Steve tried to look away. Every instinct he had told him not to face what lay ahead, but he continued to stare anyway.
Dead bodies weren't anything unusual to Steve. In all his years of service he'd seen plenty on and off the battlefield. Some died from their injuries immediately; others were left to rot in run down, poorly funded V.A hospitals. Some friends died of old age; others from their own bad habits.
In this case, self-destruction was the culprit.
He'd been desensitized for a long time. Steve could no longer cry over the death of friends. Occasionally he'd pull a tissue out of his pocket and blot his eyes, but it was only for appearances.
"You did a wonderful job," Steve said to a tall, gangly man standing to his left. The two men were both staring at the body in the expensive, velvet lined casket.
"Thanks. Luckily he wasn't too banged up. I can't tell you how many bodies I've had to sew back together like patchwork," the man replied.
In reality the corpse looked terrible. The makeup used to bring life back to its face was a crumbling, orange mess. The black suit covering its cold, lifeless body had runs in the fabric.
If Steve had his way it would've been a closed casket.
A loud, persistent ring of a phone far off whisked the man away and Steve was left alone.
The service would start in a half hour, so Steve decided to take a quick smoke break before it began. Steve knew it was a bad habit but he had no desire to quit. He patted the corpse on the shoulder before exiting the funeral home.
"Sir?"
Steve finished lighting his cigarette and looked up. A beautiful brunette with brown eyes was approaching him. She's was dressed in all black, complete with hat and lace veil. He had no idea who she was. A model, most likely.
"Ma'am," Steve replied.
"Can I trouble you for a cigarette?"
He pulled the pack out of his pocket and opened it. She plucked a cigarette out with her long, slender fingers and put it in her mouth. The woman motioned for a lighter and Steve lit it for her.
She took a long draw and slowly blew the smoke into the cold autumn air. "Such a shame," she said.
Steve nodded. He had no interest in hearing what she had to say, but he listened anyway.
"I loved him, you know. He didn't love me back. I did everything I could to make him love me. I exercised and ate right to keep my figure, listened to everything he had to say, let him have his way in bed… Nothing. And to think I still miss him," the woman's voice trembled.
In his head he counted down: three, two, one. As if on cue she began to cry. He put his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to console her. In reality Steve didn't care about how she felt, but he didn't want to seem cruel and heartless like the dead man the woman came to see.
She uttered a quiet "thank you" before she rushed into the funeral home, dropping her cigarette on her way in.
He stomped it out and sighed. What a waste of a perfectly good cigarette.
He walked back into the funeral home and headed straight to room A. Steve looked at the rows upon rows of chairs set up for mourners and took a seat in the front. He would've much rather sat in the very back but Steve knew that would be in poor taste.
Steve looked over his shoulder and watched as the room filled up with people. Half of them were women who appeared to be carbon copies of the model he met outside. Some had children in tow. He knew all of them slept with the newly deceased and wondered why they bothered to show up at the funeral. Steve believed that if he were discarded in the manner they were he wouldn't have attended. But what did he know? Women never made much sense to him anyway.
The rest were business associates, agents, and journalists.
Pepper, Happy and their two children sat on Steve's left. Bruce and his wife sat on his right. They gave nods of acknowledgement but said nothing. That was perfectly fine with Steve.
None of the other Avengers could make it, and Fury decided to send his condolences over the internet. Steve thought it was terribly rude but he understood. The lives of heroes were busy ones and Fury was just an asshole.
On the inside Steve knew he was an asshole too. He would've sold his soul to the Devil to get out of taking care of the funeral arrangements. It wasn't out of the goodness of Steve's heart that he planned the service; it was in the deceased's will.
The service itself was awkward. People were allowed to come up to the podium and talk about their memories with the dead man.
Most of the memories were meaningless. Parties, drugs, sex, and business deals were repeated over and over again. None of the corpse's true friends- those sitting in the front row- bothered to say anything. Reliving the past would've been too painful. Not for Steve, but for the others. Steve just didn't want to talk.
When the service ended, everyone lined up to see the corpse's body up close. Steve stood next to the casket to make sure no one tried any funny business. Ripping off bits of clothing and hair, kissing the corpse, etc. would not be tolerated.
Steve heard the words "I loved you," "I'll miss you," and "rest in peace" over and over again. A few times Steve thought he heard people say "jackass," "good riddance," and "I hope you rot in hell," but he could've just been projecting his thoughts onto them.
He wasn't particularly mad at the dead man, but he was bitter. There were many reasons why, but he tried to push them out of his mind. He could think about them later.
The funeral itself was a private ceremony. Only the dead's closest friends were permitted to attend according to the will. Steve felt it was a cruel, sick joke that he was made to take care of everything. Yet another battle wound he was forced to endure.
When the casket was lowered, all but Steve began to cry. He simply walked up to the grave's edge, tossed in a flower and said:
"Should've laid off the sauce, Tony."