L. Emris

I wake up too slowly.

For a split second, I think I'm dead. That's how still it is. No alarms screaming through my skull, no dreams dripping blood down the walls of my mind. Just... stillness.

The ceiling above me is cracked and stained, soft morning light bleeding through the crooked blinds. Dust floats in the air like suspended ash. I don't move. Not because I can't—because I don't want to break it. Whatever spell has settled over me, I know it won't last.

My body's heavy, like someone poured concrete into my limbs while I slept. My muscles ache, but not in the sharp, alert way they do after a fight. This is the dull soreness of someone who slept—actually slept—for the first time in years.

A floorboard creaks.

I shift my gaze, slow and cautious, and there he is.

Bucky Barnes. Slouched in a ratty chair a few feet from the bed, arms folded, eyes fixed on the door like it's going to come alive and attack us. He hasn't moved. I don't know if he slept at all. His stubble is a little thicker than last night, jaw tight, but his breathing's even. Controlled.

His eyes flick to mine, and a slow, irritating smirk curls on his lips.

"Sleeping Beauty has risen."

God.

I groan and shove the thin blanket off. "Shut up, Barnes."

The chair creaks again as he stands, all lazy grace and worn leather boots. He stretches once, shoulder blades rolling beneath his shirt like he's got wings tucked under there, and nods toward the bathroom.

"Guess I can finally leave my post."

The door clicks shut behind him, and a moment later, the old pipes start groaning. Water hisses. Steam curls out beneath the gap at the floor.

I sink back into the mattress, elbows propped behind me.

It's wrong, how soft this bed feels. How safe this room seems. Like the war outside hit pause while I was unconscious. But it didn't. I know better.

My eyes drift to the chair where he sat all night. Watching. Guarding. I remember how close he'd been. The heat of him under the blanket. The scent of soap and metal and something I couldn't name but recognized anyway.

His breath had brushed my face. My pulse had kicked like a warning drum. I could've leaned in and kissed him. I didn't.

Because this isn't that.

This isn't comfort. This isn't healing. This is triage dressed up as tenderness. I tell myself that a few times, just to make sure it sticks.

He's still him. I'm still me.

And whatever the hell that almost was... it's gone now.

I rub the heel of my palm over my eyes and exhale slow. My ribs sting where the bruises haven't faded. My shoulder's stiff. I'm a mess. A breathing, technically-living mess.

The shower's still running.

I could walk away now. Steal a moment of distance before he walks out with wet hair and tired eyes and that stupid, unreadable face.

But I don't.

I sit there and stare at the chair he guarded me from. And I wonder—just for a breath—what it would be like to trust him with more than just my back.

But I can't. Won't.

I move like I'm underwater. Every motion feels heavier than it should. Deliberate. Slow. Controlled.

The duffel bag I left is unzipped at the foot of the bed. I crouch beside it, fingers brushing over threadbare cotton, worn fabric, steel grey and charcoal black. I pick out a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, simple and loose—nothing that clings, nothing that reveals too much of my bruises from my months on the run.

My muscles protest as I straighten, pulling the old tank top over my head and tossing it aside. Bruises bloom dark over my ribs, a sick mosaic of purple and green, reminders of an agent's fists and the fall from the stairs.

I move on autopilot. Leggings up, fabric whispering over skin. The chill in the room sharpens my nerves as I lift the t-shirt—faded black, soft from too many washes—and pull it over my head.

That's when I hear the door.

Hinges creak. Steam billows out like a wave, heavy with the scent of soap, leather, and heat. It hits me before I even look.

But of course, I do look.

I'm a soldier. I'm trained to notice movement.

That's my excuse. That's what I tell myself.

He steps out of the bathroom, towel slung dangerously low on his hips, hair falling around his face, damp and dark. Droplets trail down his chest, carving paths over muscle and scar.

I don't mean to let my eyes dip. I really don't.

But they do.

Abs. Sharp. Tapered. Defined.

Then lower—

Nope.

I snap my head back so fast my neck cracks.

Heat slams into my cheeks. I scowl and throw myself onto the bed like I'm mad at it.

He didn't even notice. He's across the room now, grabbing a shirt from his bag like this isn't some kind of Greek tragedy unfolding in real time.

I rub the heel of my palm over my burning face.

Get it together.

He's just a body. Big deal. I've seen better.

Lie.

Doesn't matter. Doesn't mean anything.

It's just biology and momentary lapse and goddamn steam that smells way too good.

My jaw locks. The second I feel my thoughts turning soft, I stab them back down with venom. I hate this. I hate how my traitor brain dares to notice him in pieces. I hate the flicker of warmth that sparks when he's not looking.

He's still the same stubborn bastard who drives me insane. He's still the enemy I almost killed multiple times.

And yet, I almost touched him last night.

He almost touched me.

Almost didn't hate it.

I grip the edge of the mattress until my knuckles ache.

This isn't me. I don't do this.

He's a mission complication wrapped in muscle. That's all.

That has to be all.

The kitchen looks like it gave up on life sometime during the Cold War.

Cracked linoleum curls at the edges like peeling skin. The counters are coated in a thin layer of dust that no one's had the energy—or will—to wipe clean. One lone lightbulb swings from the ceiling, flickering like it's auditioning for a horror movie. Every few seconds it buzzes, a sharp little zap that sets my teeth on edge.

And yet, there's coffee.

Sam stands at the counter, wearing joggers and a hoodie, stirring sugar into a chipped mug like it's the most important mission he's ever had. Steam curls up from the pot. The bitter scent hits me like a freight train—dark roast, maybe French, definitely burnt. I inhale like it's oxygen.

He doesn't look up as he says, "Look who finally decided to join the land of the traumatized."

I arch a brow and shuffle forward, barefoot on the cold floor. "You mean the land of kidnappers?"

That gets a grin. "Hey now, we prefer the term unauthorized emotional support group."

He slides a mug across the counter toward me. The ceramic is warm against my palms, radiating heat I didn't know I needed. I grip it tighter than I should, like I'm afraid it'll vanish if I blink.

"Careful," Sam says, taking a sip from his own. "That face you're making? That's dangerously close to contentment."

I glare at him over the rim of my mug. "If I start singing songs about friendship, you have my full permission to put a bullet in my head."

Sam chuckles. "Only if you do jazz hands first."

The coffee tastes like charred earth and anxiety, but it's hot, and it grounds me. Anchors something inside me that's been drifting for too long. I lean against the counter, letting the silence stretch just a beat too long.

It's... almost peaceful.

Which means it won't last.

I hate how my shoulders start to loosen. How the tension in my spine begins to slip. I hate that I'm getting used to this—mornings with sarcastic soldiers and bad lighting and coffee that tastes like war crimes.

I hate it because the second you feel safe is the second everything goes to hell.

Sam's watching me. Not obviously, but I can feel it. He studies people like they're puzzles.

I sip again, letting the heat burn my tongue. "You're staring, Wilson. Should I be worried you've developed a crush?"

He smirks. "Please. You're not my type."

"Too much trauma?"

"Too much attitude."

"Fair enough."

Something's wrong.

It's in the air. A shift, sharp and invisible, like the second before lightning strikes. A crackle at the edge of awareness. My grip on the coffee mug tightens.

Then—

Gravel crunches.

Not footsteps. Landing.

My heart spikes, punches straight through my chest. "Get down—" I start, but it's too late.

The door explodes inward.

I don't even have time to blink.

She is already on me.

One second I'm holding a mug. The next, I'm flat on my back with a hundred and forty pounds of rage crashing into me like a missile. Air blasts out of my lungs. My skull smacks the linoleum. Her knee slams into my gut, pinning me. A cold, merciless hand wraps around my throat. Another drives a gun barrel into the side of my head.

Nataly.

Jet-black hair, sharp as a razor across her jaw. Steel eyes. Tactical suit stained with blood—mine? Someone else's?

"Anyone moves, she dies."

Her voice is calm. Flat. It's the calm that scares me most. The calm of someone who's done this before—will do it again.

I can't breathe.

Her fingers crush my windpipe. My pulse pounds like war drums in my ears. I catch a glimpse—Steve and Bucky have frozen mid-step, both half in the room, muscles coiled. Natasha stands at the far wall, hand twitching at her side, waiting for a shot she'll never get.

Nataly's grip tightens.

Black creeps in at the edges of my vision. My fingers scrabble against the floor, looking for anything—anything—

"Does it count if I move?" I rasp.

Her eyes don't flicker. No smirk. No response.

Okay. Humor's out.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

My vision blurs. My limbs scream.

Then—I feel it.

The blade tucked into the waistband of my leggings. Left side. Just under the shirt. I angle my wrist. Feel the handle brush my fingers. Nataly adjusts her weight slightly—

Now.

I grab.

Drive it up.

The knife sinks into her side with a sickening sound. Not deep—just enough. Enough to make her flinch.

She gasps. Just a breath. Just a second. That's all I need.

I twist.

Her grip slips.

The gun wavers. I slam my forearm into hers, knocking it sideways.

She lunges back—

I follow.

Twist my hips, roll us over. Her spine slams against the floor. I grab her wrist—

Snap it.

She screams, finally. The gun clatters out of her hand.

I kick it. Hard. It skitters across the floor and under the kitchen table.

"Payback's a bitch," I spit, panting.

Reminding her of when she had stabbed me all those months ago.

She snarls, and tries to throw me off. We grapple, rolling through spilled coffee and broken ceramic. My knee slams into her ribs. Her elbow connects with my jaw. Pain blooms like fire, but I don't let go. Can't. Won't.

This is survival.

Her hands claw at me, nails scraping skin. I duck her next punch and smash my forehead into hers.

Crack.

Stars explode behind my eyes—but she goes limp.

I shove off her, stumbling backward on hands and knees, coughing, sucking in air like it's the first I've ever had. My throat throbs. My jaw aches. Blood—hers, mine, I don't care—drips from my palm.

Silence.

For just a moment.

Then footsteps. Bucky's there first, gun raised, covering her. Natasha grabs the weapon from under the table. Steve's beside me, hand on my shoulder, checking for damage.

I ignore them all.

I'm staring at Nataly.

Still breathing. Out cold. Pulse fluttering.

And I feel it—that hot, ugly rush of satisfaction. That burn in my gut that says yes. I hurt her. I won.

And I don't feel guilty.

That's the part that makes my stomach turn.

Not the fight. Not the blood.

But how good it feels.

How good it always feels.

I don't even have time to get off the floor before it gets worse.

A blink.

That's all it takes.

He's just there—a man who hadn't been there a second ago now standing between the fridge and the doorway like he's always belonged.

Tall. Black hair. Unsmiling. A black tactical coat clings to him like smoke, and his eyes glow faintly green.

Teleportation.

Warner.

Shit.

"Dragunov really thought you could bring me in?" I snarl, forcing myself upright. My voice is sharp, cocky. Weaponized confidence.

But my knees wobble.

He doesn't reply. Just tilts his head.

Then—

Movement.

Nataly surges up from the floor like she hadn't just had a knife in her gut. Her eyes lock on Bucky—and she charges.

"Look out!" I shout, but he's already moving.

She tackles him into the hallway. The sound of bodies crashing into drywall echoes like thunder. Natasha's suddenly beside me, gun up—then gone, diving across the room as two more agents crash through the back window.

Steve throws himself at them. A gun goes off. Someone shouts.

Too many. Too fast.

Warner vanishes in a flicker of distortion—gone—

Reappears behind Bucky.

Bucky barely dodges the knife aimed for his throat. He fires twice—misses. Nataly lunges again. It's two-on-one.

I start forward—

Hands grab me from behind.

I freeze. Instinct screams—fight, move, break free—but the grip is too strong. Steel arms wrap around my chest, one forearm pinning my arms to my sides, the other locked around my throat in a hold I've used a hundred times.

But it's not just the technique.

It's the smell. Sweat. Mint. Bleach.

And the voice, low and familiar, inches from my ear:

"Don't fight me, Em."

Chris.

My gut plunges. My body goes still, stiff, useless. No. No no no—

He yanks me back, fast. My heels drag across the floor, scraping linoleum, toes catching on broken tile. I thrash, but it's a formality. He's stronger. Always has been.

"Let me go!" I shout, kicking. My foot connects with a chair—it crashes over. No one hears me over the mayhem.

The kitchen fades behind me. Steve slams a guy into the fridge. Natasha flips another over the counter. Glass shatters.

And I'm being pulled out the front door, into cold air and gray morning light, heart hammering against my ribs.

I twist in Chris's grip. "Motherfucker!"

His expression doesn't change.

He looks like someone I used to know.

That's the part that hurts the most.

Chris drags me down the steps like a damn rag doll. I twist and writhe, but it's no use—he's all brute force, no hesitation.

And then I see him.

Standing in the gravel driveway, calm as hell, coat fluttering in the breeze like we're in some kind of twisted fashion shoot.

Dragunov.

Every muscle in my body locks up. My mouth goes dry. My knees buckle, even as Chris holds me upright like a prize he's presenting.

"You," I breathe.

He smiles, faint and razor-thin. "Hello again, Serpent."

I force a scoff past the rising panic in my throat. "You look like shit."

His eyes flick over me, cold and possessive. "You look rested. That won't last."

Chris starts to push me forward. I plant my feet, even though they tremble.

Dragunov steps closer. "Let's go, Serpent."

"No."

The word is quiet. Brittle. But it's mine.

He tilts his head, amused. "Yes."

He reaches into his coat pocket. Pulling out his watch to look at the time.

When his eyes flick back up to meet mine I can see the intent behind them.

No. No.

My brain goes white-hot. He has the trigger phrase. He'll say it. He'll take me again.

I'll disappear.

I scream and shove—not with my body—with my mind. It crashes into him like a wave against stone. He flinches. Staggers. But doesn't fall.

Too strong. Too trained.

I push harder.

He grits his teeth. Blood beads at his nose.

Chris tries to yank me back. I throw my elbow into his gut, twist free, and lunge.

My hands slap onto Dragunov's temples. His eyes widen.

"You want me back?" I snarl. "Here's what you get."

And I dive in.

My mind floods into his like a wire jammed into a socket. Sparks. Resistance. Pain. It's like ramming into a firewall made of concrete and rage. His thoughts snap at me like vipers—commands, codes, cold Russian steel.

But I've lived there.

I know the layout.

I find the current—the fragile neuroelectric hum that keeps a man upright—and rip it out.

He seizes. Drops like a sack of bricks. Foam flecks at his mouth as his eyes roll back.

The world goes still.

I stand over him, hands shaking, chest heaving. My heart's trying to claw its way out of my ribcage.

He's not dead.

Yet.

My fingers twitch toward the knife strapped to my thigh. I unsheathe it. Stand there. Staring down at him.

I could do it. One thrust, right through the heart. I should.

He'll come back. He always comes back.

I tighten my grip.

And I... don't.

The knife trembles in my hand.

Then lowers.

"Coward," I whisper—to myself.

Footsteps crunch behind me. The fight's still going inside. I don't move.

Just swallow down the sob building in my throat like bile.

I leave him in the gravel.

Down. But not done.

The front door hangs crooked on its hinges. Smoke curls from a bullet-ridden cabinet. The whole house groans like it might collapse.

I step over shattered glass and into chaos.

Bucky's in the center of the kitchen, bleeding from his shoulder, grappling with two agents at once. Natasha slams a third into the stove. Steve's crouched behind the overturned table, shield raised. Sam is holding his own against another agent.

I take a deep breath and shout, "Your daddy is on his ass outside!"

Everything stops.

Nataly's eyes slice to mine, murderous. Chris's fist freezes mid-swing. Warner—calm, always calm—lowers his weapon with a flick of his wrist.

Nataly snarls and storms past me, brushing my shoulder like we're just two girls bickering in the hallway. She doesn't even glance at Dragunov's crumpled body in the driveway—just stalks into the smoke like she plans to kill someone with her bare hands.

Chris lingers. He wipes blood from his split lip and grins, lazy and venomous.

"What could've been, Emmy."

I smile sweetly. "I would've bitten your dick off."

Natasha lets out a short bark of a laugh.

Chris winks and backs toward the door. "Still kinky."

"Still pathetic."

Then Warner's the only one left.

He lowers his pistol like it weighs nothing. Same exact grip I use. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and clinical, before settling on me.

He walks to the threshold and pauses. "He'll kill you now, you know."

I lift my chin. "Let him try."

He smirks—barely. "Stay safe, sissy."

The word hits like a backhand.

Sissy.

I don't let it show. Not the flicker in my chest. Not the bile in my throat. I just take a step forward, calm and quiet and sharp.

"Come after me again," I say, "and I'll kill you. And your little girlfriend." I jerk my head slightly to Nataly behind me.

Another pause. Another flicker of a smirk. "I don't doubt it, little sister."

He leaves.

Silence stretches in the wreckage like a held breath.

Then—

"Little sister?!" Sam blurts.

I don't look at him. I look at Bucky. His shoulder's bleeding freely now, and he's breathing hard. He's holding his side, as well, presumably injured. But I don't move. Don't help. I just meet his eyes, because I need one steady thing.

He stares back, like he already knew.

Finally, I glance at Sam. "Well," I say, brushing glass from my sleeve, "about time everyone met my brother."