CIX. Emris

The world doesn't end with a sound.

It ends with silence.

I'm still in Bucky's arms when the noise drops out of existence—no explosions, no screaming metal, no war cries tearing the air apart. Just... nothing. The battlefield goes deathly, unnaturally quiet, like someone reached down and ripped the volume out of reality itself.

Then the ash starts to fall.

It drifts through the air in slow, lazy spirals, gray and weightless, like snow that forgot how cold it's supposed to be. Bodies disintegrate mid-motion—an Outrider frozen with its claws raised, a Chitauri collapsing into dust halfway through a roar. Weapons clatter to the ground with no hands left to hold them. Enemies vanish in the middle of lunges, of screams, of hate.

My ears ring violently, a high-pitched whine drilling into my skull. My vision swims, the edges blurring, colors bleeding together. The smell of ozone and scorched earth hangs thick in the air, mixed with iron and smoke and something faintly sweet that makes my stomach turn. I taste blood on my tongue and realize I've bitten down hard enough to draw it.

Bucky's grip tightens around me without a word—vibranium arm firm, flesh arm steady at my back. Instinctive. Protective. He's anchoring me to the ground, to the moment, like he knows if he lets go I might just float apart with the rest of the ash.

I don't breathe. I don't blink.

And then I see him.

Peter stumbles forward first, legs barely holding him upright, eyes locked on a single point ahead. Rhodey drops to his knees beside a figure lying motionless in the dirt, armor scorched, arc reactor dimmer than I've ever seen it.

Tony.

The second my brain registers him—really sees him—something inside my chest fractures clean down the middle.

I wrench myself out of Bucky's arms and run.

My legs don't feel like legs. They're numb, heavy, like I'm trying to sprint through deep water while the ground pulls me down with every step. Each footfall lands too slow, too loud in my head. The world stretches and compresses around me, every second snapping into sharp, agonizing clarity.

Ash sticks to my boots. Dirt sprays up my calves. My lungs burn like they're on fire, but I don't slow down. I can't. The ringing in my ears swells until it's all I can hear, drowning out everything else.

Tony.

I drop beside him hard, sliding in dirt and gray dust, my knees hitting the ground with a jolt that shoots pain up my spine. Rhodey's already there, his hands shaking as he reaches for Tony's shoulder. Peter is trying to get closer, panicked and sobbing, but Rhodey gently—firmly—pulls him back, murmuring something I can't hear.

I don't hear anything except my own heartbeat.

I grab Tony's hand.

It's still warm. Barely. His fingers twitch weakly in mine, and the contact sends a shock through me so intense I almost gasp. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. The glow of his arc reactor flickers faintly, unstable, like a dying star struggling against the dark.

"No—please don't do this," I murmur, the words tearing out of my throat before I can stop them. My voice sounds wrong, thin and distant, like it belongs to someone else. "Please."

Tony's eyes flutter open.

For a heartbeat, they focus on me. Really focus. And then he smiles—small and tired and heartbreakingly gentle, the kind of smile he only ever gave when the armor was down and it was just him.

"Hey," he breathes, voice rough, barely there.

Tears blur my vision instantly. I shake my head, hard, like I can physically refuse this reality into changing. My grip tightens around his hand, fingers locking like if I let go, he'll slip through them and disappear.

"I love you, kid," Tony says.

The words hit harder than any blast ever could.

My chest caves in on itself. A sob claws its way up my throat, but I choke it back, swallowing it down until it burns. Ash continues to drift around us, settling on Tony's armor, on my sleeves, on the battlefield that only moments ago was alive with violence.

I stare at his face, memorizing every line, every shadow, every flicker of light in his eyes.

The war is over.

And somehow, impossibly—

I've never felt more afraid in my life.

I shake my head over and over, like if I do it hard enough the moment will crack and rewind. Like denial can be a weapon. Like I haven't already seen too much death for this lie to hold.

"Please, Tony," I plead, my voice breaking clean through the middle. "Please. Don't—don't do this."

My fingers are locked around his hand, knuckles white, like I can anchor him here by sheer force of will. His skin is warm but cooling fast, heat bleeding away into the dirt and ash beneath him. His breathing is shallow, uneven—short inhales that hitch like they might not come again. Every rise of his chest feels borrowed.

His arc reactor flickers irregularly, light stuttering in weak pulses instead of the steady glow it's always had. Bright. Dim. Bright. Like it's struggling to remember how to stay on.

Tony's eyes stay on my face.

They're still brown. Still sharp around the edges. But something is slipping behind them—something vital, something irreplaceable. The genius, the stubbornness, the warmth, the man who taught me how to survive after the world took everything else.

He exhales slowly, lips twitching.

"That's... not what you call me, young lady," he says weakly.

The words hit me sideways.

A broken laugh bursts out of my chest before I can stop it—too loud, too sharp, bordering on hysterical. It tears its way through the sob threatening to choke me, twisting painfully in my throat. I laugh and cry at the same time, the sound coming out wrong, fractured, ugly.

"Oh my God," I whisper, shaking my head again as tears spill over. One slips free and tracks down my cheek, dripping onto the dirt between us. "You're unbelievable."

For a split second, a memory flashes so vividly it hurts.

Tony leaning over a lab table, grease smeared on his cheek, smirking as I tell him his math is wrong. Tony shoving a mug of coffee into my hands after a nightmare, pretending not to notice my shaking. Tony sitting beside me in silence after Natasha's death, saying nothing because he knew words wouldn't help.

Shared grief. Shared sarcasm. Shared survival.

My chest tightens until it feels like it might collapse in on itself.

"I love you, Dad," I say.

The word settles between us like truth finally spoken out loud.

Tony's breath stutters. His fingers tighten weakly around mine—just once, but enough. The squeeze is faint, trembling, but deliberate. A response. An answer.

His smile deepens the smallest fraction, pride and love and apology all tangled together in it. His eyes never leave mine.

His hand shakes in mine. Not violently—just enough to tell me how much effort it takes for him to hold on at all. The arc reactor flares once, brighter than before, then dims again, light flickering like a dying heartbeat.

"I'm right here," I whisper desperately. "I'm not going anywhere. You hear me? I've got you."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

His breathing grows more labored, each inhale scraping, shallow. His eyes soften, blinking slower now, like they're too heavy to keep open. I can feel the moment slipping through my fingers, and I hate myself for every second I didn't spend with him during those five lost years. Every moment I chose distance instead of sitting beside him. Every goodbye I didn't say.

A gentle weight settles on my shoulder.

Bucky.

His hand is warm and solid, grounding in a way nothing else is. He doesn't speak. He doesn't pull me away. He just stands there behind me, steady and silent, bearing witness. Letting this be mine.

Tony's grip loosens.

"No," I whisper instinctively, tightening my fingers around his hand again like I can undo it. "No, no, no—"

He exhales softly.

And then—slowly—his hand slips from mine.

The absence is immediate and devastating, like losing gravity. My fingers curl around nothing. I stare down at my empty palm, chest caving in as the truth finally lands with crushing finality.

I push myself up on shaking legs, knees wobbling like they might give out at any second. The world tilts dangerously, grief pressing down until I can barely breathe. Bucky's hand remains on my shoulder, steadying me without forcing me to move.

Tony lies still now.

His chest barely rises.

The arc reactor flickers once more—dim, struggling—and then settles into a weak, fading glow.

I look down at him, at the man who saved the universe and taught me how to live in it.

And for the first time since the battle began—

I stop fighting the reality I already know.

Tony Stark is dying.

And there is nothing I can do to stop it.

Bucky shifts behind me, his hand firming on my shoulder, his body angling like he's about to guide me away whether I'm ready or not.

I feel it before I hear it—the instinctive soldier's move, the need to clear me from the epicenter of loss.

"Em—" he starts.

Then Tony rasps, barely louder than the wind moving ash across the ground.

"Barnes."

The single word cuts clean through everything.

Bucky freezes.

His hand stills on my shoulder. His spine straightens like he's snapped to attention without meaning to. Slowly, he turns back toward Tony, eyes sharp and focused, like he's being given orders on a battlefield instead of beside a dying man.

I don't wait to see what happens next.

I step away from both of them and turn toward the sound that's breaking my heart all over again.

Peter.

He's standing a few feet away, shoulders shaking violently, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps like his lungs don't know how to work without Tony there to tell them how. His eyes are wide and glassy, fixed on the body on the ground like if he looks away, it'll all become real.

I close the distance between us in three unsteady steps and pull him into me.

Hard.

Peter collapses instantly.

His hands clutch at the back of my suit like he's drowning, fingers digging in like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.

His forehead presses into my shoulder and the sound that rips out of him is raw and broken, animal in a way no one that young should ever sound. His whole body shakes—violent, uncontrollable tremors that jolt through me with every sob. His knees buckle and I tighten my grip, planting my feet in the churned dirt and ash, holding him up because if I don't, he's going to fold in on himself completely.

"I—I—I—" he tries to speak, tries to breathe, but it all collapses into gasping, fractured cries.

"I've got you," I murmur, though my mouth doesn't really move. The words live in my chest more than my throat. "I've got you."

My own tears burn hot behind my eyes, but I don't let them fall the way they want to. They slip out anyway—silent, relentless—tracking down my face and disappearing into Peter's hair. I don't make a sound. I won't. Not now. Not when he needs something solid to cling to.

The world narrows to the weight of him in my arms.

Somewhere behind us, I'm vaguely aware of movement. A presence shifting.

I glance up just in time to see Bucky kneel beside Tony.

The sight hits me sideways.

Bucky lowers himself with careful precision, one knee to the ground like he's before a commanding officer. His posture goes rigid—military straight—even now, even here. His head dips just enough to hear Tony's breath, his vibranium hand resting uselessly against his thigh like he doesn't trust himself to reach out.

Tony's lips move.

I can't hear what he says.

The battlefield is too quiet, the silence too loud. All I see is Tony's mouth forming words meant only for Bucky, something private, something final.

Bucky's jaw tightens. His throat works.

"Yes, sir," he answers softly.

The words land with weight. With history. With obedience and respect and grief tangled so tightly they're indistinguishable.

I look away before my chest caves in.

Peter's grip tightens suddenly, fingers spasming against my jacket like his body has realized what mine already knows. He sobs harder, breaths coming in jagged pulls that scrape his lungs raw.

I hold him closer.

I dissociate without meaning to—my mind slipping sideways, pulling back just enough that the pain blurs at the edges. Memories bleed in uninvited.

Tony in the lab, snapping at me to hand him the wrong tool just to see if I'd argue.

Tony pretending not to worry while patching me up after coming to see him in my dark years.

Tony coming back five years ago, trying to be strong while the world fell apart.

Five years.

Five years I could've had with him.

The regret hits again, like a punch to the gut, sharp and nauseating. I should have stayed. I should have been there. I let my grief swallow me whole, let the hole Bucky left consume everything else. I could have chosen differently. I could have chosen Tony.

The guilt coils tight around my ribs.

Arms slide around both of us.

Bucky.

He wraps me in carefully, one arm across my back, the other bracing Peter without pulling him away from me. His touch is steady, anchoring, like he's building a wall around us out of sheer will.

Pepper appears at the edge of my vision.

She moves slowly, deliberately, like the world might shatter if she goes too fast. She kneels beside Tony, her hand finding his with reverent gentleness. I can't look at her face for long—it hurts too much to witness someone loving him the way he deserves in his final moments.

I focus on Peter.

On Bucky's breath behind me.

On the fact that I am still standing.

Peter's sobs eventually quiet into broken, shuddering inhales. He doesn't let go. I don't make him.

We stay like that—three fractured pieces holding each other together in the ruins of a war—while the man who saved us all says his last goodbyes just out of reach.

And I don't know how the world is supposed to keep spinning after this.

But it does.

I feel it before I see it.

The air changes—subtle, wrong. Like pressure dropping before a storm, except the storm never comes. The battlefield doesn't erupt again. It doesn't scream. It just... settles. Heavy. Suffocating. Final.

My chest tightens.

I lift my head without meaning to, my body reacting faster than my mind, and my eyes lock back onto Tony.

His arc reactor flickers.

Once.

Twice.

The light stutters like it's fighting to stay alive, dimming and flaring in weak, uneven pulses that make my stomach drop.

I stop breathing.

The glow falters again, the blue-white light trembling behind cracked glass. It sputters like a dying star, like it's searching for power that no longer exists. For a fraction of a second, it brightens.

And then it goes out.

Not violently. Not with sparks or smoke.

It simply... shuts off.

The light disappears, leaving behind a hollow circle of dark metal against Tony's chest. Empty. Cold. Useless.

My vision tunnels.

I look at his face.

Tony's eyes are still open, staring at nothing. Whatever spark lived behind them—whatever stubborn, infuriating, brilliant life force kept him fighting long past his limits—slips away so quietly it feels unreal. There's no dramatic last breath. No final word.

Just absence.

The world holds its breath with me.

I feel my knees start to give, the ground tilting beneath my feet, reality sliding sideways like it can't quite accept what's happened either. My hands curl reflexively, nails biting into my palms, like pain might anchor me here.

Then Bucky moves.

His hand comes up, gentle but firm, cupping the side of my face before I can turn fully back. He guides my head into his chest, shielding my eyes from the sight I don't think I'll survive carrying forever.

"Hey," he murmurs—barely a sound, more breath than word.

His other arm tightens around Peter, pulling us both in, locking us together like if he holds hard enough, we won't shatter.

That's when it hits me.

The grief doesn't explode. It doesn't scream.

It presses.

It crushes the air from my lungs, squeezes my ribs inward until every breath feels like work. Tears spill faster now, hot and relentless, soaking into Peter's hair, into Bucky's shirt—but I still don't make a sound.

I won't.

Peter's shoulders hitch again, his quiet sobs restarting, and I force myself to stay solid. To be the thing that doesn't break completely. I hold him tighter, one hand braced between his shoulder blades, grounding him, grounding myself.

Bucky's chin rests briefly against the top of my head.

He doesn't say anything else.

There's nothing to say.

The battlefield is impossibly still. Ash drifts through the air like snowfall, settling on armor, on broken ground, on the man who just saved the universe and paid for it with everything he had.

Tony Stark is gone.

And the silence left behind is deafening.

I stay exactly where I am—held between a boy who's lost his father figure, and a man who was unable to apologize for the things he was forced to do—crying without sound as the weight of it settles into my bones, knowing with terrifying certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.

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

Ash crunches under my boots as I move across the battlefield with Bucky at my side. The remnants of war are silent, too silent. No screams, no shouts—just the whisper of smoke curling from twisted metal and shattered stone. I strain my senses, searching for Steve, hoping to find him before my panic completely overwhelms me.

"Steve!" I call out, voice cracking. My chest tightens. Every instinct screams that something is off, but I push forward, refusing to let it control me.

Bucky keeps pace beside me, silent, steel hand brushing my arm for reassurance. But even his presence feels hollow, as if the world has been drained of color. Then I see him. Steve stands a few yards away, shield dangling loosely, eyes scanning the wreckage. I quicken my steps, but my throat tightens before I can speak again.

I stop in front of him, and everything narrows to the single question clawing at my chest. "Where is she?" I demand.

Steve blinks, confusion flickering over his face. "What do you mean?"

I glance around, scanning the battlefield for the faintest trace of red hair or familiar movement. "Natasha," I say, almost desperately.

Both men stare at me. Steve's mouth opens, then closes, like the words he wants to say have evaporated before they even reach his tongue. His eyes flick to Bucky, and Bucky's expression is unreadable, tight-lipped, but his vibranium arm flexes slightly at my side, bracing me—or maybe himself—for the storm to come.

Steve freezes.

He looks at Bucky.

Neither of them speaks.

A cold shiver snakes down my spine. Something is wrong. My powers tingle, brushing against the edge of their minds—fear, grief, confusion—but I hit only walls. Locked, closed, impenetrable.

"No," I say sharply, my voice rising despite myself. The word cuts through the silence, harsh and jagged.

Steve exhales slowly, almost painfully. "Emris, Nat's—"

"I saw her!" I cut him off, heart hammering, breath coming in ragged bursts. "She was right in front of me."

They exchange a glance—quick, fleeting—but enough to tell me what I already suspect. They think I imagined it.

"I talked to her!" I shout, stepping forward until Bucky's arm presses into my back, steadying me. "She grabbed my arm. She spoke to me. She said she would explain later."

I see Steve's jaw tighten. Bucky's eyes narrow. Their silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. I can feel my panic spiraling, tendrils of fear curling around my mind like a vice.

"I'm not fucking crazy!" My voice cracks, raw and desperate. My powers flare involuntarily, tugging at every scrap of grief and memory around us, but they recoil, bouncing off their locked defenses. My vision blurs. Could I be wrong? Could grief—my grief—be twisting memory, reshaping what I saw into something that never happened?

The silence presses in like a physical weight. Natasha... she died. I watched her fall. I felt her fall. And yet, the certainty in my chest refuses to die.

Steve swallows, finally. "Emris..." he says softly, voice trembling. "...we lost her."

My knees threaten to buckle. Every breath is a knife. My mind flashes with her face, her laugh, the way she squeezed my shoulder before a mission, her voice telling me to breathe. The memory is so vivid it hurts.

I whisper it, barely audible, more to myself than anyone else. "I'm not crazy."

Bucky finally looks at me, eyes heavy with grief and something like fear. I stare back, willing him to see what I know to be true. The battlefield stretches on around us, silent, endless, indifferent. And inside, a fracture opens, pulling at me, threatening to swallow everything—memory, reason, grief, and hope alike.

And still, I refuse to believe I imagined her.

Bucky steps forward, slow, deliberate, like he knows I'm teetering on the edge of something I can't claw back from. My knees threaten to give, and I know I'll fall if he doesn't catch me.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his voice low, grounding, a tether in the storm raging inside me.

Before I can even respond, before my chest can rise in protest, he pulls me into his chest. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I collapse fully against him, letting the last of my armor crumble. My arms wrap around him, weak and trembling, clutching as if I can hold myself together by clinging to him.

I try to speak—words clawing their way out—but nothing forms. A strangled sound escapes, raw and ragged. It's laughter and sobs and screams all tangled together, the grief I've shoved down for so long finally exploding.

Everything I buried—the panic, the guilt, the fear, the loneliness—surfaces at once. My body shudders, spine arching against him, shoulders shaking, fingers digging into his arms like I'll never let go. My vision blurs with tears, hot and sharp, and I can't breathe through the lump in my throat.

Bucky doesn't pull back. He just holds me tighter, chest warm against my cheek, arm locked around me, strong enough to keep me upright while I fall apart. His hand brushes along my back in slow, steady circles, fingers splayed, anchoring me to the present.

"Shhh... I got you," he whispers over and over, a quiet rhythm that steadies my heart. My sobs shake against him, small and hopeless, but each repetition is a rope pulling me back from the edge.

His forehead rests lightly against mine, and I can feel the steady cadence of his breathing matching mine, gradually slowing the tremor of panic that rattles through me. I cling to the warmth, the solidity, letting him absorb everything I can't hold inside anymore.

Time stretches, but I can't tell how long we stay like this—one heartbeat, ten, a lifetime. The world outside, the battlefield, the grief, all of it fades to nothing but the steady weight of him.

"I got you now, princess," he murmurs finally, voice soft, unshakable, and I let myself believe it, just for this moment, letting the last shards of my fracture dissolve into him.