LXXXV. Bucky

I press my hand harder against the floor to keep from shaking. My knees are planted next to her hip, and all I can do is watch.

Blood seeps through the gauze Sam's holding to her side, a deep crimson that doesn't stop. It's a graze—I know it's just a graze—but it won't stop bleeding, and Emris won't say a damn word.

Her lips are parted slightly, dry, cracked. Her eyes are open, but she's not here. That thousand-yard stare... it's not one I've seen on her before. Not like this. She's not screaming. She's not swearing. She's not even blinking.

She's just—gone.

"Come on, Em," I whisper, voice rough and low. "Say something. Yell at me. Tell me I'm an idiot. Anything."

Nothing.

Not a twitch. Not a flinch. Just that blank stare pointed toward the floor, like she's watching a memory I can't see.

I feel the walls closing in.

The Quinjet hums around us, engine roar vibrating through the floor. It's too loud, too mechanical, too steady when everything else feels like it's falling apart. I can hear the faint hiss of the med kit's antiseptic spray as Sam peels back the shredded fabric of her suit. Her blood hits the metal with a soft drip, drip, drip, and each drop cuts deeper into my brain.

"I've got her," Sam mutters under his breath, voice steady but quiet. "It's just a graze, man. Deep, but not fatal."

Not fatal. That should comfort me. It doesn't.

Because it's not the wound I'm afraid of. It's her silence.

I've seen Emris fight through broken ribs and bullet wounds. I've seen her bleeding and laughing. But now—now she's looking past me like I'm not even there. And the worst part? I know what that look means. I've had it. Worn it. Lived in it.

She's in shock.

And I don't know how to bring her out of it.

"Em," I whisper again, leaning in closer. My gloved fingers graze her shoulder—barely there, just enough to feel her warmth cooling by the second. "Hey. It's me. You're safe. You did good, alright? You're out."

Still nothing.

My stomach churns.

The second those shots rang out inside the warehouse, I knew. I didn't hear a scream, didn't get a comms update, but I felt it in my damn bones. That something had gone wrong. That she'd been left alone.

That I hadn't been there.

And now she's bleeding in front of me and she won't even look at me and I hate this. I hate this more than anything.

"You shouldn't have stayed there alone," I mutter before I can stop myself, more to the blood-slick floor than to her.

But she doesn't answer. Her fingers are curled loosely at her sides, limp. The strong, sharp lines of her face are soft now, too soft, like she's gone slack behind her own eyes.

I shake my head and rub a hand over my jaw, trying to focus, trying not to lose it. "Damn it, Emris. Say something."

Sam gives me a look, one I don't fully register. He's talking to her in a low, calming tone as he works—ripping open a packet of gauze, pulling it away to clean the wound, then pressing it back down. The smell of antiseptic mixes with blood, sharp and metallic, burning the back of my throat.

My fists clench. I want to rip the floor apart. I want to rewind time. I want to go back and make Steve let me go in with her.

I glance at the cockpit—he's just sitting there, like everything's fine. Like he didn't just gamble with her life.

I look back to her. She's still frozen.

"Emris," I try again, louder this time. My voice cracks. "You're okay. You got out. I've got you."

Her lashes flutter—barely.

But she still doesn't speak.

I reach out and brush a hand over her knuckles, trying to pretend like I'm not panicking, like I'm not counting the seconds since she last spoke, since she last blinked. I can feel her pulse, faint yet racing, but there.

"You're not alone," I murmur. "I'm here. I'm right here."

And I swear if she doesn't snap out of this soon, I'm going to lose my goddamn mind.

The screams echo louder than the gunfire.

We're inside the warehouse, just finished clearing the last room—Steve's got two kids cradled under each arm, Sam's guiding a bleeding woman down the stairs, and I'm doing a final sweep when the first shots split the air.

Pop. Pop-pop-pop.

Outside.

My heart stops.

My head snaps toward the exit.

That wasn't random.

That was targeted.

"Shit," I breathe, already sprinting to the back loading dock, boots slamming against the concrete.

"Bucky, hold position!" Steve's voice cracks through the comm like a gunshot of its own. "We need to finish extraction."

But I don't slow down.

Not even a little.

Because something's wrong. I feel it in my chest like a goddamn spear to the heart. I haven't heard Emris over comms in ten minutes—not since she muttered, "I'll draw them out. Keep moving."

Another round of gunfire cracks across the sky.

Closer.

And I can't breathe.

I burst out through the loading dock doors, but Steve's already there, intercepting me, arm braced across the threshold like a wall.

"You're not going out there."

"The hell I'm not."

"She can handle herself—"

"You don't know her like I do."

The words are out before I can stop them. My fists are clenched so hard they shake. My pulse is a war drum in my ears. I shove past Steve so hard his boots scrape the floor.

Another scream—faint, feminine—cuts through the haze.

I run.

Everything's a blur: the rusted fence line, the perimeter tower, the shattered glass on the ground, and the sudden copper tang in the air.

Blood.

I round the corner.

And I find her.

She's barely on her feet, staggering in the gravel as five men circle her like wolves. Her movements are sluggish, drained—each swing of her blade slower than the last. Blood stains her side, and her gun dangles uselessly from her fingers. There are bodies on the ground—five, maybe six—but more keep coming. She's swaying, eyes barely open, like she's fighting to stay conscious even as they close in.

Strong. Fierce. Bleeding.

Alone.

Now, back on the Quinjet, she's not even moving. Not even speaking.

She's here, but she's not.

And all I can think is—I knew. I knew something was wrong.

And I didn't get there fast enough.

I can't sit still anymore.

Her silence is suffocating. Her blood's still leaking through the gauze Sam's pressing to her side. And Steve—he's just piloting like this is any other damn mission. Like she's not falling apart right behind him.

I stand.

The muscles in my legs protest, tight from kneeling too long, but I barely notice. All I feel is pressure—coiled in my chest, pounding in my skull. I stare at the back of Steve's head, his hands steady on the controls, and something inside me snaps.

"You should've let me stay with her."

He doesn't even look back. "She can hold her own, Buck."

And then—then—he says it. Flat, like it means nothing.

"Besides, I didn't think you cared."

I stop breathing.

The air goes cold, sharp in my lungs. My vision narrows so fast it's like a tunnel collapsed. I hear those words ring again in my skull, louder than the Quinjet engines.

Didn't think you cared.

My fists clench so tight I hear the leather of my gloves creak.

"You want to run that by me again?" My voice is low. Dangerous. The kind of quiet that means something is about to explode.

Steve sighs. "You've spent almost a year pretending she's just another asset. That this is just work."

I laugh—a bitter, humorless thing that tears out of my throat. "Yeah? Maybe I did. You ever think that wasn't for me?"

Steve finally turns, glancing over his shoulder. Calm. Controlled. That perfect soldier mask he wears like a second skin.

Sam shifts beside me, still crouched next to Emris. His eyes flick between us like he's waiting for the match to hit gasoline.

"Guys," he says under his breath. "Not now."

But I can't stop. I don't want to stop.

"She's lying there bleeding," I hiss, stepping forward, "and your response is 'I didn't think you cared'? Are you out of your mind?"

"Bucky—"

"No. You don't get to play commander right now. You left her out there. She was the bait, Steve. You used her."

Steve's jaw tightens, but he holds the line. "She volunteered. And she's handled worse."

"That's not the point."

Sam's hand presses firmer against Emris's wound, his tone clipped. "Can we focus on not making her bleed out before you two pummel each other?"

But my pulse is roaring, and my hands are shaking, and I'm so goddamn mad I could rip this jet apart with my bare hands.

And this is just the beginning.

The Quinjet's hum grows louder, or maybe that's just the blood roaring in my ears.

I'm pacing now—tight, fast steps like a caged animal—because if I stay still, I'll explode. My fists curl and uncurl at my sides, the metal hand twitching like it's itching to break something.

Steve keeps flying like he doesn't feel the fire burning behind him.

"She volunteered," he says again, trying to bury the issue in logic, in control. "She knew the risks, Buck."

I round on him. "She didn't volunteer for you to use her like bait."

"She offered, Bucky. Don't rewrite it just because you're pissed."

"I was pissed the second you suggested it!"

Steve's jaw locks.

And I remember the moment—a few hours ago in that musty kitchen of the safe house, the map spread out across the table, Steve drawing arrows while Emris stood silent, arms crossed. The plan sounded good on paper: she'd draw the gang outside, act unpredictable, give us the advantage to get the women and kids out. I said no. I told him she shouldn't go alone. But he looked at her like a weapon, not a person. And when she didn't argue—when she agreed—I didn't fight hard enough.

Now she's bleeding and silent, and he's acting like none of it matters.

"You treat her like she's expendable," I snarl, stepping closer to the cockpit. "Like she's just another distraction to throw at the enemy so you can look like the hero."

Steve slams a hand on the dash, spinning in his seat. "Don't you dare—"

"You do," I snap. "Every mission, it's Emris out front. Emris drawing fire. Emris doing your dirty work while you hide behind strategy and call it leadership."

"She's the best at what she does!"

"She's not a goddamn shield!"

Steve stands now, both of us squared off between the cockpit seats, inches apart. The tension crackles like lightning in my spine.

"You're not thinking straight," he says, voice hard. "She's an assassin, Bucky. She's been through worse than this."

I shove a hand through my hair, trying to breathe, trying not to throw the first punch. "That's not the point. You think just because she's survived worse, that means she doesn't deserve better? That she doesn't feel it? That it doesn't tear her apart every damn time?"

"She didn't ask for your sympathy."

"It's not sympathy," I bark, taking a sharp step forward. "It's respect. It's basic fucking humanity, Steve."

Sam finally stands, hand still red from pressing gauze to Emris's side. "Alright, enough!" he snaps, stepping between us. "Y'all are yelling over her bleeding body like she's not even here. Cool it."

Neither of us moves.

Steve breathes hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. "You're letting your emotions cloud your judgment."

I scoff. "And you've got none left. That it?"

His expression shifts. Cold. Distant. Familiar. Like I've seen it on too many missions when someone doesn't make it out.

"She's survived worse," he says again, quieter this time. "She'll be fine."

The rage inside me coils tighter.

It's not just about the mission anymore. It's not just about strategy or risk.

It's about how he looks at her like she's a ghost. Like she was never going to make it back anyway. Like she doesn't have a future.

Sam shakes his head and mutters under his breath, "This is a mess."

I clench my jaw and look back at her.

Still unmoving.

Still not speaking.

And I know—if she doesn't snap out of it soon, I'm going to lose more than my temper.

The Quinjet touches down with a jolt that rattles through my boots.

Engines start to wind down, their constant roar replaced by the whirring hiss of hydraulics and the low, metallic groan of the ramp descending. The cool air of the hangar rushes in, and with it, the last of my patience drains away.

Sam doesn't wait for permission. He scoops Emris into his arms, gentle but efficient, like he's done this a hundred times. Her head lolls against his shoulder, limp and quiet. Still not speaking. Still not blinking. Still not here.

He passes me without a word, but at the base of the ramp, he mutters, "I'll leave you two to it."

And just like that, we're alone.

Steve unclips his harness and stands, his movements too casual, too unaffected. He turns, and the second his eyes meet mine, it's like lighting a fuse.

I don't hesitate.

"Say it again," I growl, stepping forward. "Say she's just an assassin. That she's 'been through worse.' Go on."

Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Bucky—don't start this again."

"I never fucking stopped it."

"She is an assassin. She was built for this. You think this is the first time she's been shot? You think Tony or Sam don't worry every mission? That's who really gives a damn about her."

I don't think. I move.

One step. My hand fists the front of his suit. I slam him back into the interior wall of the Quinjet hard enough to rattle the paneling.

"Don't talk about her like that," I snarl, face inches from his. "Like she's just another asset. Another piece of hardware to throw at a target."

Steve shoves at my chest, but I don't budge.

His eyes flash, anger rising to meet mine. "Why do you care so much?"

The question hits like a sucker punch.

My fingers tighten around his collar, fabric bunching beneath my grip. The rage surges hot through my chest, but underneath it, something colder, heavier, deeper.

I stare him down, jaw clenched so hard it aches.

And I answer without thinking.

"Because I'm in love with her, Steve!"

The words rip out of me like they've been trapped in my chest for years.

They slam into the space between us, heavy and violent, bouncing off the walls of the Quinjet like shrapnel. The silence that follows is immediate and deafening.

Steve stares at me like I've grown a second head.

Like I've lost my damn mind.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a second. He blinks once. Then again. Slowly, like his brain's trying to catch up to what just hit him.

"With... Emris?" he says finally, cautious, like he's testing the name for the first time.

"Yes. With Emris." My voice doesn't shake, not even a little. I don't look away. I want him to see it—see that I mean every damn syllable.

Steve takes half a step back, his spine hitting the wall again like the words knocked him farther than my fists did.

"Buck, she's—"

"Don't." I raise a hand, sharp and final. "I'm not asking for your permission or advice."

He shuts his mouth.

Good.

My heart's still pounding, but it's different now. Not the messy, chaotic rage from before. Something cleaner. Sharper. Like finally letting air into a sealed room.

"I know what she is," I say, quieter now. "I know what she's done. I know what she's capable of. But I also know who she is when no one's watching. And I don't care what you or anyone else thinks—I love her."

Steve says nothing. Just stares at me, still winded.

I never meant for anyone to know—not because I was ashamed, and not because I cared what Sam or Steve would think. If anything, I wanted them to know. But I kept quiet—out of respect for her.

For the walls she's built, the space she needs to keep between herself and the world. I held back, even when the feelings clawed at me, sharp and impossible to ignore.

But now, with everything laid bare, it feels like something inside me finally tore open. And I'm not sorry.

I release my grip on his suit, let it fall smoothly back into place. My fingers are still curled, still trembling slightly from everything we've been through—but I don't swing. I don't yell.

I just turn away.

Walk down the ramp. Every step feels like dragging steel, but somehow I also feel lighter. Like saying it out loud has cut the weight in half.

I don't look back.

I don't care if Steve follows, or if he's still standing there trying to process the fact that his best friend just confessed he's in love with the woman everyone swore was beyond redemption.

All I care about is her.

Is she okay? Is she safe? Has she come back to herself yet?

I walk faster.

Because I need to see her eyes again.

And I need them to see me back.