W A R N I N G:
This contains multiple "triggers," such as suicide, self harm, murder, anxiety, and general sadness.
[please, don't hate me.]

In which the trio never made it to Wakanda.

B A N I S H T H E B R O K E N F R O M M Y B O N E S

THE ARCHANGEL was bruised, beaten, and defeated. Despite the fact that she had healed, on the outside, a touch on her nose and she felt she would shatter. Her wings, newly found, were folded as much as she could manage-which still hurt. Her ribs were pieces of glass in the confines of her body, her broken bones slowly managing to heal. But the pain didn't bother her; pain had never bothered her.

What bothered her was that she didn't fulfill her mission. As Bucky would say, it was Hydra talkin', but Hydra was forever a part of her. She couldn't erase apart of her mind, her body, her soul. Not without erasing the rest of her self. Whether James liked it her not, she accepted herself for what she was. A monster.

The flames from the lighter, which she had randomly picked up, what seemed like years ago, caressed her skin as if she controlled them. Her darkened, bruised eyes barely allowed the tears to slip out, and fall down her thin, swollen face. It hurt, God, it hurt, but this was her fault. She had to do this, because something bad would happen if she didn't.

I' L L R E C L A I M M Y B O D Y A N D M Y S O U L

The fire now traveled up her arm. Her pale skin was changing colors, the northern lights on her flesh. The Archangel only whimpered, like a pitiful puppy. A knock on the door, signaling someone was about to enter. The woman didn't even try to cover the fire dancing up and down her flesh, burning her up to a crisp. It was Bucky, actually-with his sky blue eyes and puppy dog face. She couldn't hear much, the pain was affecting more than one body part but-she could feel. She could feel the warmth of her.. She didn't know what James was to her anymore. But she could feel him, dousing the fire with water from the small sink and caressing her face with his rough hands. He gently slapped it, trying to draw her back from the haze. The stench of burning flesh lingered in the air, a faint presence in her nose as she breathed shallowly.

His sky-blue eyes were filled with rain, a watery sheen as he observed the person he loved sit there, face blank like a new sheet of paper. She wasn't responding, her brown eyes looking at nothing. Something far away. Torn to pieces, the man pulled her close, careful of the strong, unusual wings sprouting from her back, to the point there was barely any space between them. She went without a whisper, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder.

"It's okay, doll, 's okay. You don't have to do what Hydra told you to-you're free, babe, you're free and you're with us. You're not Hydra anymore," he whispered, crooning other unintelligible words in her ear as tears slid down the two's faces. Her hand moving like a snake, reaching for her back pocket, she whispered a response back.

"I'll always be Hydra," she whispered, the tears soaking the shoulder of his jet black shirt.

He knew what it meant. He wasn't stupid, far from it. But he didn't move a muscle, he barely even tensed when the love of his life slid a wickedly curved dagger into his abdomen. Bucky groaned, a small squeak sounding as he completely enveloped Victoria in his arms. He wasn't ever letting go, he made that mistake once, and he wouldn't do it again. No, no, never. Everything was numb, at this point. A pinch when the blade had entered, only to fade to nothingness.

Victoria's sobs racked her body, as the blood soaked through the front of her shirt. She shoved the blade deeper, James moving with the dagger. He was already near death, and this was only speeding up the process. Turning back the clock. Her pale, scratched hand was red with the blood of her love. With a pained, quiet cry, she turned the blade sideways. The shift elicited a soft, choked noise from James Barnes. The slick, wet fluid against her skin made her want to retch.

"They told you to kill me if you couldn't.. Bring-" He was cut off by wet coughing, the blood staining his cloud white teeth. She nodded, a pained, inhuman sound escaping from her lips. He choked out an inaudible response, the blood drowning the words in his mouth. The Archangel could feel his grip weakening. Pulling away, so slightly, so that she could see the eyes she had fallen in love with decades ago. Their lustrous shade of blue was slowly, slowly fading into a lifeless grey, as were his lips. He was deathly pale, the dark wisps of hair from his ponytail looking black against the pallor of his skin.

P L A Y I N G G A M E S S O S I C K A N D T W I S T E D

The woman had laid him out on the makeshift bed, the man (barely alive) not even putting up an ounce of resistance. His eyes were half closed, leaving a sliver of grey visible as he slowly bled out. She secured her grip on the leather handle, tugging the damned dagger out of his abdomen with a sickening sucking sound from his body.

"I love you," she whispered, setting her hands on the fatal wound, before moving them to his face to hold it. The blood smudged, leaving a distorted, red handprint on both sides of his face. Not even the Soldier could heal from what she had done to him. "I love you, I love you, I love you," she reiterated, leaning over his soon-to-be-corpse and trailing gentle, whispered kisses down his jawline.

"I love you too," he hummed, a faint noise that reverberated through her entire soul. She had killed someone who loved her, she had killed someone she loved. Loved.

M A N I F E S T A B E T T E R P A R T O F M E

She didn't deserve to see Steve Roger's untrusting, betrayed blue eyes. Filled to the brim with years as he realized he had, permanently, lost his best friend of decades. The eyes the same blue as the corpse of the man she loved, had loved. She didn't deserve to see anything at all, not even the bars of a jail cell, she decided, lifting a pistol that had been conspicuous for a while now. It was light in her bloodied hand, but it seemed heavy along the weight of her guilt. She felt like Atlas, holding the world of dead bodies and fire and genocide on her weak shoulders. She was crumpling, and she couldn't take the world with her.

The Archangel lifted the barrel of the gun to her right temple, her trigger finger only just squeezing lightly. The cold, smooth feeling of the metal against her skin was almost familiar. As if she fired the gun on herself, instead of dozens of other people. Most people who committed suicide turned away from the barrel, from the place where the final bullet would come from. The Archangel wasn't most people. She leaned on the gun as if it was James, as if it was the last thing she would ever lean on. And it was. She saw a great many things, while she sat there. Her parents, a crystal clear image of David and Mary Scott. A sibling, a little brother who was now rotting in the ground. Jelly, who she never went back for. Crying in the world she had come, crying in the world would she leave.

With a final, choked sob as she stared at the lifeless body of James Buchanan Barnes, Victoria Scott pulled the trigger.

G O T T A G E T R I D O F Y O U F R O M M Y S Y S T E M

The king of Wakanda was no stranger to the idea of grief. But this... This was something else. This was pain, a whole world of it, crashing down on you all at once.

He remembered the state of the bodies in the plane. Barnes, secured tightly to the bed, dried blood seeping from a stab wound. The crimson fluid smudged on his face, in the shape of a smaller, thinner hand. Scott, splayed out on the floor, the pistol hanging loosely from her hand. Her wings were spread, limply. They were gray, now, as gray as her ashen skin and dead lips and dead fingernails. Two lovers dead, and the third man left in a state where death would've been ideal.

Steven had crashed the plane on purpose, it seemed, when he discovered the bodies. What use was there living for? He wasn't Captain America. All he had had was Victoria and James, and they were gone. Everything was gone. The king himself had recovered the plane, retching violently at the sight of these people, these heroes who were pushed too far, dead. James looked like something from a fairy tale, dark hair pushed away from his face with an obvious tenderness. A small, small flower was by his side. A favorite, of Victoria's as Steven had said. A daisy.

Today was the funeral, and it had been over hours ago. Steve hadn't left, hadn't moved an inch. He was bearded (a first for everyone) and his shocking blonde hair was as messy as the mental state of everyone involved.

Mr. Stark had come, too. Everyone had. There was no war, only grief and pain, as they all stood next to the coffins (handpicked by T'Challa, as Steve had refused) paying their respects. Natasha Romanoff had began sobbing wildly, holding the hands of her two former comrades. Wanda Maximoff had cried over the body of her only true friend, Victoria. Tony had remained stone-still, dark eyes like a tunnel as he surveyed the bodies. They wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for me, he thought.

Clint Barton had shed tears. He had, in honor of the two, fired three arrows off into the dawn sky. Thor, the god, had come to see them off. He had no idea how the blonde man had gotten there, but at the moment, the King did not care. He stood, skin covered in black clothing in honor of the gathering. He would not cry, but he had a feeling no one would've cared if he did. All he had wanted was to protect these two victims, the two victims of a world that was always a constant contest of power. They had just been caught in the crossfire.

It was a dark, dark day in the country of Wakanda. For citizens and King alike.

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END