XXXIII. Emris

The moment I jolt awake, the panic crashes over me like a tidal wave.

Straps. Across my chest. My thighs. My arms. Tight. Too tight.

Metal walls surround me. A low, constant hum vibrates through the floor and into my bones. The air is cold. Recycled. Sterile. My heart lurches into a sprint before I even understand why.

Not again.

My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. I yank instinctively at the restraints. They don't budge. The pressure of them digs into my shoulders, my ribs. My wrists ache. My lungs forget how to work.

Not the chair. Not the room. Not Karpov.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that's worse. It's darker. Louder. Screams echo behind my eyes. The whine of a saw. The snap of bone. The heat of blood on my skin. My own voice, raw and broken, begging.

Stop. Just stop. I'll obey. I'll behave. I'll be good.

My chest rises too fast, too shallow. I feel like I'm choking on air.

Something cold drips down my spine—sweat or memory, I can't tell.

My muscles scream to move, to fight, to kill. But there's nowhere to go.

Then—logic. Like a slow, reluctant hand on the back of my neck.

I force my eyes open. Force myself to look.

Gray walls. Dull lighting overhead. Rows of seats. Instruments. Consoles. A long bench bolted to the wall across from me.

The hum isn't the Black Lotus compound. It's... the Quinjet.

I'm in the air.

The realization doesn't soothe me. It just reroutes the panic.

My eyes scan the front of the aircraft.

Steve Rogers sits at the controls, broad shoulders stiff, hands firm on the stick. His jaw is locked in that signature Captain America tension, like the fate of the world depends on his grip.

Next to him, in the co-pilot seat, is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Arms folded, back straight, face carved from concrete. He stares straight ahead like he might disintegrate if he looks anywhere else.

And—

Movement.

Sam.

He's leaning against the wall by my seat, arms crossed, watching me. His expression softens when our eyes meet, but I can still see the worry in his brow.

My instincts scream trap, but my mind is starting to piece things together.

I'm not at Black Lotus.

Not anymore.

I'm not on a metal table. I'm not drugged. There are no needles in my veins. No orders slicing into my brain.

This isn't torture. It just feels like it.

I draw in a breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. Again. And again.

The straps still press into my body, but they're not restraints. Not exactly. Not the kind that lock into you until you forget what freedom feels like.

Still... I hate them.

The way they hug too tight across my sternum. The way they remind me of Dragunov's chair. Of the room where pain was currency and silence was rewarded.

I shift in place, subtly testing the latch on the strap across my waist. Just checking. Just making sure I can move if I have to.

Sam steps closer. "Hey," he says gently. "You okay?"

I glance at him, then to the front of the Quinjet again. Steve. Bucky.

No, I'm not okay.

But I'm awake.

And that has to be enough—for now.

Sam slides into the seat beside me like he's trying not to startle a cornered animal. Which, I guess, is exactly what I am. His movements are casual—loose limbs, easy posture—but I see the tension under it. He's watching me. Not like a threat, but like something delicate that might snap.

"Hey," he says, voice low. Calm. "You want water? Protein bar?" He gestures to a pouch strapped to the wall. "It's not steak and wine, but it's not the worst jet food either."

I narrow my eyes at him. Not because I'm angry—yet—but because I can't tell if he's serious. Or if this is some kind of test. He doesn't flinch under my stare. That earns him a few points.

"How do I know they aren't poisoned? People in this jet aren't exactly my biggest fans," I mutter.

Sam chuckles, like that was an actual joke and not a bitter landmine. "Fair. I'll eat it myself then."

He leans back, arms crossed, settling in like he's done this before. Like he's been the guy trying to calm down something wild and freshly uncaged.

I scan his face, looking for cracks. For judgment.

But all I see is that same soft frustration he's had since Sokovia. Like he wants to understand me. Like that's possible.

A shift in the cockpit catches my eye.

Bucky turns slightly in his seat, just enough to glance over his shoulder.

Our eyes lock.

Cold blue meets green fire.

I don't blink. Neither does he.

The weight in his stare is all knives. No words.

He doesn't trust me. Hell, I don't trust me either.

He looks away first. I win. Not that it matters.

Sam notices the tension and blows out a breath, quiet but heavy. "We're gonna be on the run for a bit," he says, like we're talking about the weather. "Thought you should know."

I keep my eyes forward, fixed on the back of Bucky's head. "I have to go back."

The words fall out before I can stop them. Cold. Flat. Almost rehearsed. My programming's favorite lullaby.

Sam doesn't react right away. Just lets the silence hang for a beat too long. He knows I'm talking about the Black Lotus.

Then: "You don't."

His voice is softer this time. Not pitying. Not preachy. Just... real.

I almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, I tilt my head toward the two statues in the front seats. "Yeah? I'm sure the dream team up there will just love having me around. One's Captain Morality, the other's Hydra's favorite punching bag," I say that last part a little quieter.

Sam sighs. "Steve's fair. He's got his issues, but he's not out for blood. And Bucky—" He hesitates. "Bucky's complicated."

"That's the understatement of the decade."

While he talks, my fingers slip down to the latch on the chest strap.

Click.

The belt loosens just enough to let me breathe. I move slow. Quiet. Like a ghost. Years of training making every gesture second nature.

The tightness in my chest eases. A little. Just enough to not feel like I'm suffocating.

Sam catches the movement. He doesn't stop me, but his brow arches. "Are you even listening?"

I flash him a smirk. "Nope."

He exhales sharply, half-amused, half-exasperated.

But then something softens in me. Just a little crack in the concrete.

"Fine," I say, dragging the word out like it hurts. "I'll stay. But only for a little. Don't get clingy."

Sam shakes his head, fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

"Thank you." I cross my legs, lean back, and stare at the ceiling. "I try."

But I don't miss the look Bucky shoots me in the mirror. Like he heard every word.

Good.

I hope he did.

Then, I glance at him. Not on purpose. Not even for long.

Just a flicker. A sliver of curiosity.

And that's all it takes.

A whisper cuts through the low hum of the Quinjet's engines—threadbare and jagged, like a razor scraping bone.

"Just great."

The thought isn't mine.

It's his.

I don't mean to hear it. I don't even reach for it. But it latches onto me like a hook through skin. Dry, sardonic, laced with contempt.

And somehow, it's so Bucky that I can't help it—

I snort. Soft. Barely audible. A twitch of amusement, gone as fast as it came.

But his head snaps around.

Shit.

He felt that.

He knows.

His chair turns as he shoves up to his feet, spinning with the grace of a loaded weapon.

His steps are slow, deliberate, heavy enough I feel them through the jet's floor.

Every inch of him radiates restraint barely hanging by a thread.

I push up from my seat just as he reaches me—catlike, automatic, spine straight and arms loose. Ready.

The air in the cabin shifts. Denser. Warmer. Charged like the second before lightning hits.

"Don't do that."

His voice is low, serrated. Each word a warning.

I cock a brow, folding my arms like I'm bored. "Do what?"

He takes another step. Closer.

The metal gleam of his left hand catches the light. It's clenched.

"Get into my head."

I go still. Not visibly. Not a blink. Not a breath. But internally—my pulse spikes. Panic flashes white-hot in my chest.

He knows I was in his head.

No one ever knows.

I school my expression, keep my voice cool. Detached. "Maybe you shouldn't think so loudly. I didn't exactly mean to. Not everything's about you, James."

His jaw tightens. The muscle ticks.

I can feel it—the pressure in the air as my powers stir, uninvited, instinctual. Thoughts around me ripple like silk in water. Emotions shift. Tensions flare.

I don't push deeper. I could, but I don't.

Still, it's there. A subconscious pull at the frayed edges of his mind.

He steps in again—closer than before. Breach-of-space close. Close enough that if I reached out, I'd feel the heat bleeding off his skin.

My gut screams danger. Every nerve says move.

I don't.

"Hey."

Sam.

His voice cuts through the heat like a sudden breeze. He moves between us, a barrier in motion. Calm but firm. "It's fine. She didn't mean anything."

I almost roll my eyes. "Thanks, Falcon. Always here for the defense."

"I mean it," he says, glancing between us. "This doesn't help anybody."

Before I can snap back, another voice joins in.

"Enough."

Steve.

He strides in from the cockpit, boots silent, voice controlled like a hammer wrapped in silk.

His gaze lands on Bucky first. Not me.

"Back off," he says quietly. "She's not the enemy."

Debatable.

Still, I say nothing.

Bucky doesn't look away from me. Not yet. His breathing's heavier now, shoulders tense, eyes flaring with something too raw to name.

I stare right back. Arms still folded. Jaw locked.

We both shift at the same time—arms tightening, spines straightening. Perfect mirror images. Like two guns being cocked in sync.

Ridiculous.

But deadly serious.

No one moves. No one speaks. The hum of the Quinjet becomes a roar in the silence.

Then, finally—he blinks. Breaks the line of sight.

Steps back.

Turns away.

He walks to his seat without another word.

My limbs stay frozen. My mind, though? It's a fucking storm.

How did he feel it? The read was so light, so fast—barely a graze. Most people wouldn't have noticed if I danced through their memories with a damn spotlight.

But he did.

He felt it.

I drop back into my seat like nothing happened, but inside, everything's buzzing. My hands itch with leftover adrenaline. My brain won't stop replaying the look in his eyes—rage, betrayal... recognition?

No one says a word.

But the fight's already begun

Steve turns around and walks back to his seat without a glance, steps heavy, quiet. Focused. He heads back toward the front of the Quinjet, and I—stupidly, instinctively—reach out.

Just a brush. A flick of thought. It's not even a conscious decision anymore. Like checking a mirror for danger. I always do it, checking someone's immediate level of danger to me.

"Those two might kill each other before we even land."

I snort under my breath. Not enough to draw attention, but the thought still lingers in the back of my throat like a bitter pill.

Because sure, it's true. We might. Hell, I might.

But still—it stings.

He's not wrong, but the weight in his mind isn't frustration. It's tired. Quietly exhausted. Like the world's been sitting on his shoulders too long, and now we're just one more brick.

I watch him settle into the seat across from Bucky, his posture rigid, his silence louder than any reprimand. He doesn't even know I read him.

But Bucky did.

That thought slams back into me like a punch.

I glance at the soldier's profile, all hard edges and storm cloud silence, and my mind starts to race.

Why did he feel it?

Why him?

Steve didn't even blink. Most people don't. A headache, maybe. A vague chill. But Bucky turned around like I'd set off an airhorn inside his skull.

What if it's the conditioning? The Winter Soldier program. They reworked his brain—god knows how many times. Neural rewrites, trauma triggers, implanted aggression loops. Maybe something in there makes him... sensitive. Receptive. Aware.

Maybe it's because I had already been in his mind before. Got him back under Hydra's control to make Dragunov happy. Made him calm after a mission gone wrong. It could possibly be the familiarity of me in his head. But no, I had gone through plenty of people's heads before continuously and they had never realized I was unless I wanted them to.

Or maybe it's not science. Maybe it's just him.

Maybe he's so angry—so wound tight with violence and mistrust—that he feels me like a knife before I even get close.

A human landmine.

I bite the inside of my cheek, fingers curling subtly around the armrest. I don't like mysteries. Especially ones with eyes like his.

So I'll figure it out.

The jet settles into silence again, just the steady hum of engines and the occasional groan of metal shifting under pressure. I'm back in my seat, limbs stiff, spine pressed to the cold bulkhead. Not restrained this time—not really. But I still feel the phantom grip of those straps across my chest like ghost fingers.

Sam leans in, voice pitched low. "Are you two gonna get along, or do I need to throw on a referee shirt?"

I don't look at him. My eyes stay locked on the back of Bucky's head like a sniper sight. "Better to keep us six feet apart at all times," I murmur. "Or just shoot us both and call it a day."

Sam groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Seriously? You can't kill each other. Not before I get a nap."

I shift, cross my legs slow and deliberate, like a queen on a very uncomfortable throne. The kind with bloodstains and trapdoors. "You assume we'd make enough noise to wake you. I'm not that messy."

Sam side-eyes me, one brow raised. "Oh, I know. You're a professional."

I tap a fingernail against my knee, steady. Controlled. All surface. "Exactly."

I go back to glaring at Bucky's skull, half-hoping it'll split open from sheer force of will. "Wish I had laser vision," I mutter under my breath.

"I heard that," Sam says dryly.

I smirk. Just a twitch. Nothing with teeth.

But still. It's weirdly... calm.

No shouting, no alarms, no injections under the skin. No collar choking the breath out of me.

It makes my skin crawl.

Quiet never meant safety. Quiet was just the breath before the scream.

I glance at Sam again, wondering—not for the first time—what kind of fool looks at someone like me and sees something worth saving.

He doesn't meet my gaze. He just leans back in his seat, arms folded behind his head like we're on a road trip and not flying toward god-knows-what.

And for one razor-thin second, I almost believe him.

Nearly.