I'm sorry I haven't really been making more fetish art lately. I have been taking care of myself and getting more in shape! I hope you can forgive me if I take a little break from art here and there to work on my body. It's important!
“For those of you who just transferred into this class or simply decided that day one wasn’t important enough to attend, I’m Professor Hale. Welcome to English 346, The American Novel.”
Stiles is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open right now and that his eyes are wide with shock, because holy fuck, he thinks he knows why his students transferred. Hell, if he was still an undergrad, he probably would have transferred, too.
(Or: In which Stiles is a Biology professor and Derek thinks he's a student.)
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.
