XLIX. Emris

The clock ticks, and every second saws into my skull like a dull blade.

I sit against the headboard, legs drawn up, back stiff against the wood. The bedsheets bunch awkwardly around my hips, tangled from restless shifting. My body aches from too many sleepless nights — a grinding, throbbing weariness that digs into my joints, my muscles, my bones. My eyes burn, lids dry and heavy but refusing to close. Even when they do, the darkness behind them twists into worse shapes than the ones the room already holds.

Four nights here. Four nights of this. I've gotten maybe an hour, two if I'm being generous — and I'm not. I can feel the sleep deprivation like a living thing crawling under my skin, turning my limbs sluggish and my mind razor-edged.

The house is dead silent except for the things that aren't silent. The ancient floorboards creak with the weight of memories. Somewhere in the kitchen, the faucet drips — an irregular beat that my mind insists on twisting into footsteps. The clock on the wall ticks with mechanical patience, counting down to something I can't name. My own breathing sounds too loud, a rasp that grates against the suffocating quiet.

I flex my fingers and curl them into fists. Relax. Flex again. Every nerve in my body feels stretched tight, ready to snap at the slightest touch.

The couch across the room shifts, and my gaze snaps there. Bucky.

He's sprawled in uneasy sleep, one arm hanging off the edge. He shifts again, a low grunt slipping out like a wounded animal. Nightmare, probably. He's had them every night since we got here — waking with a start, fists clenched, breathing hard. I've gotten better at blocking out everyone's dreams, learned the hard way how to tune them out like static on a radio. But his? His leak through sometimes, slipping past my defenses like smoke through a cracked door.

Broken images flicker across my mind: gunmetal halls, orders barked in Russian, blood on his knuckles. I shut the connection down fast, hating myself a little for even peeking.

It's easier to tell myself I'm scanning him out of caution. That I'm keeping tabs, making sure he's not a threat. Not because some battered, half-starved part of me feels safer knowing he's there. Watching. Fighting the same unseen battles I am.

I shift again, biting down a wince as my shoulder protests. Every part of me feels raw, overused, scraped down to the nerves. I can't stop scanning the house, stretching my senses thin, waiting — waiting — for the inevitable.

They'll come. Ross. Dragunov. His people. Maybe someone worse.

I can almost hear his voice sometimes, whispering through the cracks in the walls, curling into the folds of the sheets. You belong to us, Emris. You always will.

A floorboard groans down the hall and my heart slams against my ribs, a panicked beat I can't control. I sit up straighter, straining to listen — but it's nothing. Nothing. Probably just the house settling.

Probably.

I let my gaze sweep the room again: the heavy dresser in the corner, the cracked mirror above it, the worn chair half-shrouded in shadow. The moonlight creeps through the blinds in jagged stripes, painting the floor in ghostly silver. Every object looks sharper, more dangerous, as if the night itself is conspiring to turn my own mind against me.

I rub at my eyes, rough enough to sting. If I could just sleep—

But sleep is weakness. Sleep is when they get you.

I won't close my eyes. Not tonight.

Not ever, if I have to.

The silence stretches so long, so taut, I nearly convince myself I'm alone again. Just me and the tick-tick-tick of the clock, the shadows creeping along the floor like they're alive.

Then—

"Are you ever going to sleep?"

The voice slices through the dark like a blade, and I flinch before I can stop myself.

His voice is low, scratchy at the edges, tinged with sleep — or maybe something darker. A nightmare, more likely. He hasn't had a full night either. I've felt the restless way he tosses, the haunted muttering under his breath.

I don't turn to look at him. Instead, I keep my gaze on the door across from me, tracking the slow crawl of moonlight over the peeling paint. My heart slams once, hard, then evens out. I force my voice to come out cool, flat, laced with just enough venom to bite.

"Why? So you can kill me?"

A pause. Then the unmistakable sound of a scoff. Dry. Amused. Maybe a little annoyed.

I hate how much I know him now.

I hear the soft creak of the couch cushions as he stands, the shift of weight on the floorboards. I glance — just once — because I can't help myself.

He's in grey sweatpants. Bare chest. The dim light catches along the curve of muscle, shadows carving out his abs, the deep line of his v. His dog tags glint faintly, swinging against his sternum.

He's not even armed. But he doesn't need to be. I clock the way his body moves — loose, coiled, efficient. I know how fast he is. How brutal. Where I'd have to strike if I wanted to disable him. Where he'd strike me.

I drag my gaze back to the nightstand and flick the lamp on. The yellow glow floods the room in a soft wash, pushing back the darkness, casting sharp angles across his face as he crosses to the bathroom.

He doesn't say anything else. Just walks away.

I watch him go, jaw tight, disgust crawling under my skin — not at him.

At myself.

He's not a man, I remind myself. He's a weapon. Like you.

But it's too late. I already looked.

Just for a moment. But a moment too long.

The urge to move gnaws at me, sharp and restless. I push off the bed stiffly, muscles groaning in protest. Every limb feels heavy, brittle, like I'm stitched together with frayed thread about to snap.

I tread across the cold wooden floor in silence, years of training making each step deliberate, ghost-light. The lamp buzzes faintly behind me, the only sound besides the persistent ticking of the old clock.

I reach the bathroom door just as it opens.

Bucky.

We collide — a chest-to-chest jolt, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. His body is a wall of heat and muscle, and my nerves scream from the sudden contact.

I flinch back instinctively. Immediate. Reflexive.

He freezes. Brows drawing together, a flicker of concern passing over his face — and I hate that I see it. I hate that he sees me.

"You seriously need sleep," he mutters, voice low, steady. Too steady. Like he's talking to a cornered animal.

He moves a hand toward me — slow, almost hesitant — a ghost of touch near my shoulder, probably meaning to steer me aside gently.

I react without thinking.

I snatch his wrist, twist it sharply behind his back, the move so ingrained it bypasses conscious thought.

He grunts — not in pain, but more like mild surprise — and then he's already breaking the hold, shifting his weight effortlessly, spinning out of my grasp like it's nothing.

Rage floods my chest. Hot and ugly.

I throw a quick punch at his ribs. He swats it aside, casual, barely exerting force. Another strike — aimed at his jaw — but he ducks it easily, expression maddeningly neutral.

He's not even trying.

I swing harder, a sharp kick toward his knee — he steps back just enough to evade, the move so controlled it only infuriates me more.

"Come on," I snarl under my breath, fists up, breathing hard.

His eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable, patient in a way that makes me want to tear him apart.

He catches my next punch — palm to fist — the impact jarring through my arm. Before I can wrench free, he twists my wrist, spinning me around with a speed that makes the room blur.

My back slams into the wall with a soft thud.

He cages me there, one arm across my chest, the other braced near my head, not touching but close enough.

Close enough I can feel the heat rolling off him. Smell the faint, clean scent of soap clinging to his skin. Hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, measured against the frantic hammer of my own heart.

I can feel his breath, hot and close, brushing across my cheek in short, shallow bursts. Too intimate. Too close.

I don't move. I don't blink.

"Get off me, Barnes," I murmur. The words come out low, almost breathless. Not a threat. Not even a warning. Just words.

His eyes search mine like he's waiting for something—permission, maybe. An opening. I give him neither. My heart is hammering against my ribs, loud enough that I wonder if he can hear it, feel it between us.

But he doesn't move. He leans down instead, breath curling against my face, warm and steady. He's not even winded. I am.

"You were sloppy," he says.

The insult slices through the haze. My jaw tightens. I shoot him a look that could peel paint.

"Fuck off."

It's weak. Petty. But I don't have anything sharper loaded. I'm too aware of everything else—the tension vibrating in my muscles, the pulse beating hard at his throat, the smell of soap and leather clinging to his skin. The way we're still pressed together, his weight pinning me like a live wire to a grounded wall.

There's silence after that. Not awkward. Not exactly. Just... charged.

Neither of us looks away. I can see the pale crescent scar near his temple, the faint line of a healing cut on his bottom lip. His eyes are a storm—blue and unreadable, deep as the damn ocean.

He exhales slowly, and it ghosts across my skin.

"Go to sleep, Emris."

I swallow. Hard.

It's not the command that gets me. It's the way he says my name—soft, deliberate. Not mocking. Not like I'm the enemy.

My lip catches between my teeth before I can stop myself. Habit. Nervous tick. It betrays me. His gaze dips to my mouth—quick, subtle—but I feel it like a slap.

My stomach clenches.

This is nothing.

He's just... close.

Too close.

Why aren't you moving?

I try to will my limbs to act, to shove him back, to break the contact and pretend it never happened. But the wall is solid behind me, and he's solid in front, and I can't decide which feels more suffocating.

"I'll stay up," he says quietly. "Listen for disturbances. No one is coming for you tonight."

My throat tightens. I hate that it sounds like comfort. I hate more that I almost believe him.

"I don't need your protection," I say, but it lacks venom.

He doesn't argue. He just stares at me another beat, then finally—finally—eases back. The air rushes between us like a breath I didn't know I was holding.

The wall is cold against my spine without his heat.

He steps away without a word and drags the old wooden chair across the room with a dull scrape. Positions it in front of my bed. Facing the door.

Sentinel mode.

He sits.

Not looking at me anymore. Just at the dark. At the door. At the threat he swears isn't coming.

I can't look at him anymore. Not without remembering the heat of his chest against mine, the way his breath smelled like toothpaste and something sharper, something him.

This is nothing.

Just a moment. A mistake.

It won't happen again.

I stare into the shadows and tell myself I believe it.

I move like I'm still in a fight. Muscles coiled, back straight, every step cautious even though the war's over—for now. My pulse hasn't gotten the message. It still drums high in my throat, a steady percussion of leftover adrenaline and something I refuse to name.

I reach the bed, but I don't sit. I stare at it like it's a trap. Sheets kicked half off. Shadows curling in the corners. It looks like a crime scene, and in a way, it is. A battlefield without blood.

Finally, I lower myself, stiff and mechanical. My body aches, but not in the way I expect. Everything feels too loud—my breathing, the whisper of fabric against my skin, the subtle creak of the mattress under my weight. I lie on my side, facing the wall. I don't close my eyes.

I hear the chair scrape across the floor behind me.

Slow. Deliberate. A drag, then a heavy stop.

I glance over my shoulder.

Bucky plants the chair right next to the bed. Angled slightly toward the door, legs spread, elbows braced on his knees like he's settling in for a long watch. He doesn't look at me, not yet. Just the hallway. Just the threat.

My role. My vigil.

The resentment flickers up fast—hot, biting. But it tangles immediately with something else. Something heavier. A pressure against my ribs that feels too much like comfort.

I hate him for sitting there.

I hate that it helps.

I turn my face back to the wall. The air's still charged. Tense. But quieter now. Quieter than it's been all night.

Eventually, I feel his gaze shift. He's looking at me. I know it.

I turn again, slowly.

We lock eyes.

It's not a challenge this time. Not a warning. Just... something unspoken, stretched between us like wire. Tight and trembling.

I don't speak. Neither does he.

After a long moment, I exhale. Not dramatic. Not even conscious. Just the smallest breath. Like something finally lets go inside me.

My eyes burn. My limbs go heavy.

It's strange, lying here, not listening for footsteps on the stairs, or the hum of a silencer being loaded in the dark. My body wants to keep watch. My brain does, too.

But he's already watching.

And somehow, that's enough.

My eyelids slip shut, slow and reluctant.

The last thing I see before darkness takes me is his silhouette—unmoving, carved in shadow, guarding the door like it might open at any second.