Author's note: So yeah, this is pretty dark and sad. There's a reason I refer to those as the Empty Years. But apparently diving into those years is essential for me to truly grasp the wonder of getting everyone back. (Like heck Steve left them!) Even as my heart breaks for him, I am left in awe of Steve's bravery and fortitude.
Some small references to characters and incidents from my Brothers2Infinity chapterfic trilogy, especially This is Me.
You asked for angst, Ari. This is where I go with angst. But if you know me, there's always that little tiny bit of hope underneath it all, there's always a coal yet burning.
Chapter 1: Breathing In the Darkness
Steve isn't sure how long it takes for him to notice. It is one of those things that seems so painfully obvious in retrospect, but he's been running in combat mode for hours. Days, maybe. He is a little fuzzy about time.
That's the way it is when you're a soldier. Especially when you're a commanding officer. Which he technically isn't, but in the chaos caused by half the people in the world crumbling away to ash without a second's warning, nobody seems to care. Sometimes it's essential to shut certain parts of your mind down, block them out, and focus in on the action of this moment, the next five minutes, the hour. Whatever it takes to save as many lives as possible.
He pauses long enough to rub his sleeve across his forehead, in a vain attempt to stop the sweat running into his eyes. He yanks his arm away when the salt rubs into the barely heals burns on that arm.
"Sir?"
He turns, meet the gaze of an older man, the fire chief insignia emblazoned on his coat. "Reese." Steve notes that he is seeing the worn, soot-streaks face in more than just the lights of the flames and the spotlights. Dawn is coming.
"We have the fire contained." Reese gestures with his handheld radio.
"Good," Steve nods. That is the first step. Thanks to the confusion and loss of personnel, emergency response teams had been slow to get moving all over the city. He guesses it is the same everywhere in his home country. But he is here in New York, and this is where he can help; the other remaining Avengers are scattered around the city. This is one of the worst fire sights: a plane crash in the Queens area, a fully loaded 747, that had come down on top of an ordinary suburban neighborhood. "How far did it get?"
Reese looks away. "By our estimates, a mile from the crash site at the farthest. But that's because of debris from the explosion. So, it's not all burned straight up from here to there."
In other words, more evacuations that need to be done at once. Steve blinks and realizes he's been staring at Reese; he must be getting tired already. He gives his head a quick shake.
"I'll get in there. Pull 'em out."
"And try to stay where the fire isn't." Steve follows the other man's pointed gaze to his arm. "We need you in one piece."
Steve turns to head east, ready to skirt around to the areas he hasn't reached yet. "No promises," he calls over his shoulder. It must be the heat and smoke messing with his head, because he thinks he hears Reese laugh.
It is strange how daylight makes fire look less powerful, and at the same time far uglier. Steve guesses the sun will rise in an hour or so, and he doubts he will see it. The clouds of smoke and ash were too thick.
He keeps going, ignoring some things, targeting others.
Pull three kids from a house, including a baby. The baby is not breathing.
Lead a father and his son to safety, both of them dazed and quiet.
Four empty houses in a row.
A complete family, huddles in their basement, the little girl bursting into tears when her father tells her, "Don't be afraid. It's Captain America." Before she lets go of Steve's neck, she whispers in his ear, "Thank you. I love you."
It is hard for him to talk by this point anyway, thanks to the continuous wear of the smoke on his throat and lungs. Every now and then he has to pause for a short coughing fit, and the nearest police officer or paramedic or helpful civilian looks at him with concern. He straightens up, brushes their hands aside, and plunges back into the fight.
He is, for once, alone, when the worst attack seizes him, walking down a street a couple blocks from the crash site, a park to his left, a row of smaller stores on his right. The park's greenery is gone, the ground mostly black, except for the sandy play area around the swing set. The stores look relatively normal, except for the shattered front windows from the explosions.
Chest heaving in the fight for air, Steve stumbles, and sinks down to sit on the sidewalk, feet in the gutter, letting his hands dangle between his knees. It's been a long time since he's felt that particular burn in his throat and lungs, the raw feeling of trying to cough up something you can't. It doesn't help that each breath in is inevitably tainted with smoke and ash.
He bends over, hands gripping the edge of the sidewalk. Finally, he hawks up a mouthful of phlegm and spits into the street, then sits for a minute to slow his heartrate down. He tries to breathe through his nose, to take in less of the debris. He lifts his hands, and brushes them off. Everything is coated in a dark layer of ash, and the flakes seem to stick to his skin…
But ash isn't black, ash is grey. This is neither. This is both.
He lifts his head. A breeze drifts down the street, bringing a pale cloud, and stirring up the darker coating from the street. The dust swirls around him for a moment, and he accidentally takes in a breath through his mouth.
And that is when he sees it, that is when he knows. He chokes, hard enough to pull tears from his eyes. Or is that from the truth? He cannot tell whether he is breathing in human ashes, or the ashes of something else.
They whisk around his boots as he stands and walks on. They settle in his hair as he stands on the lawn of another empty house.
He tips his head back, and he is standing in the street of a Nazi internment camp just inside the Polish border, it is snowing, and the air is heavy with smoke and death. He looks for a glimpse of the sky.
"Captain!"
He expects for a moment to see Dum-Dum calling for him, but no. It is a young man in fatigues, scarf tied over his mouth. One of the National Guard.
"Coming," Steve answers. He does not recognize his own voice.
It is after midnight of the third day since the Snap, by the time the Avengers make their way back… Home, Steve had called it. He stands for a long moment, staring up at the illuminated 'A' on the wall of the hanger. Home?
It isn't.
There is no one waiting, the buildings are silent. Steve moves automatically, catching the duffle bag Nat tosses him, leading the way out into the open air.
He is taking deep breaths without realizing it; the air is clean out here, in the middle of the woods and farms. He catches the scent of cedar and wet grass.
It is Bruce who takes charge when they are inside the main building, Bruce, the only one who has had a decent amount of sleep. He takes Nick's device gently from Nat's hand, orders everyone, "especially you, Cap. That's an order," to bed.
"I'll be in the lab next to the war room," he says, but doesn't move, until everyone else does.
Steve's room is exactly the way he left it. Nothing touched, except that someone has dusted. He stands in the shower for a long time. He is too tired to know how tired he is, but he continues to move, scrubbing his skin clean—clean of soot and dirt and bits of ash. He washes his hair twice—washing out the reek of smoke. He stands for a long time in the spray of water.
By the time he pulls on clean clothes he is not thinking.
He awakes to a room filled with daylight; it is almost noon. For a few dozen seconds, he wonders what he dreamed, and what is real, until he discovers that all the burns on his hands and arms have healed, leaving only new pink skin to remind him. He stands up from the bed and walks to the window. Sun shining out of a blue sky. He sucks in a deep breath.
But it is too late. The darkness is already inside him.