LXXVII. Emris

The room is quiet.

Not awkward. Not tense. Just... calm. Soft in a way I can't remember ever feeling, like everything in the world has taken a breath and decided not to bother us for once.

My head rests in Bucky's lap, legs curled under a blanket I didn't ask for but didn't shrug off either. One of his hands holds a book open, something ancient and historical and dense, but the other is in my hair, fingers weaving lazy, absentminded strokes through the strands like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

I do.

I feel every slow drag of his fingertips, every shift of his palm as he cradles the side of my head.

I should be reading, sleeping, doing something — but instead, I just watch him.

He's too focused. But not in a real way. His eyes have been stuck on the same page for at least ten minutes. No movement. No turning.

His brow isn't furrowed like it usually is when he's concentrating. His thumb doesn't tap the edge of the page like it always does when he's processing something heavy.

He's not reading.

"Stuck on a word?" I ask softly.

His eyes drop from the page to me. And I feel it in my gut — the shift. The tilt. Like we just stepped out of something safe and back into the minefield we've been pretending didn't exist.

He closes the book gently and sets it down on the table, never looking away.

Shit.

That quiet in my chest—the little sanctuary we'd built over the past few weeks—is gone. Just like that.

I suddenly feel like I shouldn't be this close to him. My neck burns under the weight of his stare, and I sit up, slowly, shifting out of his lap before I even realize I'm doing it. I settle beside him, blanket still clutched around me, something cold creeping into the space between us.

His eyes track the movement. I hate how aware of it we both are.

"What's gonna happen when they come back?" he says.

It lands like a punch. Soft. Precise. Measured. And it hurts more than it should.

I blink at him, stupidly. "What do you mean?"

But I know. Of course I know.

He doesn't say anything right away. Just sits there, arms resting on his knees, shoulders hunched like he's bracing for a hit.

We both are.

"I mean this," he says finally, not even looking at me. "Us."

Us.

God, I hate how heavy that word feels.

I stare at the coffee table, at the book he set down like it was never important, and suddenly everything feels too quiet. Like the silence after a gunshot.

He keeps going. "What happens when Steve, Natasha, and Sam get back? When we're not stuck in the middle of nowhere playing house?" He finally looks at me, and it's worse than anything else—his eyes soft but guarded. "What happens when it's not just... us anymore?"

I swallow hard, but my throat's too tight for it to go down properly.

"You think I haven't been wondering the same thing?" I say, because it's the only truth I can manage without unraveling.

But even as I say it, I feel myself pulling back. Not physically—yet—but emotionally, mentally, the way I've been trained to. The way I've survived.

Because the second I start imagining a version of this that exists outside this safehouse, outside the snow and the silence, I know it'll fall apart.

He deserves more than that. And I'm terrified he knows it too.

The distance between us feels so much bigger now. A few inches of couch might as well be miles.

The blanket around my shoulders suddenly feels stupid. Like a lie I've wrapped around myself to pretend I'm still warm.

Neither of us says anything after that.

And maybe that's the worst part.

The silence stretches.

He doesn't look away, and I don't know what's worse — the waiting or the knowing. There's something in his eyes I don't want to face. Something tender and solid and dangerous.

He's trying to talk about this like it's real. Like it means something.

And I hate him for it. I hate him because part of me wants it too.

But I know better.

I always know better.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," I say finally, staring straight ahead. "We're stuck here. We got... distracted. It's not complicated."

I hate myself for saying it. But I know I can never stay happy for long.

"Bullshit."

His voice is flat. Sharp. No hesitation.

I glance at him. His jaw's tight, knuckles white where they rest on his knees. He's trying not to lose it, but I can feel it — the weight of everything he's been holding back.

"You don't get to decide that for both of us," he says, turning to face me fully. "You can't just act like none of this mattered."

"I'm not saying it didn't matter," I snap back. "I'm saying it doesn't have to."

There's a difference, but it's thin and breaking. And we both know it.

"You think that makes it easier? Just pretend it was nothing and move on like we didn't—?"

"Like we didn't what?" I cut in. "Fuck? Sleep in the same bed for a few nights? Eat soup and lie about being okay? You think that matters, Barnes?"

I regret it the second I say it.

His expression twists like I hit something raw, and he leans forward, elbows on his thighs, glaring at the floor.

"I didn't say that," he mutters, voice low. "But thanks for the reminder."

Goddamn it.

I rake a hand through my hair, tugging hard enough to sting. "That's not what I meant."

"No? Sounded pretty fucking clear to me."

He stands suddenly, pacing the room like he needs to move or he'll combust. "You don't get it, do you? You don't see what this did to me."

I stare up at him. "What you let it do."

He turns on me, eyes burning. "Because I fucking trusted you."

I stand now too, the blanket falling from my shoulders. "You trusted me to what, Bucky? Be normal? Be someone I'm not? I never promised you anything."

"Yeah, well, it felt like you did."

I flinch. It's quiet, but he sees it.

He runs a hand down his face, voice softer now but no less raw. "You think I don't know how this ends? I know who you are. I know who I am. But for a second—for one fucking second—I thought maybe..."

He trails off.

"Maybe what?" I whisper.

His eyes find mine again. No mask. No bravado.

"Maybe we could be more than the worst parts of ourselves."

My chest aches.

I want to run. I want to lash out, to say something cruel and cutting that'll make this easier, but I can't.

Because he's right.

And that terrifies me.

I fold my arms across my chest, needing something to hold on to. "We're soldiers, Bucky. Assets. Broken things that know how to follow orders. That's all we've ever been."

"No. That's all you think you are."

He steps closer, and his voice shakes.

"You're not just what they made you. And neither am I. We can choose something different."

I laugh, bitter and hollow. "And what? You think we ride off into the sunset when the others come back? That they'll see us together and throw a fucking celebration?"

His jaw clenches. "I don't give a shit what they think."

"Well I do," I snap. "Because they know what I am."

I don't tell him that I think I'm not good enough for him. Too damaged. That Steve will come back and knock some sense into Bucky.

He shakes his head. "You're not that anymore."

"You don't get to say that."

I turn away, but he grabs my wrist — not rough, not possessive, just there.

"Then who does, Emris?" he says, softer now. "Them? Luke? Dragunov? The voice in your head that won't shut up about how unlovable you are?"

I freeze.

It's too much. He knows too much.

He knows me too well.

I yank my hand away, trembling now with something deeper than anger. "Don't," I whisper.

"I'm not scared of the truth," he says, and he means it. I can hear it in every broken syllable.

But I am.

I am so fucking scared.

So I throw up another wall. My last one.

"You want the truth, Bucky? Fine. I don't know how to do this. I don't want to do this. Because when this ends — and it will end — I'll be the one left with nothing. Again."

He's quiet.

Then: "You already have me."

My breath catches.

It's too much. It's always too much with him.

So I do the only thing I know how to do.

I take a step back.

And I stay quiet.

You already have me.

The words echo between us like a gunshot in a narrow room—loud, sharp, impossible to ignore. I feel them in my spine, my gut, somewhere deep behind my ribs where everything fragile lives.

I want to laugh. I want to scream.

Instead, I do the worst possible thing.

I hesitate.

"You don't get to say things like that," I whisper, barely trusting myself to speak. "Not when you know how this ends."

"I don't know that," Bucky fires back, stepping toward me again. "And neither do you. You just keep deciding for both of us before anything even has a chance to—"

"To what? Be real?" I cut him off, heat rising in my throat. "You think this is real? You think a week in some Russian safehouse playing pretend makes this real?"

"It felt real to me."

The quiet in his voice now is worse than the yelling. It's not anger. It's hurt.

And I hate it. I hate that I'm the one putting it there.

But I would rather it be me. Rather me than Dragunov using him as a way to hurt me.

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing again like he's trying to physically outrun this conversation. "Every time I get close to you, you pull away. You find some excuse—some damn strategy to push me back."

"I'm protecting us," I snap.

"No. You're protecting yourself," he says, turning to face me again. "And maybe you're not the only one who needs protecting, Emris."

The sound of my name in his voice is my undoing.

I open my mouth—to argue, to say something cruel enough to shut this down—but then I hear it.

A low mechanical hum, subtle but cutting across the silence like a blade.

Bucky hears it too. His head whips toward the window, and his entire body shifts in an instant. All the warmth from seconds ago evaporates. Soldier mode kicks in.

"What was that?" I murmur.

He doesn't answer. Just grabs my wrist and yanks me behind him in one fluid, practiced motion.

"Stay back," he mutters, stepping toward the window. His body is rigid, every muscle tense like a spring, like he's seconds from pulling a weapon he doesn't even have on him.

I don't fight him.

And I hate that I don't.

I should. I want to. I want to scream at him to stop acting like I need protecting—but something in the air shifts and instinct overrides everything else. We're not arguing anymore. We're surviving.

"Bucky?" I say again, my voice low but steady as I try to look around him.

He doesn't respond. His grip tightens on my wrist, grounding me behind him even as he edges toward the window.

I watch the way his shoulders relax, just barely. The way he exhales like he's been holding his breath for days.

And yet—he doesn't let go of me.

"Bucky?" I try again, this time tugging gently at his hand.

"I see it," he murmurs, still not turning around. "It's them."

I frown, stepping forward until my shoulder bumps his back. "Who's them?"

He finally releases my wrist, and I slip past him, pressing a hand to the glass as my eyes scan the treeline.

And there it is.

The quinjet.

Hovering like a shadow from a past life that's come to collect its debt.

The ramp is already lowering, snow blowing in thick spirals around it as two familiar figures descend.

Sam.

And Steve.

I freeze, just like Bucky.

It feels like a dream and a threat all at once.

The bubble we built—quiet nights, stolen kisses, whispered arguments and half-healed wounds—shatters in an instant.

They're back.

It's over.

I turn to him slowly. He's still standing there, staring out the window like he doesn't know how to breathe anymore.

"Bucky," I say gently.

Nothing.

His jaw is tight, eyes locked on the figures moving closer to the cabin. I know that look. It's the same one I wore the night before my first mission at the Black Lotus—the quiet understanding that nothing will ever be simple again.

"Bucky," I repeat, stepping closer. My hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing along the sharp line of his jaw until they find his cheek.

That finally pulls him back.

He looks at me then—really looks. Like I'm something slipping through his fingers.

"Hey," I whisper, palm flat on his cheek now. "Look at me."

He does.

His eyes are filled with something too heavy to name.

"Kiss me," I say, voice barely audible over the roar of blood in my ears.

He doesn't hesitate.

He leans down and kisses me like it's the last thing he'll ever get to do. Like it's the only language we've ever spoken that wasn't a weapon.

It's soft and slow, no rush, no fire. Just him. Just me.

Us.

His hands hold my face like he's memorizing it. My fingers twist in the front of his shirt like I'm anchoring myself to something real.

And for a second, we stop time.

No Sam. No Steve. No past.

No war.

Just lips against lips, breath tangled together, hearts beating too loud in too-small chests.

Two people who are too broken to admit to loving each other.

When we finally pull apart, it's still quiet.

But it's not peaceful.

It's heavy with something we won't say.

Because we both feel it.

That kiss wasn't a promise.

It was a goodbye.