Chapter Text
IT HAPPENS IN A FLASH—
—which is ironic, because it's darkness instead of light. Darkness that surrounds you from all angles until there's no escape, no possible way you can slip from its grasp.
At first, you dismiss it as nothing. After all, it isn't rare for corners swallowed in black to creep up on you—hasn't been since you were just a little girl. You've learned to ignore it.
But then you turn, and the building in front of you is no longer the post office you had intended to go to, but rather, a familiar towering structure from long ago; one that drenches you in water so cold, your limbs freeze on the spot.
Then you see him, your dead brother.
Except... he's alive, and gently ushering you, a younger you, back.
Flames flicker over your skin, but you pay them no mind, vision swimming with the sight of his familiar cap and casual hoodie as he speaks words of comfort to your smaller self.
"It's okay," he says.
But you remember this day, and it was never okay.
A lady runs by the two of you, someone your spite-filled heart still remembers, still blames for the course of events that happens next.
"Professor Riley's still inside!" she yells, pointing behind her but continuing to run, continuing to act like she didn't just say the words that doomed your brother to a fate he didn't deserve.
Your head quickly snaps back to him, a small, feeble, "No," leaving your mouth as you watch him lunge.
Your younger self grasps his arm, pleading with a whisper of his name.
He looks back at you for a second, hesitating, but you didn't latch onto that. God—fuck—you didn't latch onto it.
Maybe if you had latched on, he wouldn't have said, "Professor Riley's in there—someone has to help."
He wouldn't have ran in right after he said it either.
But he did—he does.
And that cap of his, the same one currently in your bag, flies right off his head, right onto the ground in front of your younger self.
She picks it up with her mouth parted, as though still in disbelief, and just as she looks up—just as she takes a step forward in hopes of following her brother straight into the arms of the fire—glass shatters, and both you and her are sent flying backwards.
And then you're in front of the burning building all over again.
A hero. That's what your brother was—what he wanted to be. The golden heart of a soldier—your aunt had always said.
You found it annoying back then. Now? Now you hate it. Hate them.
Heroes.
If he hadn't the heart of one, he wouldn't have died that day. If they actually did their fucking job and came to save him, he wouldn't have died that day.
He wouldn't have died, and you would still have your precious older brother with you.
Instead, you're here, stood frozen in place as you watch his death replay over and over again like a broken record player.
And all you can bring yourself to think about... is how much you really fucking deserve it.
For not holding his arm tighter. For not rushing after him quicker. For not being stronger than a stupid, weak, little eleven-year-old girl who could stand by and do nothing as her brother was engulfed by death itself.
Even now, over a decade later, you still aren't doing anything.
You're still just standing there and watching your brother die over and over and over again.
Who are you kidding? It wasn't that poor lady's fault that he died. It was never anyone's fault but yours.
"Aaron," you whisper, water in your voice as you watch him rush into the fire for the nth time.
It's only when you start to feel that water begin to stain your cheeks that you finally find the will to move, taking small step after small step towards the mesh of yellow and orange and red before you.
You don't expect much when you follow after him, this is all just a vision after all. Maybe when you move to grab his arm, your hand will phase right through it, and you'll wake up to reality once more.
But then you feel it, his arm in yours, and it's so familiar, so warm and inexplicably him, that you're sent back not just as a spectator of this retched day, but as the little girl who lived it.
His eyes find your own.
"Don't," you plead.
Then you watch as steel freezes over his pupils.
"You're too late," he says, cold, dead, in a tone so unlike him, you let go and flinch back.
But he follows right after.
"Why didn't you do this before?" he asks, and your breath hitches, ash caught in your throat.
"I didn't... I didn't have the time to..."
"Bullshit." He snarls. "You hesitated. You didn't want to."
"No..." You shake your head, vision blurring with his dull grey outfit and the vibrant reds and oranges surrounding you. "No, I did."
His jaw ticks, and you find yourself desperately calling out again.
"Aaron, I swear! I did! I did want to!"
His hand finds its way around your throat, and you're quickly lifted up against a wall, flames dancing around your skin.
"Then why the hell did I die?" he spits, with venom, with fire, with hatred.
Your older brother hates you.
The sting of tears in your eyes is more painful than his grip around your throat, and your heart squeezes with more force than you're pushed back with when that damn explosion sets off again.
And then, like clockwork, you're back in front of the burning building—
—but this time... this time is different, because in front of you, stands a figure, blackened by the very darkness that brought you here.
He tilts his head to the side.
"How strange," a voice calls, you think it's his, "you're the only one left."
It's distorted, weird and otherworldly, like something that doesn't quite fit, but, funnily enough, comes across as a little soothing too.
You can only blink back at him, more water falling from your eyes.
"You poor thing," he coos, a little mocking, maybe a tad genuine too, "forcing yourself to watch the same scene over and over again."
You're half paying attention to what he's saying, half repeating the tone of your brother's voice in your head like an echo in a cave.
"Do you really hate yourself that much?"
You blink past the tears, watching as he takes a step closer, head still tilted, golden circles still boring through you.
"Or do you just want to watch him die over and over again as some sick sense of amusement?"
"No..." You shake your head, voice small and water flying around your sides. "No..."
A grin splits across his face.
Sharp. Glowing. Eerie.
And all you can do... is stand there and watch it consume you.
Bob feels it right in the middle of clapping for the New Avengers—
—an emptiness parallel to his own.
His eyes go wide the second he realises, hands immediately pausing mid-air, immediately ceasing all previous movement like a flood of ice rushed through him, and the team is quick to notice.
They hurry to end the press conference, rushing to his side as soon as they do.
"Bob," Yelena calls, accent thick on her tongue, "what's wrong?"
"I think..." he starts, tone wavering, "I think someone's still trapped in the void."
"What?!" Walker shouts all too quickly. "I thought you got rid of it!"
"Hey," Yelena hisses—but Walker's reaction is justified in Bob's opinion, and he casts his gaze down.
"I thought I did too," he whispers, jaw flexing with all the weight of the world.
"No matter," Alexei reassures, holding his hands up like this is no big deal, like Bob hasn't just gone and screwed things up again, "we fix like last time. Just as easy."
"Do you know who it is?" Bob thinks it's Bucky that asks that, but he's not too sure, everything's starting to blur together.
"Bob?"
His hands are shaking when he whispers, "No..."—then he shakes his head, grounding himself (or trying to, at least)—"no, I don't know."
"Fan-fucking-tastic." John throws his hands up.
"Shut up, Walker," Ava hisses.
He thinks they start to bicker after that, but he's not paying much attention, not hearing them like he should, instead feeling that emptiness in him grow stronger, louder.
Hungrier.
"She's..!" he starts, urgently enough to cut through the fight of the team, "she's talking to it..!"
"She?" Yelena asks.
"It?" Bucky follows up.
"The person trapped. The Void. She's talking to it..!"
Everyone exchanges a glance, and Bob's breaths start to get shorter.
"He's feeding off her," he continues, eyes wide and shaking. "He's getting stronger. I can feel it."
"Bob," Yelena calls again, "Bob, look at me"—she places her hands on his shoulders, guiding his eyes to her own—"breathe."
There's a painful squeeze in his chest, and it's hard to hear her voice at first, but he forces himself to, if just to help the poor civilian that got caught up in his mess.
"There we go."
"Do you know where in New York she is?" Bucky chimes from behind, some shuffling following right after his words.
Bob frowns, the word 'useless' popping up in his head when he denies.
"Bob." His eyes flit back to Yelena. "You need to go to her."
His eyes blow wide.
"I..." he starts, "I can't..."
"You have to try."
He gulps with a roll of his Adam's apple, thoughts spiralling and lips parting to begin muttering incoherently as he starts to pace back and forth.
Then he feels it again—that emptiness—and he pauses right where he stands.
"Okay," he whispers, steeled and as ready as he can muster.
And with that, he closes his eyes and plunges into darkness.