C. Emris

Year One

The sun rises.

The sun sets.

And I don't move.

Light spills across the wall, crawling slowly from gold to grey to nothing. Then again. Again. Again. A silent loop I barely register.

I stay curled where he left me. Curled into the ghost of him. Into the imprint of his body, denting the mattress beside mine. I press my nose into the pillow, his pillow, and breathe.

It still smells like him.

Almost.

There's something decaying at the edges of it now—something sour, faded, distant. Like rain on metal. Like time stealing him away from me. I clutch the pillow tighter.

He was here.

He was here.

He was here.

I haven't eaten.

Haven't showered.

Haven't spoken.

There are cracks in my lips. My tongue feels like paper. My skin itches with sweat and salt and old tears, but I can't make myself care. I only notice it because it distracts me from the ache in my ribs. From the dull throb in my spine. From the raw, red skin on my cheek where it's been pressed against the same patch of sheet for days.

I don't move.

He wouldn't want this.

He'd be furious.

He'd pull me out of bed and tell me to fight.

But he's not here.

He's gone.

He's gone.

He's gone.

A scream builds in my chest and dies there. It doesn't matter. There's no one to hear it.

I breathe in again—desperate now. Greedy. I shove the pillow against my face and inhale so hard it burns. The scent is weaker. Barely there. My body folds tighter around it like I can protect it, like I can trap the molecules of him before they're all gone too.

Please don't take this from me.

Please don't take him again.

My fingers are stiff where they cling to the cotton. My arms ache. Everything aches. I think there's blood under my fingernails from how hard I've been gripping the seams. But I don't look. I don't care.

I'm underwater.

Muted.

Suspended.

And I can feel it—that last flicker of light in me sputtering out. Dying slow.

There was fire in me once.

Now it's ash.

Now it's nothing.

Outside the room, I hear voices. Someone knocks. Someone calls my name. I pretend not to hear. Eventually, they leave. Good.

They always leave.

He was warm.

Now cold.

My fault.

My fault.

My fault.

The pillow doesn't smell like him anymore. Not really. But I still pretend. I still press my face into it like it'll open a door to the past, like I can crawl back into that night—his arms, his mouth, the warmth of his skin. The way he looked at me like I was still worth saving.

I want to forget.

I want to remember.

I want him.

Another sunrise spills through the window. Pale and slow. I don't lift my head to look at it.

I just close my eyes and pretend the pillow is his chest. That his hand is in my hair. That his voice is telling me to come back.

But it isn't.

He's gone.

He's gone.

He's gone.

And I'm still here.

Wishing I was.

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

The room shifts with light. Gold at dawn. Blue-gray at noon. Orange when the sun starts to die. I don't track time by clocks anymore—just by how long shadows stretch across the floor. The corners are always the darkest. Like him.

I don't move.

The door creaks open again. It does every day. Sometimes twice. Maybe three times. I don't know. I don't care.

Soft footsteps. Familiar weight at the edge of the bed.

A sigh.

"Hey," Natasha says gently, though it breaks like glass at the edges.

I stare at the wall.

The mattress dips behind me. Her knees tuck in close, one on each side of my hip. She doesn't say anything for a while. Just fingers, slow and careful, working through my tangled hair. There's a rhythm to it now. Brush. Separate. Braid. Tie. Repeat. A ritual. The only thing still functioning in this place.

The bristles scrape my scalp. I don't flinch.

She leans close, voice a whisper near my temple. "Just a few bites today, Em. For me."

No. I can't. I won't. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone.

My fingers curl tighter into the pillow. The smell is weaker today. I press my nose to the seam, desperate, greedy, starved—but not for food. Just that last thread of him. Leather and soap and warmth and cinnamon.

It's almost gone.

I want to scream.

Nat's hands pause. Just for a second. They shake. She hides it quickly, tying the braid off with a soft tug. She kisses the top of my head like I'm a child. Then stands. Then leaves.

Then comes Steve.

He never talks much to anyone. Except me. Or maybe not me—just the shape I take. The shape that used to be mine. The shape that used to smile back.

He sits on the floor like he always does. Cross-legged. Coffee steaming in his hands. He always brings two. The second one goes untouched. It just cools in the air between us.

"Buck hated winter," Steve says today. "He'd never admit it, but he used to shove newspapers in his boots on the coldest days. Called it his 'tough guy trick.'"

I stare at the wall.

He chuckles to himself. "One time we got stuck on KP duty—peeling potatoes. Bucky peeled like five and hid the rest under his cot. The whole barracks stank for a week."

The smell of the pillow is almost gone. My breath hitches, just once.

Steve notices. He always does. But he doesn't say anything. Just keeps talking.

"We were sixteen when he taught me to throw a punch. Broke my nose the first time. Felt awful about it for days." He looks down. His hands are shaking too.

He's grieving. They all are.

But I'm still the only one dead inside.

Steve sets the untouched coffee on the nightstand beside me.

I don't move. I don't blink. I don't breathe until the door clicks closed again.

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

The wall doesn't look back.

The quiet is loud.

Not peaceful—never peaceful—but oppressive, like a weighted blanket over my chest I never asked for. Thick and smothering. Natasha sits nearby, the way she has every day, every hour, every moment I allow her to stay. She's silent too now, no coaxing words today. No soft pleas. Just her breathing and the slow, steady rhythm of her thumb brushing across the hem of her sleeve.

The clock ticks like a countdown I've already failed.

My body doesn't ache anymore. That would require feeling. Even the hunger—days-old and gnawing—has dulled into something small and meaningless. I sit still in bed, wrapped in a blanket I don't remember accepting, my legs curled under me, unmoving. My muscles are tight, but not trembling. My lips are dry. My tongue lies still.

She's braiding my hair again.

Her fingers are careful, slow, almost reverent. She's quieter than usual, but the ritual is the same. Detangle. Separate. Braid. I don't flinch when she pulls too tight. I don't thank her when she smooths the ends. I don't say anything. I haven't in weeks.

She finishes with a soft tug and ties it off with the red band she always uses.

Then the floor creaks.

The door opens.

And Steve steps in with that same stainless steel mug in his hand—black coffee, like always. He says nothing at first, just lowers himself to the floor with a quiet groan, like he's afraid too much noise might shatter something fragile in the room. And he's right.

I stare through him, beyond him, past the wall and into memory.

"Back in '43, Bucky tried to impress a girl in Montmartre by stealing a bottle of champagne from a Nazi colonel," he starts, voice gentle. Too gentle. "We didn't even know it was occupied. Idiot climbed up a second-story window like some kind of cat burglar, nearly fell twice, and ended up hiding in a laundry cart when guards came running."

Natasha lets out the breath she was holding. It ghosts across the back of my neck.

Steve chuckles under his breath, like it still means something. "He never even got the girl. Just a black eye and the worst hangover of his life. But he smiled the whole train ride home."

He keeps talking. Something about a hot dog stand in Brooklyn. Bucky giving his rations to a stray dog. Something about the war, and long nights, and swing music. About Bucky's laugh.

The one I'll never hear again.

I blink.

Steve shifts, settling back onto his palms. Natasha's hands rest in her lap now, still. She hasn't left my side. She hasn't said a word since this morning.

The room is full of people and ghosts. My skin prickles.

And I don't know what does it.

But suddenly, something inside me breaks. Fractures. The sound of his voice, the way Nat smells like the shampoo she used in Wakanda, the braid, the coffee, the fucking clock—

"Come with another story?"

The words are sandpaper against my throat, dry and raw. They scrape their way out like they've been chained in my chest.

The air goes dead.

Natasha freezes behind me.

Steve's entire body goes still.

My voice feels foreign in my own mouth, like it doesn't belong to me. Like I haven't used it in centuries. The silence after is unbearable, heavier than before. I can feel their eyes on me—shocked, wide, shattered.

I don't look at them. I stare straight ahead.

The braid shifts slightly down my back.

Then I say it again—quieter this time. Almost a whisper.

"Come with another story?"

And that's all I can manage before my throat burns, and my vision swims.

But it's something.

And in the silence that follows, I can almost feel the world beginning to turn again.

The room is too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. The kind of quiet that happens right before a storm, or a scream.

I stand in the middle of it, heat crawling under my skin like ants. My fists shake at my sides. My breath is short and sharp and useless.

Steve just watches me.

Another story about Bucky. Another mission log, another tactful eulogy, another fucking reminder that he's gone. And Steve's still here.

"I don't want to hear another story," I say, voice flat, low. My throat's tight. Too tight. "Another fucking story about why he should be here."

Steve flinches. Just barely.

"Emris—" he tries.

I shake my head, stepping forward. "Another fucking story that shows it should have been you."

Nat steps in close beside me, her hand brushing my shoulder. "Em—"

I shrug her off like she's nothing. Like the weight of her means nothing to me. "It should have been you."

Steve clears his throat. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, too careful, too still. Always still when it matters.

"He should be here," I say, louder now. The heat rises in my face, behind my eyes. "He should be here, mourning you."

My voice cracks.

I laugh. It's not a nice laugh. It's sharp and hollow and brittle as bone. "I really tried, you know. I tried to convince him to forgive you."

Steve blinks. His jaw tightens.

"I hope he didn't. Actually..." I tilt my head, voice sweet like venom, "I think you knew he didn't."

"Emris, I—"

"You hate it, don't you?" I step closer, pointing a finger right in his face. "You hate that your best friend died mad at you."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

"Do you wish it was me?"

"Emris—"

"Come on, Steve," I spit. "I know you wish it was me. I deserve it, right?"

Nat tries again, coming up behind me. "That's enough—"

I whirl and shove her away, hard enough that she stumbles.

"Stay out of it!"

I turn back to him. The room's spinning slightly. My fists are clenched so hard my knuckles ache. "You might wish it was me," I say, stepping right into his space now, chest to chest, "but I really fucking wish it was you."

And I shove him.

Hard.

He barely rocks back. He doesn't raise a hand. Doesn't even blink.

"It should have been you."

I shove him again. My hands press flat against his chest, fists trembling, and I push him harder. My teeth grit. My throat burns.

"I tried to save him."

Another shove.

"I tried to protect him."

Another.

"And you—" I punch his chest. "You didn't even try to understand him."

Another hit. His chest again. Then his ribs. Then his shoulder. I'm striking now, fists hammering into the unflinching surface of Captain America.

"You stood there and let him die thinking you failed him!"

He just takes it. No shield. No words.

"You let him die hating you!"

I hit harder. My fists are wild, breaking rhythm, breaking me.

"He trusted you," I scream, "and you fucking let him down!"

Each blow burns through my muscles, but I don't stop. I can't stop. My whole body shakes, and still I hit him, again and again.

"It should have been you," I cry, the words barely a whisper at first. "It should have been you. It should have been you—"

My fists slam into his chest as the tears start.

"He should be here."

Another punch.

"Not you."

Another.

My voice breaks. My body buckles. I grab his shirt like it's a lifeline and slam my fists into him one last time before collapsing into sobs.

"Fuck you, Steve."

He just stands there. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His eyes are red-rimmed, jaw locked.

Nat reaches for me again. I shove her away one last time—but my strength is gone.

I stumble backward, chest heaving, vision blurred. My fists hang at my sides, red and raw.

Silence falls again.

And it's worse than before.

Because now the storm has passed—and Bucky is still gone.

The words are still burning on my tongue.

"I wish it was me."

They taste like poison. Like blood. Like ash. I barely feel the carpet under my knees as my legs give out. I don't even brace the fall—I don't want to. My body just folds, useless, heavy, like the weight of everything I've swallowed has finally snapped my spine.

Steve catches me before I hit the floor.

His arms wrap around me, strong but soft, and I hate him for it. I hate the comfort. I slam my fists into his chest once. Twice. Again. My knuckles ache, but I don't stop.

"It should've been you," I hiss, but the venom is fading from my voice, replaced by something broken and useless. "It should've been you."

His breath catches, but he doesn't flinch. He just holds me tighter, his jaw pressed to the side of my head.

"I know," he says softly. "I know."

My arms shake. My punches slow. My vision blurs, dark at the edges like something's closing in. My chest is caving, ribs folding inward like they're trying to crush the thing trying to get out of me.

"I wish it was me," I whisper, hoarse. "I wish—I wish—"

The words dissolve into a sob that rips through me so hard I can't breathe around it. It's not loud. Not at first. Just a shallow hitch in my throat, then another. Then the dam breaks, and I'm gasping against Steve's chest, choking on silence that turns into ugly, guttural sounds I can't control.

Nat's hand finds my shoulder.

"We've got you," she murmurs, voice like smoke and silk. "You're okay."

But I'm not.

I can't feel my legs. My ears ring. I don't even know when we start moving—just that the world sways, and there are arms holding me upright as I stumble. I'm not walking. I'm floating, or being dragged through fog, every step slower than the last.

"I should've died," I whisper.

"No," Steve says, steady as a heartbeat. "No, Emris."

But I keep saying it. Keep chanting it like it'll rewrite history.

I should've died.

It should've been me.

Why wasn't it me?

By the time they lay me in the bed, I'm shivering, empty, lungs raw from sobs I didn't even feel escape. My fists are still curled, but I don't have the strength to lift them.

Steve brushes the hair from my face. I don't fight it this time. I just let my eyes close, not because I want sleep—but because I can't hold them open any longer.

Everything is heavy.

Everything hurts.

And I'm still here, when I shouldn't be.

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

The hangar doors groan open.

We all stand in the cold gray of morning, waiting. Watching. Hope shouldn't feel this heavy. But it does. My boots are rooted to the concrete like if I move too quickly, it'll all shatter again.

Then I see the ship.

Nebula walks out first, her gait stiff, mechanical. She doesn't look at us—her eyes are only for the stretcher behind her.

Carol follows, carrying what's left of Tony Stark.

He looks like ash.

Sunken cheeks, trembling hands. Eyes too bright, too hollow. Bones where muscle used to be. But it's him. It's Tony.

Something breaks in my chest.

I move without thinking, crossing the tarmac, pushing past the others. My heart pounds, but everything else is slow. Warped. Muffled. I reach him just as Carol sets him down.

He looks up at me.

His lower lip trembles. "Hey, kid."

I drop to my knees beside the stretcher. I wrap my arms around him, hard, burying my face in his shoulder.

He smells like space and salt and metal.

I don't say anything.

I can't say anything.

His hand shakes as he touches my back. "You're here."

I nod into his chest. But my face is blank. Hollow. Numb.

Hours later, I sit against the far wall of the common room. Tony's awake. IV in his arm. Covered in a blanket. Pepper beside him.

And Steve stands across from him.

A mistake.

"Where were you?" Tony rasps, his voice a blade.

"Tony," Steve tries, calm but strained.

"No. Don't Tony me," he snaps, trying to stand before Pepper gently pulls him back. "You weren't there."

Steve's mouth tightens. "Neither were you."

Tony points across the room—points at me.

"Look at her, Steve. She doesn't even talk."

My breath catches. I blink. Once. Twice.

The room feels far away now.

"She doesn't sleep. She doesn't eat. She came back broken—and you weren't there."

I don't hear Steve's response.

The words echo, twist, distort.

"...doesn't even talk..."

"...you weren't there..."

My ears ring.

The edges of my vision pulse.

I stare ahead, eyes locked on nothing.

Tony's voice fades to static, then silence.

My heartbeat slows to a crawl. My stomach twists. I feel like I'm floating just outside my own body. Like I'm watching someone else—some stranger—sit frozen in the corner of a home that isn't hers anymore.

I don't cry.

I just... sit.

Still.

Quiet.

Absent.

Like the girl Tony described.

And maybe he's right.

Maybe that's all that's left of me.

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

They don't ask me to come.

I watch them from the stairwell—just close enough to see the reflection of armor, tech, purpose. Steve tightens his shield to his arm like it matters. Carol adjusts her gloves like she doesn't already glow like a dying star. Natasha's mouth is set in a hard line, movements sharp. Focused. Rocket's muttering something about backup, and Bruce double-checks the ship diagnostics. All of them acting like it isn't already too late.

I just sit there.

Back pressed to the cold wall. Knees to my chest. Fingers digging crescents into my palms hard enough to ache. I feel nothing. Not fear. Not hope. Not anything that matters.

No one tells me goodbye.

No one asks why I'm not going.

Maybe they already know.

The doors seal shut behind them with a hiss. Another sound in the background of everything—just like the humming lights, the clicking machinery, the subtle electric whine that's always pulsing through the Compound. It all blends into the numb static in my head.

I think I sit there for an hour. Maybe longer. I don't move.

When the comm crackles, it startles me—but only for a second. The voice is garbled at first. Too loud. Then too distant.

"He's dead."

A pause.

"Thanos. He destroyed the stones. Said it was mercy."

I blink once. My gaze doesn't shift from the wall.

They're talking like that means something.

Like it changes anything.

My nails bite deeper into my skin. I feel the sharpness but not the pain. I think about blood. How it used to mean something—proof I was alive. Now it's just another thing I don't care about.

They killed him. And I still feel empty.

There's a long silence on the comm. Then static. Then nothing.

I don't answer.

I just keep staring.

The world already ended when he left.

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

The door opens before I can lift my hand. Pepper's voice is soft, almost too gentle.

"Welcome home, Emris."

She steps aside like she's afraid I'll break if I move too fast. The house smells of fresh pine and lemon cleaner. Warmth spills from the windows, soft light pooling on the hardwood floors. Outside, the lake glimmers under a late afternoon sun. Birds chirp somewhere, indifferent to everything.

Tony appears in the kitchen, already making tea. The kettle whistles faintly. He carries two steaming mugs over and sets one in front of me without a word.

I don't reach for it.

The tea cools.

The silence grows thick between us.

Pepper watches from across the room, her eyes like quiet anchors. She doesn't say anything either.

Sometimes, we sit like that—three ghosts in the same house, speaking only in the weight of our shared stillness.

I sleep in the spare room. The door stays shut, a fragile wall between me and the world that expects me to be something I'm not.

At night, when the house exhales and everything softens, I sometimes hear Tony's voice through the walls.

A whisper, low and shaky.

"I'm sorry."

I lie awake, counting the spaces between the words like they might fill the hollow inside me.

Outside, flowers bloom in slow defiance. The sun sets gentle and sure, but the light doesn't reach me—not here.

I'm here, but not really. I died with him.