Waiting extraction on the mountaintop was gloomy, being slowly soaked by the bullets of rain that showered from the sky, with the burning heat of the fire-engulfed mountain just out of reach. The flaming wreckage almost seemed tempting, it’s luminescence tantalizing like flies to a lamp and the shelter it offered like a palace to a homeless man.
Soon enough, drawn to the beacon of revolving red smoke, the Quinjet landed at the peak of the twin rocky outcrop; rescuing the sodden survivors. It whisked down to checkpoint two, rescuing Grant, Lance, Alfonso and a rather bare Bruce Banner. The grey haired scientist was bundled in one of the agent’s thermal coats in oversized pants stretched by his hulk form, his hair squiffy and knotted and shivering like a jitterbug.
The news hit Coulson hard, and shocked the four men who had escaped at the foot of the base into silence. And the sopping wet journey back was miserable, everyone plunged into a session of hushed mourning, all feeling fatigued from the challenging battle. Many were ministering to their wounds, mummifying their injuries with bandages, sloshing alcohol anti-septic over their exposed lacerations and injecting shots of adrenaline, anti-haemorrhagics and painkillers. Some clung to their significant others, knotting hands and uttering words of compassion and commiseration.
Returning to the base was surrounded with the same dreary solace, discreet mumbles the only exchanges of words and packing up was wrapped in the same wordlessness. Goodbyes were fleeting, a brief tangle of arms and pecks on cheeks. Slips of torn scrap paper were traded, scrawled with digits of mobile phone numbers and addresses and one by one members of the Avengers/S.H.I.E.L.D hybrid slipped away – though some remained, in a lack of any place of their own to reside. Each were dropped off back to their local airport and returned to normality.
They returned to the cold walls of their apartments and homes, an absence of central heating with their vacation of their residence. Some, like Tony, returned to loved ones and shared endless soppy endearments with their significant others, others, like Maria, were condemned back to isolation. Familiarity was a luxury they revelled in, and sinking into the sheets of their bed and reacquainting with their mattresses. Relaxation was resumed, returning to a quieter life, free of threats for a while.
But once again, they assembled to commemorate the passing of a friend lost upon the way, one who didn’t get to return home, to resume ordinary life and to live.
The graveyard was dismal, but restful. Antoine would be sleeping in peaceful pastures, where the grass was lush and green, where trees sprouted with vitality and the mead was scattered with the first golden flush of daffodils of the Easter.
Everyone was clothed darkly, black dresses were slotted onto the hourglass figures of the women, and sumptuous suits were fitted onto the men; coupled with dark glasses and black hats. But the sun floated high in the sky, shining down on the varnished mahogany coffin with the golden plate hammered into it, honouring the life past.
Steve cleared his throat at the head of the coffin, unrumpling a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and raking his eyes over the toiled words scrawled across it. The congregation rose for the speech and all eyes rested on the Captain.
"I haven't known Antoine for as long as many of you, but I'm honoured to be able to participate in his eulogy in such a significant capacity.
Antoine was young, so young, too young. And for someone of his age, he saw and did an awful lot. He followed in the generations old steps of his grandfather, Gabriel Jones, an age old companion of mine. He lived up to a grandiose forerunner and usurped the role with dutiful tenacity. He was worthy of the title of his grandfather, a Howling Commando. He was the spitting image of his decorated descendent and a remnant of his soul. He was the embodiment of the shield ideals; chivalrous, courageous, and selfless to the point of sacrificing all a man can sacrifice - his life, for those he valued, friends and country. What's more, the world.
I think we can all learn from Antoine, though the lesson is learnt at the cost of his life. We've learnt how a man can touch many hearts, with his fidelity, honour and charisma. We've learnt how to be unselfish in our motivations, showing determination to a cause that doesn't benefit ourselves anymore than another. We've learnt what true bravery looks like and how to be fearless in the face of our darkest nightmares and how to rise up, even in the midst of crippling pain.
His untimely passing has hit us all punishingly, in an already bruising time... And though I think many who weren't personally familiar with Antoine would pass it off as collateral damage, just another death amidst a massacre, yet somehow, his absence seems more poignant than just another brick in the wall. The lack of his presence, his spirit, his merriment that he instilled into all of us, is distinct. He touched us all individually with his wisdom, his hilarity and his liveliness. We've lost a treasured human being who facilitated the end to a potentially despotic future, who was the catalyst to concluding Operation: Hercules, to saving the world. We've lost a man who deserves to be standing here today a lot more than some of the undeserving Hydra agents that still loiter, like a bad stench, plaguing the world with their fascist existence.
So many so called heroes are here today: the ones who have their faces printed onto the cover of Time Magazine, make the front page of the New York Post or hold the breaking news article on ABC or CNN. We’re the ones who prance around in spandex and masks, dropping clichéd one liners and doing our duty to promote peace and advocate heroic deeds in society, but in reality, we’re no one special. We’re just the lucky ones who have managed to establish dominion over mainstream news with our historical presence and established public identity. The real heroes, they’re the ones that fight abroad, that lose their lives every day to protect the unwitting people back home, dropping quietly like flies; the ones who don’t make a fuss and slip under the radar unnoticed. Antoine Triplett deserves news coverage; more than me, more than Tony, more than Clint or Sam. Forget who Iron Man is rumoured to be dating, forget journalists investigating my sexuality – a true hero saved the world and no one even knows it. I’m angry. I’m sure we all are. That a young hero was taken from us and no one seems to care. The world goes on without him, the seconds ticking past, the days becoming nights, days merging into weeks, then months and the seasons rolling over. But I hope we don’t go on without him in our hearts. I hope we can all carry the memory and the love of Antoine Triplett in our hearts.
Before we dismiss our brother in arms, our friend and hero, I'd like to dedicate a poem to him. This poem was written by Wilfred Owen, a man who served on the front lines in World War One and died there; someone who understood the true gruelling nature of the ravaged landscapes and desolated youth. I think Antoine would appreciate a poem such as this to commemorate his life, how it was lost, and what he dedicated it to. Over to you, Bucky."
Bucky, who was overcome with a shallow flow of tears dried his eyes and removed his own slip of paper.
“This is...” He brought a fist to his mouth and coughed away the sorrowful blockage clogging his throat. “‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’... By Wilfred Owen.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds... Thank you.” Bucky folded the square of paper away quietly and clasped his hands in parade rest at the small of his back.
Coulson stepped forwards for the next portion of Trip’s dismissal, ready to read his scripture.
“Antoine Triplett was known as the bringer of the noise and the funk on the bus. And let me tell you, it has become a hell of a lot quieter without him, and not for the better. So many fond memories of him I own, too many to pick from and give you complete renditions of... Because unfortunately we can’t spend forever saying goodbye to Antoine Triplett, we have to move on, and I think he’d ant that. But like Steve said, we will never forget him even as time goes by, he will remain with us and we will carry his memory with us like a tattoo on our bodies; painted onto our skin. Because he left his mark on us all, and now only a gap remains in his place.
Antoine and I became acquainted when it was revealed that Hydra had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D, when we were on the run as rogue agents amidst treacherous colleagues. He was one beacon of light in the darkness, a strong unwavering man who refused to defect like so many fearful operatives. He chose to refrain from urge to run like so many others and patron what scraps were left of the organisation he dedicated his life to. He rendered our hearts by saving the life of Jemma Simmons, seeking her out as The Hub was trashed by the moles planted inside. He relinquished his gun and offered his trust to the terrified soul he encountered in a destitute lab, where beyond the sealed doors the enemy marched in packs. He gave it all to ensure the survival of a simple stranger and for that I’m sure Jemma is eternally grateful. This is just one of many examples of his selfless personality, how he loved his friends and family, in whatever form they came and was willing to devote himself to the security of good people.
He committed his life to helping the people, to running secret missions all across the world, just so people could remain free; and he never asked for a thank you, he never complained and he delivered without fault. His attitude towards life was gratifying, and his companionship with righteousness was never ending. He always striving to do the right thing, through whatever means were necessary to achieve the desired outcome; he would risk it all, at the stake of his own wellbeing and he would combat any feat that came between him and victory. And it’s that dauntlessness that enables us to live free of fear today, and also has us here, at his funeral.” Coulson cast his eyes down to the box in the ground. “Goodbye, Antoine Triplett and thank you.”
The final person to come forwards was Jemma, who was already whimpering out sobs, but she pulled herself together and padded over in her black ballet flats to recite her crafted speech.
“It’s people like Antoine who restore my faith in humanity... Sorry, a moment...” She struggled with small sobs that split apart the syllables of her words. She received kind sympathetic smiles all around and muscled through. “Very few people in this world had integrity like he did. He stood by his values valiantly, guarding them in every action he committed and in every word he spoke. Antoine believed in S.H.I.E.L.D and all it stood for like no other, he stood by those moral principles everywhere in life. Antoine was a loving soul, full of life and care for everyone and everything. He devoted himself to saving other people, to being everything to everyone. He was a shoulder to cry on, on the days you couldn’t cope. He was a mentor of ethics, consolation and defence; teaching those surrounding him how to philosophise, empathise and shield themselves – in the most literal sense. He taught me how to use a gun, which later served to save my life in a certain compromising scenario in Switzerland. He taught me how to see the best even in the most villainous of characters, to look behind the facade of menace and cruelty and see the motive... To feel for those who were hurting most. Though, the man who killed him, I still can’t seem to find respect for, or indeed anything but sheer sadism behind his actions.
Where Antoine resided, there is now a gaping hole in the team, he was larger than life, and left a larger than life hole behind him. He was world-smart, intelligent in the most dignified and subtle of ways and it showed in the calculation of his actions. He was protective, willing to give anything for the many that he adored: sororal love, fraternal love or romance with so many hearts he won. He engaged us all lovingly, tenderly, sweetly... He devoted time to each of us, sharing in his passions, his tales and his games. Many stories I can recall were shared over rounds of drinks, in good spirit, celebrating triumph over those who tried to dampen our spirit. Trip’s spirit was never dampened, he was sunshine on rainy days, and I’m not sure what we’re going to do without that ray of hope to brighten us up when things get rough.
Antoine is completely irreplaceable, and whoever takes his place as our specialist will never quite fill his large boots. No one will ever be able to completely mould to his shape, to fit his role like an especially crafted puzzle piece. Forever, there will be that gap in our puzzle, that missing piece in our picture – but it will prevent us from forgetting. And Antoine Triplett, we will never forget you.”
The hired bugle player began his rendition of ‘The Last Post’ as Antoine’s coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. The ropes slipped through the loops whilst the solo dulcet brass tones were emitted into the fields around them. The coffin fit perfectly in the rectangle of ground and made a quiet hollow ‘thunk’ as it touched the earth six feet down. As the shovels decanted piles of dirt atop the coffin, they departed.
“Hey, Steve...” Bucky began, eyes still weepy. “Why don’t you go ahead and wait for me by the Harley, I just need to hang back for a moment and speak to someone,” Bucky requested, holding Steve’s hand.
“Sure... Take as much time as you need,” Steve said quietly, reddened eyes resting on Bucky sadly.
"Uh, Director!" Bucky called across the groves, trying to attract the attention of the wandering spectre of a man.
"Phil, please,” Phil corrected, turning to face Bucky and ponderously walking through the dewed green everglades. “What is it Barnes?" He questioned, approaching with a tear-stained face.
"Before you enigmatically wander off into the distance and disappear from the face of the Earth again, I need to ask something of you..." Bucky beseeched, both of them lingering in the shade of an oak, budding with vitality and growing into a green bloom.
Phil chuckled humbly, amused by Bucky's sense of humour and pitiful of the flustered flush that brightened his cheeks consecutively to the joke.
"Go ahead, Sergeant.”
They took a stroll towards the gates, rambling over mounds of freshly turfed graves and other sunken patches where the grass thinned like hairs on a bald man. Both had their hands buried in their suit pockets as they took the meandering wander.
"Look, Steve and I are getting married soon - as you know - and seeing as you were the one who inspired Steve to enter into this relationship with me, I thought it would only be right if you were my best man... I mean, I'd like it if you'd be my best man. Feel free to decline, I mean, I know it's not exactly orthodox or appropriate that an employee asks his very senior boss to be his best man, but-"
Phil didn't let him flounder any longer, endeared, but feel second hand embarrassment. "James, it would be my genuine honour to be your best man." He assured him, stopping him with a clutched hand on his shoulder.
The babbling drew to a swift conclusion. "Really?" He looked up with heartfelt glittering blue eyes, overwhelmed a tad.
"Yes. Of course. I'm delighted and flattered that you've chosen me for such a prominent role in your wedding. And please, don't think of me just as your boss. I'm your friend first and foremost,” Phil promised him, unleashing him from his grasp and allowing them to dawdle a while longer.
"Good thing too, I didn't really have many people to ask... People aren't exactly lining up to befriend the Winter Soldier. I mean, Nat’s my ex-girlfriend and I think Steve’s called dibs on Sam so...” He shrugged non-commitally.
"I'll have none of that, James. You're Sergeant James Barnes, nothing more, nothing less. The Winter Soldier is nothing more than a chapter in an ongoing book. The past... Fiction. The man you are now is all that's important.” That was a reminder that resounded with Bucky and he smiled softly at the greying man with his kind wrinkled eyes and his welcoming smile.
"Gee... You're like that father I never had...” Bucky said sadly, strolling past his and Steve’s twinned grave markers, withered by time and encrusted with moss and erosion.
A/N - This honestly killed me to write. And it's really taken the life out of me because I'm coming down with a trachea infection - for those of you less anatomically eloquent like me, apparently that's a windpipe infection - and I've had a stress migraine wash over me from late nights, catering to masses of family visits and trying to keep up to date with art and graphics coursework.
Dedication goes to danisuzannie! x