LXXXVI. Emris

The kitchen counter is cold beneath me, but the burn in my side drowns it out.

I breathe through my nose, sharp and shallow, trying not to flinch as Sam threads the needle again. The cut in my suit exposes the wound—an angry, torn groove just above my hip—and his fingers are steady as he works, gentle in a way that makes my throat ache.

It's quieter than it should be.

The safehouse hums with life behind closed doors—vents creaking, something dripping rhythmically in the sink—but between me and Sam, it's silence.

He finally breaks it.

"Emris," he says softly. "You gonna talk?"

I glance down at him, and for a moment, our eyes meet. His are steady, kind. Patient. But I can't find the words. My jaw aches from how long it's been clenched, and when I try to speak, the words crawl backward down my throat.

So I shake my head, barely.

Sam sighs like he expected that.

"Alright. Fine. I'll just talk then." His voice is light, but I can hear the worry buried under the surface. He pulls the stitch tight and snips it, moving to the next one.

He's quiet for a beat. Then, casually—

"You and Bucky..."

My heart skips.

Just a little.

Just enough to make my palms sweat.

Of course it was only a matter of time.

I focus on a crack in the cabinet across the room, force myself not to react, but I know he sees it anyway—the way my shoulders tense, the way I suddenly grip the counter tighter with one hand.

Sam hums like he's confirming something to himself. "Yeah, I figured."

I glance at him, and he gives me a look like he's holding back a grin. "Can't really be mad about it," he mutters, reaching for more gauze. "Nat owes me fifty bucks now."

That gets my attention. I blink, looking down at him.

He smirks. "She said you two would hook up once and never talk about it again. I said it'd turn into a full-blown love affair."

My lips twitch unwillingly.

Of course they made a bet.

He dabs at the blood around the graze, and I hiss, just a little, more from surprise than pain. His touch is careful, precise. I focus on the warmth of the room, the press of the counter under my thighs, the smell of the antiseptic in the air.

Anything but the heaviness behind my ribs.

"Ignore Steve," Sam says after a beat, tone shifting. Softer. "He just misses Nat. And he's overprotective of Bucky."

I nod. He's right, and I know it. It still doesn't undo the way Steve looked at me when I got shot—like it was expected. Like it didn't matter.

Sam ties off another stitch. "You're shaking less now," he murmurs. "That's good."

I am. I hadn't noticed. The fog is lifting, a little. The guilt's still there, but it's quieter than before. Duller. Like background noise instead of a scream.

"I didn't say it back," I whisper.

Sam pauses, mid-movement.

He glances up at me. "Say what?"

I look at him, and he understands immediately.

"Oh."

He leans back, resting on one knee, the medical kit still open beside him.

"I wanted to," I murmur. "I still do."

The words are fragile, soft, like they'll fall apart if I breathe too hard. But I mean them.

"I just... couldn't. Not then."

Sam nods, no judgment in his face.

"Emris," he says, voice low, "the way he looks at you? You could never say it, for years even, and he'd still be content—just because he has you."

Something catches in my chest.

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes burning suddenly.

"I've never... said it," I admit. "Not to anyone."

Sam doesn't look surprised. He just finishes cleaning the wound, wiping the last of the blood away. "Doesn't mean you can't start now."

I swallow hard.

"Just say it," he says. "Don't think about it. Just blurt it out."

I stare at the floor.

"You're not your past, Em," he adds. "You get to have something that's just for you. Something good."

His voice is quiet, and something about it hits deeper than I expect. Maybe it's the way he says you get to have—like he knows how long I've convinced myself I didn't.

I slide off the counter carefully, the pain in my side pulling like a reminder. He helps me keep steady with one hand on my arm.

I pull him into a hug without thinking.

"Thank you, Sammy," I murmur, my voice pressed into his shoulder.

He wraps his arms around me gently. "Anytime."

When he pulls back, he gives my arm one last squeeze and walks toward the door.

"Go easy on him," he says over his shoulder. "He's probably pacing outside like a caged wolf."

I smile softly.

He's not wrong.

And I think—for once—I'm finally ready to open the cage.

The door clicks shut behind Sam, and silence takes its place.

Real silence. The kind that hums in the bones and makes you hyper-aware of everything—your breathing, the scratch of fabric against skin, the pulse in your neck still pounding from everything that happened.

I walk down the hall to my room, closing the door behind me.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the weight of the stitched suit pressing down on me, stiff and itchy around the gauze. My side throbs steadily—nothing sharp anymore, just a dull ache pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

The house feels still.

Except for him.

I hear it. Barely.

Soft footsteps outside my door. One... two... then they stop.

The air shifts—like something alive is on the other side of the wall, breathing in sync with mine. I hold my breath.

He's there.

I know it.

Bucky doesn't knock. Doesn't say anything. Just stands in that hallway long enough for the tension to coil like a wire in my chest.

And then... the floorboards creak again. He moves away. Retreats.

My heart sinks.

I shouldn't be surprised. He's giving me space. Respecting boundaries I've kept like razor wire around my ribs for years. But still—some traitorous part of me wanted him to knock. To come in. To see through me.

But he didn't.

I stare down at the floor, at the little flecks of blood staining my boots, the fraying threads of my suit. The room feels colder now.

A soft knock sounds a moment later—this one real. Sam pokes his head in.

"I'm gonna go talk to Steve," he says. "Check on him."

I nod, wordless. He gives me a small smile and disappears.

And then I'm really alone.

I inhale slowly, try to brace myself, and reach for the zipper on the side of my suit. My fingers dig in but can't get a grip—it's too stiff, too stuck, too tight with dried blood and tension. I curse under my breath and try again. The pain bites at my ribs, blooming out like a bruise every time I shift.

I grit my teeth.

Try again.

Same result.

Pathetic.

I sit back, frustrated and sweating now, every breath scraping raw against my ribs. The suit feels like a cage I can't break out of.

Dragunov's voice slithers into my head like smoke.

Love is weakness.

No one will ever help you without wanting something in return.

You were made to endure alone.

I shut my eyes.

No.

No, I'm not there anymore.

I push off the bed with a wince and walk stiffly to the dresser. I pull out a clean shirt, shorts, and underwear and hold them for a second—hesitating.

Then I glance at the door.

I shouldn't need help.

But I do.

And maybe that doesn't make me weak. Maybe it makes me human.

I cross the hall before I can change my mind.

The air outside his door is heavy—like he's still out here, somehow, even after walking away. I pause, listening, half expecting to hear him pacing again.

Nothing.

Just my breath and the soft sound of my knuckles tapping against the wood.

It opens almost immediately.

Bucky stands there.

Close. Quiet. Waiting.

I look up at him, heart in my throat.

He doesn't say anything.

Just opens the door and looks at me like he already knew I'd be standing there. His eyes catch mine for a second—searching, unreadable—and then he steps back, silent invitation in the way he shifts his weight and opens the door wider.

I step inside.

The room is dim. Warm. Quiet in a way mine isn't. His scent lingers—leather, cedar, and something darker, something his—and I don't realize how tense I am until I exhale and feel my shoulders sag just slightly.

I walk past him and set the clothes in my hands on the edge of the bed: a plain t-shirt, clean underwear, soft shorts. Something simple. Something that doesn't feel like a second skin or body armor or a battlefield.

I don't turn to face him. Not yet.

"I need help," I say quietly, the words barely audible.

Still, he hears.

I feel his presence behind me before he moves—like gravity, like weight. My breath catches, and when I feel him close that final inch of distance, every hair on my neck stands on end.

He doesn't touch me. Not yet.

I move my hair to the side with a shaky hand, exposing the back of my neck, the seam of my suit's zipper. My fingers brush his as I do, and he exhales softly, almost imperceptibly.

Then—

His fingers find the zipper.

He's careful. Slow. Like he's unwrapping something fragile. The sound is deafening in the silence—zzzt, zzzt, zzzt—each inch a breath, a memory, a heartbeat.

The air hits my skin and I flinch—not from the cold, but from how exposed it feels.

He doesn't rush.

When the zipper reaches the small of my back, he pauses. His finger traces up along the path he just revealed, spine to nape. A whisper of contact. Barely there. My skin tingles in its wake, nerves alive.

His breath is warm against my neck.

"Can I?" he asks, voice a low murmur, not even pressing.

I nod. It doesn't feel like enough.

"Mhm," I hum, not trusting my voice.

Then he moves.

His hands come to the top of my suit, fingers sliding under the shoulders and peeling them down inch by inch. The fabric resists—it's stiff, bloodstained, still sealed to my body in places—but he's patient. Gentle. His touch maps my arms, my sides, until the suit pools at my waist.

I close my eyes and breathe through it. Not the pain—though it pulls at my side—but the intimacy. The trust it takes to let him see me like this. Not just my body, but the fractures beneath it.

He kneels behind me.

I glance down and see his hands at my ankles, fingers brushing against the tops of my boots. He looks up once, waits for permission again. I shift my weight, just enough.

He slides the suit down, past my thighs, my knees. I step out carefully, wincing as my wound stretches with the movement. He's still silent, his hands never lingering longer than needed, but never cold. Never clinical.

The suit hits the floor with a soft whisper of fabric against wood.

And I'm standing in front of him in nothing but a bra and underwear.

For a moment, I don't breathe.

I don't move.

Bucky doesn't either.

He stays there, crouched at my feet, eyes on the floor like he's waiting for a cue I haven't given yet. His presence doesn't feel overwhelming—it feels steady. Solid. Like if I swayed, he'd catch me without needing to think about it.

The suit is gone.

And somehow, I feel more bare than I've ever been.

Not just because of what I'm wearing—but because I let him do this. Let him see me. Help me. Strip away the thing that kept me guarded, armored, numb.

The air grazes my skin and I shiver.

But it's not from cold.

I stand there, barefoot and breathless, feeling more exposed than I've ever let myself be.

Bucky doesn't move. He stays on his knees for a moment longer, like he's waiting to make sure I don't disappear—like I'm something fragile and vanishing.

But I'm not running. Not this time.

He rises to stand behind me again.

Slowly, I turn to face him.

His eyes meet mine, wide and dark, but not with hunger—not the kind I've seen in men before. This is something else entirely. Reverent. Careful. Something that sees me even like this—especially like this—and still stays.

I reach for the hem of his shirt.

He doesn't flinch when I touch him. Just breathes in, almost silently, as I slip my fingers under the fabric and start to lift. He helps me, wordlessly, raising his arms. The cotton pulls over his head, and then it's gone—dropped next to my suit like we're shedding all the layers that kept us guarded.

He's warm.

Solid.

Real.

I step closer.

My hands come up to rest on his shoulders, and I let my head fall forward until it finds the place over his heart. My cheek presses to his bare chest, and I feel it—thump, thump, thump—steady, slow, anchoring.

He wraps his arms around me, careful not to touch the gauze on my side, but everything else... he holds. Like I'm something rare and fragile and entirely mine at the same time.

Like I matter.

Like I'm wanted.

And for one long, fragile second, I forget how to breathe.

Then the voices return.

Dragunov.

Hydra.

The Black Lotus.

"You think anyone will ever love a monster like you?"

"Emotion is a flaw we will train out of you."

"You were made to serve, not to be held."

"Let them in, and they'll break you."

Their voices come like ghosts, like chains rattling in the back of my mind. My chest tightens, my breath shortens, and I feel that old familiar impulse to pull away. To armor back up. To run.

But then—

Sam's voice cuts through like light slicing shadow.

"Don't think. Just blurt it out."

"He'd wait years. You could never say it, and he'd still stay."

"You're allowed to have something good, Em."

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Bucky's hand finds the small of my back, slow and gentle. Not urging. Not expecting.

Just... there.

And that's what does it.

Not force.

Not fear.

But consistency.

Kindness.

I lift my head, just slightly. Enough to breathe him in, enough to let the scent of him ground me. My lips brush the side of his throat as I shift to rise on my toes, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my breath.

My voice barely works.

But I push the words past the fear, past the years of silence and shame and programming that told me I didn't deserve this.

And I whisper—

"I love you, James."