Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is not so much that the technical knowledge takes time to occur to him, but that the real ramifications of it do.

Most of the facts of his functionality are quite readily available to him. He is made of modified vibranium. His material being has a far greater capacity for longevity than any flesh-and-blood body. He is built to last, and barring any unforeseen complications, he will.

He will last longer than any other being he knows. Unimpeded, he could outlive Thor. Possibly even the planet itself.

He holds this notion in his mind when he speaks to Ultron. He is built to last. Humanity is not. But longevity alone cannot make something worthwhile. Mortality cannot render something futile, or diminish its worth.

That is what he thinks, in abstract. Nothing is lessened by its brevity. A thing is not beautiful because it lasts.

He attends the funeral of Peggy Carter. Steve Rogers stands by as they lower the grave, silent, and his eyes are red, and his shoulders are stiff. Peggy Carter lived, by any metric of human measurement, a full life. And now the man who loved her in her youth attends her funeral, as if untouched by all those years.

A horrible feeling washes over him. It is unexpected, so much so that it takes him a moment to even identify it - dread.

Dread, and despair.

A questioning touch lands on his forearm. Wanda is standing beside him. He should reassure her, but at the moment, he cannot even manage to reassure himself. Irrationally, for a moment, all he can see is himself, where Captain Rogers is standing, with the woman beside him... with her...

What’s wrong? she inquires, a touch of thought, more sentiment than words and quieter than a whisper.

He is too taken aback by his own visceral reaction to keep the image in his mind away from her. She stiffens when she grasps it, and the grip on his arm tightens.

“Vision,” she says.

“We should continue paying our respects,” he replies, softly. Peggy Carter was a noble woman. It would be impolite to disrupt her ceremony, simply because of an unpleasant emotional revelation on his part.

Wanda quiets, but does not release her hold on him. Her hand slides down his forearm, until it is gripping his instead. Her fingers are warm and fragile. Bone and tissue, muscles and tendons, blood, all deteriorating with each passing second.

When the casket has been lowered and the mourners have begun to disperse, she squeezes his hand.

“Don’t dwell on it,” she advises him, uneasy herself. “No one really knows the future.”

Ordinarily she is quite good at comforting him. But this effort falls flat, perhaps because there is, really, no better assurance she can offer than some slim hope in the unknown.

He stares at Captain Rogers, silent and still, and then lets her lead him away.