Chapter Text
Steve wakes the way you do when something has already gone wrong and your body knows it before your mind does. Violently, like he's been dropped back into himself from a height.
His throat is sandpapered raw, his eyes stubborn with sleep, and for a moment he can't quite remember the shape of the world, only that it used to make more sense than this.
The train hums beneath him.
It's not the kind of train he's used to. No rattling windows or sticky floors, no graffiti scratched into the backs of seats. This one stretches impossibly long in both directions, a clean, muted thing in brushed metal and soft lighting that glows like a hospital pretending to be a lounge.
The seats are upholstered in some neutral, indecisive color, the aisle too wide, the ceiling too high, as if whoever designed it couldn't commit to a scale. Everything is just slightly too perfect, which makes it feel wrong.
Across from him, an older woman in a collared shirt tucked neatly under a pink sweater, pearls resting at her throat like punctuation, looks back at him with the same fragile confusion, as though she, too, has been misplaced.
All around them, people are waking, or already awake, sitting stiffly in their seats, their expressions hovering somewhere between curiosity and dread. No one looks like they belong here. Least of all him.
Then the speaker crackles overhead, smooth and dispassionate.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have now reached the Junction. This is the final stop for all passengers. Please alight the train and proceed to the platform in an orderly manner."
Steve frowns, the words sliding past his comprehension like oil on water.
"The hell?" Steve mutters to himself.
People begin to rise. Not hurried, not calm either, just obedient. They funnel into the aisle in slow, inevitable streams. Steve stays seated a moment longer, gripping the edge of his seat as if the train might explain itself if he waits it out.
It doesn't.
Eventually, he stands, pulled less by decision than by the current of bodies moving forward.
The train doors slide open without a sound, revealing a platform that seems to go on forever, polished and gleaming under a cold, directionless light. There are no signs, no advertisements, no maps. Nothing that tells him where he is or where he's meant to go. Just movement.
The crowd carries him.
They move like a single organism, a school of fish turning without thinking, and Steve finds himself caught in it, glancing left and right, searching for something familiar and finding nothing but more strangers wearing the same strained expressions he knows must be mirrored on his own face.
Ahead, escalators rise in long, silver ribbons, impossibly steep and endless, their steps gliding upward with a mechanical calm that feels almost smug.
"Please mind your step as you alight the train and use the handrails. Disorientation is normal." Another voice from a tannoy above him.
Disorientation is normal, Steve thinks, gripping the cool metal handrail as the escalator carries him upward. That's comforting. That's exactly what you want to hear when you have no idea where the hell you are.
At the top, the space opens abruptly into a vast hall.
It's enormous. Cathedral-like, but stripped of anything sacred. The ceiling arches high overhead, ribbed with steel and glass, letting in a diffuse, colorless light that makes everything look slightly unreal, like a memory that's been overexposed.
The floor gleams. The walls stretch endlessly. And everywhere—everywhere—there are people. Swarming, drifting, clustering in confused knots.
"What the hell is happening." Steve whispers to himself.
There's something else, something Steve doesn't notice at first, because panic is a selfish thing, it narrows the world to the size of your own pulse. But once he does, he can't stop seeing it.
Suspended high above the hall, stretching nearly the entire length of it like some bureaucratic sky, is an arrivals board.
Not a normal one.
It's enormous. Absurdly so. Rows upon rows upon rows of names, far more than any sane place would ever need to track. The panels flip constantly, that sharp, mechanical clack-clack-clack echoing down through the cavernous space like a thousand typewriters all losing their minds at once.
Letters rearrange themselves faster than Steve can follow, names appearing and disappearing in a relentless churn.
It never settles.
He tilts his head back, squinting up at it, trying to catch one. Just one name long enough to read it fully, but the board refuses him that small mercy.
Every time he thinks he has it, it changes again, the sound snapping sharply in the air, precise and indifferent.
Before he can decide what to do with that, the crowd surges again, and this time he's not moving with it so much as being dragged by it, his feet stumbling to keep up.
A man suddenly materialises in front of him like a tropical hallucination. Hawaiian shirt loud enough to hurt, sunglasses perched confidently on his face, a floral lei draped around his neck like he's just stepped out of a postcard.
"You look like a beach person!"
Steve startles, thrown off balance by both the enthusiasm and the proximity. "A—what?" Steve asks.
"Eternal Hawaii! Gorgeous sunset every night, perfect waves, endless Lūʻas!" The guy says eagerly, leaning in like he's about to close a sale.
Steve is already being carried past him, the pitch dissolving into the noise behind him. "I don't—I don't understand"— Steve says still moving.
Another man intercepts him, this one in a green polo, whistle hanging from his neck, cap pulled low like he's permanently mid-game.
"You ever wanted to relive your glory days? High school, but better! You win every single game!"
Steve just stares at him before the current pulls him onward again. He shakes his head, dazed.
Then a woman appears, arms full of roses. Two dozen at least, petals lush and excessive, like love rendered in bulk. "The one that got away? You get them back. Every time."
"Where the fuck am I." Steve says, his voice cracking just enough to betray him.
"Sarah! I'm looking for a Sarah Abbott!"
The voice cuts sharp through the din. Steve latches onto it like a lifeline.
He spots the source. A man in a tan suit and red tie, standing on his tiptoes with a clipboard, scanning the crowd like he's trying to spot a friend at an airport.
"'Scuse me. Do you work here?" Steve hurries over to him.
"I do." The guy nods, barely sparing him a glance. "Sarah!" He yells, and Steve flinches at the sudden volume.
"Can you—tell me where I am?" Steve asks, trying to wedge himself into the man's attention.
"Your AC will be with you soon." The guy says flippantly.
"My—what?" Steve asks.
But the man is already craning his neck again.
"Sarah Abbott!"
Steve exhales sharply, panic beginning to bloom in earnest now, hot and unwelcome. He turns in a tight circle, searching for someone—anyone—who will actually look at him.
He finds a woman with a towering beehive hairdo, dressed in the same tan suit and red tie, her expression professionally blank.
"Hi, can you help me"— Steve starts.
"Your AC will be with you shortly." She cuts him off.
"What the hell is an AC!" Steve yells, hands flying up in helpless emphasis.
"Your AC will explain that to you." She says, as if reciting from a script.
"Okay, well—are you an AC?" He asks, grasping for anything resembling logic.
"Yes, but I'm not your AC." She says pointedly.
"Final call for Freshwater Lake World!" A man strolls past, wayfarers, a crocodile on his t-shirt, sunburnt and easygoing.
Steve turns again, dizzy now. Not just from movement but from the way none of this seems to stick, like reality is refusing to settle into something he can hold onto.
Then he sees it. A desk. Massive. Monumental, even. It stretches wide and imposing, polished to a shine that reflects the chaos around it in warped fragments.
Behind it sits a girl, barely more than a teenager. Headset on, fingers flying across a keyboard with the bored efficiency of someone who has seen this exact meltdown a thousand times before.
Steve practically collides with it, slamming his hands down, the impact echoing. "Do you work here?" Steve asks.
She doesn't even look up. "No, I'm just wearing this for fun." The young girl says deadpan.
Behind him, a voice cuts in again. "Sports package! Stadium lights, roaring crowds, you're always at your best—no injuries, no losses that matter."
Steve whirls around, something snapping.
"No, I don't want that!" Steve yells in his face.
The man raises his hands in surrender and pivots away with surprising grace, already scouting for his next customer.
Steve turns back, breath uneven. "Listen, I think something's really wrong. I think I've been—kidnapped or something, or I'm— I don't know, I'm having some kind of psychotic break, I need you to help me." Steve pleads, the words tumbling over each other, his hands gesturing wildly like they might physically assemble an explanation.
"You haven't been kidnapped and you're not having a psychotic break." She says frankly.
"Look, I just need to find my family. My—kids. My grandkids. I don't know where they are, they could be looking for me, they could be—Jesus, I don't even know how long I've been here. I don't even know how long I was on that train! I don't even remember getting on a train!" Steve yells, his voice climbing higher with each sentence, panic now fully seated in his chest. "Do you have a phone? Is there a phone? I just need to call, just one call, I can figure this out if I can just talk to them—"
"There aren't any phones here." She says, gesturing lazily to the vast, conspicuously phoneless desk.
Steve laughs once, sharp and humorless.
"Okay, no phones. Fine. Then where's the exit? There's gotta be an exit. This is some kind of station, right? Stations have exits." Steve urges, nodding too quickly, like if he believes it hard enough it might become true.
She finally looks up. "Not this one." The young girl shrugs.
"What do you mean 'not this one'? That doesn't make any sense!" Steve yells.
"I mean you don't leave the way you came in." She says, each word placed carefully, as if explaining something very simple to someone very slow.
"Then how do I leave?" Steve asks, quieter now, though no less desperate.
"You don't." She says.
The words land heavier than they should.
"Are you—are you joking? Is this a joke? Some kind of— I don't know—elaborate prank or something? One of those—hidden camera 'what would you do?' Shows?" Steve asks, clinging to the idea with a kind of frantic optimism.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." She shakes her head.
Relief surges anyway. Illogical, immediate.
"I knew it. I knew it!" Steve says, pointing at her with sudden vindication as he spins back toward the crowd, searching for cameras, for a grin, for anything familiar. "John Quiñones you can come out now you sick son of a bitch!" Steve yells, voice cracking under the strain. He turns back, jabbing a finger toward her. "Just wait. He'll be here."
She stares at him. "Listen, man, your AC will be with you"—
"Yeah, yeah. My fucking AC, whatever." Steve says, waving her off, already turning away, his steps uneven, his thoughts louder than the crowd, louder than the announcements, louder than everything.
***
Steve doesn't remember deciding to lie down. That's the first thing that bothers him when he wakes. The quiet betrayal of his own body, how it must have folded in on itself at some point, surrendered, stretched out along one of the cold metal benches like a man waiting for a train that never came.
The hall is empty now. Completely, unnervingly empty.
The light hasn't changed, still that same pale, indifferent glow, but without people to soften it, it feels harsher somehow. The benches stretch in neat rows, identical, metallic, unforgiving. The enormous board still clacks overhead, relentless, like it hasn't noticed the absence at all.
Steve is the only one left.
Which, he thinks groggily, feels personal.
He wakes with a start, his body jerking upright before his mind catches up, a breath dragged sharply into his lungs like he's been underwater too long. There's something—someone—calling—his name.
"Ow—shit." He groans, rubbing at the back of his neck, which protests like it remembers gravity better than he does.
"Steve Harrington?"
The voice cuts clean through the emptiness, bright and urgent. He turns toward it, blinking.
A young woman is striding across the hall toward him, heels clacking loudly against the polished floor, each step echoing far more than it should. She's dressed like the others. Tan suit, red tie, but she wears it like she's been in a fight with it and lost.
Her blonde hair is slightly frayed at the edges, like she's been running her hands through it too many times, and there's a kind of frantic relief already gathering on her face.
"Is there a Steve Harrington here?" She calls, her voice lifting at the end, almost pleading.
Steve pushes himself up from the bench, stretching instinctively, vertebrae popping in a way that feels both familiar and strangely not.
"Yeah, yeah. Me. That's me. I'm Steve Harrington." Steve says, rolling his shoulders back, trying to stand a little straighter than he feels.
"I am so, so sorry." She gasps as she reaches him, closing the distance too quickly, clutching her clipboard to her chest like it might steady her. "You have no idea how sorry I am for leaving you here like this. I was a total idiot and spilt salsa on my placement paper for today. I could have sworn it said gate 205, but it was 215 the whole time!" She laughs, swatting Steve on the arm with a familiarity that feels entirely unearned. "I'm so glad I didn't lose you. That would have been a literal nightmare. Can you imagine?" She laughs again, a quick snort escaping her like punctuation.
Steve blinks at her, thrown by the sheer momentum of her apology, by the way she seems to have arrived mid-conversation he doesn't remember starting. "Who are you?" Steve asks warily, taking a half-step back, as if distance might translate into clarity.
"Oh! I'm your AC." She gleams, all bright teeth and misplaced enthusiasm.
"Okay, and are you gonna be the one to finally tell me what the hell thats supposed to stand for." Steve says flatly, folding his arms in a way that he hopes reads as unimpressed but probably just looks tired.
"Afterlife Coordinator." She nods, satisfied, like she's just handed him the missing piece.
Steve opens his mouth, closes it again, the words landing somewhere in his brain and then refusing to arrange themselves into something usable. "My"— he falters, the syllable hanging awkwardly between them. "Afterlife?" He asks, glancing around as if the hall might suddenly offer confirmation.
"You died, Steve." She says, with the same tone one might use to inform someone they've missed their stop.
Steve frowns, the expression slow, deliberate, like he's giving the idea a fair chance before rejecting it outright.
"I—what?!" He explodes, the word cracking out of him. "No, I—no."
"'Fraid so." She shrugs, almost apologetic, but not quite enough to retract it.
"No, I didn't. I was—I was watching the Jets game! I mean—the score was bad but it wasn't that fucking bad!" Steve says, one hand flinging outward.
"Shall we take a walk?" She asks, tilting her head, already turning before he can answer.
And because Steve has apparently lost all authority over his own life—or afterlife—he follows.
They move out of the station and into another hall, even larger, if that's possible, the space stretching endlessly ahead of them. It's lined with vendors now, each one aggressively enthusiastic, each stall dressed up like a promise.
Bright signs flash and shimmer. Eternal Spa Day, Eternal Prom Night, Eternal Waterfalls. Their colours almost offensively vivid against the sterile backdrop.
Steve's head turns constantly as they walk, trying to take it all in, failing.
"I don't understand." Steve says, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, shaking his head like he can dislodge the entire situation. "I was—I was in my livingroom. And Garrett Wilson—he caught it, right? And he just—he slipped past one guy, then another, and I remember thinking, there's no way he stays up, and then he spins and keeps going—"
"Uh-huh." She nods, not looking at him, her attention flicking instead to a vendor waving a brochure shaped like a surfboard.
"And I was literally sitting there like, holy shit, holy shit, did you see that—"
"And then you died." She says.
Steve stops walking. "No. No, because I would remember that. I would remember if something happened, if I— I don't know—passed out or my heart stopped or—something!" He says, gesturing wildly now, his voice climbing as he catches sight of a man enthusiastically pointing to a glowing sign that reads BAHAMAS FOREVER, complete with animated sunsets that loop a little too perfectly.
"It was immediate. We actually have it on playback if you wanna see?" She says, stopping abruptly, already pulling a sleek touchscreen device from her breast pocket, thumbs moving with alarming efficiency.
"Are you clinically insane?" Steve asks, staring at her like she's just offered him popcorn at a funeral.
"Some people find it helpful. Gives them closure." She shrugs, slipping the phone back away with a casualness that feels deeply offensive. "Look, you didn't have time to register it. One moment you were watching Garrett Wilson break three tackles—"
"And the next I'm—what, on a train?!" He asks, spinning slightly, one arm sweeping out to encompass everything. The hall, the vendors, the entire absurd, over-designed nightmare.
"At the Junction, yes." She nods.
"That's insane." Steve says, backing up a step, putting space between them like he's afraid it might be contagious. "This is—this is fucking insane. This is crazy. You're crazy!" He points at her, his finger trembling with emphasis.
"I know." She nods solemnly.
Steve stares at her. "No, you don't— you're standing there like this is normal!" Steve yells, the word normal stretching thin under the weight of everything it clearly no longer means.
"It is normal, Steve. It's a part of life." She says, with a softness that somehow makes it worse.
"It is not normal to die during a Jets game!" Steve shoots back.
"Statistically, it's actually more common than you'd think." She says.
Steve makes a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, dragging his hands through his hair like he might find a different explanation buried in there.
"Steve..." she says, exhaling slightly. "have you noticed anything different?"
"What?" He asks, dropping his hands, wary now.
"About yourself. Do you feel different?" She asks.
"I— I don't know, I mean—"
"Take a second." She says.
So he does.
He stands still, really still, for the first time since waking. He looks down at himself. The same brown slippers. The same navy sweatpants. The same cardigan and polo. "I mean, I don't ache as much." He says slowly, testing the thought as it leaves him.
"Your back?" She asks.
"Yeah. I had—sciatica. It was killing me for years, and now it's just—gone." He shrugs, like he's not entirely sure if that's a good thing.
"Anything else?" She prompts.
"I mean, I feel—lighter, I guess? But that doesn't—what does that have to do with anything?" Steve asks, frustration creeping back in.
"Look at your hands." She says.
"What?" He asks, frowning.
"Your hands, Steve. Look at them." She insists.
And he does.
He lifts them slowly, like they might resist him. Turns them over. Studies them.
No wrinkles. No veins pushing up against thinning skin. No age spots, no tremor.
"...What the hell—" Steve exhales, flipping them back and forth, waiting for them to change back.
"Do you see it?" She asks.
"They're—no, they're not— these aren't—" he stumbles, the words refusing to cooperate.
"They are." She says.
"No, my hands don't look like this." Steve says, shaking his head, but not looking away.
"They do now." She says.
He drops them abruptly, like they've betrayed him. "What did you do to me?"
"I didn't do anything." She replies.
"Then why do I look like—"
"Here." She says, already pulling a small pocket mirror from her jacket.
She flips it open and holds it up.
Steve sees himself.
Not the version he has come to know in quiet, reluctant increments. The softened edges, the years sitting heavy in his posture, but something sharper, brighter. His hair fuller, falling into place with that familiar, infuriating ease. His skin unlined. His shoulders set differently, like they remember confidence without having to think about it.
Like he's twenty again.
"...What the hell—" he breathes, turning his head slightly, watching the reflection follow. "That's— that's me." He says, quieter now, like he's speaking to the mirror more than to her.
"Sure is." She says.
"No, it's not, I don't— I'm not—" Steve shakes his head, something unsettled flickering behind his eyes.
She snaps the mirror shut. He flinches.
"When you die, you revert back to when you were your happiest." She says, tucking it neatly away.
"That's not— that can't be right." He says, the denial softer now, less certain.
"It is." She nods.
"No, because I was happy— I've been happy other times, I—I"—
"Not like that, clearly." She snorts.
Steve's head snaps toward her, offended in a way that feels almost grounding. "How do you know that?" He asks.
"Because this is what you came back as. I don't make the rules." She says.
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face before glancing at his reflection in the faint sheen of a nearby vendor sign.
"I haven't looked like this in years. I'm—I'm basically a child. That doesn't make any sense!" He says. Steve shakes his head like he can physically rattle the logic back into place, like somewhere between his ears there's still a version of reality that hasn't been replaced by whatever this is.
It's a violent motion, desperate, the kind that makes his vision blur at the edges.
"This isn't real. This is— I'm dreaming. This is just a dream. A really weird, horrible dream."
He hears how thin it sounds even as he says it, how it lands without weight in the air between them, like a line rehearsed too many times and believed too little.
"Are you sure?" She asks, tilting her head, something almost amused flickering across her face. No, not amused, knowing. It irritates him immediately, irrationally.
"Yes, I'm sure, because none of this makes any sense—"
The slap comes out of nowhere.
Sharp. Clean. Immediate.
His head jerks to the side, the sting blooming across his cheek before his mind can even catch up to what's happened.
"—what the hell?!" Steve asks, one hand flying up to his face, palm pressing against the heat like he can hold it in place, like it might explain itself.
She watches him calmly, almost clinically. "Did that hurt?" She asked.
"Yeah, that hurt!" Steve yells, incredulous, his voice bouncing off the too-large space around them.
"Then it isn't a dream." She says.
"You slapped me!" Steve exclaims, because that feels like the more pressing issue, honestly.
"You needed a point of reference." She shrugs, already turning on her heel, already moving on, as if this is something she's done a hundred times today and will do a hundred more.
"That was not a point of reference, that was assault!" Steve trails after her, one hand still hovering near his cheek.
"It's standard procedure." She says, not even looking back.
"Standard? I wanna speak to your manager." Steve says, because if there's one thing he understands, it's escalation.
And then the space changes. Or maybe it unfolds.
They're no longer in the vendor hall but in something that resembles an apartment block, except resemblance is doing a lot of heavy lifting.
It rises endlessly upward, a vertigo-inducing tower of identical doors and narrow balconies stacked in perfect, merciless repetition. Each door is numbered. Each number stretches into infinity.
Steve tilts his head back. He immediately regrets it.
"You can, but it won't help. He's the one who introduced the slapping procedure." She says, stepping into an elevator like this is all completely reasonable.
Steve follows her in and then stops dead.
The wall—every wall—is covered in buttons.
Thousands of them. Maybe more. They climb upward in tight, suffocating grids, numbers blurring into each other until they stop meaning anything at all.
"Okay, fine, then I need to speak to someone else. Someone above you." Steve says, gesturing vaguely upward, which feels ambitious given the current circumstances.
She glances at her clipboard again, then without hesitation. drags a small ladder from the corner. It screeches faintly against the floor as she props it up, climbs it with practiced ease, and reaches toward one of the highest buttons, pressing it with a firm, decisive tap before climbing back down.
"There isn't anyone you'd find more helpful." She says simply.
The elevator begins to move.
Upward.
Of course it does.
"If this is the afterlife, then you have a boss, right? And that boss is—what—God? So where is he? I want to talk to him." Steve says, slapping his hands against his thighs, pacing in the limited space like it might speed things up.
"Huh, interesting. I didn't have you down as religious on your file." She frowns, scanning the clipboard again.
"I'm not!" Steve clamours, offended by the implication.
"Then why would you assume that structure?" She asks, genuinely curious, which somehow makes it worse.
"Because that's how this works! There's supposed to be— I don't know—pearly gates, clouds, something—"
"I don't work for God." She barks out a laugh, short and sharp, like the idea is genuinely funny.
"Then who do you work for?" He asks, narrowing his eyes.
"My manager is called David." She says simply.
"...David." Steve repeats slowly, like he's testing the word for hidden meaning.
"Yes."
"And David answers to...?"
"Greg."
"...Greg."
"Yes."
Steve exhales long and slow, dragging his hands down his face like he might erase the last thirty seconds. "Jesus Christ."
"He's not here either." She says. "Look, Steve..." she continues, her tone shifting slightly, softening in a way that almost feels practiced. "this isn't heaven. It isn't paradise."
"Then what is it?" He asks, quieter now.
"It's a pit stop. Between death... and whatever comes next. All those people out there—" she gestures vaguely beyond the elevator, toward the chaos they just left behind. "They're representatives. Selling different eternities. Different outcomes."
Steve leans back against the wall, staring at the buttons like one of them might suddenly light up with the right answer.
"So I just—what—pick one?" He asks.
"You choose what comes next for you, yes." She nods.
"You can't possibly expect me to be able to decide that right now." Steve says, almost laughing.
"You don't have to. We can start tomorrow." She shrugs.
"Tomorrow." Steve echoes, squinting slightly, like the concept itself is suspicious.
"Yes."
"Okay." Steve nods slowly.
And then it hits him. Fast. Sharp. Terrifying.
His head snaps toward her, eyes widening.
"My wife."
"Oh, yeah! Laurie! I read about her in your file!" She beams, as if this is a fun fact.
"She died. Around a year ago. So she'd be—what—here? Like me? Waiting?" Steve asks, the words tumbling out faster now, urgency threading through them.
"Well, usually, the transition period is kept to around seven days."
"Seven days?" Steve asks, the number landing wrong.
"It helps prevent congestion. People make decisions more easily when there's a limit." She nods, as if explaining a checkout policy.
"No, she wouldn't have left. She told me—she said she'd wait for me. She promised." Steve says, firm, certain in a way he hasn't been about anything else.
"Most people don't stay past their window."
"Well, she's not most people." Steve says, immediate, unwavering.
She pauses, lips pursing slightly, considering him. "There are... exceptions."
"What kind of exceptions?" He asks, leaning in.
"We reserve an area. For people who choose to wait."
"Choose to wait." He repeats.
"For someone specific."
"So she could still be here."
"Sure. If she made that choice."
"Then take me there." Steve says quickly, the decision already made somewhere deep in his chest.
"It's not that simple." She says, wincing slightly.
"Why not?" Steve presses.
"Because waiting comes with conditions."
"I don't care." Steve says, shaking his head.
"You might."
"Try me."
She exhales. "The longer someone waits, the fewer options they have left." She says.
"What does that mean?"
"You really want to risk ending up in the clown world eternity?" She snorts.
"I don't care about that." Steve says quickly.
"You should. Trust me. Those clowns are horrifying." She says, eyes widening just enough to suggest she's seen something she'd rather forget.
"No, you don't get it. We always said—whatever happened—we'd wait for each other."
"People say a lot of things when they're alive."
"You make vows, okay? You stand there and you promise—no matter what, no matter where, you don't leave them behind." Steve says, his voice steady now.
"Those vows don't really account for this place."
"They don't have to." He says.
"They do, actually." She corrects, tilting her head.
"No, they don't, because it doesn't matter where we end up—none of that matters—as long as we're together."
She watches him for a second longer than necessary. "Okay. Fine." She shrugs.
Relief comes too quickly. "So we're going?" Steve asks.
"Not today."
"What—why not?"
"Because I have to find her first."
"Then let's do that now. What floor is it?" Steve asks, already stepping toward the wall of buttons, scanning them like he might brute-force his way through eternity.
"It doesn't work like that."
"Why not?"
"Because she won't have an AC anymore."
"...Okay?" Steve says, not following at all.
"Once someone's waiting, they're no longer actively processed. They come off the main system."
"So where do they go?"
"Paperwork."
Steve stares at her. "Are you kidding me?"
"I'm not."
"You're telling me my wife is—what—in a filing cabinet?" Steve asks, his voice climbing again.
"In several, probably." She says.
"So what, you just—flip through folders until you find her?"
"Essentially."
"And how long does that take?"
"It depends."
"On what?"
"How well she filed."
Steve just frowns at her, like she's switched languages mid-sentence.
"I'll go through the records tomorrow. All of them if I have to." She says.
"Tomorrow." Steve repeats.
"Yes."
"And then you'll help me find her."
"I said I would."
"Okay."
"Okay." She smiles.
The elevator dings.
They step out onto a narrow balcony that stretches endlessly in both directions, identical doors lining it like a pattern that's been copied too many times. The air is still. Quiet. Unsettlingly so.
They walk.
And walk.
And walk.
Until she stops at one door among thousands, indistinguishable from the rest except for the number fixed neatly at eye level.
"Here. Your room." She says, pulling a key from her pocket and sliding it into the lock, turning it with a soft, final click.
Steve lingers on the threshold for a second longer than necessary, hand still hovering near the frame, as though crossing into the room might seal something, finalise it in a way he's not entirely ready for.
But then again, he hasn't been ready for any of this, and that hasn't exactly stopped it from happening.
So he steps inside.
The room is nice.
Not just nice, actually. It's the kind of nice that feels curated, intentional. Like a high-end hotel room designed to convince you that you deserve better than you think you do.
A large bed sits in the center, sheets crisp and white, untouched in that suspiciously perfect way that makes it look less like a place to sleep and more like a display of the concept of sleep.
There's a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, dark and reflective, quietly waiting to become something else. Soft lighting pools in the corners, warm and flattering. A door to an en suite bathroom stands slightly ajar, revealing gleaming tile and the promise of water that probably runs exactly the temperature you want without ever having to adjust it.
It's comfortable.
Which, Steve thinks, feels like a trap.
He moves further in, slow, cautious, like the room might rearrange itself if he doesn't keep an eye on it.
"We have some of your favourite clothes from over the years in your closet here." She says, already crossing the room and opening the closet like she knows exactly what's inside.
Steve follows, drawn in despite himself.
He steps closer, peering in.
It's like opening a time capsule he didn't pack.
A pair of Levi's jeans, worn in just enough to suggest history but not enough to show it. A navy windbreaker with stripes that feel aggressively of their time. A brown suede jacket, a few t-shirts, a cable knit sweater.
He reaches out, fingers brushing against the hangers, sliding them along one by one, the soft clack of plastic and wood oddly grounding.
"Jesus." Steve exhales, something between disbelief and reluctant amusement settling into his voice as he keeps moving the clothes aside.
"I haven't seen this stuff in"—
"Decades?" She asks, leaning casually against the closet door, watching him with that same knowing look that's starting to feel like a personal attack.
"Yeah." Steve scoffs out a laugh, shaking his head slightly, like he's both embarrassed and a little impressed by his past self's wardrobe choices.
He lingers on the cable knit sweater a second longer than he means to.
There's something strange about it. How familiar it feels, how easily it pulls something loose in his chest, something warm and fleeting and just out of reach. He lets it fall back into place.
"Alright. I'll leave you here to get your bearings. You should try to get some sleep." She says, pushing herself off the doorframe with a small nod, already halfway turned toward the exit.
Steve blinks, pulling himself back to the present, to her. "Sleep? Why would I need to sleep? I'm dead." Steve says flatly, the words still feeling ridiculous in his mouth.
"There you go! Acceptance." She says brightly. She gives his shoulder a light shove—playful, entirely unbothered—like they're old friends.
"I'll see you in the morning, Steve." She says, already already gone in the way people here seem to be. Quickly, efficiently, like exits are just another part of the system.
The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence.
Real silence this time.
No crowds. No announcements. No sales pitches echoing off endless walls.
Just him.
Steve stands there for a moment, in the middle of the room that feels too nice, too intentional, too prepared for him, and slowly turns in place, taking it in again like it might have changed when he wasn't looking.
He exhales, long and quiet, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck out of habit. Only to remember, faintly, that it doesn't hurt anymore.
Which is its own kind of unsettling.
And after a second, he mutters to no one in particular: "Great."
***
Steve is propped up against the headboard like someone who has been assigned rest rather than invited into it, one leg stretched out, the other bent, the remote loose in his hand as he flicks through channels.
The TV glows too brightly in the dim room, colours just a little too saturated.
He flips and lands on a biker.
Big beard, sunglasses, bandana. Leather layered on leather like the man has declared war on breathable fabric. He's straddling a Harley Davidson.
"Do you miss the thrill of the chase? The wind in your hair? The feeling that something incredible is just around the corner? With Endless Summer Highway, the road never ends—and neither do you. No maps, no limits, no destination required. Just drive."
The engine roars. Loud, indulgent, and the biker tears off into a sunset so aggressively picturesque it feels almost sarcastic.
Steve watches him go, expression flattening.
"Pass." Steve scoffs, thumb already pressing the button.
Another channel.
A stage this time. Purple velvet curtains, heavy and theatrical, drawn back just enough to frame a man in a black suit and bow tie, standing under a spotlight with a ventriloquist dummy perched on his knee. The dummy's grin is fixed, unsettling in a way Steve can't quite articulate but doesn't feel like investigating.
"Hey, hey—you! Yeah, you! Ever wanted to be the funniest person in the room? With Laugh Track Eternity, every joke lands, every story kills, and the applause? It never stops!"
Laughter erupts.
Too loud. Too immediate. Too eager.
Steve's mouth tightens.
He doesn't even wait for the punchline, if there is one.
He clicks the TV off, the room snapping back into its softer, more honest silence, and lets his head fall back against the headboard with a dull thunk.
***
The bar feels like it's been waiting for him.
Not in a sentimental way, nothing here seems sentimental, but in the way everything else in this place does: prepared, arranged, already in motion before he even knows he's looking for it.
It's all dark wood and polish, mahogany surfaces catching the low light from chandeliers that hang like quiet declarations of taste. Velvet booths curve along the walls, occupied by people speaking in hushed tones, their conversations blending into a low, continuous murmur.
There's music playing somewhere. Soft, indistinct.
Steve steps inside like he's not entirely convinced the floor will hold.
He trudges to the bar. The weight of the day, if it even is a day, settling into his shoulders again. He drops onto a stool with a quiet huff. His elbows find the polished surface automatically, his hands dragging over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes until all he can see is warping stars.
He stays like that for a moment.
Then: "So. What's your deal?"
The voice is low, smooth, deliberate. It cuts through his thoughts without raising itself.
Steve lifts his head, turning slightly.
There's a woman seated a few stools down. Diamonds at her throat, a black cashmere jumper that looks expensive without trying too hard, her hair rolled and set with precision. A martini glass rests between her fingers, tilted just enough to catch the light.
"My deal?" Steve asks, his voice rougher than he intends, like he hasn't quite decided how much of himself to offer yet.
"Everyone's got one. Tragic, heroic, ironic—what are you?" She asks, lifting the toothpick from her drink, sliding an olive free with her teeth.
Steve watches her for a second. "I was watching a Jets game." He says gruffly.
"Ouch. That's rough." She says, chewing thoughtfully, like she's weighing the tragedy.
"Yeah." Steve says, a little quieter now, his gaze dropping briefly to the bar.
"I'm sorry." She says.
She doesn't sound sorry.
"Thanks." Steve says anyway, clearing his throat, because politeness has apparently survived death.
"So what are you thinking? Full Moon Party eternity? Something fun? You look like a fun guy." She says, tilting her head, studying him like he's a menu she's already halfway decided on.
Steve lets out a short breath through his nose.
"I'm not picking anything." He says firmly.
"Everyone picks something." She laughs, light, dismissive.
"Well, not me. Not until I find my wife." Steve says, turning toward her fully now, irritation sharpening the edges of his voice.
"She here?" She asks, casual, like it's a minor detail.
"I don't know yet." Steve says, quieter, the certainty slipping just enough to be noticeable.
"Mm." She hums, taking another sip.
"But I'm gonna find her." Steve adds quickly, nodding once, as if the movement itself reinforces the truth of it.
"Ah. You're one of those." She says, something almost amused curling at the corner of her mouth
"One of what?" Steve asks, frowning.
"The ones who think it still works the same here." She laughs softly.
"It does." Steve says, immediate, almost defensive.
She studies him for a moment, not unkindly, but not gently either. "How long were you married?" She asks.
"Long enough." Steve says pointedly, his jaw tightening just slightly.
"And you think she waited?" She asks.
"I know she did." Steve says, the words landing heavier now, less like an argument and more like something he's holding onto.
"They all say that." She says, almost to herself, her gaze dropping into her glass as she gives it a slow swirl.
"She's not 'they.'" Steve says, sharper now.
"Okay." She nods, unbothered.
"So you can stop." Steve says, his tone flattening into something final.
She considers him for a second longer. "Or you could just have one drink with me." She shrugs, the offer light, almost careless.
"I'm good thanks." Steve says, just as flat.
"Suit yourself, married man." She says, sliding off her stool with an easy grace, taking her drink with her as she disappears back into the low hum of the room.
Steve watches her go for half a second.
Then doesn't.
He turns back to the bar, folds his arms, and lowers his head into them, his forehead pressing into the wool of his cardigan.
"What can I get for you?"
The voice arrives above him, casual, unbothered, like it belongs to a world that still makes sense.
Steve doesn't move.
His forehead is still pressed to his arms like a makeshift pillow, the polished mahogany cool against his skin.
He considers not answering at all. Just staying like this until the entire place either dissolves or politely removes him.
"Whiskey. All of it." He mumbles into the wood, the words muffled, as if they might sound less pathetic if they don't fully make it into the air.
There's a soft laugh overhead. "Sure thing."
Steve stays where he is, eyes closed, counting the seconds by the quiet hum of the room, by the low murmur of conversations that feel like they belong to people who have already figured something out he hasn't.
Clink.
The glass lands in front of him.
"Thanks." Steve says, pushing himself up slowly, vertebrae aligning one reluctant inch at a time. He drags the glass toward him, fingers curling around it more out of instinct than intention.
He doesn't look up at first. Doesn't want to.
But then, there's something.
Not a sound, not exactly. More like a shape. A presence that tugs at something in his chest before he can name it.
The bartender has already turned away, back to him, moving down the length of the bar. White shirt, sleeves rolled just enough. Black waistcoat fitted neatly over it. Trousers pressed. A towel slung over one shoulder.
And the hair.
That's what does it.
That mass of brown curls, tied back in a way that feels both familiar and infuriatingly specific. A detail Steve hasn't thought about in years, and yet, he knows it.
Or thinks he does.
His grip tightens slightly on the glass. "...Eddie?" Steve asks warily, the name leaving him like a question he's not sure he's allowed to ask.
"Yeah?" He turns, easy, automatic, like he's answered that name a thousand times before.
And then he looks at him.
Really looks at him.
And something in Steve falls.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. It drops, clean and immediate, like his body has just remembered gravity in a place that shouldn't have any.
It's him. It's actually him.
Steve feels it all at once. Recognition, disbelief, something sharper and warmer underneath it that he doesn't let himself name, not even now, maybe especially not now. It hits him so hard he almost laughs, almost chokes on it.
"Eddie." Steve says, his voice tighter than he means it to be, like it has to squeeze past too many things at once.
"...Steve?" Eddie asks, his face flickering—confusion, recognition, something like shock, something softer buried under it, all moving too fast to pin down.
"Holy shit." Steve exhales, and then it spills out of him, unstoppable. "Holy shit—holy shit—"
He's already moving before he realises he's decided to.
The stool scrapes loudly behind him as he stumbles out of it, closing the distance in a few uneven steps just as Eddie rounds the bar, looking like he's not entirely sure if this is happening either.
"Oh my God, it's you—" Steve says, grabbing onto him. Shoulders first, then pulling him closer, like proximity might confirm it, like distance is the only thing that could still ruin this.
His hands fly up without permission, without thought, cupping Eddie's face. Fingers pressing into his cheeks, thumbs hovering near his cheekbones as he leans in, eyes scanning, searching, memorizing.
Because it's him. It's really him.
Same stupid hair, even tied back. Same eyes, wide now, startled. Same mouth that looks like it's about to say something and then doesn't.
Steve squeezes his cheeks slightly, like he's checking for solidity. Like he's afraid Eddie might flicker and fade.
"Stop—stop grabbing my face, man." Eddie says, his voice coming out muffled under Steve's hands, his brows knitting together as he tries to wriggle free without fully committing to it.
"I need to make sure—hold still—" Steve insists, his grip tightening just slightly, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to do to another human being.
"Steve—!" Eddie protests, leaning back, dodging, his hands hovering like he's not sure whether to push him off or just wait this out.
"You're real—you're actually—" Steve exhales, the words catching on something that feels dangerously close to relief.
"Yes, I'm real!" Eddie laughs, the sound breaking through the tension just enough, even as Steve's hands slide down to grip his arms instead, holding him in place.
"No, because this place is—this place is insane, I thought you might be— I don't know—fake or something. Or like—a hologram like what they did to ABBA." Steve rambles, his gaze darting over Eddie's face, his shoulders, his arms, cataloguing every detail like he's afraid one of them might glitch.
"Well, I'm not fake. So you can stop pulling my skin!" Eddie winces as Steve's hands betray him and drift back up again, like they have a mind of their own.
Eddie catches his wrists this time. Gently.
Thumb and fingers wrapping around them, steady, grounding, as he lowers Steve's hands back down between them, holding them there for just a second longer than necessary.
"You're here." Steve exhales, the words softer now, the panic giving way to something else.
"Yeah." Eddie nods.
"You're actually here."
"I'm here." Eddie says, a small laugh escaping him, like he still doesn't quite believe it either.
"What the hell." Steve shakes his head, a disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth, but his eyes don't leave Eddie's face, not for a second.
"I have—no idea." Eddie says, running a hand through the tied-back curls, which somehow only makes them worse.
Steve just stares at him.
"You're"— he starts, frowning slightly, like he's trying to reconcile two versions of the same person. "You look exactly the same."
And he does.
Eddie looks like he's been frozen somewhere in his twenties. Sharp-featured, a little rough around the edges, the kind of face that was never trying to be anything but itself.
His hair is still a riot even when contained, loose strands escaping like they refuse authority. There's something easy in the way he stands, something familiar in the slouch of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Like no time has passed.
"So do you." Eddie says, eyeing him right back, something amused flickering there.
Steve lets out a bark of laughter, running both hands through his hair, pushing it back in a gesture that feels embarrassingly familiar.
"This is fucking insane." Steve says. "This is—the weirdest day of my life."
"I think you mean your death." Eddie says, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Oh. Yeah. Still getting used to that." Steve nods, like that's a perfectly normal adjustment to be making. "Wait. Do I have to get a job?"
Eddie blinks at him. "Only if you plan on staying here." He says, already moving back toward the bar, sliding onto one of the stools with practiced ease.
Steve follows immediately, like he's tethered, taking the seat in front of him, their knees knocking together in the small space between stools.
Neither of them moves to fix it.
"Thank god." Steve exhales, shoulders dropping in relief. "Wait—when did you die?" Steve asks, the question slipping out before he can stop it.
"I dunno. Thirty years ago?" Eddie shrugs.
Steve freezes.
His brain tries to catch up.
Fails.
"...Thirty—"
"Yeah." Eddie nods, slower this time, like he's bracing for the reaction.
Steve does the math anyway, lips parting slightly.
"You were fifty?"
"Mm-hm." Eddie hums, leaning an elbow on the bar, casual like they're talking about the weather.
"Shit, dude." Steve exhales, his expression softening into something that looks dangerously close to grief.
"Yeah." Eddie clicks his tongue lightly.
"What happened?" Steve asks, quieter now.
"Car accident." Eddie says simply.
Of course it's simple.
"Jesus." Steve exhales, slumping back slightly, the weight of it settling into him.
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry." Steve winces, like the words aren't enough but he doesn't have anything better.
"It's whatever." Eddie shrugs.
"No, it's not 'whatever,' that's—"
"Steve, it was thirty years ago. Trust me, I'm over it." Eddie leans forward with a laugh, brushing it off with an ease that feels practiced.
"Right." Steve says, nodding, though he doesn't look convinced. "You've been here that whole time?"
"Guess so." Eddie says.
"Thirty years?" Steve repeats, because apparently he needs to hear it more than once.
"Time's weird here, but yeah." Eddie shrugs.
"Why?" Steve asks, genuinely baffled.
"I didn't really know what eternity I wanted." Eddie says, like it's the most normal explanation in the world.
"So you just—stayed?" Steve frowns.
"Yeah."
"For thirty years?" Steve presses.
"I figured... if I didn't know what I wanted, I probably didn't really want any of it."
Steve stares at him.
Processes.
"So you just... didn't choose."
"Pretty much." Eddie nods.
"That's insane." Steve exhales, dragging a hand down his face, looking away for a second because the idea of that, of staying, is too big to hold.
"Probably." Eddie laughs.
"You've just been working at a bar for thirty years?" Steve asks, glancing around like the room might confirm it.
"Hey, I've had other gigs." Eddie says, mock offense flickering across his face.
"Like what?" Steve asks, curiosity slipping in despite everything.
"You don't wanna know." Eddie says.
"I kinda do." Steve smiles, the expression coming easier now, almost without permission.
"Trust me, you don't." Eddie says flatly.
"Okay, fine." Steve relents, though he clearly doesn't believe him. "I can't believe you just—you've been here all this time." Steve exhales.
"Yeah." Eddie nods, like it's nothing. "What about you? How'd you die?" He asks.
"I was watching a Jets game." Steve says.
"That tracks." Eddie nods.
Steve huffs out a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly.
Because he's still looking at him. He hasn't really stopped.
"I can't— I can't fucking believe this. I literally haven't seen you since—"
And he doesn't finish.
Because suddenly, that feels like the most dangerous part.
"Since you moved away." Eddie interjects.
He says it lightly, almost helpfully, like he's offering Steve the missing piece of a sentence he couldn't quite finish. Like it's that simple, like it always was.
"Yeah." Steve nods. The word comes out smaller than he intends, like it's been worn down over time. "Yeah." He repeats it, softer, more to himself now, like saying it twice might make it sit right.
"Jesus." Steve exhales a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair again, because apparently that's still his default response to emotional distress, even in the afterlife.
"It's been a while." Eddie offers him a small smile.
It's not a big one. Not the loud, unfiltered grin Steve remembers. It's quieter, tucked in at the edges, like something learned over time. It lands somewhere uncomfortable in Steve's chest.
"I just— I thought about you, you know? I just— I didn't—" Steve starts, and immediately regrets starting at all.
Because now it's happening. The words, loose and uncooperative, spilling out before he can arrange them into anything remotely dignified.
"...Steve—" Eddie says, lifting a hand slightly, like he's trying to gently block the incoming disaster.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I never kept in touch, I should've— I don't know, I should've called or written or something—"
"Hey. Hey, no." Eddie waves his hand, dismissing it, but Steve's already too far in.
"No, I mean it, I just— I left and then everything got busy and I figured I'd reach out later and then later just—kept not happening—"
"Steve." Eddie tries again, firmer this time.
"And now you're— here and I'm— here and—"
"Steve." Eddie says, and this time he reaches out.
His hand lands on Steve's knee.
And everything in Steve's body goes still.
Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But internally, something sharp and electric hums through him, quick and bright, like his blood has suddenly remembered how to sing.
"What?" He asks, the word barely audible.
"It literally doesn't matter, man. Nothing matters anymore. You're good. We're cool." Eddie says, pulling his hand back just as quickly, like the moment didn't happen at all.
Steve stares at the spot where it was. "It does."
"It doesn't."
"I disappeared on you." Steve says, the words firm now, planted.
"You moved." Eddie shrugs, easy, casual, like it's just one of those things that happens between people who used to matter to each other. "Life happens, man. It's done now. You don't have to beat yourself up about that stuff."
Steve doesn't believe him.
Not really.
But he sees the way Eddie lets it go, the way he doesn't push, and Steve, reluctantly, follows his lead. If only because he doesn't want to ruin whatever this is.
"Did you ever move?" Steve asks, shifting slightly on the stool, trying to redirect the current.
"Nope." Eddie says, popping the p with quiet pride.
"No?"
"Stayed in Hawkins the whole time." Eddie says, like it's something he's decided to own.
"Jesus." Steve says, half amazed, half something else he doesn't examine too closely.
"Yeah."
"Oh my God—Wayne." Steve says suddenly, snapping his fingers like the name has been waiting just behind his teeth.
"Oh, yeah. He died in '03. Lung cancer." Eddie nods.
"Shit. I'm sorry." Steve says, the words immediate, genuine.
"First thing I did when I got here was to check what eternity he picked." Eddie snorts, like the memory sits somewhere between fond and absurd.
"What did he pick?" Steve asks, leaning in slightly.
"Fishing."
"Fishing?" Steve repeats, a laugh slipping out before he can stop it.
"Endless lake, crappy little boat, same old tackle box." Eddie nods.
"Of course he did." Steve snorts, shaking his head.
"Sun barely comes up, barely goes down, just sits there all day with a line in the water." Eddie says, idly tracing the grain of the bar with his fingernail, like he can see it.
"That's so him." Steve says, softer now, something fond settling into his voice.
"Yeah." Eddie nods. "He's happy. I know he is. Even if I can't, like, talk to him or whatever. That's all I could ever want. Just the knowing."
"Good." Steve nods, meaning it more than he expected to.
"He'd like that you asked."
"Yeah?" Steve asks, glancing up.
"Yeah. He always liked you a lot." Eddie smiles.
Steve huffs a quiet breath, something warm flickering through him. "He was a great guy." He says.
"Yeah." Eddie agrees.
"Man." Steve exhales, still picturing it, still a little stuck there. "Fishing."
"Fishing." Eddie laughs, and Steve does too, the sound easing something between them.
"Were we the first?" Steve asks, lifting his whiskey and taking a small sip, the burn in his throat a comfort.
"First what?" Eddie asks.
"Out of the group." Steve says.
"I think so." Eddie frowns slightly, thinking.
"I do check every now and then."
"How?" Steve asks, eyebrows lifting.
"I've got some connections in admin." Eddie smirks.
"Of course you do." Steve laughs, shaking his head.
"Perks of never leaving." Eddie stretches his arms out with a low grunt, stretching like he's earned it. "So I just—check for names. Anyone I know. If they've just come in or maybe already moved on and I missed them. I just like being nosey."
Steve laughs, the image of Eddie casually snooping through afterlife records somehow making perfect sense.
"Mrs Click went to the library eternity." Eddie adds.
"Why does that literally not surprise me at all." Steve rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself.
"Did your AC go over all the rules with you?" Eddie asks.
Steve shifts in his seat, shoulders rolling back.
"Kinda. I dunno, it was a lot to take in. I think I blacked out halfway through."
"Well, there's really only one rule that matters. Once you pick an eternity, that's it." Eddie says, casual in tone, but there's something underneath it.
"What do you mean, that's it?" Steve asks, the question immediate.
"I mean you don't get to change your mind." Eddie says.
Steve feels it in his stomach.
A drop.
"At all?"
"Nope." Eddie says, reaching for a bowl of peanuts and sliding it over, popping one into his mouth the same way he used to at The Hideout. Steve notices that, of course he does.
"Okay." Steve nods slowly, like he's filing it away somewhere important.
"You can't switch. You can't come back here. You can't undo it. So you better make sure you pick something good." Eddie says.
"Right." Steve exhales, unease settling in his chest.
"And if you try to come back they'll kick you out into the void." Eddie adds, like it's an afterthought.
Steve leans forward slightly. "The void?"
"Yep." Eddie nods.
"What's that?" Steve asks.
"Exactly what it sounds like." Eddie snorts.
"Which is?" Steve presses.
"Nothing. No place, no people, no anything. Just—black."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
"Jesus Christ." Steve mutters, his hands gripping his knees now, grounding himself in something physical.
"Yeah."
"And that's—real?" Steve asks.
"Very."
"And people get sent there?"
"If they try to break the rules, yeah." Eddie shrugs. "So, you know. No pressure." He smirks.
Steve lets out a breath, rolling his shoulders again. Trying to shrug it away. "Well, I'm not picking anything right now anyways. Gonna wait a little while."
"For what?" Eddie asks, tossing another peanut into his mouth.
"I just need to find my wife first." Steve says.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I think she's still here. Waiting for me somewhere. We're gonna track her down tomorrow." Steve nods, like he's sealing it into place.
"Fair enough." Eddie nods, a small, downward smile tugging at his mouth. "So what's the plan?"
"We find her. And then we pick something together." Steve says.
"Where would you go?"
"I honestly don't know." Steve lets out a small laugh.
"Come on. You must have some kind of idea." Eddie nudges Steve's foot with his own under the bar.
Steve feels it.
And suddenly he's very aware of the cardigan. The slippers. The fact that this is somehow the version of himself he's been given back and presented to Eddie.
"Something with mountains, maybe."
"Mountains." Eddie repeats.
"Yeah. Somewhere scenic. Quiet. Hiking, fresh air, that kind of thing."
"That tracks." Eddie smiles.
"Yeah, well." Steve shrugs, a little shy about it now.
"You think she'd like that?"
"Not at all." Steve laughs. "She'd want somewhere hot. Sandy. Like—beach, cocktails, no hiking involved whatsoever."
"Sounds nice." Eddie nods.
"Yeah."
"So what, you compromise?" Eddie asks.
"I guess."
"Mountain beach." Eddie smiles.
"Yeah, I'm sure that exists." Steve laughs.
"Probably does here. Ya never know." Eddie snorts.
The laughter lingers between them for a second, softening the edges of everything.
Then Steve quiets.
Something shifts.
"Did you—have a good life?" Steve asks, watching him more closely now.
Eddie frowns slightly.
"Y'know—I just—I missed a lot. I just—wanna know."
"I mean, it was pretty uneventful." Eddie says.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Nothing crazy. Worked a bit, kept to myself, same town, same people." He shrugs. "What about you?"
"Normal." Steve nods.
"Normal?"
"Yeah. Got married. Had kids. Worked. Retired. Played golf."
"Of course you did." Eddie laughs, shaking his head.
"Shut up." Steve frowns, kicking Eddie's foot lightly under the bar, no heat behind it.
"No, that sounds—that sounds good, man." Eddie says, more serious now.
"Yeah?" Steve asks, like he was seeking permission.
"Yeah."
Sixty years.
Sixty years and somehow Eddie looks exactly the same, and Steve feels.. too much. Too quickly.
Like his chest is too small for it.
"I had no idea how much I missed you." Steve says quietly.
Eddie stills. His hand hovers mid-air over the peanut bowl.
Steve feels it immediately. The shift, the weight of the words and stiffens slightly, like he's stepped somewhere he shouldn't have.
"I didn't—I didn't think about it, not really, not like this, but—"
"...Yeah." Eddie says softly.
"I'm looking at you right now and I feel like I'm about to die all over again. Is that weird?" Steve lets out a nervous laugh, trying to soften it, to make it something else.
"A little." Eddie nods. "But I get it."
"You do?"
"Yeah."
Steve exhales, something loosening just enough.
"There's—there's literally so much I wanna talk to you about. Like—six decades worth." Steve says, leaning forward slightly, like if he gets closer he can fit more into the time.
"Well."
"What?"
"They're about to sound the alarm for curfew." Eddie tilts his head toward the outside.
"There's a fucking curfew?" Steve asks, incredulous.
"Yeah." Eddie laughs under his breath.
"Is it not bad enough that I'm dead? I now have a curfew too?" Steve says, rolling his eyes. "What happens if you miss it?"
"You don't wanna find out." Eddie smirks.
"This place just keeps getting worse." Steve mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
"You get used to it." Eddie shrugs.
"Believe me, I don't want to get used to it." Steve grumbles.
"Fair." Eddie nods.
Steve looks at him again.
Watches him chew, watches the way his jaw moves, the way his hair falls loose at the edges.
"Can I—" he starts.
Stops.
Because suddenly it feels like too much to ask.
"What?" Eddie asks.
"Can I come back tomorrow?" Steve asks.
"Yeah. Sure." Eddie nods easily.
"Yeah?"
"I'll be here." Eddie gestures vaguely to the bar.
"You will?"
"Yeah, I mean—I'm here every day." Eddie laughs.
"Right. Yeah. Sorry. That was stupid." Steve shakes his head.
"It's okay. You're adjusting." Eddie says, biting back a smile.
"Right, well. I'll—see you tomorrow then." Steve says, pushing himself up from the stool, reluctant in a way he doesn't show.
"Yeah. And—y'know, good luck tracking down your wife. Maybe you can bring her by if you find her. I'll crack open the champagne for you guys as a little bon voyage present." Eddie says.
"Really?" Steve asks.
"Sure, man." Eddie nods.
"Okay." Steve smiles, something softer slipping through despite everything.
"See you tomorrow."