XXVIII. Emris

I come back slowly.

Like surfacing through tar. My body doesn't obey at first—it's stiff, unresponsive, detached. Even my breathing feels foreign, like I'm watching someone else do it. Chest rising. Chest falling. Again. Again.

My head throbs. Dull and slow at first, then sharper, like a hot knife working its way through cotton. I try to lift a hand but it's sluggish, trembling, fingers curling too late. There's weight in my limbs that shouldn't be there, like they've been disconnected and hastily reattached. Numb. Electric.

The floor is cold beneath me. I don't remember lying down. I don't remember... anything.

I blink—slow, gritty. There's light, too bright, too white. The kind that's meant to wash everything in sterile silence. My surroundings are a blur until my vision starts to settle into shapes: smooth walls, faint reflections, glass. A containment cell. I'm in a cell.

Why?

Panic doesn't hit me. It's not allowed. I can feel it trying to push through the cracks, but something inside keeps it caged. Something that doesn't belong to me anymore. Like muscle memory of obedience.

I push myself up with effort. My arms tremble under the weight of my own body. My legs are worse—tensed and sore, like I ran for miles or fought for hours. There are bruises on my ribs. My temple throbs where a knot is already swelling beneath the skin. A dull, echoing reminder of the last thing I remember—

No.

There is no last thing. Just static. Like someone yanked the film reel out of my head and replaced it with noise.

I exhale slowly, grounding myself. Smell first—industrial cleaner, faint electricity, sweat. The kind of recycled air that never quite loses the staleness of fear and steel. Taste—metallic, like I bit my tongue in my sleep. I rub my fingers together, testing my nerve endings. They respond, but clumsily. Not mine. Or maybe not yet mine.

Then I hear him.

"Emris?"

His voice is familiar. I flinch. Not because it's loud—it isn't—but because it's known. Like something whispered in a dream that I should've remembered when I woke up.

I look up.

He's standing just outside the glass. His arms are folded across his chest like a man trying to stay guarded, but there's a tension in his stance that gives him away. His body leans forward without meaning to. His eyes stay downcast, focused somewhere near my shoulder, never my face. Not even for a second. Smart.

Tony Stark.

I know him. I don't know how I know him, but I know him. Like a fingerprint burned into my mind. And he knows me. I can see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his mouth pulls to the side like he wants to say something casual but can't risk it.

He's afraid. Not of me exactly—he's too proud for that—but of what I might still be.

How long has it been? I don't ask it out loud. My throat doesn't want to work yet. I just think it, and it echoes through my skull like it might answer itself.

Tony clears his throat. "Do you remember anything? After Sokovia?"

Sokovia.

That word cracks something. A shiver runs through me like a wire's been hit. Images try to form but collapse before they take shape.

"Do you remember the Compound? The team? Anything about what happened after we brought you back?"

Brought me back. Was I gone?

I don't respond. I can't. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. My mind is louder than it should be—buzzing, racing, spinning around the hole in my memory like it can fill it by force.

Tony shifts on his feet. His voice is softer now. "You were safe with us. After Sokovia. You were healing. You—" He swallows whatever the rest of that sentence was. "You weren't supposed to end up like this."

Like this. Like what I am now.

I should say something. I should ask questions. Why can't I remember? Why do I know his name but not the context? Why do I feel this aching familiarity in my chest every time he speaks, like I missed something... something important?

Instead, I look past him. At the wall. At nothing. I stay silent.

I feel his eyes flicker up, just once. I feel them land on mine. I feel the hesitation like a tremor in the air.

Then they drop again.

"We're in Berlin," he says, more quietly. "We didn't know what else to do with you. They wanted to take you, but we didn't let that happen. You don't remember anything, do you, kid?"

No... I think I do.

I'm here because I failed. I didn't kill the Winter Soldier. I didn't kill Steve. Or Tony. I didn't kill any of them. That's why I'm breathing. That's why he's still standing.

And yet he's looking at me like he wants me to remember something good.

I lower my head. Let my hair fall between us like a curtain. I don't want him to see me. Not until I understand who I'm supposed to be.

And who I used to be.

He's still out there. Still standing just outside the glass.

Still not looking me in the eye.

I should feel rage. Or guilt. Or confusion. But instead, there's this pressure—low and constant—pressing at the back of my skull like something's trying to break through. Like a memory trying to claw its way out of a locked box.

Tony knows something. More than he's saying. I can feel it. Or at least something that I have...forgotten? If that's what you call it.

I glance sideways, toward the thick glass wall behind me. I'm sitting with my back against it. It's cool through my suit, smooth against my shoulder blades.

He won't look me in the eyes. He won't let me in his head. He's careful, too careful. But he'll make a mistake. He's already made one.

He came here.

I draw in a slow breath through my nose. Then I start to move. I lean forward slightly, then snap my head back against the glass with a sharp crack.

Pain spikes behind my eyes. My vision flares white. The shock is immediate and blinding, but it clears fast. I do it again.

Crack.

"Emris!"

His voice slices through the intercom—frantic, panicked.

"Stop it!"

Crack.

Each impact rattles through my skull like a thunderclap, dizzying and raw. My head feels too full—of smoke, of noise, of absence.

Crack.

Blood now. I feel it, sticky and hot, sliding down my temple.

"Emris—stop!" His voice breaks. "Please, kid, stop!"

And there it is.

Kid.

I freeze for half a heartbeat. The word hangs in the air like a chime from another life. A broken shard of something I almost remember. But it's gone before I can catch it.

One more time.

CRACK.

The door hisses.

Tony's in the room.

"Damn it—damn it, I'm here—stop, okay? Just stop." He kneels beside me, hands reaching, grabbing my face, inspecting the damage. "What were you thinking? You're gonna give yourself a—"

Got him.

I look straight into his eyes. He flinches.

Too late.

I reach up—my fingers tremble, slick with blood—and I press them to his temple.

The world falls away.

It's like diving into electricity. Not water. Not warmth.

It sizzles.

Everything flickers—snapshots, voices, static—and then it hits. A rush of sound and motion and feeling.

I see myself below.

Sky. Wind. Falling.

I'm plummeting through the clouds. My body is limp, numb from something—pain? Panic? I don't know. The world spins, and I'm a ragdoll spiraling toward the earth.

Then—

Arms.

Strong. Metal. Catching me.

"Gotcha, kid."

Tony. His voice. His arms locked around me. The repulsors hum under my ribs. I can smell scorched air and blood.

I blink, and—

A medical bed. The Compound.

White sheets. Sunlight streaming in from a high window. My skin is pale, covered in bandages. Machines beep softly in the background. I try to sit up, groaning.

"You move like a grandma with a hangover," Tony mutters, not looking up from the tablet in his lap. He's in a chair beside me. Eyes tired. Shoulders heavy.

"You're not dead," he adds. "Congrats."

My throat cracks when I try to answer, but I smile. Just a little. He notices. Smiles back. It's tiny, crooked.

There's warmth there. I remember this warmth.

The lab.

Wires everywhere. Smoke. I'm sitting on a stool, one knee tucked to my chest, watching Tony work.

"You can't be here," he says without turning around.

"Why not?"

"Because you broke my last soldering wand. And because you don't know what you're doing. And because you have no chill."

"I have so much chill."

"You're literally vibrating."

"You're just mad I'm smarter than you."

He finally looks at me, lifts a brow. "Please. I invented smart."

I snort. He laughs. We don't say anything else for a while. But the silence is comfortable. Easy.

I start to detatch from Tony's mind and the memories start to flood in, fragments, but its something.

Sam.

Sam leans against the med bay bedrail, grinning. "You remember when you fell off that tower in Sokovia?"

I groan. "That was like four days ago, of course I remember."

"You were flailing like a windmill. And you scream like a little girl.."

I smirk. "And yet, you still managed to make it look dramatic. Plus I did not scream."

He laughs. "Oh you were so screaming.."

"Oh, I was so not."

His grin widens. "You're welcome, by the way."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah—my hero."

Wanda.

She's sitting with me on the floor of my room. There's a flower between us—delicate, violet, not native to anywhere nearby.

"I thought you'd like it," she says. "It looked... fierce. Like you."

I take it in both hands. "Thank you."

We don't talk about anything else. We don't need to.

Natasha.

She never speaks much. But I remember walking into the kitchen one night and finding her there, leaning against the counter. Watching me. Not judging. Just seeing me. Like she knew the truth and wasn't afraid of it.

Like she saw the war I kept buried.

She nodded once. I nodded back.

It was the quietest kind of safety.

Each memory slams into place like a puzzle piece forced into a slot. Some fit. Some still ache. But they're mine now.

I remember it all.

I feel Tony's mind reeling. He's trying to pull back—but I hold on, just a little longer.

I pull back from his mind like surf retreating from the shore.

My fingers slip away from his temple, trembling. My head is pounding—white-hot and rhythmic, like my brain is knocking against my skull trying to escape. My breath shakes in my lungs.

Tony stumbles back. He doesn't fall, but he looks winded, like I punched the air right out of him.

He stares at me with wide eyes, his lips parted like he's still catching up to what just happened. His voice is hoarse when he says, "Kid? You remember?"

The name softens something in my chest.

I nod.

The word yes sticks in my throat. But I manage a small, fragile smile—barely there, just a twitch of my lips. Still, Tony sees it. He lets out a breath like he's been holding it for years.

"You scared the hell out of me," he says, rubbing a hand over his face. "You've been scaring the hell out of me, honestly. But...you're here. You're you." He chuckles, broken and relieved, then mutters under his breath, "Jesus, I thought I lost you."

I want to say something comforting. Something kind. Something true.

But all I feel is the pressure again.

Not in my skull this time.

In my chest.

Like an invisible hand wrapping around my ribs and squeezing.

Dragunov.

The name slithers into my thoughts like oil.

Mission. Orders. Consequences.

I shift my weight. My body moves before I make the decision. My fingers curl into fists at my sides.

I don't want to look away from Tony, but I do. Just for a second. It's enough for the fog to creep back in, cold and sharp.

He notices.

His voice gentles. "Emris?"

I keep my eyes on the floor.

"I have to leave," I whisper.

The air changes between us. Stiffens. Freezes.

"What?" Tony steps toward me, just once, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal. "What do you mean, you have to leave? You just got your head back on straight. You don't have to do anything except rest."

I lift my gaze. "I failed my mission. I didn't bring in the Winter Soldier. Dragunov... he won't be forgiving this time."

Tony's jaw tightens. "You don't owe him anything. You're not with them anymore."

"I don't get to just walk away," I say, too sharply. "You think I haven't tried? You think I don't want to stay?"

My voice cracks.

Silence stretches between us. The walls hum with it.

Tony doesn't speak. He watches me instead, eyes scanning every inch of my face like he's trying to memorize it before I vanish again. I want to look away, but I don't. I owe him at least that much.

"I spent years crawling out of one kind of cage just to end up in another," I murmur. "And I don't even know which part of me is real anymore."

Tony reaches a hand out, slow and open-palmed. Not to touch, just to be there.

"You're real," he says quietly. "Right now. This moment. That's real."

My shoulders tremble. I clench my jaw. I take a step back.

"I have to leave," I repeat. Quieter. But firmer.

Tony drops his hand.

And for the first time since I touched his mind, he doesn't look relieved. He looks tired. Defeated.

"Okay," he says after a beat. "Okay."

He doesn't argue. He doesn't try to stop me.

He just sees me.

And somehow, that's worse.

I turn toward the cell door.

Tony's not moving. He's standing in the way, hand hovering near the panel that would let me out. His eyes still won't meet mine directly—he angles his face just enough to stay in control. Smart. Cautious.

"I can't let you leave," he says.

I take a breath through my nose. "I wasn't asking."

He lifts his chin slightly. "You don't understand what's going on."

"I know enough. I know I failed the mission. I know he's going to send someone else. I know—"

"Bucky's being hunted, and not just by you," Tony interrupts, flat and sharp.

That stops me cold.

I blink.

He sees the hesitation and leans into it. "There was a bombing at the UN. Vienna. King T'Chaka was killed. Surveillance caught the Winter Soldier at the scene."

"What?"

It falls out of my mouth before I can stop it. Not defensive. Not angry. Just... confused.

"You're saying Bucky—he killed the king of Wakanda?"

Tony nods once, jaw clenched. "That's the narrative. The whole world saw the footage."

My mind spins.

No. That's not right. That doesn't line up, not even close. The dates—Marseille—he was—

"I was with him," I say. "In France. I tracked him down after the Black Lotus pulled me out. I followed his trail from Algeria to Marseille. I fought him in his apartment."

Tony's face tightens. "What date?"

"April 22nd," I say instantly. I'm about to mention why that date sticks out to me: my mother's birthday.

My voice stumbles. I look down, swallowing the ache.

Tony glances toward the side wall, not looking at me. "The bombing was the twenty-first."

"So unless Bucky can teleport..." I trail off, heart starting to hammer in my chest. "He couldn't have been in Vienna. Not unless someone messed with the footage."

"Or framed him," Tony says. "Steve thinks it's a setup."

"And you don't?"

He doesn't answer right away.

"Why would I?" he asks finally, voice low. "I didn't have context. You were gone. I thought Bucky took you, he is a part of Hydra. The footage came out, Steve and Sam went rogue trying to help him... I didn't know who to believe anymore."

"You really think he could do it? Without being under their control?" I ask, searching his face.

Tony's gaze flicks toward mine for half a second, just enough. "I thought you were dead. I thought that girl that came for you killed you. And then you show up brainwashed and aiming to kill Steve. It messes with your perception of reality."

I don't have a response for that.

He rubs his fingers together, thinking. "Steve and Sam got caught helping Bucky after the bombing. I bailed them out. They're here. That's why I need you to stay, Emris. We're piecing this together, and you're part of it. You remember him. You know him. That matters."

I stare at the floor, trying to breathe past the heaviness pressing against my chest. A second ago, I was ready to run, to disappear. Now I don't know which direction to move in.

Dragunov lied.

Or maybe not lied—but he knew something. He always knows more than he says. He knew I wouldn't bring Bucky in, didn't he? That's why he told Nataly to extract me without him. He knew I'd fail. He planned for it.

And now Bucky's being hunted by the world for something he didn't do.

I swallow. My throat is dry, like dust.

"What happens to me if I stay?" I ask quietly.

Tony studies me. "That depends. On what you want. On what you do next."

What I want is a foreign concept. It's been trained out of me—replaced by instinct, obedience, cold calculations. But now, I find myself calculating for a different reason. Not for Dragunov. Not for the mission.

For me.

For the people I remember now—Sam laughing in the compound's kitchen, Wanda shyly leaving me that flower, Steve lecturing me like a an annoying older brother. Natasha, silently watching me like she knew something no one else did.

I never felt like I belonged.

But I was close.

Closer than I've been to anything since.

Tony's voice cuts in, quieter now. "I need to know if I can trust you not to run."

I look at him, really look.

He's not scared of me.

He's waiting.

Tony watches me.

Not like I'm a threat—though I am. Not like I'm fragile—though I feel it. No, he watches me like someone trying to hold onto hope that's been dropped too many times.

He can tell I'm hesitating, unsure.

"C'mon kid, can I trust you?" he asks.

His voice is low, almost quiet enough that I could pretend I didn't hear it. But I do. It cuts through the noise in my head like a blade.

I look at him, and for a second, I say nothing. Just breathe. My chest rises and falls, tight and shallow.

Will I run?

My mind spirals immediately, violently, to Dragunov. To the pain I felt when I failed him. The punishment. The reprogramming. The cold room with the restraints that never quite left scars—but always left a mark. I remember the blankness of being Serpent again. The way my thoughts were drowned in static. My own mind, turned against me.

If I stay with Tony, that will happen again. Dragunov will come for me. Or worse—he'll send someone else.

And yet...

I remember Tony catching me from the sky.

I remember the way he said "kid," like I was worth something. I remember Sam's terrible jokes and the flower Wanda left on my pillow, already wilting because I forgot to water it. I remember laughing. Once. Briefly. Like the sun cracking through fog.

That version of me had almost found something real. A place. A tether.

I want that again. God, I want it so badly it hurts.

But want doesn't mean safety.

I feel Tony's gaze, still waiting. Still silent. He's not pressuring me. He's letting me decide.

Which makes it worse.

Because if I say yes and break that trust—he'll be hurt.

And if I say no—

I'll lose everything.

I inhale once, steadying my hands. They've curled into fists without me noticing.

"I won't run," I say. "You can trust me."

It comes out softer than I expect. Like I'm still testing the words, afraid they'll splinter on the way out.

Even if it's not fully true.

Even if part of me still hears Dragunov's voice in the back of my skull, whispering threats like promises.

Even if I don't know how long I'll last before that part takes over again.

But for now?

I choose Tony.

Tony nods once. It's not dramatic. Not triumphant. Just... a quiet acceptance. Maybe relief.

He presses something on the panel beside the cell, and I hear the hiss of the magnetic locks disengaging. The door slides open.

I step forward.

The air outside the cell is colder, somehow. Or maybe it's just the absence of containment. The difference between being watched and being free. Not that I really am.

I glance down the hallway. It's narrow, concrete, sterile. The walls are lined with strip lights that hum faintly, like a lullaby that's gone out of tune. The scent of disinfectant clings to everything—sharp, synthetic, impossible to ignore.

Tony gestures. "This way."

We walk side by side. Not quite shoulder to shoulder—he keeps half a pace ahead, just in case. But not so far that I can't keep up. Not so far that I feel alone.

I keep my head down as we walk. Not because I'm afraid. But because I'm thinking.

Each step feels like a betrayal.

Of Dragunov.

Of myself.

But also—each step is a reclamation. Of the version of me that laughed. The one that had friends. A bed. A name that wasn't Serpent.

"You sure you're okay?" Tony asks, glancing sideways without meeting my eyes.

I shrug. "Okay is a stretch."

He snorts softly. "That's fair."

We walk a little more in silence. My boots echo on the floor—someone gave me new ones. Stark tech. I can tell by the weight distribution in the sole. They're light but balanced, like every step was engineered.

Because of course they were.

"Steve and Sam are waiting," Tony says finally.

I nod, but my stomach clenches. I'm not sure I'm ready to see them.

But I follow Tony anyway.

Because for the first time in a long time, I've made a choice.

And I need to see where it leads.