towards the fight. He’s all alone, all that’s left. One man with nothing more than half his weapon and his will to fight.

And it’s going to have to be enough.

“Steve,” he hears a voice whisper, soft and saccharine. “Can you hear me?”

He pauses, letting out a tired chuckle. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth must only be the tip of the iceberg as far as his injuries go. His mind must have gone long before, because there it goes, the one voice he wants to hear, drowning out the ruckus of the battalion before him. Perhaps this is a kindness - a gift from the world he had given his life to save once before, and, as it stands, again in this moment. If its demise is here, then so be it. But at least let this voice be the last sound he hears before he perishes along with it.

“Steve, it’s me. Can you hear me?”

A smile grazes his lips. You’re all I hear.

“Turn around, Steve.”

A spark cuts through the gloom of the battlefield when he looks back, growing bigger and glowing brighter by the second as he stares in astonishment. A figure emerges from the light, slowly and torturously so, and vaguely, he’s aware that the portals have multiplied, lighting up the field as if the sun has shone over them. But as he focuses on the shadow coming towards him, his heart stammers in his chest. Neither pain nor delirium could keep him from recognizing the poise and confidence in its gait. And as it moves forward, revealing itself, he’s filled with something he thought he’d never feel again – relief.

In the midst of the ruins of what was once their home, Natasha’s onyx suit gleams, and the light of her batons is as fiery as the one illuminating her emerald eyes. She turns to him, her smile as sweet and mesmerizing as the one she had sent his way before this nightmare had begun. “Hey, soldier.”

Steve bolts up in bed, his chest heaving as cold sweat drips down his temple. He feels around him, and when his hands land on nothing but the softness of the sheets, he inhales deeply in an attempt to get his breathing in order. It was just a dream. He repeats the words in his head, mouthing them silently. It was just a dream.

When his breathing slows, he takes in his surroundings. Even in the dark, he makes out the fading yellow of the walls, and the pictures in the frames littering the shelves before him with the faces of three young children remind him that he isn’t on the battlefield, but in the guest bedroom of Clint’s home. With a sigh, he rises to look out the window. The light of dawn lingers low in the Missouri sky, painting the landscape of the Barton family farm in tones of rich purples and oranges. But in spite of the impending sign of a new day, he feels his hands clench into fists at his sides, and before he can let his emotions get the better of him, he finds himself dressing and swiftly making his way out the back door.

The barn is empty, and he searches frantically for something – anything – to do, as if what’s left of his sanity might just slip if he keeps still, and he doesn’t even think twice when he sees the axe on the workstation. He picks it up, heading towards the pile of firewood on the side of the room, and as he strikes the blade against the wood, he can no longer keep his thoughts from running amuck. Now more than ever, he feels like there is a heartless irony to his existence. When they’ve come as close as they have to not witnessing another day, the opportunity to live a new one shouldn’t bother him and make his heart feel like a weight in his chest, but they do. And it’s without a scintilla of a doubt that he knows that it’s all to do with the costly price they’ve had to pay to forge this reality.

The end was supposed to justify their means. And in many ways, it does. Families are reunited. The Earth remains in orbit. Half of the galaxy’s life has been restored. But even so, their losses haven’t felt minimized to any degree. The world could sympathize with the fact that Tony would never see Morgan grow up or that Natasha would never get to live the life she fought arduously to deserve, but they won’t hear Pepper’s sobs at night. They won’t hear the anguish in Clint’s voice when he reminisces with Nathaniel about his namesake. And they most definitely won’t hear his screams when he dreams of the life he and Natasha could have had, only to have it ripped away time and again by morning.

The last thought causes him to grip the axe more tightly. It’s been days since their time heist and since they’d defeated Thanos and his army for good, and though sleep has been difficult to find, on the off chance that he did, he’s been haunted by this recurring dream and the subsequent affliction of waking up to find that it was indeed just that. The sacrifice hadn’t been undone. Natasha hadn’t come back to them, to him. And in a world where stealing time has become a possibility, it’s a cruel, twisted joke that just having another minute with her, is not.

Tell me after. When we get our family and friends back. When we’ve restored half the universe. When we’ve won.

Her words from that night echo in his mind, her voice as sweet as it is in his dreams. But it only fortifies the bitterness coursing through his veins, intensifying the effort he exerts as he brings the axe to the wood over and over again. They were foolish to think they could leave the words they wanted to tell each other for a better time – as if they knew for certain that they had more than what they had at that very moment. And now here he was, back in his own fresh hell, alive if only to relive the vicious cycle of losing the person he loves. Though this time, he’d lost much more than the promise of one dance.

A pained groan slips from his lips as his restraint crumbles, and he sends the axe flying towards the wall, the blade embedding into the wooden panel. He brings a hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“Might just be me,” he hears someone say, “but that’s looking a little too fine for the fireplace now.”

He looks down at his feet, and he has to blink away the tears he hadn’t realized had filled his eyes to see that he had turned the log into mulch. With the back of his hand, he wipes his tears away before turning to find Clint lingering by the work bench, his sweat-drenched shirt a reassurance that he’s not the only one that sleep has alluded. He sighs. “You can’t sleep,” he says, watching as Clint stares at him for a second, unsure if he should be surprised or impressed that his words had come out as a statement of fact instead of a trite question, but he only shrugs. Preamble meant little to him now.

“Every time I close my eyes…” Clint says, “I see her falling.”

He looks back down at the ground. He knows better than anyone what that’s like, to have a horror movie play in your head repeatedly without the power to shut it off. The image of Bucky falling from the train haunted him for years, and some nights, even when he knew his best friend had survived, it still did. But he doesn’t dare offer Clint any advice - damn if he knew how to make it stop.

“I think I’d be better off with nightmares,” he says, his voice steady even when his gut feels anything but. “Because at least they wouldn't be a lie. But all I keep getting are dreams that she’s not really gone.” He does not even look up to see Clint’s reaction as he adds, “I can deal with the pain of reality. I think it’s all I’ve ever really known since I came out of the ice. But this… hope? This feeling like there’s got to be some way to bring her back and I’m just missing it?” He shakes his head. “It’s a demon I don’t know how to slay.”

“It can’t be undone,” Clint says softly. “You know it can’t, Steve.”

“Do I?” he says heatedly. “God, what do I know? What do any of us really know? Every goddamn thing we thought was impossible turned out to be possible!” He steps forward. “So, tell me, Clint, after everything we’ve been through, everything that’s happened, what do we really know anymore?”

“I know she’s not here,” Clint says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “My best friend isn't here!” He scoffs. “She didn't choose to become what they made her, didn't get a say in any of it… But she atoned for those sins all the same.” His voice falls to a tormented whisper. “She deserved this win more than anyone I know."

His expression softens at the agony that pains Clint's face. "She fought to own her choices,” he says. “You couldn't have stopped her. Even I know that."

"Yeah, she fought for it,” Clint says, his chuckle devoid of any humor as he looks back at him. “You're right, maybe we don't know a fucking thing anymore, but what I do know is that she is not here."

“It had to be her.”

His head whips in the direction of the barn’s door, as does Clint’s, and they both share a look when they find Stephen Strange leaning against the frame.

“But I have reason to believe there is more to her sacrifice than previously thought,” Strange says.

Click here to read Chapter 1 on AO3.

#romanogers #all i ask #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #natrogerfics #endgame fix it

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