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ironmanbutwithouttheironortheman · 2 years

Note

Iiiiiif you’re still taking angsty prompts, maybe #6 or #49? For Codywan or Obikin? :) (I love your writing!! Thank you so much for doing these!)

I am! So I picked #6 because it’s “Why are your eyes so red?” which is, uh, perfect for some more Sith shenanigans. Note that this turned into a FIC apparently, it even gets a title. Codywan. TCW AU. In which Obi-Wan embraces the Dark, wins a war, and loses his soul.

aut viam inveniam aut faciam

“Why are your eyes so red?” The first time Cody asked, Obi-Wan was standing in the middle of a Separatist laboratory. They’d fought their way into the bunker over the course of days, Obi-Wan taking the last push by himself, forcing his way into this terrible room.

The first time Cody asked, Obi-Wan was surrounded by the dead, releasing the body of the last man he’d killed so that it could slump to the ground beside all the rest. The room had stunk of blood and cauterized skin.

The first time Cody asked, it had been after Obi-Wan spent hours walking through the results of the experiments conducted in this place, looking at the remains of the men and women - the children - and granting those poor souls that had survived some measure of peace and--

He blinked, rapidly, turning his face away from his Commander, regathering all the emotions in his head and chest. There were lights flashing all over the room; the power had started failing within hours of their assault.

“What?” he asked, when he felt… contained, inside, turning to glance at Cody. Cody stood in the doorway, looking across the ruin within. There was no horror in his expression, only a grim sort of satisfaction. But, then, he’d seen everything Obi-Wan had seen.

Cody looked at him, a small frown passing across his face, and said, “Could have sworn your eyes were red a second ago, sir.”

Obi-Wan flashed him a tired smile, stepping over a body. “A trick of the light,” he said, clapping Cody on the arm. “Shall we get out of here?”

Obi-Wan had not been aware of the issue, not truly, before Cody asked about it. Oh, he knew he grew exhausted, he knew he was angry, but he had not thought that it had gone so far. But after Cody mentioned it, sometimes he glanced towards a mirror and found a red gleam across his irises.

He closed his eyes. He tried to meditate.

But all the meditation in the world did not undo the effects of the war on the galaxy. It did not bring back the dead or soothe the tormented. It did not put a stop to the unending stretch of madness and deprivation.

And so he glanced sideways at mirrors.

And red eyes looked back, more and more often.

“General,” Cody said, the second time, weeks later, on the bridge of a Separatist command ship. “Your eyes are red.” His men had made it in as Obi-Wan cornered the General leading the orbital bombardment of the planet below; they were wiping out hundreds with each shot, causing permanent damage to the planet’s crust, filling the atmosphere with particulates that would take a century to clear.

He’d heard them lower their blasters when the General’s head rolled away, his body slumping to the side and then falling, his hands - upraised - finally lowering. Obi-Wan expected to feel… something.

But he felt only a sense of grim satisfaction, standing there in the smoke-filled bridge of the ship, reaching out to cease the bombardment. “It’s the smoke in here,” he said to Cody, looking up to meet his gaze.

Cody stared back at him, dark eyes searching, and Obi-Wan waited.

They’d seen the General’s hands up, when they entered the bridge. They’d, no doubt, heard him pleading in the hall, though that hadn’t gone on for very long. Obi-Wan had seen no reason to drag things out. Such a waste of time would only result in more deaths.

Cody said, still watching him, his tone slow and thoughtful when he said, “Then you should get out of here, sir. Get some fresh air.”

Obi-Wan inclined his head. He said, “Good idea, Commander. Thank you.”

The third time Cody asked, they were in the war room on the Negotiator, reviewing the newest orders sent down by the Senate. Obi-Wan read over them twice, looking at the holos swirling through the air, considering the troop deployments, the strategies advised by the Senate.

The plan would - almost certainly - win them the planet below.

The problem, of course, was that it would, almost just as certainly, mean feeding hundreds - if not thousands - of his men into a meat grinder. Putting living men in, getting dead bodies out, and--

And Obi-Wan had his orders. He was to obey, the same as everyone else. The Senate had final word, their word was the law, they--

“Sir,” Cody said, quietly, at his shoulder. “It’s alright. We’d follow you into hell and back.”

Obi-Wan turned to look at him, the familiar lines of his face, the determination in his eyes, his battle-worn armor. He’d added a new decoration to it, recently, a small circle, half-red and half-blue. Obi-Wan had seen it on troopers throughout the battalion, but they’d been evasive about what it meant. They had things that mattered to them. Secrets they kept. Whole lives...and something shifted inside of him, something in his chest hardening and going cold. They’d follow him into hell. Willingly.

But he saw no reason to make them burn.

He waved aside the holos, cold anger moving through him with each beat of his heart. He worked quietly for a moment, leaving the holo spinning slowly in place, and said, gazing upon it, “This is what we’re going to do.”

He stayed quiet while Cody looked over the plans for deployment. Cody had seen, after all, the orders they were given. These hardly matched. And Cody had every reason to follow the Senate’s orders, no reason at all to--

“I’ll let the men know,” Cody said, reaching out for his helmet, as something like relief or satisfaction unfurled inside Obi-Wan’s chest. He hesitated, a step away, glancing back, and added, “Sir, your eyes…”

“I haven’t been getting enough sleep,” Obi-Wan said, gaze on the spinning holo. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

And after that, after ignoring the orders of the Senate once and securing a victory that felt like a victory, Obi-Wan could see no reason not to continue doing so. He wondered what the Senate would do about it; it turned out little.

It was difficult to reprimand the person bringing you the victories you claimed to want, Obi-Wan supposed.

He wondered, breathing hard following a battle, the dead spread in a circle all around him, why, exactly, it had been so difficult to make progress before. He was still wondering when Cody approached him and said, quietly, “General, your eyes.”

Obi-Wan blinked, and said, “It’s just--”

“I’m not looking for an excuse,” Cody interrupted, coming to a stop so close their shoulders bumped, leaning closer to keep his voice quiet. “I’m just telling you because Master Secura is making her way over here, and I thought you’d want to know.”

Obi-Wan stared at him for a moment, considerations speeding through his mind as he said, “You know what it means.”

Cody flashed him a smile, sharp, there and gone. “I know,” he said, and Obi-Wan felt a thrum down his spine, wondering if this was how it all ended, if Secura had brought enough men to take him, if Cody planned to pull the trigger--

And Cody continued, “And General Secura will, too, if you don’t do something about it.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, concentrating, reaching for peace and calm.

It was not that hard to find.

Lately he felt very sure of what he was doing.

Secura did not try to take him in to answer for what he had done. She seemed troubled, but willing to listen, willing to understand why Obi-Wan had taken the actions he’d taken, why he’d disregarded the Senate’s orders.

Results, Obi-Wan found, again, were difficult to argue with.

She spoke with him, listened to him, and when she left again she felt at peace, as well. More confident. Less burdened.

“That went better than I expected,” Obi-Wan told Cody, who had spoken with Bly, earnestly and quietly to one side, throughout the meeting. They’d gripped hands before Bly followed Secura away, shared a look of determination.

“Well,” Cody said, bumping his shoulder, “they do call you the negotiator.”

Obi-Wan snorted a laugh. It surprised him, for a moment, that he could still manage laughter. He’d thought, for some reason, that he would lose it. But amusement spread through him, warm and pleasant.

He asked, “Did you have a pleasant talk with your brother?” He kept his weight leaned against Cody’s shoulder. He’d wanted that closeness for so long. Denied himself. Sensed the risk of attachment and retreated, as he should have. But--

“I did,” Cody said. “I’ll tell you more about it later.”

“The war needs someone to be able to make decisions across the entire front,” Obi-Wan said, after his next victory, speaking to members of the Council and the other Generals. “Someone who knows what’s going on. Attempting this with so many different plans is losing us this war.”

He watched them exchange glances, concerned, but… But he also saw flashes of agreement. They worried about what he was saying, he saw. But they knew he was right, all at the same time. He stifled a smile, continuing, “Master Yoda would be the obvious choice, his experience could only benefit us.”

“Experience I have,” Yoda said, shaking his head, far away on Coruscant, “but a mind for battle, I have not.” He glanced to the side and nodded at Master Windu.

“We agree that an overall strategy would benefit the Republic,” he said, “and will put the matter before the Senate. An assignment can be made if they agree.”

Obi-Wan nodded, discussed other plans, other battles, until the discussion ended.

It was less than a day before the Senate reached a decision.

Obi-Wan felt strange, listening to their decision. Not satisfied, exactly, only like he was one step closer to fixing things. He’d never been promoted before, and smiled at the congratulations, at the clasp of Cody’s hand around his arm, and the warmth of his expression.

“We should celebrate,” Cody said, drawing him down a hall, warm interest radiating from him through the Force.

Obi-Wan glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow, “Oh? How?”

Cody flashed him a smile, tugging him around a corner, leaning closer when he murmured, “I have a few ideas, sir. Would you like to hear them?”

Obi-Wan arched an eyebrow, his stomach tightening, his skin thrumming, and he should have said no. He said, “Why don’t you show me?” And Cody’s mouth was as warm and soft as he’d thought, his hands as strong and sure as they moved against one another.

Obi-Wan had never assumed that it would be easy, to - to fix everything. To end the war, to make the galaxy make sense again. And so, really, the attempts on his life were not unexpected.

The first assassin was a clone - not one of his men - and he had a blaster snugged against the back of Obi-Wan’s skull before Cody pulled the trigger. The assassin slumped down, afterwards, lifeless across the floor, and Obi-Wan said, “Oh, next time you should try to keep them alive.”

Cody grabbed him, then, pulling him around and looking him over, saying, “I’m sorry, sir, I should have--”

Obi-Wan waved a hand, dismissive. “You saved my life, Commander,” he said, and watched Cody flush a little at the warmth in his tone. “I hardly think you need to apologize. Let’s see if we can learn anything from him.”

In the end, the body gave up no secrets. But the next one they took alive, and the story he told left Obi-Wan with a cold feeling in his gut. It did not take overmuch work to determine who had sent him, who his orders had come from.

It took much less work to quietly send someone to address the problem.

Obi-Wan was in battle, when word of the Chancellor’s untimely demise reached him. He smiled, and did not need Cody to tell him about the state of his eyes.

“Padmé is worried about what you’re doing,” Anakin said, months into Obi-Wan’s campaign, when the Separatists had been pushed back and contained almost completely. He’d visited frequently; they were always working together. Most of the troopers in the 501st wore the blue and red circle on their armor.

He knew by then that it meant they were his.

He blinked up at Anakin, who seemed… worried, and asked, “What concerns her?”

Anakin shifted, uncomfortable. “She says… it’s a lot of power. For one person to have. She says you’re making decisions without consulting anyone else. She says it’s - it’s not democratic.” He glanced to the side. “A lot of other Senators are worried, too. She says.”

Obi-Wan smiled, soft, comforting. He straightened from where he’d been gazing at battle plans. He’d known there would be pushback. A few people were bound to notice what he was doing.

He said, taking a step towards Anakin, reaching out to grip his arm, “I understand. But, Anakin, what do you think?”

Anakin glanced to the side, jaw working for a moment, before he said, “I don’t - I know Padmé tries her best.” And Obi-Wan knew, then, that he had nothing to worry about. There was a relief to that. When the time came, he didn’t want to have to hurt Anakin. “She doesn’t understand that we’re just doing what needs done.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said, shaking his head, “she doesn’t. But that’s alright, she had other things to worry about.”

Anakin nodded. He looked relieved. He said, “And we’re winning the war. We’re really - it’s going to be over.”

“Soon,” Obi-Wan agreed, squeezing his arm.

Anakin smiled at him and said, “You’ve done a good job, Master.”

The war ended with Dooku slumped at Obi-Wan’s feet, body going still and lifeless. Grievous had been sorted out already, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The leadership council of the Separatists, those still alive, were already begging to surrender.

Obi-Wan gave them his terms and accepted it, on behalf of the Republic.

General Unduli, there to watch the proceedings, looking uneasy as he did, but she said nothing, nothing at all, as the remaining leaders knelt and groveled and pled, until Obi-Wan waved them to their feet, insisting there was no need for such theatrics.

The galaxy at large celebrated. Obi-Wan put off his celebrations for a time. His work was, after all, not finished. He stood on the bridge of the Negotiator, looking out across an army without a war to fight.

“What will you do now?” Cody asked, standing, as always, at his right hand. Obi-Wan looked at him, and smiled.

He waved a hand, changing the holos, focusing on the bright, beautiful, core worlds.

“Now,” he said, grinning, “I think we should go home. I think we’re all owed a victory parade, don’t you?”

Obi-Wan took the remaining capital ships, took all his fleets, and ordered them towards Coruscant. He stood on the bridge during the final approach, his heart beating calmly behind his ribs, the knowledge of what he had to do stretching out before him, smooth and clear.

“Do you know,” he said, gaze on the window but well aware when Cody stepped up beside him, “in the old days of the Republic, we used to have a Senate and an Emperor.”

Cody made a soft sound. “Did we? I’m afraid we never learned much ancient history.”

Obi-Wan frowned, briefly. He had so much work to do, to ensure his men were treated fairly. But that was a problem for tomorrow. “We did,” he said, gazing at the bright gem of Coruscant. “The title passed down through a family line for a while.”

“Until?” Cody asked, putting a hand on his back.

“Until the line grew weak, I suppose,” Obi-Wan said. “And people decided to be more… proactive about taking the position.”

“Hm.” Cody drew him a little closer, his affection bleeding across the space between them. “And then who ruled?”

Obi-Wan’s mouth quirked. He stared, unblinking, out across the stars. “Conquering generals, mostly.” He felt… calm inside. Calm and still. He would fix things. So many things. Take all the necessary steps to undo so much damage, and if he damned his soul in the process, well…

So be it.

“Your eyes are red, sir,” Cody said, softly, and Obi-Wan glanced towards him, quirking a smile.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Cody shook his head. “No,” he said, reaching out, sliding his fingers into Obi-Wan’s hair, moving closer. “I’ve always thought it suited you.” He brushed a kiss against Obi-Wan’s mouth, shifting to take it deeper after a moment, until they were both breathless.

Obi-Wan said, against his mouth, “You told me once you’d follow me into hell. Are you ready?”

Cody tugged him closer. He said, “Always, sir,” and kissed him again as they came out of hyperspace above Coruscant.

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ironmanbutwithouttheironortheman · 2 years

Text

You Have One New Voicemail

On AO3 if you so please: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32224666

New Voicemail: Bucky Barnes - 2:46am, Friday, June 16, 2025.

Sam’s finger hovers over the delete button for the fourth time that day. He can see the timestamp, it matches too closely to the timestamp on the files in front of him. The countless documents he just can’t seem to make sense of.

He’d thought that if he’d thrown himself into this, just like he threw himself into everything else, it would make the gaping hole inside him close up a little bit, or at the very least provide him a distraction.

It doesn’t.

The only thing it does is make the hole grow larger, eating him from the inside out with its sharp, gnarly teeth. Everything is a reminder of Bucky. Everywhere he goes, he hears his voice ringing through his ears. Everytime he closes his eyes, he sees Bucky’s weathered yet gentle face staring back at him. Everytime he sleeps, he dreams of the blood, cold, stiff skin pressing against his own, his screams ripping through him while clear pure tears mixed with thick red blood, a polarising stark contrast that sends Sam nearly spiralling into another breakdown everytime he even dares think about it.

He knows what’s in the voicemail. He can see the timestamp.

New Voicemail: Bucky Barnes - 2:46am, Friday, June 16, 2025.

He looks down at the documents, and he feels that hole unsheath its claws and dig into him again, tightening its grasp until all the air has left Sam again.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10, 1917. Age 107. Time of Death: 3:01am, June 16, 2025.

He lets the hole swallow him whole. Falls deep, deep down into its arms, and let’s it overtake him.

Bucky had left two requests in his will, if you could really call it that. A more accurate description would be a partially illegible scribble on a piece of paper left on the kitchen counter, an after-thought more than anything, if the situation were different.

Sam remembers the lawyer coming to his sister’s home in Delacroix, and running them through the procedures of fulfilling Bucky’s wishes. There had only been two items on the list, two wishes that Bucky had wanted fulfilled in his last moments. Always the minimalist, Sam thought to himself.

The lawyer had sat them both down, Sam and Sarah, on the couch, and pulled up a chair across from them. Deep set eyes from having delivered this sort of news to devastated families one too many times met theirs. The moment of silence shared between them weighed heavily through the room, a thick fog threatening to blind and choke if you sat in it for too long. The lawyer cleared her throat however, and the fog cleared, only to bring a far worse reality crashing down on them.

“My condolences, to you both.” Is how she chose to begin the conversation, and Sam merely stared ahead, refusing to acknowledge the need for said condolences. Sarah merely nodded once, and the lawyer took that as opportunity to continue. “Sergeant Barnes had only two wishes. The first was in regards to the funerary services, however that will be largely left up to you to arrange how you see fit, as he also said in his letter. The other was in regards to his assets and who he would be leaving them to.” She opened up her briefcase and pulled out several documents, including the original copy of Bucky’s letter, as well as a typed, official legal version.

Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from the letter, set gently to the side on top of the coffee table near the countless other documents spread across the hard wood now. In the distance of his mind, it sounded like Sarah and the lawyer were talking, discussing Bucky’s death and the proceedings as if it were just another statistic. Another marketing campaign strategy for mental health services, another number used to scare children in schools during assemblies addressing the “Mental Health Epidemic” as so many loved to call it.

Sam couldn’t focus on any of that right now. He refused to, and for once his mind and body seemed to be in alignment, and so instead he subconsciously reached for the folded letter, Bucky’s familiar capital writing and penmanship bleared across the page.

Final Wishes:

I, James Buchanan Barnes, leave any and all assets set in monetary value to Samuel Wilson, to be distributed to his family as he sees fit.

I have no requests for the funerary services, except to be buried next to my sister Rebecca Barnes, who is buried in Cypress Hills Cemetery, Brooklyn New York.

JBB

Sam lets himself wonder, just for a brief moment, if Bucky had written this before or after he had tried to call Sam. If perhaps he’d written it, hoping Sam would pick up, and then had simply forgotten to change it when he hadn’t. The voicemail weighs heavy in his pocket, and even heavier in Sam’s mind.

He knows what’s in that voicemail.

He doesn’t want to hear it, because then all of this becomes real. The fact that the only time he’ll see Bucky now is in the memories he holds so dear in his own mind, and in the dreams he can’t control.

He doesn’t want it to become real that he’ll never have another warm Delacroix evening, sitting on the porch alongside Sarah as he watches Bucky catch fireflies with AJ and Cass in the field, the summer sun sliding down the sky, colours bleeding together as they fade to dark. He doesn’t want it to become real that they’ll never work together on the boat again, they’ll never work together on a mission again, they’ll never go to another one of Cass’s soccer games again, or have a movie night with the entire family, arguing over which movie to watch, Bucky always inevitably being the deciding vote, and with a shit-eating grin on his face, deciding on the one movie Sam so obviously does not want to watch.

He won’t hear his laugh again outside of videos on Sam’s phone and in his memories, and Sam’s terrified that he might forget what it sounds like. The exact cadence and drawl of it, the warm smile that follows after, and the sparking feeling that shoots through Sam when Bucky’s eyes crinkle and meet his own.

When Bucky’s eyes used to crinkle.

Sam’s standing up and walking out before he really even has time to think about it. Sarah watches him go, but doesn’t try to stop him. Maybe she’s just as tired as he is.

His feet carry him as far as he can manage before he finally feels his knees buckle beneath him, hitting the soft Delacroix ground hard. Choked gasps tighten around his throat as sobs wrack through him, and every memory hits him, every sensation and feeling. He’s taking a beating at every angle, but the same question that has plagued him since that night looms over him, threatening to be the final blow.

Why?

It’s so simple, yet it absolutely threatens to crush and destroy Sam, a thousand little shards sprawled through time, with no hope of ever piecing them back together again.

Bucky had once described himself in a similar fashion.

It had been a bad night, nightmares haunting Bucky through as they so often did. Sam had lost track of time, but he could see the sun beginning to filter its gentle light through the windows, and Bucky’s head weighing on his chest, listening to Sam’s heartbeat and breathing. It had been so late that Sam couldn’t really remember now what else they had talked about, if at all, but he remembers these words as if they were burned onto his skin, Bucky’s voice still echoing through his chest.

“Sometimes I think, maybe, that I’m not real.” He’d said, relatively out of the blue after they had sat in silence for hours.

“What makes you think that Buck?” Sam had responded, no more than a gentle whisper in the progressively fading night.

“I’m not sure. I just catch myself, y’know? One moment I’m existing just like everyone else, and then I catch myself in the moment, and I don’t fully feel physically present. I’m no good with words, so it’s sort of hard to describe. Words were always your thing Sammy.”

“So like a ghost?”

“Not quite. When I was the Winter Soldier, I was a ghost. I was trained to be a ghost, nothing more than a fleeting glance before death. This is different though. I think… I think it’s more like I feel like a memory. A distant memory that you can’t quite remember all the details of, and it feels a little hazy when you try to play it over in your mind.” Bucky took another breath, slowly letting the tension in his body trickle out.

“I think, at this point, there’s just too many cracks and missing pieces. Too many holes left unfilled, too many sharp corners that cut when you get too close. I’m not a memory of the person I used to be, and I’m not a reflection of the machine they forced me to become. Too much has changed, broken, or been lost since. Now I’m not sure what I am. Maybe I’m just a fuzzy mirage in the distance, that disappears when you look closer. Maybe that’s all I’ll ever be able to be, after everything.”

Sam hadn’t known how to respond to that, and very few things in this world manage to render him speechless, especially Bucky. But Bucky hadn’t seem to want a response of any sort, simply babbling mostly incoherently about something impossible to describe.

Sam understood now what Bucky had meant though. Sam understood now what it felt like to truly just have too many pieces missing to really feel real, just like Bucky had described. To feel like he simply didn’t have the necessary competences to be considered a physical being anymore.

Nothing more than a fuzzy mirage in the distance.

Sam let himself stare at the ground, unblinking and unsure if he was breathing until finally Sarah came to him, pulling him up from the ground, and laying him down in bed, where he stayed for three days after. An unsurprising amount of that time spent not sleeping.

He didn’t want to dream of Bucky.

He knew if he did, he’d do everything in his power to never wake up.

It rained the day of Bucky’s funeral.

It was a simple, small service. Sam and Sarah, the boys, and the few avengers that could be contacted stood in silence surrounding the grave, the rain gently hitting umbrellas as the hole was filled, a simple pine coffin laid to rest within it.

Sam isn’t sure whether or not Bucky would have liked it.

He almost hopes he wouldn’t have. Maybe that would have given the stubborn bastard a reason to come back, just so he could bitch and complain at Sam about how terrible the funeral was, and Sam could argue and bicker back with him. Sam can’t bring himself to say anything, and Sarah never leaves his side, keeping AJ and Cass tightly tucked to her as well. Everyone gives their condolences, and slowly dissipates once the service is over. Wanda hangs back, her hair dark and wet in the rain, her eyes even darker as she kneels by the grave, placing a soft hand near the freshly placed soil. She’s muttering something, likely in a language Sam doesn’t understand, and that is the only time he manages to find the strength to trust his legs, and carries himself over to her side. He pointedly does not look at the gravestone, he knows what it says.

He crouches down silently next to her, but instead of hearing words, he hears a barely audible hum to her voice, and Sokovian words rolling on her tongue in a sing-song style.

As much as he doesn’t want to, Sam thinks Bucky would have liked this.

Wanda doesn’t acknowledge Sam’s presence, but he knows she’s aware he’s there, and sits in comfortable silence with her while she finishes the song, catching words here and there he can’t fathom to know the meaning of. She finishes, and closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep inhale, before releasing an unspoken tension and finally turning to face Sam, her head slightly inclining to the left to meet his eyes.

“That was beautiful.” Is all Sam says.

“It’s an old Sokovian lullaby, my mother and father used to hum it to Pietro and I when we were children.” Is all Wanda replies, and they both look back down at the wet soil in front of them.

The furthest, darkest part of Sam’s mind desperately wants to ask her to bring Bucky back. He knows she has some kind of ability to create people, though the inner workings of it he’s not so sure about. Frankly however, Sam really doesn’t fucking care. He just wants to see Bucky again, to hug him and hold him so tight that he’ll never be able to slip away from him again. They sit in silence longer, and Sam opens and closes his mouth multiple times, fighting the urge to ask her, beg her even, to put him into a dream sequence, anything, just so he can see Bucky again.

Without saying a word, she seems to understand however, and takes Sam’s hand into her own.

“I’m sorry Sam, but I can’t do that. It only makes it hurt more to see them again, trust me, I know from experience.” Her voice is shaky, and Sam hopes to god that maybe the rain is covering up the tears streaming down his face and cupping his jaw, wetting the collar of his shirt. He feels terrible for even having the thought, but Sam is a weak man, and only a man at the end of the day. A man who just lost his partner, his best friend, and very well maybe could have prevented all of this had he just answered his fucking phone and-

He lets that trail of thought die. Sam was a grief and veterans counsellor, he knows self-destructive patterns when he sees them. Wanda’s other hand comes up to cup the side of his cheek, and his face burns a little at the touch, eyes welling up even more in a way that a hurricane couldn’t hide if it tried.

“I can’t go on without him. It hurts too much.” Sam finally ducks his head, and sobs as Wanda brings him closer to her, leaning his head onto her shoulder and gingerly caressing his back, like a caring mother would her child.

“I know Sam, I know. But, I’m going to tell you a secret. It’s a secret someone very dear shared with me when I felt I couldn’t go on either, and I carry it with me everyday.” She pauses, taking a deep, shuttering breath. Sam knows she grieves everyday too, for Pietro, Vision, her two boys that she had while in the Hex. He doesn’t have the strength to even raise his head from her shoulder however, much less comfort her. He just hopes that she’s okay enough.

There’s another pause of silence, before her hand moves to hold the back of his head, and she holds him tight as she whispers into his ear.

“The grief we feel, the one you’ll likely feel everyday, at least for a little while, is really just the love we feel for the person we lost. And overtime, those crashing waves that keep hitting you, over and over, will slow down to gentle laps in the water. And we have to think to ourselves, what is grief, if not love persevering?” With those words, she pulls Sam back to the reality surrounding him, and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead, repeating the same words again.

“What is grief, if not love persevering?”

He knows those words mean more to her than he understands. He’s seen the smooth black ink on her arm, where the cursive letters write out the very same words she’s repeating to him, tone soothing and kind. She stands eventually, and walks away, floating along the grass with slow steps until it’s just Sam standing by Bucky’s grave, those same words echoing through every fiber of his being.

What is grief, if not love persevering?

It’s been four months since the funeral. Sam bought himself a small place in Brooklyn, just around the corner from Cypress Hills Cemetery, using a small portion of the money Bucky left him and his family. It turns out, military backpay dating all the way back from the forties measures up to a tidy sum. They managed to finalise the rest of the repairs on the boat, put some more money towards the restaurant and insurance, even add a few improvements to the house in Delacroix, little things here and there that were on Bucky’s list to fix the next time he came by. There’s still more than enough to spare, but they use it when they see it necessary, as there’s always an overhanging yet inevitable sadness attached to it.

It’s a chillier day in October in Brooklyn, and Sam is laying down two bouquets of lilacs from the flowershop nearby, one for both Rebecca and Bucky Barnes. It’s no different than the times before, but anniversaries, especially somber ones, are always harder to bear. Sam remembers to ground himself, using the techniques given to him by his therapist, and sits on the ground beside Bucky’s gravestone, the massive tree swaying above him and blocking out the sun, forcing small rays to make their way through the gaps in the leaves instead.

“Hey Buck, I hope you’re doing alright man.” Sam starts, and forces himself to remember that talking to our lost loved ones can help, even if it feels absolutely idiotic, or so his therapist says. (Not the idiotic part, that was Sam’s incredibly helpful contribution.) So, Sam leans back against the hard stone, and talks about life, the day by day, Sarah and his nephews, being Captain America without Bucky, and all the things he’s been wanting to say for so long, but no one was there to hear them. When he finally finishes, he knows he has to do it, that he can’t put it off any longer. So he pulls out his phone, and before he can lose his nerve, clicks on the voicemail from all those months ago. It still reads the same.

New Voicemail: Bucky Barnes - 2:46am, Friday, June 16, 2025.

Sam practically drops the phone into his lap like it burns him, putting it on speaker and hugging himself tight. He stops breathing when Bucky’s ragged voice rings out, and doesn’t breathe until the message finally comes to a close.

“The beep? What fucking- for christ’s sake, I still don’t get the appeal of modern technology. Hey Sam, I really hope this is working, I think it gave me the beep, but I honestly can’t be sure at this point. Yeah, yeah, cue dinosaur old man senior citizen fossil joke here, I know the drill…Look, I’m glad you didn’t pick up honestly, because this would have been so much fucking harder if you had. Maybe I’m a coward, nah scratch that. I’m definitely a fucking coward. Considering I’ve literally survived two wars, the irony is hilarious. Fuck, I’m rambling... I guess, there’s a lot of things I could say right now, and probably even more things I should say. However, we both know I’m terrible with words and feelings, that was always more your thing. That and being an absolute dick. But, I’ve never been good with goodbyes, and this doesn’t feel like goodbye to me, not yet, anyways. I guess I just need you to know that, I love you Sam, so, so much. I could say it again and again in over twenty languages, and it still wouldn’t ever truly be enough to express how much I love you Samuel. You gave me a home, you let me into your beautiful, incredible family. And most importantly, you let me see you. The real you. The Sam that works harder than anyone else, but is his hardest critic. The Sam that wears his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see, and that is fueled by a passion I’ve never seen the likes of anything else before. The Sam that has nightmares, and is so afraid of failure, even in the smallest sense, that he refuses to even accept it as an option. You’re like the sun. God, do you see what you’ve done, you’ve got me comparing you with bad fucking metaphors, but it’s true. You burn brighter than anyone else, and shit it terrifies me, but Sam, you burn so bright and you lead the way for those of us still stumbling in the dark. I know I’m probably being unfair, unloading all of this onto you, right before-... What I’m about to do- fuck, god I- Fuck. I’m so sorry Sam, and I just want to thank you so much, for everything, and tell you I love you, because I don’t think I’ll get another chance. And it’s hypocritical, because I know what’s going to happen next is going to hurt you, but it’s for the best, I promise. I love you Sam, and I love your family and the home you chose to let me into, and I promise you this isn’t goodbye. It can’t be. This is just-... this is just farewell, until we meet again. I’ll find you in the next lifetime, and in the one after that, and the one after that. I’ll keep finding you, because I’m with you, until the end of time.”

The recording ends there, and Sam lets the tears fall freely this time, his phone feeling a little lighter in his lap, but the weight of it all still sitting firm on his chest. It feels different however, a weight nonetheless, but it’s shape has changed, and maybe it’s claws aren’t quite as sharp when they dig in.

It’s quiet when Sam gets home that night, just as it has been most nights. He sits down on the couch, and grasps at the metal tags that hang from his neck, feeling the unfamiliar engravings of 'James Buchanan Barnes' pressing into the pads of his fingers. They hang next to his own tags, and Sam reminds himself one last time.

What is grief, if not love persevering?

And that night, as he slowly drifts to sleep, he knows that his love and his grief, his happiness and sadness, his hope and loss, every ounce of feeling, all of it that he feels for Bucky, will persevere until the end of time, when they finally see each other again, at the end of the line.

#imsorry #butnotreally #sambucky #samwilson #buckybarnes #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier #mcu #marvel #winterfalcon #painnnnn #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #suicidetw

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