LXIII. Emris

The cold hits first.

It knifes straight through the gauze wrapped around my ribs, through the thick hoodie Natasha shoved over my head before we left the warehouse, through muscle and bone and whatever's left of my willpower. Russian winters don't creep up on you. They hit you like a sniper's round—fast, sharp, unforgiving.

I suck in a breath through clenched teeth as Bucky helps lower me into the passenger seat of the car. My vision swims for half a second, poison still threading its way through the painkillers dulling my nerves. Every joint aches. My stomach's a knot of nausea and ice.

"Try not to bleed on the seat," Bucky mutters as he shuts the door. He circles the hood of the beat-up sedan, boots crunching over the thin crust of snow blanketing the lot.

The car smells like cold vinyl and rust. I settle back, wincing, one hand pressed against my side. My other hand drifts to the door handle, but I'm not sure why. It's not like I'm getting out.

Outside, Natasha stands in front of the warehouse like a ghost refusing to leave the graveyard. Her breath curls in the air. She hasn't moved since helping me into the car. I watch her through the side mirror, silent.

She's staying behind. Alone.

She's going after Steve and Sam without backup. Because I'm too broken to help. Because I couldn't keep myself from getting stabbed—again. Because I'm always the damn variable that screws up the mission.

A fist of guilt curls tight behind my ribs. I hate this feeling more than the pain. It makes me feel helpless. Human.

Bucky finally gets in. The door slams, muffling the wind and whatever Natasha's still thinking but not saying. He adjusts the driver's seat, the rearview mirror, the temperature dials. Everything but me. Typical.

I feel him glance at me. I feel it.

Our eyes meet in the mirror for half a second. That's all it takes.

The air goes thick with everything we haven't said. That kiss in the training room. The hookup. The heat. The fury. The silence afterward. His mouth on mine and then his voice, all smug and low: "Guess you were right, princess."

I look away first.

"This is going to be hell," I mutter under my breath.

"What?" he asks, starting the engine.

"Nothing."

Outside, Natasha knocks on the window. Bucky rolls it down halfway.

"Try not to get frostbite or kill each other," she says, smirking like she knows exactly how thin the ice is inside this car.

I offer a humorless smile. Too late for both.

She gives us a quick nod, then turns and walks back into the warehouse without looking back. No drama. No goodbyes.

The window slides up.

Bucky shifts into gear. The tires crunch over snow as we pull away, the warehouse shrinking in the side mirror like the last sane piece of the world we're leaving behind.

Inside the car, there's nothing but the quiet thrum of the heater and the brittle static of the radio trying to find a signal.

I close my eyes. Try not to think about Natasha. Or Dragunov. Or how goddamn close I came to dying on a concrete floor again.

Try not to think about the man beside me and the way his hands grip the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

Russia again.

Me, broken again.

And Bucky Barnes driving me into the freezing unknown.

The Russian countryside rolls past in streaks of white and gray. Dense pine forests crowd the edges of the road like sentries, silent and watching. Snowflakes drift lazily across the windshield, sticking in scattered patterns before the wipers scrape them away with mechanical indifference. Everything is cold. Clean. Too still.

Inside the car, it's stifling.

My leg throbs with every bump in the cracked road, and nausea coils low in my gut. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning, focusing on the sound of the tires crunching over ice. Bucky hasn't said a word since we left the warehouse. Neither have I.

I'd like to say it's because I'm too injured. But it's not. It's him.

He adjusts the rearview mirror for the third time. Doesn't even look at me, but I still feel the flicker of his gaze, the way his eyes ghost across my face before retreating.

I shift in the passenger seat. Immediately regret it.

Pain lances up my thigh, sharp and hot. I grit my teeth, pressing my palm over the fresh bandage. Still damp. Still bleeding. Fucking Nataly and her poisons.

"Your driving sucks," I mutter, more to break the silence than anything else. "Either slow down or crash faster."

Bucky exhales through his nose, like I've insulted his religion. "I'm doing seventy in a snowstorm."

"Exactly. Coward."

He glances at me, incredulous. "You want me to drift this thing into a ravine? That stab wound didn't hit your brain, did it?"

"No," I snap, "but the whining might."

He mutters something in Russian. Probably a swear. I can't quite make it out.

I lean forward, reaching for the console. My fingers are still stiff, but I manage to tap the touchscreen and scroll through the radio options. Static, news, propaganda. Then—yes. I find something sharp and fast and angry. Russian punk.

Bucky groans. "What is that?"

"Music."

"That's a bold claim."

I crank the volume just enough to be annoying. "It's good. You just have bad taste."

"Coming from someone who nearly passed out on the floor this morning, I'm not sure that means much."

I scowl at him. "Some of us have stab wounds, Barnes."

He smirks, just a little. "And some of us had to carry your stab-wounded ass through gunfire. You're welcome."

"Oh, please. You grunted the entire time like it was some great effort."

"It was. It was raining bullets."

I roll my eyes. "And you're as charming as a root canal."

He glances at me again, and this time his expression softens for a split second—just long enough to make my stomach twist. I look away fast, watching a frozen river blur past the window.

I hate how aware I've become of him. Of the way his jaw clenches every time the road curves. Of the way his knuckles grip the wheel like he's afraid to let go. Of how he shifts his shoulders when he's uncomfortable, the subtle roll of muscle beneath his coat. I hate all of it.

And I really hate that he hasn't mentioned the hookup.

Not that I'm going to. God, no. I'd rather stab myself again.

Another bump sends pain lancing through my leg. I suck in a breath, clenching my fingers on the door handle.

"You good?" he asks without looking.

"Peachy."

He doesn't respond. Just taps the turn signal and merges onto a narrower road. The pine trees lean closer now, and I can see the distant shimmer of a village through the trees—Plyos, probably. Isolated, quiet, buried in snow like a secret.

"I've driven with war criminals who were less grumpy," Bucky says finally, tone dry.

"You are the war criminal, Barnes."

He snorts. "Touché."

Another long silence. The music fades into another song—something slower, mournful, laced with violin. I let it play, too tired to argue.

I rest my head against the window, letting the cold seep into my skin. My body aches. My mind aches worse.

We're both pretending that this sexual tension isn't here. That it means nothing.

But the air between us is thick with it.

Like smoke that won't clear.

The car crunches over packed snow as we wind down the final road into Plyos—if you can even call it a road. It's barely more than a white ribbon between the trees, flanked by drifts as high as the wheels. The sun's dipped low now, brushing the sky in copper and violet. Everything glows cold.

Then I see it.

A small house nestled at the edge of the forest, half-buried in snow. Warm yellow light spills from a crooked porch lamp, flickering like it's been dying for years but refuses to give up. The roof is heavy with snow, icicles dangling off the gutters like glass teeth. The shutters are blue. Faded. Charming, if you're into the whole "isolated murder cabin" aesthetic.

It's... peaceful.

And I hate how wrecked I feel pulling up to it.

Bucky slows the car, pulling up just shy of the front steps. The engine hums, then cuts. Silence slams down around us like a weight.

I steel myself, fingers twitching against the door handle. One more push. One more humiliating stagger to safety. I've survived worse.

But when I try to move my leg, fire rips through my thigh and locks me in place.

I hiss through my teeth, jaw clenched tight. My pride howls louder than the wound. I will not ask for help. I will not look at him. I will not—

The door opens.

I blink, startled by the sudden wash of cold. Bucky stands outside, snow dusting his shoulders, breath curling into the air in silver streams. His boots crunch against the ice as he steps closer. He doesn't speak.

He just looks at me.

I glare. "Don't even think about it."

He raises an eyebrow like I'm a particularly irritating splinter. "Too late."

"I can walk."

"No, you can limp and fall over. Which I've seen. Recently."

I clench my jaw, ready to snap something meaner—sharper—but then the pain surges again, dizzying and hot. My breath catches. The door frame blurs.

Without another word, Bucky leans in and slips an arm beneath my knees.

"Barnes—"

"Shut up."

I stiffen as he lifts me like I weigh nothing. My coat rustles against his chest. One arm braces my back, the other hooks under my legs, careful not to press too close to the wound. His breath is steady. Mine isn't.

He moves quickly but gently, boots crunching on the snow as he carries me across the short path to the porch. My pride burns hotter than the stab wound now.

I glance at his face. Sharp jaw. Eyes forward. Focused.

The bastard's not even smug about it.

"Try anything," I say tightly, "and I'll bite."

He snorts. "With what strength? You can barely blink without wincing."

I want to shove him. I also want to die. Unfortunately, both require energy.

He adjusts his grip slightly as we reach the porch steps. His hand shifts under my legs, careful but firm, and it sends a strange jolt through me—like my skin remembers that night, and wants more even though my brain is screaming no. I hate it.

I hate how safe I feel, just for a second, in his arms.

He nudges the door open with his boot. It creaks, then groans, swinging inward to reveal the inside: small, warm, sparse. A stone fireplace. A kitchen with peeling cabinets. A small couch and chair. It smells like pine and dust.

And it's still the softest place I've seen in weeks.

Bucky sets me down on the edge of the couch. I hiss again when my leg bends, and he curses under his breath, supporting my weight until I'm steady. His hands linger—just a second too long. I don't tell him to stop.

But I also don't look at him.

He pulls away, already shrugging out of his coat, tossing it on a chair near the fireplace. The silence stretches again, full of unsaid things and ragged breath and old ghosts.

I sit there, bleeding into gauze and pride, and watch the snow drift outside the frosted window.

We're safe. For now.

But the air still feels like a loaded gun.

Bucky heads for the door again without a word.

The cold rushes in when he opens it. Snow curls through the gap like smoke. Then the door swings shut, and I'm alone.

I shift—stupidly—and pain lances through my side. Something digs into my ribs, sharp and foreign. I hiss a curse under my breath and lean back against the couch with a grimace. My breath fogs the air in front of me, barely warmer than outside.

The place is quaint. Cozy. Insultingly so.

I hear his footsteps outside, muffled through the snow. Crunch. Thud. A metallic clang as the car trunk opens. I can practically see him—gritting his jaw, slinging duffel bags over his shoulder, radiating silent judgment.

It's a strange thing—listening to someone move around out of sight and knowing exactly who it is. Every sound has his rhythm. Every pause, his weight. It's almost comforting. Almost.

The door opens again. He hauls the bags in, one over each shoulder like we're on some tragic honeymoon gone violently wrong.

"Home sweet home," he mutters, dropping them near the hearth. "For two assassins pretending to be married."

I raise an eyebrow. "We're not pretending that hard."

His eyes flick to mine—sharp, unreadable—and then he looks away.

I glance down at the bags. Nat packed them. I know because everything's too neat, too meticulous. Weapons, med supplies, backup IDs. I spot a familiar protein bar sticking out of a side pocket—salted peanut butter. My favorite.

There's a neon pink sticky note stuck to the wrapper.

Don't be a brat. —N

I snort. My ribs punish me immediately. Still worth it.

Bucky throws another log on the fire. Sparks crackle in the hearth, and the room glows warmer. He moves like he's done this a hundred times—probably has. Survival suits him. Efficiency, too.

I pretend I'm not watching the way his shoulders shift under his thermal shirt, or the way he crouches low to adjust the fire like he isn't carrying the weight of both our bodies and about seven metric tons of emotional damage.

He stands again, dusting ash off his palms.

"We'll stay here a couple weeks. Let you heal."

I nod stiffly, eyes still on the flames. "You going to patch me up?"

A pause.

Then: "You'll let me?"

I don't answer.

He exhales through his nose and starts unzipping the med kit.

The cottage creaks as the wind picks up outside. Snow taps the windows like fingers. The curtains flutter slightly, framing us in faded sunflowers and peeling paint.

We're not safe. Not really.

But for now, we're warm.

And neither of us is bleeding out on the floor.

Progress, I guess.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Bucky disappears down the hallway like he owns the place. I hear doors creaking open, the low groan of old hinges. I try to shift off the couch, grit my teeth as fire sears through my thigh. A strangled sound claws its way out of my throat—half-growl, half-gasp.

I taste copper.

Not again.

"You good out there?" Bucky calls casually.

"Fine," I snap. "Just bleeding internally. Don't let that stop your house tour."

Silence. Then his voice drifts back down the hall, muffled by distance and walls I wish were thicker.

"Only one bed," he announces. Pause. "And one bathroom."

I blink.

Then blink again.

"Absolutely not," I bark, sitting up straighter than I should. Pain lances through my leg and ribcage, but rage fuels me past it. "You're not sleeping with me, pretty boy."

He strolls back into the room like I didn't just threaten murder. Smirking. Smug. Shirt rumpled, hair messy. Jacket slung over his shoulder like some war-torn model for Russian GQ.

"You can crawl to bed, then," he says, tossing the jacket over a dusty chair. "But I'm not carrying your sarcastic ass twice."

"You think this is funny?"

"I think this is survivable."

I narrow my eyes. "I'd rather sleep in the snow."

"Fine by me," he shrugs, already heading toward the fireplace. "I'll keep the firewood."

My jaw clenches. "You are insufferable."

"You think you're better, princess?"

He crouches again, feeding another log into the flames like this isn't a domestic nightmare and I'm not about to implode. Sparks crackle. Shadows dance on his face. The heat touches my skin, but it doesn't thaw the tension between us.

We lapse into silence, the worst kind—the heavy, unspoken kind. I can feel it pressing against the back of my teeth, just begging for another jab, another low blow. But I bite my tongue.

Barely.

I shift on the couch, and pain slices up my side like a blade. My breath hitches. I grit my teeth so hard my jaw might crack. I don't cry out.

I won't.

Bucky notices.

His eyes flick over, brief but assessing. Calculating.

He doesn't say anything. Just watches. And that makes it worse.

I cross my arms, pretending I'm not coming apart at the seams. "We'll rotate. The bed's yours tonight."

"You can barely walk."

"I'm not your problem."

He exhales—long, slow, the sound of someone deciding not to engage. He stands and rolls his shoulders like he's releasing tension, but I know better.

"You are my problem," he mutters under his breath. "That's the whole point."

"What?"

"Nothing."

We stare at each other across the fire-lit room. The snow patters against the window like it's trying to get in. I can hear the old radiator groan to life down the hall.

He finally breaks the silence. "I'll take the couch."

I blink. "What?"

"I said I'll take the damn couch, Emris."

I search his face for mockery, for that patented Barnes sarcasm, but it's not there. Just weariness. Frustration. Something softer that I don't trust.

I don't thank him. I just nod—tight, controlled. I won't admit that the idea of sleeping in the same bed with him sent my heart into a panic spiral. I won't admit that I'm relieved.

He turns and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the rustle of packaging—probably Nat's protein bars or one of those tactical ration bags that taste like chalk and regret.

I sit there, staring into the fire, pulse ticking in my throat.

One bed.

One bathroom.

One person I don't know how to stop wanting to stab or kiss.

Hell.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The fire has burned low. Just glowing embers now, casting soft orange light across the room. A single lamp glows in the corner, its bulb flickering like it's considering giving out. The rest of the house is silent—no creaking pipes, no wind howling through the cracks, no sarcastic voices ruining the fragile quiet.

Just me.

And the steady throb of my ribs.

The couch cushion under my back is lumpy, and the threadbare blanket Bucky tossed over me smells faintly like cedar and dust. It's warm though. Warm enough that the mix of heat, lingering pain meds, and exhaustion is starting to drag my eyelids down like anchors.

I let them fall. Just for a moment.

The bathroom door creaks open. I hear it before I see anything—soft footsteps on creaky wood, careful, unhurried. No boots this time. No stomping. Just socked feet padding across the floor.

My lashes part. Slits.

Bucky steps out into the glow of the fireplace, steam rising faintly from his damp hair. His bare chest catches the light—scars and muscle, silver dog tags glinting against his collarbone. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn't look like a weapon. He looks human.

Tired. Real.

And stupidly good-looking, which is its own crime.

I shut my eyes again, fast.

Pretending to sleep feels easier than talking. Easier than facing whatever look might be on his face. I tell myself I don't care—but that's a lie I'm too tired to reinforce tonight.

He moves closer. I feel him before I hear him. That quiet pressure in the air. That way he exists so heavily, like gravity bends for him.

There's a pause. A hesitation near the couch. I wait for the snark. For the smug little remark. For something petty or irritating or so him I could scream.

But none of it comes.

Instead, his hands are suddenly under me—one strong arm behind my back, the other sliding beneath my knees. My breath jerks in my throat. I want to protest. I want to curse him out and tell him to go to hell.

But I don't.

Because my ribs are screaming. My leg is molten. And somewhere deep in my chest, where the painkillers haven't quite numbed me, something small and traitorous wants this.

Wants not to be alone tonight.

He lifts me slowly, carefully, like I'm glass. My head tips forward and lands against his shoulder. His skin is warm. Damp from the shower. He smells like soap and woodsmoke, and I hate that I notice. Hate that it calms me. Hate that I memorize it like I'll need it later.

His heart beats steady beneath his skin. A quiet, solid rhythm. I focus on it, try not to breathe too deeply, try not to lean in.

But I do.

Damn it, I do.

The hallway's dim, lit only by the fire behind us and the faint light from a lamp in the bedroom ahead. The door's already open. He walks inside, careful not to jostle me. The bed is small—barely big enough for two—and the covers are already turned down like he's been planning this the whole time.

Bastard.

Still, he doesn't speak. Doesn't make a show of it. Just lowers me gently, tenderly, like I'm something worth handling with care.

My head sinks into the pillow. It smells like fresh linen and a hint of detergent—cheap, off-brand stuff that burns the nose. I'd laugh if I could.

The blanket comes up over my legs. Then my waist. Then my shoulders.

He tucks me in.

Actually tucks me in.

I force my eyes open, just enough to glare. My voice is barely a breath. "Still not sharing, Barnes..."

His lips twitch—barely a smirk, but it's there. A flicker of something human in all that winter.

"Wasn't planning on it," he says, low and rough.

I hear the soft rustle of fabric. Then the faint creak of floorboards as he lowers himself onto the rug beside the bed. He doesn't even bother with a pillow. Just a folded jacket and that same stupid stubbornness that's been keeping us both alive for way too long.

The room settles.

The wind picks up outside, rattling the window like claws against glass. The fire in the living room sputters one last time before going out.

Inside, it's warm. Still.

I shift slightly, just enough to catch the outline of him on the floor beside me. His arms folded behind his head. His breathing slow, even.

And for once, it's not silence that feels heavy.

It's peace.

Real or not.

Sleep pulls at me again. I let it. Not because I trust him, not really—but because I know, somewhere deep in my bones, that if anything came for me tonight, he'd be the first one to put himself in the way.

Just like always.

My last thought before the dark takes me is stupid and reckless and impossible.

But it's there.

I think I don't hate him right now.