XXXIX. Emris

The walls creak like they're breathing.

Old pine. Norwegian timber. Rough and unfinished, the way mountain cabins are meant to be—functional, quiet, unforgiving. The chill from the window seeps through the seams of the old wooden frame, settling over my skin like frostbite trying to make a home. My breath fogs faintly in the dark, vanishing into the stale, cold air like a ghost. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groans. A loose floorboard shifts under the weight of nothing.

I stare at the ceiling.

The beams above me form crooked Xs in the dark, shadows warping them into something almost skeletal. I should sleep. God knows I've earned it. But my jaw is clenched so tight I'm starting to taste copper, and my fingers twitch against the blanket like they're waiting for a weapon. My thighs ache from the tension of staying still. I haven't moved in hours, but my body is braced for war.

Then it hits me.

Like static. Like a shock.

I gasp quietly, eyes flying open wider even though there's nothing to see but more shadows. Bucky's nightmare slams into me before I can brace for it—shards of memory with no warning. I can't push it back. I don't want to see this, but I do.

White surgical lights. Metal restraints. A language I know too well—Russian, barked and brutal.

"Завершить операцию. Убрать свидетелей."

Complete the mission. Eliminate the witnesses.

Then blood. So much blood.

The first man is drowned—his face shoved into a basin, flailing limbs until the splashing stops. Water and blood swirl down a drain that looks like a gaping mouth.

The second is executed—cold and clean. One shot to the back of the head, point-blank. No hesitation. The sound echoes even inside the memory.

The third—Christ. He stumbles backwards, pleading in English, until a knife finds his gut. Twist. Pull. Repeat. It's not fast. It's punishment. The Winter Soldier doesn't blink.

My stomach lurches. I turn onto my side, curling in on myself like that'll help. It doesn't. The mattress feels too soft now. Too much like luxury. Too far from the metal slab I was raised on.

Then comes the last flash, and this one rips something deeper.

A quiet corridor. Bloodied knuckles. He's standing there, silent, shoulders hunched like a dog that knows it'll be beaten for the mess. And there's someone with him—me.

But not me now. Not this jagged, cracked version of me. It's the Emris from years ago, reaching up and brushing the blood from his hand like she's done it a hundred times before. No gloves. Just skin. She whispers something into his mind, soothing, and his shoulders unclench.

I know this memory isn't mine. It's his.

And that's what makes it worse.

I sit up too fast. The blanket tangles around my legs. My chest tightens, breathing shallow like I've just sprinted up a hill. Cold sweat clings to my spine, soaking into my shirt. My heart is racing like I just came back from a kill—adrenaline still pulsing, even though all I've done is lie here and remember something that never actually belonged to me.

Except... it did. Once.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press my feet to the cold floor, grounding myself. The wood is rough against my heels. Real. That's good. I try to ignore the tremor in my fingers as I rub at my eyes, like I can erase what I saw.

But I can still feel it.

The blood.

His guilt.

The way her hands—my hands—calmed him.

Why the hell does it feel safer to remember that than to forget it?

And why does that scare me more than killing a room full of men?

I rise slowly, silently, like the air might crack if I move too fast. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaks again. This place feels haunted—by memories, by dreams, by the people we used to be.

And tonight, I think I might be the ghost.

I move like a shadow.

Each step is deliberate, toes pressed softly to the cold wooden floor, heels never fully touching down. My body knows how to make itself silent. Knows how to become nothing. It's second nature—like a switch I flip the moment I leave the false comfort of a mattress and enter the real world again.

The hallway yawns out in front of me, long and dark and narrow. The floors creak if you don't know where to step, but I've already mapped out the safe spots—just like the perimeter, just like the exits, just like every goddamn thing I always have to know to feel the illusion of safety.

The walls are paneled in aged wood, a darker hue than my room, as if the deeper I go, the more this place sinks into its bones. A window at the end of the hall offers a sliver of moonlight through a warped pane, painting stripes of silver across the floor. My reflection flickers briefly on the glass. Hollow-eyed. Hair messy. Just a whisper of a person.

I breathe out slowly. Even that sounds too loud.

The kitchen greets me with its own quiet hush—fridge humming faintly, the tick of a distant clock echoing like a heartbeat. Someone left a single cabinet light on above the sink. It casts a dim orange halo over the counter, barely enough to see by, but more than enough to draw every shadow longer and sharper.

I reach for a glass, the cabinet door whispering open with a soft creak. The cup feels fragile in my hand. Too thin. Too clean. I fill it at the sink, watching the water swirl as if that'll distract me from the thoughts pressing in.

It doesn't.

The moment the cool rim touches my lips, it hits again.

A flash—violent, suffocating, real.

Bucky's hands wrapped around a man's throat. Veins bulging in his eyes. The man's eyes wide, mouth gasping uselessly. A gurgle, a wet, pitiful sound. And over it, a voice like ice in my mind—

"Eliminate."

I gasp.

The glass slips—

—I catch it just in time, fingers clenched so hard around it that the rim splinters with a faint crack. A jagged edge digs into my palm. I don't bleed, not yet. But the sting grounds me.

My heart's racing again. My breath fogs the water. My hands are shaking, and I hate that I can't make them stop.

I set the glass down too hard on the counter. It clinks like an alarm. I lean forward, pressing my palms against the cool wood. Focus, Emris. Don't lose your grip.

The counter's rough beneath my hands, worn down by years of use—like everything else in this damn safe house. It smells like coffee and damp wood. A scent that would be comforting if I weren't one breath away from unraveling.

I close my eyes.

Why the hell is it always me?

I can fix their nightmares. Block them out. Bury them so deep they can sleep like the dead. But I can't fix my own. Not when I'm awake, not when I'm unconscious. Doesn't matter. The ghosts are always louder in my head.

How ironic. I can rewrite reality in someone else's mind, but I can't find peace in my own.

The thought stings. Or maybe it's the cracked glass. Doesn't matter.

I grab a towel, toss it over the counter like it'll hide the evidence of whatever the hell I'm feeling. Then I take a breath, straighten my spine, and move again—quieter this time, lighter. Like if I keep moving, the memories won't catch up.

I already know I'm not going back to bed.

Not yet.

I pivot, heading back into the dark hallway, away from the light, toward the room I've been avoiding all night.

And all I can think is—

Please, for once, don't shoot me for trying to help.

I stop in front of his door.

The hallway's gone colder somehow, like even the air knows where I'm heading. My hand hovers over the doorknob, fingers curled, trembling with indecision. It's not the fear of him. It's never that. It's what I might feel when I see him. What I already do feel. We're too alike.

I hate this.

My muscles lock, stiff as iron beneath my skin. The pulse in my ears is deafening, a drumline of dread pounding through me.

It's just a door.

But it reminds me of Hydra.

Same thickness. Same weight in the air behind it. Same cold. I've opened doors like this before, stepped into rooms where people came back wrong. Where I came back wrong.

I take a breath through my nose.

Then I turn the knob, slow and careful, and slip inside.

His room is cloaked in quiet. No light save the silver spill of moonlight slashing through the thin curtains. Shadows stretch long across the floor, turning the edges of furniture into dark shapes, barely distinguishable from the wall. There's a faint scent of metal and old soap—something military. Something clean and impersonal.

And there he is.

On the floor beside the bed, blanket pulled halfway over his waist, chest bare to the cold air. The sharp cut of his muscles stills me for a second—not because I'm surprised. Because I'm not.

His scars glint under the moonlight like whispers of violence, old pain carved into skin. Most people wouldn't notice the difference between a knife scar and a bullet wound. I do.

Of course he sleeps on the floor.

Of course.

The bed's probably too soft. Too luxurious. That's what Sam said, didn't he? "He hates pillows." Steve called it a "soldier thing." But I know the real reason.

Hydra didn't give pillows or mattresses. Just slabs of metal and darkness and orders barked through static.

I take one step in—just one—and a floorboard betrays me with a low groan.

Bucky moves faster than I can blink.

He bolts upright, blanket falling to his waist in a rush, his torso snapping forward like he's spring-loaded. His arm's halfway to defensive before he registers me. Shoulders coiled tight, breathing sharp. Wild, unseeing eyes sweep the room—and land on me.

The tension doesn't leave, not immediately. He blinks. Focuses.

His hair's a mess, jaw tight, chest still rising and falling too fast. And yet... he doesn't look dangerous now. Just tired. So, so tired.

He squints at me. "Trying to kill me in my sleep?"

His voice is rough with sleep and suspicion. Like sandpaper dragged over glass.

I don't flinch. I cross my arms, shift my weight to one hip, and let the sarcasm armor slip into place.

"If I wanted to kill you," I say flatly, "you'd still be asleep."

A pause. Just a breath.

And he huffs. Almost—almost—a laugh. But it doesn't reach his eyes.

He leans back slightly, blanket crinkling over his hips. Doesn't bother covering up more. Doesn't need to. The look he gives me now is cautious, but less combative.

His voice softens. "Sorry."

That one word scrapes something raw in me. It's too genuine. Too human. I hate it.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he adds, but I shake my head.

"I was already awake." I hesitate. "You're awake because of your dream. I felt it."

He looks away, jaw tightening. Doesn't deny it. Doesn't explain.

"I can make it stop." My voice is quieter now. Still sharp, but not cutting. Just... exposed. "I need sleep, James. You're not the only one with ghosts."

No answer. He studies the floor like it has something more important to say.

"I haven't slept more than two hours in three weeks," I continue. "And neither have you."

His shoulders flinch at that—just slightly—but it's enough. I know he hears me. I know he knows I'm right.

The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, humming with all the words we're not saying. I feel the urge to fill it, to lash out, to make a joke just to shatter the weight of the moment—but I don't.

Because I'm too tired. Because I mean this.

He finally looks at me. Really looks.

And I see it there—the doubt, the hesitation, the memory of me inside his mind. Of the invasion I never asked to be part of. His fear isn't of me hurting him. It's of letting me in again.

Good.

He should be scared of that.

But not tonight.

Not this time.

He studies me in silence, eyes dark and unreadable. The tension between us coils tighter, a breath away from snapping.

Then, finally, he exhales. Low. Resigned. "You're gonna help me?"

A smirk tugs at my mouth. It feels sharp, tired. "It's for my beauty sleep, Barnes. Don't flatter yourself."

His lips twitch like he might smile, but he doesn't. He just nods—barely—and shifts back down onto the floor. Not under the blanket, just flat on his back, arms at his sides like he's not sure if this is a trap or a ceasefire. The muscles in his neck stay corded tight.

I lower myself beside him, careful to keep my knees from creaking the wood too loudly. My bare legs brush the cold floor. The air between us holds its breath.

"Ready?" I ask, quieter now.

He doesn't answer. Just closes his eyes.

I reach out—my fingers brushing the side of his temple.

The contact is small. Barely there.

But the effect hits like a lightning strike.

My breath catches. The room around me blurs.

And then I'm in.

His mind is an ice corridor—long and narrow and dim, the walls made of polished concrete and flickering lights. Every surface buzzes with static, like a power outage is always one breath away. I hear screams. Not fresh, not loud, just echoes—scraped into the walls, smeared in the concrete like stains you can't scrub out.

Footsteps. Metal doors slamming shut. Orders barked in Russian.

"Стереть его." Erase it.

"Зимний солдат." Winter Soldier.

"Уничтожить." Destroy.

I flinch as one voice shatters through the corridor louder than the rest—an instructor's snarl, cruel and familiar. A pressure clamps around my temples. I brace, push back, and forge deeper.

There's a hallway branching off. Dozens of doors. Behind each: a memory. Fractured. Frozen. Some barely accessible. Some sealed shut like tombs. Blood spatters the walls in flashes—kill orders executed in brutal detail. A knife through the throat. A bullet in the back. A snapped neck. A pair of eyes wide with betrayal before they go still.

His trauma is systemic. Engineered. Hydra didn't just condition him—they erased him and installed a weapon.

I place one metaphorical foot in front of the other.

And I speak, not aloud, but into the fracture of him I've found.

"Rest."

The corridor flickers. The hum falters.

"Go to sleep, James."

Something shifts. One of the doors creaks open—just a sliver.

"No more nightmares."

The floor beneath me softens. Cold concrete becomes a shadowed forest clearing. A memory from before the missions. Before the blood. A safe place. Or the closest thing he has to one.

"Close your eyes, James."

In the real world, I feel his chest rise, then fall. Slower now.

I stay with him. Kneeling beside his body, hand still pressed to his skin. But my mind stays in his—sifting through the wreckage, holding back the tides.

I find a voice—not Hydra's. Mine.

A memory of me.

I see it through his lens: I'm standing over him, post-mission, my hand brushing blood off his knuckles. I say something soft. Something calming. I reach into his mind like I do now, and his breathing evens out. His thoughts, once a storm, quiet.

He remembers this.

He clings to it.

I look away. I should pull back.

But I don't. Not yet.

I follow that thread, trying to replace metal and screams with something softer. A steady rhythm. Not silence—but peace.

His mind starts to settle. The corridor fades. The doors close, one by one, until only darkness remains. Warm. Unthreatening.

Finally, I withdraw. My hand slips from his temple.

Bucky's still on the floor. Asleep.

But now his jaw is slack. The tension is gone from his shoulders. His breathing is steady. Deep.

Peaceful.

I don't move. Not right away. I sit there in the dim light, watching him.

This man—this weapon turned human, human turned wreck—just let me into his mind.

He let me see the worst of it. The ugliest pieces. And he let me stay.

He trusted me, just for a moment.

And that terrifies me more than any nightmare.

I shut his door without a sound.

The latch clicks soft. Final. Like sealing off something sacred.

My fingers linger on the doorknob. They're trembling. Not from adrenaline. Not from fear. It's something far more dangerous—something I can't afford to name.

He let me in.

I walk the hallway slowly, barefoot on cold floorboards. The walls stretch long in the dark, shadows curling like smoke along the edges. The safe house creaks with the wind outside, that slow, shifting kind of silence that almost feels alive. But my head is quieter now. My body lighter.

Psychic backlash usually leaves me winded, short-circuited, like I've poured too much of myself into someone else's mess. But this time... it's different. My skin hums. Warmth still lingers at my fingertips, a residual echo of his pulse beneath them. My chest isn't hollow for once—it's grounded. Anchored. Like I finally stopped falling.

I slip back into my room, exhale as I shut the door behind me.

The bed creaks when I crawl in. The sheets are still cold, but I'm not. My skin's flushed with heat, like I've been running or fighting—but I haven't. Not really. Not physically.

I stare at the ceiling again, but this time the dark doesn't feel quite so heavy. My jaw unclenches. My arms don't ache from tension. The scream in the back of my mind has faded to a whisper.

He saw the worst of me.

I saw the worst of him.

The thought settles behind my ribs, not sharp, but soft. Tentative.

I let my eyes close. The silence wraps around me—not empty, but whole. My mind doesn't claw its way through static this time. My thoughts slow. My heartbeat evens out.

And for the first time in weeks—

in months—

maybe years—

I don't feel like I have to be ready for war.

Finally, sleep.