XCVIII. Emris

The pain wakes me before I even open my eyes.

It's sharp and immediate, like a blade being driven between my temples. Throbbing. Relentless. A migraine, but worse. Deeper. It sits behind my eyes like it's trying to claw its way out. My ears are ringing, high and sharp, and it makes the whole room feel like it's tilting sideways.

Fuck.

I don't move at first. Just lie there in the dark, letting the pounding echo through my skull like war drums. My body shakes from the intensity of it, every muscle tensing, trying to ride it out. The air feels thick, heavy, like it's pressing down on my chest.

And it's cold. Or maybe I'm just sweating again.

The sheets feel too soft against my skin, too loud every time I shift even a little. I'm burning up one second, freezing the next. I try to breathe slow. Try to count it out. Four in. Four out. But it doesn't help.

It never does.

Steve's shield hit me weeks ago, but I still get these—pulsing reminders that even when the bruises fade, the damage sticks around. The ringing, the headaches, the nausea crawling up the back of my throat like bile. Sometimes it feels like a punishment. Sometimes it feels deserved.

Most nights, I can hide it.

Tonight... I'm not so sure.

I peel the blanket back slowly, wincing as even that small movement sends pain ricocheting through my skull. Bucky's arm is draped over my waist, heavy and warm. He's breathing slow, steady—still asleep.

Good. Stay asleep. Please.

I move like a ghost, slow and deliberate, trying to slide out from under his arm without waking him. My bare feet hit the floor and I bite the inside of my cheek as the cold shoots up my legs. Every step I take away from the bed makes my skull scream louder.

The wooden floor creaks beneath me—sharp and sudden in the quiet.

Shit.

Behind me, I hear him shift slightly. The bed creaks. My breath stills in my lungs.

"Em?"

His voice is rough with sleep, soft like worn velvet in the dark. I freeze halfway to standing, cursing myself and the creaking floor and this fucking pain that won't leave me alone.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe if I stay still, he'll drift off again.

"Emris," he says again, a little clearer this time.

I don't turn around. "I'm fine."

It's automatic. Too fast. Too hollow. The lie slips out before I can stop it, even though I know he'll hear it for what it is.

There's a long pause. Then the rustle of sheets. I feel him behind me before I see him—his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me back gently, firmly, until I'm tucked against his chest again.

"Don't lie to me, Emris," he murmurs against my shoulder.

The sound of his voice that close—low, protective, aching—undoes something in my chest. I want to stay strong, pretend I can handle it, but the pain spikes again, sharp and brutal, like someone driving nails through my skull.

I let out a choked breath, and before I can hide it, a broken whisper escapes: "It hurts."

Bucky shifts behind me, pulling me closer. His vibranium arm curls protectively around my middle, warm only from my skin. His other hand brushes my hair back from my face with a tenderness that makes my throat tighten.

"I know, baby," he breathes. "I know. I wish I could take all your pain from you."

I close my eyes, letting my head rest against his shoulder. He's so warm, all sleep-slow muscle and steady breathing. His heartbeat thuds against my back, deep and grounding, like it's syncing with mine just to keep me anchored here.

"I hate this," I whisper.

"I know you do." His fingers comb through my hair again, over and over. Gentle, rhythmic. "You've been so strong for so long. Just let me hold you, alright?"

I nod, barely. I can't speak around the knot in my throat.

His lips press to the back of my neck. "You don't always have to push through it alone. Not anymore."

I should say something. Tell him it's not a big deal. That I'm used to pain. That I've been through worse. But my jaw trembles, and I can't lie again.

Not when he's holding me like this. Not when I want—need—to let myself be small in his arms, just for a little while.

So I let him comfort me.

His hands never stop moving—petting my hair, caressing the edge of my jaw, trailing down my arm in slow, soothing strokes. He whispers soft things I barely register. Nonsense, love, maybe both. I only catch pieces.

"You're okay..."

"I've got you..."

"Just breathe, sweetheart..."

"I'm right here..."

And I believe him.

Even through the pain, even as my skull throbs with every heartbeat, I let myself breathe in time with his voice. Let his warmth pull me back from the edge of that dark place in my mind. The place that always tells me to be alone when I'm hurting.

Not this time.

This time I let him stay.

After a while, the silence settles between us—not heavy, but comforting. Like a blanket. My head's still pounding, but the worst of the sharp edge has dulled, thanks to Bucky's hands in my hair and his voice in my ear. Still, I shift slightly, trying to breathe through the ache behind my eyes. I feel restless. Trapped inside my own skull.

"I need to sit up," I whisper, already pushing myself upright, slow and careful. My arms tremble slightly from the effort.

Bucky doesn't argue. He just brushes his lips to my temple and slips out of bed without a word. A second later, I hear the soft clink of glass—he's grabbing me water.

When he returns, he places the glass in my hands like I might break if he's not gentle. I take it with a murmured thank you, the coolness of it grounding me. I sip slowly, careful not to move my head too fast. Even the swallow feels like thunder in my ears.

Bucky climbs back onto the bed behind me. I feel his presence before I feel his hands—then, a warm touch on the back of my neck, fingertips gliding across my skin. I turn to face him.

"Turn around," he says softly. "Let me do your hair."

I blink. "You braid now?"

He chuckles once under his breath, a sound so low and warm I feel it in my chest. "Guess you'll find out."

I let him gather my hair, still tangled from sleep and sweat, and his fingers begin moving gently, carefully. He works slow, combing through the strands with his fingers first, and every now and then, the pad of his thumb grazes the back of my neck, sending shivers across my spine.

His hands are large but impossibly tender, callused from years of combat, yet reverent. Each movement is methodical, precise. And I realize he's not just braiding my hair—he's soothing me, grounding me, piece by piece.

The room is quiet except for our breathing and the occasional scrape of his vibranium fingers through a stubborn knot. My headache still hums beneath the surface, but this—his touch, his care—it dulls the edges of the pain in ways medicine never could.

I lean slightly into his touch. "Where'd you learn how to braid?"

There's a beat of silence behind me. His hands still briefly, just long enough for me to feel the hesitation.

Then he says, voice barely above a whisper, "My little sister. Rebecca."

I don't move. I don't breathe too loudly. I know what it costs him to say her name out loud.

"She used to sit on the floor in front of me after school," he continues quietly. "Would hand me her brush and say, 'Bucky, do the thing again.' She'd wiggle her shoulders and everything. I never did it perfect, but she always smiled like I was magic."

My chest aches. A slow, twisting kind of pain. "She sounds sweet."

"She was," he says. Then a pause. "She would've loved you."

I bite my lip, swallowing hard. My throat suddenly feels too tight, my heart too fragile.

She would've loved you.

There's no way he knows what those words do to me.

And I wish I could've met her—this girl who used to sit at his knees, who gave him something to hold onto before the world took everything away. Before Hydra rewrote him, erased him, stripped him down to his bones.

I know bits and pieces of her from his memories—the ones I didn't mean to see but couldn't unsee. A flash of dark curls. A laugh like bells. A child clinging to his arm with absolute trust.

She was his home. And he lost her to time and war and everything he never got to choose.

I lower my head slightly as he finishes the braid, letting the weight of it fall down my back. He smooths the hair over my shoulder and lets his palm linger on my spine.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, not even sure what I'm apologizing for. That he lost her. That he lost everything. That he had to survive the way he did.

"I'm not," Bucky says quietly.

I turn my head, just enough to glance back at him. "You're not?"

His eyes meet mine. Blue. Unshakable. "Because if I hadn't made it out... if I hadn't come through the other side... I wouldn't have found you."

I blink, eyes stinging. "That's... not a fair trade."

"It is to me."

I look away before I cry. I can't cry. Not now. Not while he's touching me this gently, not while the memory of his sister lingers between us like smoke.

Instead, I take a deep breath and shift closer, letting my back rest against his chest. His arms come around me like they belong there. Like I belong there.

My headache still hums, steady and unforgiving. But the pain feels far away now. Distant. Like a storm rolling over someone else's horizon.

And for a little while, that's enough.

Bucky's arms are warm around me, steady and strong, holding me like I'm something precious. His fingers rest against the curve of my ribs, metal and flesh intertwined at my side. My headache is still lingering in the background, a dull throb at the base of my skull, but being in his arms softens the sharp edges of everything.

I lean back into his chest, let out a quiet breath. He smells like cedar and heat. Like safety.

And yet, there's something I need to say. It's been sitting on my tongue for weeks, maybe longer, but I've never dared say it out loud. Not until now. Not when he's finally letting me hold the cracked-open pieces of him.

"Bucky?" I murmur.

"Hmm?" he replies against my shoulder, his voice still heavy with sleep, his nose brushing against the shell of my ear.

"You have to fully forgive Steve."

He stills behind me.

A pause. A groan.

"Em," he mutters, already tired of where this is headed. "I don't know if I can."

I turn just enough to glance up at him, our eyes meeting in the faint, silvery light bleeding through the window. "I'm not saying you have to like what he did. Hell, I don't like it either. But Steve... he wasn't thinking straight. He saw me as...you know, he saw the chaos, and all he wanted was to keep you safe. That's all he ever wants."

Bucky exhales hard through his nose, his jaw working like he's trying to chew through the memory. "He hit you, Emris."

"I know," I whisper. "But he's your best friend. You've loved each other longer than I've been alive. I don't love Steve, but he loves you, and I know you love him."

Silence.

I press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw, trying to soften my words, to keep him from slipping back into that quiet, haunted place. "He loves you, Buck. I see it. Even through all his stubbornness and guilt and bullshit—he loves you."

Then I add, "He wasn't thinking straight when he hit me; he just wanted you to be safe, that's all he ever wants."

He shifts beneath me, restless. His grip tightens slightly around my waist.

"How do you know that?" he asks, almost like a challenge.

I smirk faintly. "Mind reader, duh."

That gets a low, reluctant chuckle from him, which I count as a win.

But I don't let it end there. My voice softens, growing more serious. "Also... because I get it. If I saw someone point a gun at you, I wouldn't hesitate. I'd kill them. Without blinking. No questions asked."

His hand curls tighter around me. Then I feel his lips press against the crown of my head, warm and lingering.

"How romantic," he murmurs, voice dry.

"You know me," I tease. "Queen of sentiment."

He's quiet for a long time. I let the silence stretch, let him sit with it. I can feel him thinking behind me, every breath deeper than the last.

Then, finally: "Maybe I can forgive him."

My heart stutters at the words. I lift my gaze to him again. "Yeah?"

He nods once, jaw still tight, but it's not the kind of tight that means no. It's the kind that means trying. And for Bucky, that means everything.

"I love you," I whisper.

His eyes soften like melting ice. "I love you more, princess."

He leans down and kisses me—slow and sure, like a promise sealed in the dark. I melt into him, into the warmth of his chest and the safety of his arms. His heartbeat thuds steadily against my spine as I let my eyes close.

And this time, when sleep pulls me under, I let it.

In his arms, I'm not afraid of the pain. Not tonight. Not ever again.

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

The sky over Wakanda is soft and golden, like it doesn't realize the world is tipping toward chaos again.

Bucky and I are walking the stone path that winds between the royal gardens, our hands brushing occasionally, not quite holding, but close. There's something sacred about the quiet here. The calm before the storm. I've stopped trying to ignore the sense of dread curling in my stomach. It's been there for days now, growing louder in my bones.

Then a soft ping cuts through the silence—Bucky's comm vibrates at his hip.

Before he can reach for it, we hear footsteps behind us.

T'Challa approaches, his stance composed as always, but his eyes are sharper than usual. Focused.

"They're here," he says simply.

I glance at Bucky, my pulse skipping.

We follow T'Challa through the sleek Wakandan corridors until we step outside again—this time onto the landing strip. The Dora Milaje flank us, poised and silent, like a wall of steel.

The quinjet touches down with a hum, its engines purring low before cutting off entirely.

The ramp lowers.

First off is Steve. His silhouette is unmistakable. Broader somehow. A little more weathered than when we last saw him. His beard makes him look older, tired—but still solid. Still Steve.

Bucky tenses beside me.

Then Natasha steps out, her red hair now almost white, face unreadable but alert. Sam follows, hands resting on his belt like he never quite stops bracing for a fight.

Behind them: Wanda. Pale and watchful. Vision at her side, his arm around her protectively. Bruce, shoulders hunched like the weight of what's coming already presses on him. And Rhodey, walking steady.

But it's Steve that Bucky watches.

And Steve watches him right back.

There's a beat of silence before either of them moves—then Bucky steps forward, and Steve meets him halfway. They say nothing. Just pull each other into a hug that feels like both apology and forgiveness.

I feel my chest squeeze.

Bucky doesn't let people see him vulnerable. But I know—by the way he grips the back of Steve's suit, by the tiny tremor in his fingers—that this moment matters more than words ever could.

Nat's the next to reach me.

"Hey, trouble," she murmurs, pulling me into a quick, firm hug.

I wrap my arms around her. "Hey yourself."

She leans in close. "You two make up for lost time?"

I blink, then smirk. "How'd you know?"

Sam answers before Nat can. "The hickey on your neck. And the many on his."

I glance at Bucky just in time to see him rubbing at the collar of his shirt, a bit too late to hide the fading dark marks blooming along his throat.

Nat snorts. "Subtle."

Bucky shrugs. "Never claimed to be."

Despite everything—the headache still humming faintly at the back of my skull, the tension coiled in the air, the knowledge of what's coming—I laugh.

Just once.

Because right now, we're all still standing.

And that has to count for something.

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

The lab feels colder than I remember.

Maybe it's the light—too bright, too sterile. Maybe it's the tension in the air, taut and crackling, like everyone's waiting for something to snap.

Shuri's already at the console when we walk in, her braids tied back and her brow furrowed in concentration. Vision lies on the table, the Mind Stone pulsing like a warning in the center of his forehead. Wanda hovers nearby, arms crossed tightly over her stomach, eyes flicking between his face and the glowing amber light like she's waiting for it to vanish.

Bruce stands at the foot of the table, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "It's integrated into his neural tissue. Every part of him is connected to that stone."

"And yet," Shuri says, flicking through projections faster than I can follow, "if we decouple the synaptic pathways from the Mind Stone, perhaps his operating matrix could remain intact."

"In English?" Sam mutters behind me.

"She thinks she might be able to save him and get it out," Natasha answers.

Might.

The word lodges itself in my chest like a shard of glass.

I feel Bucky's fingers twitch against mine. I hadn't realized we were holding hands until I squeeze back. Just to be sure he's still here. Still real. His thumb brushes the back of my hand—gentle, grounding.

"I can try," Shuri adds, her voice calm but clipped. "But it will take time."

"We don't have time," Steve says from the corner, arms folded, jaw tight.

Wanda flinches.

The silence that follows feels heavier than a shout.

I glance around the room—at Steve's drawn face, at Bruce's uneasy frown, at the way Wanda stares at Vision like he's already fading. It's a room full of brilliant minds and broken hearts. Science fighting desperation. Logic cracking under pressure.

And me? I can't stop the way fear crawls up the back of my spine. Cold. Persistent.

Because there isn't a good solution. Every path leads to sacrifice. Every choice cuts someone open.

And if this is what it feels like before the fight starts... what's it going to be when Thanos gets here?

I lean into Bucky's side slightly, just for a second. He shifts his arm around me without looking away from the screen. His body is warm. Steady.

If I fall apart, it won't be now.

"I'll do what I can," Shuri says, voice firm. "But we must begin immediately."

Wanda nods, silent, and steps closer to Vision. She takes his hand and closes her eyes.

And none of us say what we're all thinking:

We're already running out of time.

Okoye's kimoyo bead blinks with a sharp pulse of light. The soft chime echoes through Shuri's lab like a gunshot.

She lifts her wrist and narrows her eyes. "Something has entered the atmosphere."

That's all she says.

But it's enough.

Every breath in the room seems to vanish at once. I feel it like a shift in pressure—an invisible wave slamming into my chest. The air turns colder. Tighter. Sam's already moving, tapping his earpiece, eyes locked on the distant skyline. Rhodey mutters a curse and launches into motion behind him.

Bucky and I follow, steps quick and quiet as we head for the exterior balcony, overlooking the Wakandan barrier.

Outside, the sky is still—for half a second.

Then it splits.

Something enormous streaks through the clouds, glowing grey and black like a meteor, fast and angry. It slams into the invisible dome of the Wakandan force field overhead and detonates with a sound that makes my skull rattle. A ripple of power echoes outward from the point of impact—pure energy slamming against the shield. The barrier holds.

But the sky is full of fire now.

Bucky grabs my arm before I can say anything. I don't fight it. I grab him back, instinctively. His body moves in front of mine without hesitation, shielding me, even though we both know I don't need it.

Still, I let him.

More fireballs rain down like judgment, slamming just outside of the invisible shell that protects Wakanda. Dust shakes from the balcony railing. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail to life.

Sam lets out a low whistle beside us. "That's not debris. Those are drop pods."

He's right. I can feel it in my bones—the rhythm of invasion. War drums in the sky.

I glance at Bucky, who's already slipping into his soldier's stillness. His jaw is set, eyes tracking the ships. But I can feel the tension in him where our arms still touch.

Rhodey speaks through clenched teeth. "We need to get down there."

I nod, swallowing the nausea twisting in my gut. I want to scream. I want to run. I want to blast the sky open and make it stop.

But all I do is move.

Because I know what this is. The prelude. The last breath before it all goes to hell.

And I'm not sure if we'll make it out this time.

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

The ship cuts through the sky like a blade.

Inside, no one speaks.

I stand between Bucky and Sam, one hand gripping a side rail, the other still tangled in Bucky's. He hasn't let go since we left the lab. His palm is warm, but his fingers tremble slightly. Not from fear. From restraint. Readiness. I can feel it radiating off of him—off all of us.

Ahead, through the front viewport, the Wakandan barrier glows like a living wall of light. Just beyond it, the ships wait. Hulking, black shapes against the blue sky, thrumming with restrained violence.

Rhodey's voice cuts through the silence. "Two heat signatures, moving—fast. They're right outside the shield."

T'Challa steps forward. "Set us down here."

The ship lands in a cloud of golden dust. The moment we hit the ground, everyone moves like one body—trained, silent, ready. The Dora Milaje fan out without a word. Sam checks his wings. Rhodey's already airborne.

Steve, T'Challa, and Natasha head toward the barrier.

Bucky and I hang back with the others, waiting.

I can't stop scanning the horizon. The ships haven't moved, but something feels wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

Bucky's hand tightens around mine.

I glance up at him.

He's not looking at me—his eyes are on Steve, who's just a few yards ahead. But I can tell he's feeling it too. The stillness before the drop. That instinct that's carved into both of us, the same one we were forced to obey in warzones and windowless cells.

This is it.

I don't realize I'm shaking until Bucky's thumb brushes against the back of my hand, slow and grounding.

I turn my face slightly into his shoulder, just for a second. Just to breathe him in.

"I've got you," he says softly, without looking.

When I pull back, I meet Sam's eyes across the dust. He gives a small, grim nod.

We know.

It's about to go to hell.

The ships begin to shift. Mechanisms grind open with a sound like tearing metal and collapsing stone. Heat waves ripple through the air.

Steve, Nat, and T'challa come back to the rest of us.

Then the first one drops—a single creature, tall and hunched, snarling.

Steve, Nat, and T'challa come back to the rest of us.

Then another.

Then hundreds.

The earth shakes beneath them. The creatures slam into the barrier and scream as they're repelled, bodies bursting like popped organs against the wall of energy.

Some bounce off.

Some keep running—over each other, through each other. A mindless swarm.

My heart tries to leap into my throat.

"They're killing themselves," Okoye says beside me.

And then—some get through.

Slick and screeching, they slip through slivers in the barrier. Not many. Not yet.

But enough.

All around me, everyone readies themselves—Dora blades at the ready, Sam's wings flaring, Nat lowering into a defensive stance.

Bucky turns to me and gives my hand one last, lingering squeeze.

It feels like a goodbye.

I don't want to let go.

But I do.

We drop each other's hands and take a step back, the space between us suddenly too wide. His eyes hold mine, and there's no fear in them—only love. Fierce and desperate.

If he dies, I'll never forgive the universe.

If I die, I want this to be the last thing I see.

I nod once, swallowing the lump in my throat.

He nods back.

A silent I love you.

Then the creatures scream again—and the real war begins.