LXXXIV. Emris

My knee won't stop bouncing.

It's not nerves. Not really. It's energy—restless, clawing energy that I can't shake. I try to still it, pressing my heel hard into the quinjet floor, but the tremor in my leg just shifts higher, into my thigh, my spine, my fingers.

The blade in my hand glints faintly under the overhead lights. I roll it between my fingers, letting the edge catch the glow. I haven't even bothered to say anything since I boarded first and dropped into my usual seat, the one near the side hatch. I've been sharpening this same blade over and over, like it'll carve out the rot sitting under my skin if I just hone it enough.

Metal on metal. That sound is the only thing keeping me grounded right now.

The quinjet hums around me, its familiar thrum growing louder as Steve walks up the ramp behind me. Sam follows him, talking about something he saw in the news, but his voice is a distant drone to me. White noise. Background blur.

Then there's Bucky.

He boards last, like always, as if he's just giving me enough time to pretend I'm not thinking about him. His boots hit the floor in that even, unhurried pace. I don't have to look to know exactly where he sits. Across from me, at a slight angle. Close enough that I can feel the weight of his eyes.

Don't look at him.

I focus on my blade again. The edge is razor-fine now, but I keep dragging the whetstone across it, slow and methodical. The vibration echoes through my wrist, a muted scrape-scrape-scrape that feels better than breath.

"You okay, snake girl?" Sam's voice cuts through the fog. I glance up just in time to catch him grinning like he knows exactly how deep in my head I am. He flops into the seat next to Steve, who's already flipping switches.

"Peachy," I mutter.

He raises a brow but doesn't push. Steve's focused, quiet. He's always like this before missions, especially lately. He misses Natasha—I can see it in the slight slump in his shoulders, the way he tightens his grip on the controls like he's trying to hold something together.

The quinjet lifts with a low, throaty growl. My stomach rolls, but not from the takeoff. It's something else.

Excitement.

God, I wish it wasn't.

Because I am excited. Not for the mission. Not for the team. Not even for the chance to prove I'm still useful.

I'm excited to hurt them.

Drug traffickers. With women and children involved. Scum. Monsters. Targets.

And I want to bleed them dry.

It's not justice I'm chasing. It's violence. I want to feel my knife sink into flesh. I want to hear them scream. I want to be the thing that terrifies them right before they die.

And it makes me sick.

I shouldn't be looking forward to this. But I am.

I clench the blade tighter, like maybe I can crush the feeling before it spirals. But it's already uncoiling in my chest, hot and nauseating.

That's when I finally glance up—and find Bucky still watching me.

Our eyes lock. His expression is unreadable, but I know him well enough by now. His jaw's a little tighter. He hasn't blinked since we left the ground. He sees too much. Always has.

I break the gaze first and return to my blade. Pretend it didn't happen. Pretend I'm not unraveling.

"You hear that?" Sam says, nudging Steve. "She's sharpening again. She only does that when she's about to unleash hell."

"Let's hope she aims it at the right people," Steve replies dryly, not looking back.

I don't respond. Can't. My mouth is dry.

I usually would, keeping my banter with Sam. But I really can't.

I switch to my second blade, just to keep my hands busy. The sound of sharpening fills the quiet again. The only anchor I have.

But Bucky's eyes are still on me. I can feel it like a brand. Not judging. Not prying.

Watching. Always watching.

I hate how much I want to turn and fall into him like gravity.

But I don't. I just keep sharpening. Keep breathing.

Keep pretending.

After a short ride, the quinjet touches down with a soft bump, landing gear hissing into the dirt like it's exhaling tension.

I wish I could say I do the same.

But I don't. I stay wound tight, every muscle in my body ready to snap. My throwing knives are sheathed but I keep brushing my fingers over the hilts anyway, like I need to remind myself they're there. Like I'm afraid they'll vanish if I look away too long.

The hatch hisses open and cold air rushes in, carrying the stench of oil, rust, and cigarette smoke from the compound up ahead. I breathe it in like it might burn away the restlessness in my chest.

Steve motions forward and we move out, silent and low, disappearing into the high grass and broken fencing near the perimeter of the building. We crouch behind the rusted remains of a burned-out vehicle—probably some unlucky guard's truck from a past raid.

It's quiet. Too quiet. And I hate it.

My knee starts bouncing again.

I try to stop it, curling my fingers into a fist against my thigh, but it's no use. My body has its own language—its own instincts—and right now it's screaming. Fight. Bleed. Burn.

A hand touches my leg gently.

I flinch.

It's Bucky.

I glance over at him, and our eyes meet—his blue calm against the storm rising in my chest.

He doesn't say a word. Just looks at me like he's asking the question I can't answer.

Are you okay?

I nod once. Just a twitch of my head. A lie, plain and simple. But I hold the eye contact longer than I should, and I know he sees it. He always does.

His hand stays there, solid and still on my leg. I could move. I could shift out of reach.

I don't. It's helping.

Steve starts whispering, crouched just ahead of us, eyes scanning the building like he's memorizing every brick. "Six guards out front. Probably more inside. No sign of civilians yet. Intel says they keep them in the back, away from the loading bays."

Bucky still hasn't moved his hand.

I catch Sam's eyes flicking down to it, then away again. I pretend I don't notice.

"What's the play?" Sam asks, already adjusting the weapon strapped to his chest.

Steve points to me. "She draws them out. We slip inside during the chaos and get the women and kids out before they're caught in the crossfire."

My lips twitch into a smirk before I can stop it. Of course I'm the bait. I'm always the bait.

"Classic," I mutter.

Bucky's hand tenses on my thigh.

"We're gonna leave her out here alone?" he says, voice low but sharp.

Steve doesn't look at him. "She can hold her own."

I feel Bucky's body stiffen beside me, his jaw grinding even if I can't see it. I can feel it. I've known him well enough to read the shifts in his energy like a second language. Protective. Angry. Worried.

But I don't let him speak again.

"I'll be fine," I cut in, giving them both a crooked smile. "Just gonna have some fun."

The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I let them hang anyway. Humor is easier than fear. Or worse—honesty.

I shift forward in one fluid motion, ignoring Bucky's quiet protest behind me. As I move past him, I let my fingers drag across his vibranium hand. It's subtle, brief. But it's my way of saying don't worry. Of saying I know. Of saying I'll come back.

He doesn't grab me. Doesn't pull me back.

But I feel his stare digging into my spine as I slip out into the shadows.

The guards are laughing about something up ahead. One of them spits onto the ground. Another checks his weapon lazily, completely unaware that the next few minutes of their lives are about to unravel in blood and screaming.

I stay hidden a moment longer. Let the anticipation build.

The quiet before the storm has always been my favorite part.

Because in that breathless pause... I'm still whole.

Still untouched.

Still me.

But the second I step out, the second I smile and say—

"Hi boys."

—I become something else entirely.

The second the words leave my mouth, six pairs of eyes snap toward me. Surprise. Confusion. That familiar mix of ego and underestimation. I feel it ripple off them like heat.

Perfect.

The one closest to me is tall, wide-shouldered, with a crooked nose like he's broken it a dozen times and never bothered to fix it. He reacts first—shouting something guttural in Russian as he lunges, swinging a pipe.

I sidestep, fast and low, let him stumble past me—and drive my elbow into the back of his neck. He crumples, groaning, but not down for long. They never are.

So I throw my knife into his neck.

The second man charges, smaller but quicker. Shaved head, neck tattoos. He has a blade, rusted and mean-looking. I let him get close. He slashes at my stomach—I jump back, just enough—and drive my knee into his chest when he overextends.

Shoot him in the back of the head.

Two down. Four left.

The third and fourth come at me together.

One with a crowbar. The other with brass knuckles already glinting red under the security lights. They're not trained. Just angry. Just violent.

Crowbar swings for my head—I duck.

Brass Knuckles lunges—I slam my knife into his thigh. He screams.

Crowbar tries again—I twist behind him, hook his arm, snap his elbow backward with a sickening crunch. He howls. Drops the weapon. I kick it out of reach, then twist and fling him forward into his partner.

They go down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

I breathe hard through my nose. My shoulder's bleeding from where one of them clipped me with a wild punch, but I'm still standing.

Still in control.

The fifth one is smarter.

He hangs back. Gun raised. Eyes sharp.

The others were just grunts.

This one? He's been watching me. Waiting for the pattern. Calculating.

He fires.

I throw myself to the ground as the bullet whizzes past my head. It pings against the metal gate behind me. He fires again—I roll behind a stack of crates.

Too far to throw a knife. Too close to run.

I reach out with my mind instead as I make eye contact with him.

His fear is a thin thing—but it's there. Buried beneath bravado. I wrap my mind around it, coax it to the surface. Whisper thoughts into his head that aren't real.

She's behind you. You're on fire. The walls are melting.

He flinches. Eyes wide.

And that's all I need.

I sprint toward him as he screams, slapping at hallucinated flames on his chest. He shoots wildly—one bullet grazes my side.

Hot fire lances through me.

I don't stop.

I tackle him hard, knock the gun from his grip, and drive both my knives into his chest.

His breath rattles.

Then silence.

One left.

I stagger to my feet, blood soaking into the side of my suit. It's not deep—but it's bleeding. Fast. I press a hand to it, grit my teeth, and turn.

The sixth man is already running at me. Broad. Bearded. Laughing like this is all some game.

He tackles me, slamming my back into the dirt.

I bite down on a scream as my ribs protest.

His hand goes for my throat—I grab his wrist, twist hard. He snarls. My other hand finds my blade and plunges it into his stomach once, twice, three times.

He rears back in shock—and I roll on top of him.

My vision tunnels, blood loss making the world spin—but I find his neck and snap it with both hands before I pass out.

Silence.

I fall back, gasping, my knees in the dirt.

Six bodies around me.

The ground is littered with blood and bullets and broken limbs.

I don't move.

I can't.

My hands shake.

I look down and see the blood smeared across my palms, my suit, my blade. Most of it isn't mine.

Most of it.

But the graze on my side burns like a brand. Like a warning.

The nausea rises before I can stop it.

This was supposed to feel good. Righteous. Clean.

It doesn't.

It just feels... heavy.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps behind me.

Too fast. Too heavy.

I spin—but not fast enough.

Someone grabs me from behind, lifts me, and throws me hard across the dirt. My back slams into a crate. I grunt, pain flaring white behind my eyes.

I scramble to my feet—vision blurred, blood soaking my side.

Five more.

They're already closing in, surrounding me.

No time to think.

Just survive.

They circle me like sharks, eyes cold and hungry.

One lunges, grabbing my arm, yanking me toward him. The world tilts. My legs stumble, but I stay upright, claws and mind sharp as ever.

I twist, jamming my elbow into his ribs, feeling the crunch beneath my skin. He grunts, loosening his grip just enough for me to break free.

Another swings a chain. It whistles through the air, meant to wrap around my neck.

I duck, barely, the chain scraping past my cheek.

A jagged flash of pain.

I grit my teeth.

The pounding in my side is relentless, every breath a razor cutting through my lungs.

I'm barely holding it together.

My mind stutters, thoughts tangling, slipping.

But I'm not done yet.

I shove back into the fight.

I throw a knife, sharp and precise, into the shoulder of the closest one. He stumbles, yelling, but the others don't falter.

They close in.

I fight like I'm drowning—clawing, scratching, desperate.

My breath rattles in my chest.

My vision blurs.

Then—

Suddenly, a heavy weight crashes into the group.

Bucky.

His presence is a grenade exploding in slow motion.

Fury burns in his eyes—raw, unfiltered. He moves fast, brutal, precise.

His metal arm swings like a wrecking ball, knocking one guard back with a grunt. He grabs another by the collar, slamming him into a crate with a bone-cracking thud.

I try to get up, to help, but my legs tremble.

Bucky's beside me, steady and solid.

He doesn't hesitate.

His human hand grips my shoulder, steadying me.

"You okay?" he growls, but it's not really a question.

I nod, though my body screams no.

The guards regroup, eyes wild and furious.

Bucky and I fall into an unspoken rhythm, fighting side by side.

No words—just movements.

He's fluid and fast, every strike calculated.

I watch as he disarms one without killing him—his restraint brutal in its own way.

It matters.

It shows he still holds onto something beneath the rage.

Together, we take them down.

The last one falls to his knees, panting and beaten, but alive.

Silence.

I'm on my knees, chest heaving.

Bucky crouches beside me, breathing heavy, his arm still steady on my shoulder.

For a moment, we just look at each other.

No words.

No promises.

Just the weight of everything we've survived.

Then, footsteps.

Sam and Steve.

They appear, women and children trailing behind, faces anxious but relieved.

Distant sirens wail—authorities are coming.

Steve nods quickly.

"Let's move," he says.

We can't be seen.

But I'm frozen.

The blood on my side, the ache in my chest—it's all too much.

The fight, the killing—it's hitting me harder than I expected.

Bucky's hand tightens around mine.

"Em," he murmurs softly.

I glance up at him.

He's steady, grounding.

The night is far from over.

Inside me, everything is unraveling.

The faces of the innocents—they look fragile, scared, clutching each other and meadows of hope blooming in their eyes. Their whispered prayers cling to the air like soft feathers.

I can't move.

My hands catch my attention first. Blood—dark, sticky—smears my palms and runs down my fingers. It glistens on my suit, a cruel reminder that I'm still stained by violence, by death. I want to scrub it away, but the stains seep deeper than fabric and skin.

Everything around me warps—sound dulls and sharpens in jagged waves. Colors bleed and sharpen in sickening contrast. The quiet sobs of the children echo like thunder in my ears. My chest tightens. Breathing feels like dragging chains through water.

Bucky's hand settles gently over mine, warm and grounding. His touch slices through the haze, a tether pulling me back.

"Em," he says again softly, voice steady like a rock in a storm.

I blink, forcing my legs to move. One step. Then another.

His grip tightens just enough to remind me I'm not alone.

We walk together toward the quinjet, the weight of what I've done pressing heavily on my shoulders. Every step echoes the silent screams in my mind.

The sirens grow louder now.

But I can't shake the image of blood on my hands.

I've never had this problem before.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The quinjet rumbles beneath us as we lift off. The vibration pulses through my bones, a low hum that feels both distant and intrusive. I'm pressed against the cold wall of the seat, fingers clenched tight, trying to stay grounded. My stomach flips, but it's not just the flight—it's the sharp, burning ache on my side.

The Sam and Bucky are huddled near Steve's pilot seat as they talk about something.

I can't really hear them.

I try to swallow the knot growing in my throat, but the words slip out, barely audible.

"I got shot."

No one reacts. The engine noise swallows my voice whole.

I say it again, a little louder, desperate this time.

"I got shot."

Finally, Bucky's eyes snap to me, wide and searching. His face drains of color.

"What?" Sam says, turning sharply from where he's talking to Steve.

"I got shot," I repeat, the words tasting bitter.

Bucky's hands are suddenly on me, gentle but urgent. "Where?" His voice is rough, a mixture of fear and frustration.

I turn myself just enough to reveal the line of red across my side, the graze bleeding excessively now. "Just a graze... need a few stitches," I mumble, but my voice cracks like fragile glass.

Sam's already kneeling beside me, pulling the med kit from his bag. The zipper's harsh scrape cuts through the tension.

"Hey, Em, are you good?" Sam asks, eyes flicking between the wound and my face.

I don't answer.

Bucky leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Does she look a little pale to you?" Sam asks quietly.

"Yeah," Bucky mutters, voice thick. "Emris, are you okay?"

But I don't respond.

My vision narrows. Sounds warp—Bucky's voice muffled like it's coming from underwater. Sam's movements seem slow, distant, like they're moving in a dream.

I try to move, but my body won't obey. It feels heavy, like I'm sinking into quicksand.

My chest tightens unbearably. It's harder to breathe with every second.

Inside my mind, panic claws its way up, tearing through the layers I've built to keep it at bay.

Flashes strike—dark rooms, cold metal, the sting of needles, the echo of screams. Hydra. Black Lotus. The past crashes down like a tidal wave.

I want to scream. I want to run. But I'm frozen.

I can't breathe. The thought screams in my head. I can't speak.

Don't touch me, I want to say. But I want him to touch me—his hands are the only things keeping me tethered to now. The only thing stopping the panic, the flashbacks.

Bucky's voice breaks through the chaos, low and steady. "Em, talk to me, baby."

His hand brushes my cheek, warm and solid. His eyes—soft, desperate—search mine.

I see Sam's eyes snap to Bucky, but I'm lost.

My lips move, silent. No sound comes out.

My heart races like a wild animal trapped in my chest.

My breaths come shallow, uneven, too fast.

I'm drowning in noise, in fear.

"Em," Bucky whispers, his hand cupping my face. "You're safe."

But safe feels like a lie.

I want to believe him.

I try.

The quinjet roars around us, but inside, the storm rages. And I'm stuck.