Part 10: hangover and heartache

The morning sunlight was rude.Too bright, too warm, too real — like it knew exactly what kind of night she'd had and was showing up uninvited to mock her with cheerful beams and bird song.

Emery groaned into her pillow, one arm flung over her eyes as she slowly surfaced from a haze of exhaustion, dehydration, and emotional whiplash.

Her dress was crumpled on the floor, along with her heels and whatever was left of her self-respect.

She sat up slowly, hair a mess, mascara smudged like bruises under her eyes. The apartment was painfully quiet. No music, no clinking glasses, no laughter. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the soft creak of her bones as she stood.

She didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember if she'd cried herself dry before or after kicking the blanket off.

All she remembered was the look on Bucky's face.

And the fact that he'd left.

She shuffled into the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water, then chasing it with two ibuprofen and a sigh that felt like it came from somewhere deep.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Tony Stark [8:13 AM]

"You alive? Or did your tequila night end in headlines?"She blinked. Typed back.You [8:14 AM]

"Alive. Boring. No headlines. Hangover level: mild regret."Buzz.Tony Stark [8:14 AM]

"Good. You've got med rounds at 10. Get it together, Doc."Tony Stark [8:15 AM]"Also. Elevator logs say Barnes left your apartment at 1:43 AM. Should I ask?"Emery stared at the screen.Of course Tony knew.

Of course.

She started typing, paused, deleted, and typed again.

You [8:16 AM]

"Please don't."Buzz.Tony Stark [8:16 AM]

"Not my circus, not my metal-armed monkey. Just checking in."She appreciated that. Really. Tony could be overbearing, nosy, dramatic — but when it counted, he knew when to back off.Still, the pit in her stomach didn't go anywhere.

She walked back to her room, pulled off last night's makeup, showered long enough to feel like a new version of herself, and stood wrapped in a towel staring into her closet like it held the answer to emotional confusion.

It didn't.

So she dressed in scrubs, tied her hair into a tight ponytail, and packed her things for the day like it was any other — like she hadn't almost kissed a stranger, like she hadn't been caught, like she hadn't told Bucky Barnes she didn't want this when her body was screaming otherwise.

By the time she stepped into the elevator that would take her down to the Tower's medical wing, she'd rebuilt her walls.

Professional. Detached. Unshakable.

The doors opened.

And there he was.

Bucky. Waiting in the hall.

She froze.

He looked... exhausted. Like he hadn't slept either. His hair was pulled back. No tactical gear. Just a black thermal and jeans, the kind of thing he wore when he wasn't trying to be anything but himself.

His eyes met hers.

Neither of them moved.

"Hey," he said softly.

She swallowed.

"Hey."

Silence.

"You look..." He glanced down at her scrubs. "Med school chic."

She cracked a half-smile. "Thanks. It's the latest in trauma couture."

He smiled, barely. Then his eyes dropped. "I wanted to say sorry. For last night. For... being there. For crossing a line."

She nodded once. "Thanks."

Another pause.

"But," he said quietly, "I'm not sorry I saw it."

"Bucky."

"I'm not. You deserve better than some guy who barely knew your name."

She crossed her arms, leaning against the elevator frame.

"And you think you know me?"

"I want to."

That — that — hit somewhere she didn't have defenses for.

She sighed. "I have to get to the med bay."

He nodded. "Right. Yeah. I'll—see you around."

She turned to go, hesitated, then looked over her shoulder.

"Hey."

He stopped mid-step.

"Thanks for caring," she said, voice softer now. "Even if it's inconvenient."

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her, eyes a little brighter than before.

"Always," he said.

And then he was gone.

She stood there for a long moment, heart aching, trying not to think about the way his voice had sounded when he said it.

The med bay was as busy as ever — a steady rhythm of sprains, plasma bags, debriefs, and mild concussions. Emery worked with the same efficiency she always did: hands steady, voice calm, diagnostics second nature.But she was distracted.

Not in a dangerous way. Not in the way that would get anyone hurt. Just... off.

She kept replaying last night — the tension, the confrontation, the way Bucky's voice had softened in the elevator like he didn't want to be right but couldn't help it.

And her? She didn't know what she wanted. Not really. Her feelings for him were more complex than she had time to untangle. She had patients to stabilize, charts to update, and she'd already used up her monthly allowance of emotional breakdowns.

So she pressed on.

By the end of the shift, her back ached and her hands were stiff from too many hours in gloves. She scrubbed out of her uniform in the locker room, tossing the used scrubs into the laundry chute with more force than necessary, and let her forehead rest briefly against the cold metal of her locker.

"Get a grip," she muttered to herself.

The Tower was quiet when she emerged, the late hour muffling the usual chaos. She padded barefoot down the polished hallway, a hoodie thrown over a tank top, drawstring pants riding low on her hips. Her damp hair was pulled back in a loose bun — the kind that said "I've given up on glamor but not entirely on dignity."

The kitchen lights were dimmed to their default evening glow. And to her surprise, Tony Stark was standing at the counter, stirring something in a pot that looked suspiciously like boxed mac and cheese.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Look what the hangover dragged in."

"Nice," she deadpanned. "You've still got it, old man."

He snorted. "Please, I have better one-liners in my sleep."

She stepped into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and found a bottle of water — and a leftover cupcake someone had clearly been saving. She took it anyway.

"I heard you saved two agents this morning," Tony said casually, dishing out mac into two bowls. "And chewed out one who tried to take his own stitches out."

"Survival of the dumbest," Emery said, hopping onto the counter. "I'm doing the universe a favor."

He handed her a bowl and leaned against the opposite counter. "So. You wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Very."

He took a bite. "Bucky's been brooding."

"He does that."

"Not like this."

She sighed. "Tony—"

"I'm not trying to dig. I just... want to make sure you're okay."

That stopped her.

Because that tone — quiet, sincere, maybe even a little parental — was rare from Tony. And it cracked something inside her ribcage.

"I'm fine," she said softly, eyes on the bowl in her lap. "I'm just... tired. Of secrets. Of almosts. Of not knowing if I'm supposed to save lives or run from my own."

Tony's face shifted — the kind of subtle change only someone who knew him could see. A flicker of worry buried under sarcasm.

"I didn't bring you here to put you on the run," he said. "You're here because you belong. Because you earned it. And because, yeah, your weird gold magic thing is terrifyingly cool."

She cracked a tired smile.

He set his bowl down, walked over, and leaned next to her against the counter.

"You know," he said, "I was a hot mess at your age."

"You're still a hot mess."

"Touché. But back then? No purpose. No control. No plan. Just big brains and daddy issues."

She looked at him, more tired than anything. "What's your point?"

"My point is... you don't have to have it all figured out. You're allowed to be messy. Just don't shut everyone out when you get scared."

She didn't answer right away.

Then: "I'm scared."

"I know."

They sat there in silence for a long beat.

Tony reached out, gently bumped her shoulder with his.

"You've got a place here," he said. "No matter what happened last night. Bucky, secrets, whatever weird celestial power thing you've got locked behind those pretty eyes — we're not going anywhere."

She exhaled slowly. Her throat tightened, but she nodded.

"Thanks," she said. "Dad."

He blinked.

Then — mock horror: "Don't say that. I'll short-circuit."

She smirked and wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her wrist.

"Shut up and eat your mac and cheese."

They finished their food in quiet companionship, the kind of silence that wasn't heavy — just safe.

And for the first time in a while, Emery didn't feel like she had to hold the whole world together alone.