CX. Emris

I snap back into my body like I've been slammed into it.

One second there's nothing—no sound, no weight, no time—and the next my lungs burn as I drag in a breath I don't remember losing. The world rushes in too fast. Light. Water. Voices blurred together like they're underwater.

Funeral.

The word hits late, heavy.

I'm standing on soft green grass that bends under my boots. There's a lake in front of me, glass-smooth except for the smallest ripples. People are gathered in a loose semicircle, dressed in black, their grief hanging in the air like fog.

Tony's funeral.

My fingers twitch, and that's when I realize I'm not alone. Bucky is beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch. His hand is wrapped around mine, solid, warm, real. The pressure is firm—not tight, not gentle. Anchoring.

I've been dissociating.

The realization lands with a cold clarity that makes my stomach flip. I don't remember walking here. I don't remember standing still. I don't remember how long I've been gone, floating somewhere behind my own eyes while time kept moving without me.

Get it together.

I focus on details like they're targets in a firefight.

The way the grass smells damp and green. The grit of dirt under my boots. The faint chill in the air that pricks at my skin. Bucky's thumb shifts against my knuckle, just a fraction, like he's checking to see if I'm still here.

I am. I think.

My gaze drifts forward, dragged by something I can't look away from.

Pepper.

She stands at the edge of the lake, shoulders squared in that way she gets when she refuses to fall apart in public. In her hands is Tony's arc reactor, cradled like it weighs more than metal ever should. The casing catches the light, familiar and wrong outside of his chest.

She moves slowly. Painfully so.

Each step feels stretched, elongated, like time itself is resisting her. The grass bends under her shoes. The water laps softly at the shore. I hear the faint clink as her fingers adjust around the reactor, a tiny sound that hits harder than any explosion.

My powers stir without my permission.

Grief is everywhere. It presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, minds cracking open with raw loss. I feel the edges of it brush against me, feel the instinctive pull to reach, to absorb, to numb it for them—or for myself.

No.

I slam the doors shut inside my head. The power recoils, sputtering, cutting off like a wire yanked free. I can't hold all of this. I won't. Not today.

Pepper kneels.

The movement is so small, but it wrecks me.

She lowers the reactor to the surface of the lake, hesitating for half a second before letting go. The metal touches water with the softest splash. Barely a sound at all.

I watch it float.

The arc reactor drifts away from her fingers, bobbing once, then settling as the current takes it. Light glints off the casing as it moves farther out, farther from shore, farther from us.

I can't stop staring.

This is real. This is happening. Tony Stark—genius, asshole, hero, family—is gone, and all that's left is a piece of glowing metal floating away like it's nothing.

My chest tightens. My vision blurs at the edges.

Bucky squeezes my hand.

The pressure is immediate, grounding, like armor locking into place around me. He steps just a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine, his presence a solid weight that keeps me upright when my knees threaten to buckle.

I lean into him without thinking, my forehead nearly touching his arm, my body instinctively seeking gravity. He's warm. Steady. Real in a way everything else feels painfully fragile.

He dips his head, his mouth close to my ear.

"You're allowed to cry, Em," he whispers, low enough that no one else can hear.

The words crack something open inside me.

"I know," I whisper back.

But I don't cry.

I stand there, breathing through the ache, jaw locked, shoulders stiff, holding everything in with the same iron grip that's kept me alive through worse than this. I keep watching the water. I keep feeling Bucky's hand in mine.

One tear slips free anyway.

It tracks silently down my cheek, warm against my skin, and I let it fall—just the one—before swallowing the rest and standing my ground.

Time moves again after the funeral, slow and reluctant, as if it doesn't want to admit the moment has passed.

People begin to drift away from the lake in uneven waves. No one leaves all at once. Grief doesn't work like that. I watch them from where I stand, still anchored to the spot Tony was sent off from, my body heavy, my thoughts lagging a step behind reality.

Peter goes first.

He hesitates, shoulders curled inward, red eyes fixed on the water like he's expecting it to give Tony back if he just stares long enough. Happy rests a hand on his back, guiding him away gently, like Peter might shatter if anyone grips him too hard. He keeps looking over his shoulder until they disappear down the path.

Pepper lingers longer.

She stands perfectly still, spine straight, chin lifted, refusing to fold even now. Morgan is tucked against her side, small fingers gripping black fabric. Pepper doesn't cry. Not here. She turns and walks away with quiet determination, and something in my chest aches at the strength it must take to keep moving.

The Avengers scatter next. Wanda alone. Clint stiff and hollow-eyed. Thor heavy with unspoken guilt. Everyone carries it differently, like weapons slung across their backs—some visible, some buried deep.

I barely notice when Steve moves until my attention snaps to him like a pulled trigger.

He's near the platform now. The one Bruce, Tony and Rocket built. The one humming faintly with energy it barely contains. Steve is already in mission mode—posture straight, shoulders squared, movements precise. He's calm. Too calm.

Returning the Infinity Stones.

That's what this is supposed to be.

I watch him step toward Sam first. Sam smiles, small and genuine, pulling Steve into a brief hug that lingers a second too long. Steve's hand grips the back of his jacket, firm, grounding. A goodbye that sounds like see you soon.

Then Steve turns to Bucky.

Bucky doesn't move at first.

His shoulders are tight, his stance braced, like he's preparing for impact instead of an embrace. When Steve reaches him, Bucky's arms come up slowly, hesitantly, wrapping around his oldest friend with a grip that's protective and desperate all at once.

I catalog it without meaning to.

The tension in Bucky's jaw. The way his breath stutters. The way his vibranium hand flexes once, like it wants to hold tighter but doesn't dare.

He feels it.

He doesn't know why yet, but his body already does.

Steve pulls back, hands still on Bucky's shoulders for a beat too long, eyes searching his face like he's trying to memorize it. Then he turns.

And he looks at me.

My powers flicker—just a spark, just static—brushing the edge of his mind without permission. Images try to surface. A life. A choice. A door closing gently instead of slamming shut.

Everything clicks.

I don't say it. I don't think it in words.

I just know.

Steve nods once, subtle, almost imperceptible. A silent acknowledgment that tells me this isn't just about stones or timelines or duty.

This is goodbye.

And the calm that settles over the clearing feels less like peace and more like the moment right before something breaks.

Steve steps toward me, and the world narrows.

The clearing fades—the platform, the murmured voices, the hum of energy—until there's only him standing in front of me with that same steady resolve he's always worn like a shield. He stops close enough that I can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the weight he's carrying tucked carefully behind them.

I don't wait for permission.

I step into him and wrap my arms around his torso, gripping the back of his jacket hard enough that my fingers ache. For a split second, he stiffens, surprised—and then his arms come around me, solid and familiar, pulling me in just as tight.

It feels like a battlefield goodbye.

Our grips tighten instinctively, breaths syncing, bodies braced. I press my forehead against his shoulder and close my eyes, my mind racing even as I keep my face calm.

I'm sure now.

Every instinct, every flicker of static in my head has aligned into one brutal truth. I know what he's going to do. I know why. And I hate it—hate how selfish it is, hate how much it costs the people he's leaving behind.

I'm angry.

Not explosive. Not loud. Just a sharp, controlled burn that sits steady in my chest. He's choosing something for himself for once, and I can't decide if that makes me want to shake him or forgive him.

Either way, I know I can't stop him.

So I don't try.

I lean in closer, my mouth near his ear, and lower my voice until it's just for him. "Say hi to her for me," I whisper.

He stills.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then he nods once, slow and deliberate. No questions. No denial. Just confirmation without words. My throat tightens, but I pull back before anything else can break through.

Steve gives my shoulder a final squeeze and turns away.

He walks toward the platform with the same measured steps he's taken into every impossible mission, climbing onto it like this is just another job that needs doing. Bruce moves into position, fingers flying over controls, jaw clenched.

"Starting countdown," Bruce says.

The numbers tick down, each second a hammer strike against my ribs.

Steve meets my eyes one last time and I nod.

A silent, "Go get her"

Then the platform flashes, light swallowing him whole—and he's gone.

Just like that.

The platform hums as the light fades, energy dissipating into nothing but air.

Bruce and Sam don't move at first.

They stand there like the universe might change its mind if they give it a second. The machine whines softly, systems recalibrating, lights blinking in steady patterns that mean stand by. Waiting. Always waiting.

I stare straight ahead.

Bruce clears his throat and taps at the console. "Okay," he mutters, fingers flying. "He should be coming back in... five... four..."

Nothing happens.

The hum doesn't change. The platform stays empty.

Sam shifts beside him. "Uh—Bruce?" His voice is careful, edged with something tight. "Is it supposed to take this long?"

Bruce frowns, leaning closer to the screens. "No. It's—hang on." He types faster, pulls up readings, scans data that doesn't tell him what he wants to see. "That's weird."

The word lands wrong.

Too small. Too light for the silence swallowing the clearing.

The machine just sits there.

No flash. No surge. No returning hero.

Sam steps closer to the platform, looking around it like Steve might be hiding behind the rails. "Did he miss the jump point?" he asks. "Did something go wrong with the return coordinates?"

Bruce shakes his head, baffled now. "No, the timeline markers are stable. The platform's synced. He should be here."

Silence.

It presses in, thick and unbearable, louder than any battlefield detonation. I don't flinch. I don't blink. I just keep staring at the empty space where Steve Rogers should be standing.

Beside me, Bucky hasn't said a word.

I feel him before I hear him—the way his weight shifts, the way his breath catches just slightly. He leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine, vibranium hand flexing once at his side.

When he speaks, it's barely a whisper.

"He's not coming back, is he?"

His voice is tight, carefully controlled, like he's holding it together with sheer force of will. There's no accusation in it. No panic. Just a quiet, devastating understanding breaking through.

I don't look at him.

I don't need to.

I shake my head once. Slow. Final.

No.

The machine keeps humming.

And the world, indifferent and cruel, keeps moving forward without him.

I turn away from the platform at the same time Bucky does.

It's instinctive. Like our bodies know there's nothing left to see there. The hum of the machine fades behind us, swallowed by the quiet of the clearing, and for a moment, I focus on the rhythm of my steps just to keep myself grounded.

Then I see him.

He's sitting on a bench near the edge of the trees, half-shadowed by the late afternoon light. At first, it's just a shape—still, unassuming, easy to miss if you aren't looking for patterns where none should exist. His posture is relaxed but deliberate, back straight despite the years pressing down on him. His hands rest folded over his lap, fingers long, familiar in a way that makes something in my chest tighten.

He watches the lake.

Not the platform. Not us. The water.

There's patience in the way he sits. A quiet certainty. Like he's already waited a lifetime and doesn't mind waiting a little longer.

Bucky slows beside me. I feel it in the shift of his weight, the hesitation in his step. His gaze locks onto the bench, brow furrowing as recognition fights its way through confusion.

"Sam," he says softly.

The name carries just enough urgency to cut through the air.

Sam turns fast, following Bucky's line of sight. His breath catches when he sees the old man, eyes widening, disbelief flashing across his face before something gentler takes its place. Hope, maybe. Or understanding.

He starts toward the bench, steps quick and unsteady, like he's afraid the image will vanish if he doesn't reach it fast enough.

I don't follow.

Bucky hesitates, torn, glancing between Sam and the bench like he's trying to decide if he should go too. I place a hand on his arm—not to stop him, just to anchor him—and start walking in the opposite direction.

After a beat, he comes with me.

Each step away feels heavier than staying ever could. My chest aches with it, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down, but I keep moving. I already know how this ends. I knew the moment Steve looked at me before stepping onto the platform.

I don't look back.

Some goodbyes aren't meant to be shared.

And some futures are only meant to be witnessed from a distance.

We don't stop walking until the trees thin and the noise fades behind us.

The clearing feels too open, too exposed. I need distance—space where the truth won't echo back at us from a hundred watching eyes. Gravel crunches under our boots. The lake is still visible through the branches, a strip of silver cutting through green, but I keep my gaze forward.

Bucky breaks first.

"Tell me."

The word is quiet, but it hits like a demand. Not angry. Hurt. His voice is tight, controlled in that way that means he's holding something together with bare hands and will bleed if he squeezes any harder.

I slow to a stop.

I don't turn around right away. I need a second to decide how much of this I can give him without tearing something else open. My powers itch under my skin, restless, like they want to fill in the gaps for him, show instead of tell.

I don't let them.

Steve returned the stones. That part is easy. Clean. The mission everyone expects.

"He did what he said he would," I start, staring at the trees. "Every stone. Every timeline sealed back up."

Bucky's breath shifts behind me. Waiting.

"And," I add, quieter, "he didn't come back alone."

There's a long pause. Long enough that I wonder if I should stop. Long enough that the air feels heavier between us.

I turn then, finally, and meet his eyes.

"He got Natasha back."

The words hang there, fragile and sharp all at once.

Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His jaw tightens, disbelief flickering across his face before it fractures into something rawer. "That's not—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. "You watched her die."

"I did," I say, steady even as my chest aches. "And I'm telling you—I'm not crazy."

I need him to hear that part. Need it said out loud. The relief of it hits immediately, like loosening a band that's been cutting off circulation.

"They fucked around with their Pym particles," I continue, blunt, because dancing around it won't help either of us. "Skipped where they were supposed to land. Bent the rules just enough."

His eyes search my face, looking for cracks, for doubt.

"I told you I saw her," I say. The memory flashes vivid and unrelenting—red hair, familiar stance, her voice cutting through the chaos. "During the final fight. Before everything ended. I knew then something didn't line up. I wasn't hallucinating. I just didn't know Steve's plan yet."

Bucky exhales slowly, like the air has been punched out of him.

"They found each other," I go on, the words coming easier now that I've started. "Somewhere along the way. After the stones. After the war. They chose not to come back."

I hesitate, then finish it. "They settled down. Had a life."

Understanding dawns in his expression, slow and devastating.

"That's why he's old," I say. "Because he lived it. All of it."

Silence falls between us, thick and heavy, but it's different now. Not crushing. Processing. Bucky looks away, shoulders rising and falling as he takes it in piece by piece. His vibranium hand flexes once, then stills.

When he nods, it's small—but it's real.

He believes me.

The relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle.

I step forward before I can overthink it and pull him into a hug, wrapping my arms around him and holding tight. He stiffens for half a second, then melts into it, arms coming up around me with a grip that's protective and desperate all at once.

We stand there like that, two survivors clinging to each other in the aftermath, both of us breathing through losses that don't cancel each other out—only stack.

"They left," he murmurs, voice rough against my hair.

"I know," I say softly.

We've both lost people.

And for the first time since this all began, the truth doesn't feel like another wound—it feels like something we can finally carry without bleeding out.

I don't let go of him right away.

When I finally do, my hands linger at his jacket like I'm bracing myself for the next impact. My chest feels tight again—not panicked, not broken—just heavy with something unfinished.

"I have something else to tell you."

The words drop between us, careful and deliberate.

Bucky pulls back immediately. His hands fall to his sides, but his eyes stay locked on mine, sharp and searching, like he's bracing for a hit he won't see coming. "Emris," he warns quietly. Not angry. Protective. Afraid of what comes next.

I nod once.

I feel the weight of it settle fully now. This isn't something I can soften with words. There's no clean way through it. Some truths need to be seen to be believed.

"It's better if I show you," I say.

He tilts his head slightly, confusion creasing his brow, but he doesn't stop me as I turn away. I start toward the cabin, each step slow and deliberate. The gravel crunches under my boots, loud in the quiet, every footfall a decision I can't take back.

Inside, the air is cool and still. Familiar. I move on instinct, crossing to the small table near the window. My fingers hesitate just for a moment before I pick it up.

The picture is light in my hands. Too light for what it carries.

I walk back out and hold it out to him without a word.

Bucky takes it carefully, like it might cut him if he grips it wrong. His eyes drop to the image, scanning it once, then again. Confusion settles in first. His brow furrows deeper.

It's Morgan Stark—grinning wide, sunlight in her hair. She's holding hands with another little girl, younger in age, blonde-haired, light-eyed. They're laughing at something just out of frame, faces open and unguarded in a way only children can manage.

"They look..." he starts, then stops.

"Happy," I finish softly.

His gaze flicks up to me, unsteady. I swallow and finally give him the last piece.

"That's Mia," I say. "Mia Rogers."

"Steve and Nat's daughter," I finish.

The color drains from his face.

His breath catches, sharp and audible, eyes snapping back to the photo like it's rearranged the world while he wasn't looking. Shock ripples through him, raw and unfiltered, and he stares at the picture like it might vanish if he blinks.

I don't say anything else.

I just watch as the truth lands—and stays.