XVII. Emris

I wake to silence.

Not the comforting kind—the heavy kind. The kind that wraps around your skull like wet cotton, dulling everything except the sound of your own heartbeat.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

It's too quiet.

The ceiling above me is white. Sterile. Too clean, too perfect, not a single crack or stain. Fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, buzzing like insects just beyond reach. The air smells of disinfectant and something metallic—sharp, clinical.

My entire body aches.

It's a distant kind of ache, like my bones remember something my mind can't. My limbs feel heavy. Numb. Like they belong to someone else. My fingers twitch slightly against the stiff sheets beneath me, and that small motion sends a jolt of panic crawling up my spine.

Where the hell am I?

I shift my eyes—slow, cautious. The room is large, all glass and metal and cold edges. One wall is nothing but a wide, reinforced window looking out into a hallway. On the other side of it, a man is watching me.

Sam Wilson. Falcon.

He's leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, his expression unreadable. But he's not looking at me like someone checking on a patient. He's watching me like someone expecting a threat.

My throat tightens.

Across the room, farther away, a figure stands with his back to me—tall, broad-shouldered, in a suit. A mess of dark hair, and the faint glint of something glowing blue on the workbench beside him.

Stark.

Tony Stark.

A memory scratches at the edge of my skull—bright light, metal, the whine of servos—Ultron. Fighting. Falling—

I try to sit up.

A sharp pain lances through my side, and I hiss. My legs tangle in the thin sheets, my hand flying instinctively to my stomach. There's a bandage there. Thick. Taped tight. I follow the line of it with my hand, and that's when I notice the IV snaking into my arm.

My blood runs cold.

No. No, no, no.

Panic blooms in my chest like fire racing through dry brush. I yank at the IV instinctively, the sharp sting barely registering as the needle tears free and blood dribbles down my wrist. The monitor beside me lets out a shrill, angry beep. I don't care. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, teeth gritted, body trembling.

I feel like I'm about to come apart.

The floor feels too far away. My feet barely brush it. I grip the edge of the bed, knuckles white, and force myself upright. Pain flares along my ribs, white-hot and breath-stealing, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Because I don't know where I am.

Because I don't trust them.

Because I don't remember.

The sheets are tangled around my ankles like restraints, and I kick them off, staggering to my feet with the unsteady grace of someone used to acting injured but never quite being it. My knees nearly buckle. I catch myself on the IV pole, metal clattering against metal.

Across the glass, Sam straightens.

Tony turns at the sound.

His expression shifts the moment he sees me—shock, concern, and then something sharper. Calculation. Like he's already trying to figure out what I'll do next. His eyes flick to the disconnected IV, then to the blood running down my arm.

"Whoa—hey. Easy," he says, lifting his hands like I'm some kind of wild animal he's trying not to spook. "You're okay. You're safe. Just breathe."

Safe.

That word sends a hot spike of anger through my gut.

"Where the hell am I?" I snap, my voice hoarse but sharp. My throat feels like sandpaper, dry and raw, but I force the words through anyway. "What did you do to me?"

Tony doesn't move closer. Smart man. "You were hurt. You passed out after the fight with Ultron. We brought you back here—Avengers Compound. Medical bay."

My eyes flick between him and Sam. The hallway beyond the glass is empty except for him, but I feel like I'm being watched. Like there are eyes behind the walls. Cameras. Sensors. Things I can't see but know are there.

I scan the room again, fast. There's a table beside the bed, some kind of scanner above it, a few machines still humming softly. A tray with gauze and surgical tools.

I recognize the layout. Not the specifics, but the pattern. The feel of it.

It's a holding room. Not a hospital. Not really.

"You drugged me," I accuse.

Tony sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "No. You were unconscious. Internal bleeding. We had to stabilize you or you'd be dead. This wasn't some trap, alright?"

My hands are shaking, but I don't let go of the IV pole.

It's not just the disorientation. It's not just the pain.

It's the helplessness.

I was unconscious. Vulnerable. In their care. And no matter how much logic tells me that they saved my life, another part of me—the louder part, the one that learned survival in blood and betrayal—screams that I've been compromised.

Again.

Tony must see it on my face. He doesn't come closer. He just stays there, watching me carefully. "Emris, listen. You're safe here. I get it—this is weird, it's not ideal, you don't trust us. That's fine. But we didn't hurt you. We helped you."

I glare at him. "Congratulations. Do you want a medal?"

He exhales through his nose, clearly biting back something sharper.

Sam taps the glass gently to get my attention. "You almost died," he says, voice muffled. "You did good out there. We're just trying to help."

Help.

The word echoes in my skull, alien and fragile.

I press my back to the nearest wall, cold metal seeping through the thin hospital gown, and slide down until I'm sitting. My legs tremble too much to stand.

The blood from my arm has started to drip onto the floor.

I don't care.

I focus on breathing, on cataloging the pain, the pressure, the layout of the room. I take note of exits. Weapons. Weaknesses.

Tony doesn't move. Sam doesn't leave.

And I just sit there—heartbeat pounding, head foggy, pain blooming behind my ribs—wondering how long before the next betrayal comes.

Because trust?

Trust got beaten out of me a long time ago.

The cold of the floor seeps into my skin.

My spine presses against the wall, knees pulled loosely toward my chest, one arm cradling my side like it might stop the ache from spreading. My other hand still trembles, streaked in blood where the IV tore free. The pain's dull now, pulsing in waves, but it doesn't drown out the rest of it.

The fear.

The fury.

The doubt.

I focus on the rhythmic rise and fall of my breath, counting each inhale like it'll keep the panic from blooming again. But it's not working. Not really. Because my thoughts keep spiraling, clawing at the inside of my skull like something caged.

What did they do while I was unconscious?

Did they search me? Drug me? Implant something?

Why the hell would they just let me wake up here, alone, with the glass wall like I'm some kind of lab experiment?

The worst part?

I don't know.

And that uncertainty—it's poison in my veins.

So I sit there, trying to breathe, trying to calm the war going on inside my own head, and all I can think about is how wrong this feels.

But also... how nothing feels missing.

No strange pressure behind my eyes. No fog in my thoughts. No new weight inside my limbs or buzzing beneath my skin. Just pain. Exhaustion. The lingering taste of blood and fear.

I can't tell if that makes me feel better or worse.

There's a soft hiss, and the door opens.

I don't look up—not immediately—but I hear the familiar clink of boots on the tile. Not heavy like a soldier's. Not cautious like a nurse's. Just casual. Controlled.

Tony Stark sits down beside me.

Not close enough to crowd. Not touching. Just... next to me.

I still don't look at him. My eyes stay locked on the crimson smear drying across my wrist.

"You broke four ribs," he says, voice quieter than before. Not sharp, not mocking. Just... tired. "One of them punctured your lung. Internal bleeding. That's why you blacked out."

I say nothing. He doesn't expect me to.

"You also had a concussion. Pretty bad one. I don't know exactly when it happened in the fight, but... my guess is you kept going after you hit your head. Because you're stubborn as hell."

A corner of my mouth twitches. It's not a smile. Not really.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to glance at him.

He's wearing a suit—not the armor, but an actual business suit. Sleek, tailored, expensive in the way only someone like Tony Stark can casually pull off. The dark fabric sharpens the angles of his frame, the crisp white collar stark against the fading bruises along his jaw.

He's studying the floor, fingers loosely laced together between his knees. Not staring at me. Not pushing. Just... there.

"You didn't sedate me?" I ask, finally. My voice is low. Frayed.

Tony shakes his head. "Didn't need to. You were already out cold."

"Nothing was... implanted?"

That gets a small huff out of him. "No. Jesus. What do you think this is, Area 51?"

I look at him again—longer, this time. "You tell me."

There's a pause. Then he says, softly, "If I wanted to screw with your head, Emris, I wouldn't need implants to do it."

I tense, instinctively. He holds up a hand, almost apologetic.

"Bad phrasing," he mutters. "What I mean is—I'm not interested in turning you into some project. You're not a science experiment. You're... a person. A pain in the ass, sure. But a person."

I stare at him for a long beat. Waiting for the punchline. For the manipulation I'm used to. The transaction.

But it doesn't come.

Just silence.

He glances sideways. "I don't expect you to trust me. I barely trust myself. But we saved your life. That's all this was."

I want to believe him.

I don't.

Not fully. Not yet.

But the panic ebbs, just a little. The weight of suspicion eases its grip on my throat. Enough for me to really breathe again. Shaky. Shallow. But real.

"...Why am I in a room with a glass wall?" I ask after a moment.

Tony shrugs one shoulder. "Observation. In case you woke up swinging. And we've... had incidents with former assassins before. Thought it'd be safer—for everyone."

That stings.

Even though he's not wrong.

"I wasn't going to attack anyone," I mutter.

"You tore your IV out and almost collapsed trying to stand," he says dryly. "Forgive me if that didn't scream 'stable recovery.'"

I let my head fall back against the wall, exhaling slowly.

"Yeah," I whisper. "Okay. Fair."

We sit in silence again. Not companionable—but not hostile, either. Just two people trapped in the aftermath of something neither of us knows how to explain.

he door hisses open with a soft whoosh, breaking the heavy silence of the med bay recovery room. My head jerks toward the sound, muscles tight and ready, but it's just Sam.

He steps in slowly, careful not to spook me. His wings are gone, the suit traded for a hoodie and joggers, like he's trying to look less like a soldier and more like a person. But I know better. Everyone here is a soldier, even when they smile.

"You look like hell," he says, his tone easy, trying for levity.

I'm still sitting on the cold tile floor, knees tucked up to my chest, back pressed against the wall. My arms are wrapped around my ribs, every breath a dull ache. There's a deep pressure behind my eyes, probably from the concussion.

Sam squats down beside me, concern flickering across his features. "C'mon. That floor's doing you no favors."

I don't move.

He waits. Doesn't push. Just gives me a look—patient, steady, like he has nowhere else to be until I decide I'm done being stubborn.

Eventually, I sigh. My body's too tired to keep fighting everything. I nod, and Sam moves slowly, like helping a wounded animal. His hand wraps under my arm, and he pulls me up with ease. The movement makes pain explode through my ribs, and I suck in a sharp breath.

"Easy," he mutters, tightening his grip as I sway. "One step at a time."

The bed feels miles away, but we make it. I slump back against the pillows, exhausted from just that short walk. Sweat beads on my skin. My chest feels like it's caving in.

Tony's already moving on the other side of the room. He's shed the jacket, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The Arc Reactor glows faintly through his white dress shirt, but the rest of him is all business. His hands are steady as he prepares a fresh IV bag.

My gaze sharpens.

"No," I say, voice hoarse.

Tony glances up. "You need fluids. Pain meds. Antibiotics. We're not exactly running a prison here."

I shove the blanket off and pull my arm away as he approaches. "Don't touch me."

"Emris," Sam starts, but I cut him off with a glare.

"No. I'm not letting anyone stick me with anything."

They both freeze, and I can see the unspoken conversation between them. They know. Or at least, they've read enough of my file to guess. What the Black Lotus did. How many needles were involved.

Tony sets the IV down, stepping back a little, hands raised like he's showing he's unarmed. "Alright. No needles. Not yet. Let's talk."

I eye him warily. "Talk?"

"You've got a fever. You're dehydrated. One of your ribs punctured your lung, and you have a grade three concussion. You're lucky to be breathing on your own right now."

I don't feel lucky.

Tony sighs and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "We're not the Black Lotus, Emris. No one's going to drug you and reprogram your brain. You're in a secured medical room, yes, but only because you were dying on a battlefield twelve hours ago."

The room shifts slightly. I close my eyes against the dizziness. Sam is still nearby, one hand resting gently on the edge of the bed. Not restraining. Just... present.

"We can do this your way," Sam says quietly. "But you gotta let us help. You've been through hell. You don't have to keep dragging yourself through it alone."

I open my eyes. The weight of their words settles into the space between my ribs, heavier than the pain.

"Just fluids," I say eventually. "And I want to see the bag. Everything you're giving me."

Tony gives a short nod, already back at the counter. "Done. I'll walk you through it."

He narrates each step—what the fluids are, the dosage, how the tubing works. It's clinical, transparent, almost annoyingly thorough. But I watch every movement, every label.

When he steps forward with the IV again, I don't flinch this time. My hand still trembles, but I offer my arm.

Tony's touch is efficient, not gentle, but not cruel. The needle slides in with barely a pinch, and he tapes it down. "See? Nothing fancy. Just helping your body do what it needs."

I lean back against the pillows, already exhausted again.

"You'll feel better soon," Sam promises. "We've got real doctors on standby, but Tony insisted on doing the first part himself. Said something about bedside manner."

Tony scoffs. "I said I didn't trust anyone else to keep her from punching a nurse."

I manage a thin smirk. "Smart call."

The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's heavy, but not hostile. There's something like understanding there. A fragile thread of trust being stretched, tested, but not yet broken.

"Get some rest," Sam says. "You've earned it."

I nod faintly, though I don't think sleep is coming anytime soon.

But I let my eyes close and think. Probably not the best idea but I do it anyways.

A really bad fucking idea.

I stare at the ceiling. It's not like I'm expecting it to move or offer answers, but it's better than looking at the machines around me or the IV in my arm. I've been awake for a while now—long enough for the haze in my mind to thin, long enough for the questions to start gnawing.

Why the hell am I starting to trust Tony Stark?

Not fully. Not completely. But enough. Enough to hesitate when he speaks. Enough to meet his eyes instead of looking away. Enough to let him put that damn IV in me, even if every muscle in my body screamed not to.

Why does he care? Why did he call me kid? Why does he say things like I matter? I tried to kill him. Him and his friends. I was a weapon pointed at their heads, and now he's trying to fix me like I'm a project that can be patched and made functional again. Like I'm not the thing that was meant to destroy him.

He's Tony Stark. He should hate me. Instead, he looked at me like I was broken glass—sharp, dangerous, but still capable of catching the light. He looked at me and didn't flinch.

I don't get it.

I shift slightly, wincing as my ribs remind me they're still healing. The med bay is too sterile, too bright. I can feel the compound humming beneath me, quiet and constant. I remember where I am now.

The Avengers Compound.

A place I was imprisoned in not that long ago.

And now I'm in their medical bay, being watched over like I'm some stray they took in. Like I'm part of this.

I swallow the sudden dryness in my throat.

What the hell am I doing here?

The thought barrels into me with the weight of a freight train.

Dragunov.

The Black Lotus.

I haven't checked in. I don't even know how long I was out after the fight with Ultron. A day? Two? A week?

I was supposed to find the Winter Soldier. Track him. Extract him if possible. Report back. And I got... sidetracked.

Sidetracked trying not to die. Sidetracked saving people I was told were the enemy. Sidetracked by a man who called me kid.

Dragunov doesn't tolerate failure. He doesn't tolerate anything that smells like disobedience. If he hasn't already sent someone to retrieve me, I'll be shocked. But he won't send just anyone. Not for this.

He'll send Natalie and drag me right back to the Black Lotus. Right back to Karpov and his extensive torture methods, and that fucking room of his.

I close my eyes, and just like that, the room is gone.

I can smell it. The room Karpov uses. Sterile and cold, with a strange mix of blood and bleach that clings to your nose long after you've left. The table in the center is metal—always cold, even after hours of use. Restraints at the edges. And a chair in the corner of the room just like the table. Lights overhead too bright, like they want you to see every inch of what's happening to you.

And Karpov...

That smile. That awful, smug little smile he wears just before he starts. It never wavers. Not when you scream. Not when your body seizes. Not when your mind starts to slip from the pain.

He enjoys it. That's what makes it worse.

He doesn't punish because he's ordered to.

He punishes because he likes it.

Electricity. Blades. Chemicals that make your veins feel like they're full of fire. He knows how to make pain into a language. And I've spoken it more than once.

If Dragunov knows I helped the Avengers, even for a second... if he has any inkling that I acted outside of orders...

Karpov will make sure I remember who I belong to.

My hands clench the blanket around me. It's too soft. Too warm. It feels wrong. Comfort isn't something I get to have. Not when I've failed.

They'll find me. That's not even a question.

The only question is what they'll do to me when they do.

A sound outside the med bay pulls me back. I blink, my chest tight, and stare at the IV again, wondering how much time I have before this fragile illusion of safety shatters. Before Karpov walks through the door with that damn smile.

I wonder if Tony would still call me kid if he saw what I looked like after a session in that room. If he saw how many people I had killed. Tortured. If he saw who I really was.

Probably not.

Maybe that's for the best.