[Summary: When North makes it to the afterlife, he’s not all that surprised to see that York’s gotten there first. York usually got there first. (This fic might be a little cheesy, but I dunno, I had fun with it.)]
North’s armor’s gone and he’s just in track pants and a purple t-shirt, like the old days back on the ship, except now he’s up to his waist in golden wheat. York’s already there, dressed in jeans and a band t-shirt and for a split-second the gold field blurs into gray steel and North feels the weight of the ship all around them. But then it’s gone again, siphoned away by the deep blue of the sky. York’s turned slightly toward the dark shapes of mountains somewhere far away, somewhere not to worry about. He sees North and he turns around with a broad grin and a messy salute.
“Hey, man!” Typical York, relaxed shoulders and an easy smile as he strolls over through the wheat. He claps North on the back and his hand stays there for a moment, warm and heavy and real. “Been a while.”
“You could say that,” North answers, and he should be confused or worried right about now but York’s smiling so he smiles back, and he remembers sharing a room and a comic book collection and a hell of a lot of adventure. It occurs to him abruptly that York is there whole, both eyes equally bright and wakeful.
“Guess I don’t have to ask where we are,” he says, looking past York across the endless waving wheat. It’s vaguely familiar but he can’t place it. Morning birds are calling to each other and the sun feels strange on his skin. He hasn’t felt sun like this in a while.
York shakes his head. “Nah, man, that’d be cliché,” he says amiably. “Speaking of cliché, why wheat fields? I mean I can’t really talk, it was the ocean for me, but still.”
“The ocean?”
“The beach.” York nods. “Like from where I grew up. You grow up on a farm or something?”
“No, I…” North pauses; something about the birdsong’s jogging his memory. “My grandmother’s house,” he realizes. “Me and my sister used to get shipped there when our parents were busy, and everywhere there were these fields…”
“Cool. Man, you forget how nice the sun can be,” York says, stretching his arms above his head like he wants to get as close to it as he can. He tilts his head a little at North in that familiar, trying-to-get-the-whole-picture sort of way, and North figures he probably isn’t used to having both eyes yet.
His expression goes unexpectedly serious. “I’m sorry about your sister,” he says, with careful sincerity.
“She got scared,” North says, shoulders stiffening.
York considers him. “She’ll come around,” he says kindly, and North nods, changes the subject.
“So, you got here before me. I gotta be honest, I never expected that.”
York laughs. “C’mon man, you know I’m always a step ahead.”
And they could be back in armor processing again, joking around after training. But the mountains are dark and real against the blue sky and North isn’t laughing. “I always thought, if anybody was gonna go first, it’d be me,” he admits. “I was so reckless all the time.”
“You improvised,” York shrugs. “We all did.” He pauses, then adds, “Well, not –”
“Not Wash,” North finishes, cracking a smile. “He never really got the hang of that one. Hey, d’you know if he…made it out all right?”
York looks troubled for the first time. “He’ll be okay,” he says slowly. “It’ll just take a while.”
“And Carolina, and CT, and…”
“I don’t know.”
They share the silence for a moment, and North looks out at the mountains again, searching them for comfort and finding only quiet.
“So is there any food around here?” North asks.
“I dunno man, I’ve been thinkin’ the same thing. Pretty sure if we walk that way,” York nods toward the mountains, “we’re bound to find something.”
So they start walking, rustling their way through the wheat, and York tells him all about his nomadic lifestyle these past few years, going off on tangents about which cities have the best coffee and which ones have the easiest locks. North nods along and brings up old jokes and half-remembered conversations, and pretty soon they’re laughing and tripping over their own feet like little kids.
“Death’s not all that bad,” North comments after a while.
“Nah,” says York. “It’s just a bunch of wheat.”
North nods, and they keep walking.
