XXXV. Emris

The Quinjet is a coffin with wings.

Metal groans as we push through cloud cover, turbulence rattling through the floor and up my spine. I'm slouched on the back bench, body half-curled, sweat slicking my neck despite the chill. My side burns. Everything smells like smoke and ozone and blood.

Mine.

Steve's hands are white-knuckled around the controls up front, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his molars grinding from here. His mind is a panicked storm—fragmented thoughts flashing like strobes. Where the hell do we go? What if they're already tracking the jet? What if she—

"Steve," Sam says, voice low. He and Bucky are crouched over a tablet, flipping through red-dotted maps. "Dublin's too hot. Maybe Zurich?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Too close to Geneva. Ross has feelers there."

They're murmuring like I'm not here, like I didn't just take a bullet for them while half-dead on my feet. My vision swims. I blink hard.

The adrenaline's wearing off.

A cold wave of nausea punches through my gut, and I shove upright, teeth gritted, one arm bracing against the wall. Pain blooms just under my ribs. Sticky. Wet. Too familiar.

Damn it.

I stagger toward the storage panel, fingers fumbling at the latch until it pops open with a click. The emergency medkit tumbles into my hands, almost too heavy to hold steady.

I slide back down onto the bench and peel my hoodie off with one long, hissing breath.

Blood's soaked through the fabric, dried in places, sticky in others. The inside of my shirt clings to me as I yank it off, revealing skin streaked with red and purple and grit. The bullet grazed me—deep, but not fatal. Just enough to hurt like hell.

Black sports bra. Red smear across my stomach. Great. Fashion statement of the year.

I tear open the kit and pull out alcohol wipes, gauze, a suture kit. I've done this before. I could do it in my sleep. I almost do—my hands are trembling so badly I have to wedge the needle between my knees to thread it.

"Jesus," Sam blurts, rushing over. "You were shot?! You're bleeding out!"

"Wow, thanks, I hadn't noticed," I mutter. My fingers are slick with blood, the antiseptic stings like fire, and I'm already cranky. "Oh no, the flesh wound. Call the priest."

Sam makes a choked sound, half exasperation, half worry. I ignore him.

Bucky just watches.

He's leaning against the wall like he's part of the damn structure, arms crossed, silent. His eyes—ice blue, unreadable—track every motion I make like he's waiting for me to pass out or explode. Maybe both. I don't give him the satisfaction.

I jab the needle into my skin and start stitching.

One loop. Pull. Knot.

Pain sparks behind my eyes, but I chase it away with practiced indifference. Pain is useful. Pain means you're alive.

I can still hear Steve's mind racing up front—logic wrapped in panic. Safe zones. Fuel levels. We need rest. She's hurt. She's not telling us everything—

"Go to Ghent," I say flatly, eyes still on my wound.

Silence.

Even the engines seem to hush for a second.

Steve turns in his seat. "What?"

"Belgium," I clarify, tightening a knot with my teeth. "Go to Ghent."

"Why?"

I glance up, half-lidded, blood-slick fingers still working. "Because I know someone. Someone who won't turn us in. Someone who owes me."

Steve hesitates, mind screaming risk over and over again.

"It'll buy us time," I add.

He nods once and adjusts the course. The Quinjet banks, smooth and subtle.

I slump back against the wall with a sigh, wiping sweat from my brow with the edge of the hoodie.

Sam's still hovering. "You good?"

"Oh, totally. Spa day. Wanna braid my hair?"

Sam gives me a look. "You're a menace."

I poke the edge of my ankle experimentally. Pain flares—same damn sprain from earlier. Not healed. Not helped by the running, kicking, or leaping off the second floor mid-fight.

"You're not wrong," I mutter, finally lying back across the bench. My fingers are sticky, my skin aches, and the Quinjet hum is just soft enough to lull me into something resembling peace.

For about three seconds.

Then I feel Bucky's eyes again.

Watching.

Always watching.

I keep mine closed, but the corner of my mouth quirks upward anyway.

Let him stare.

I wake to fog and the low whine of the Quinjet preparing to land.

My eyes peel open, crusted with sleep and dried blood, and the first thing I see is the soft, diffused gray of cloud cover sliding across the windshield. The second thing I notice is the sharp throb in my side, a pulsing reminder of the stitched-up graze I earned hours ago. Lovely souvenir.

I sit up slowly, every muscle stiff and sore, and wipe at my face with the back of my hand. The cabin smells like jet fuel and antiseptic and stress.

Steve glances back, jaw tight. "You're up."

"Sadly," I mutter. "You didn't crash. I had money on that."

He doesn't crack a smile, too focused on maneuvering us through the dense, early-morning mist curling over the rooftops of Ghent. The city's still asleep. Cobblestone streets glisten faintly with dew. Shadows stretch long between the alleys.

"Left here," I say, climbing to my feet and leaning between Steve and Sam. "Take the service road by that church steeple. Then two sharp turns, there's a narrow alley. You won't see it until you're in it."

"You sure?" Sam asks, eyes flicking between the path and me.

"I'm not guessing."

I guide them through a maze of twisting back roads and blind turns, the kind of place GPS doesn't know exists. No signs. No landmarks. All intentional. Beatrix's place is buried beneath layers of obscurity—exactly why I'm bringing us here.

We land in a hidden courtyard behind a run-down hostel, ivy-choked and half-forgotten. The street outside is deserted. A single, broken lamp flickers overhead, casting fractured light over cracked stone and rusted fencing.

As soon as the ramp lowers, I step out into the mist. The air smells like damp earth, old rain, and something faintly metallic. My boots are nearly silent on the cobbles.

Then a voice cuts through the haze.

"Stop right there."

A woman emerges from the fog like a ghost—tall, wiry, armed.

Her gun is raised, stance practiced, hair pulled into a tight braid that's streaked with premature silver. Sharp grey eyes lock onto me first, then flick over to the men behind me. Steve's hand twitches toward his shield. Sam shifts his stance. Bucky's eyes narrow.

"Beatrix," I say, grinning like this is brunch and not a stand-off. "You always greet old friends like this, or am I just special?"

She doesn't lower the gun.

"Emris, prove you're not her," she snaps, voice low and clipped.

"Rustig aan, ik ben het," (Easy, it's me) I say, raising both hands lazily and point behind me. "Vrienden van mij. Niemand weet dat we hier zijn." (Friends of mine. Nobody knows we're here.")

Her eyes scan Steve, then Sam, then Bucky—assessing, not just with suspicion, but lethal calculation. She's reading body language, scanning threat levels, clocking hidden weapons and potential weaknesses.

Beatrix was Hydra-adjacent back in the day. Freelance sniper. Ghost-tier asset. We trained together once—for all of three weeks—until I broke her arm during sparring. We got drinks after.

She exhales through her nose, lowers the gun by an inch, then mutters, "Verdomme, je ziet er vreselijk uit." (Damn, you look terrible)

"Jij ziet er slechter uit," (You look worse) I reply, returning her jab, "Is the house still standing?"

She jerks her head toward a gate behind the hostel and gestures for us to follow.

Steve hesitates. "You trust her?"

"No," I say. "But she hates authority more than I do."

That seems to satisfy him.

Beatrix leads us through a hidden path—a wrought iron garden gate overgrown with thorned vines, down a narrow, crumbling corridor between buildings. The air tightens. Urban claustrophobia at its finest. No cameras. No windows.

The house appears like a trick of the light—tucked behind the hostel, camouflaged with climbing ivy and matte-black panels. A squat, concrete structure with reinforced walls, blackout shutters, and a triple-locked steel door. The kind of place you hole up in when the world is ending—and don't want it to know you're still alive.

She unlocks the door without looking back.

Inside, it's dimly lit, quiet, tense.

Heavy blackout curtains keep the early morning light at bay. The floor is stone, cold beneath my boots. The walls are lined with utilitarian shelves stacked with canned food, ammo boxes, and a few books that I know she only keeps to look human.

A faint smell of citrus clings to the air—lemon disinfectant mixed with...gunpowder.

Beatrix sets down her weapon on a side table, then turns to me with that same flinty stare.

"Debt's paid," she says in English, accent sharp. "We're even."

I nod. "Fair enough."

She pulls a scarf over her face, slips back out the way we came, and vanishes into the fog without a word.

Just like old times.

I turn to the guys, stretching my arms overhead despite the flare in my side.

"She'll let us know if Ross so much as sneezes on Belgian soil," I say. "Until then, welcome home."

Steve exhales like he's been holding his breath since the jet lifted off. Sam leans against the wall, gaze scanning every corner like he still expects it to blow. Bucky says nothing, but I catch him giving the steel-reinforced windows a slow once-over.

"Cozy," Sam mutters.

I smirk. "Wait until you see the bathroom."

"I'm going to shower," I announce, letting the words cut through the uneasy quiet of the safe house. "I smell like smoke, blood, and your collective stress."

I drop my duffel with a dull thud against the floor, then kneel to unzip it. Inside, everything I salvaged is chaos—tactical gear, spare clothes, weapons, a crushed protein bar, and at the very bottom, a bar of vanilla-scented soap wrapped in wax paper and two tiny bottles of my vanilla shampoo and conditioner.

Not exactly standard issue, but I've carried it through enough near-death experiences that it feels like armor now. The smell reminds me of...not safety, exactly. But something human. Something not soaked in blood.

I slip out of the room, ignoring the looks they probably exchange behind my back. The safe house creaks with age, but the plumbing hums to life when I twist the ancient knobs. The bathroom is small and tiled in a way that's aggressively Eastern Bloc. A cracked mirror hangs crooked above the sink. The walls sweat with condensation as the water begins to steam.

I peel off the hoodie—dried blood has sealed it to my wound, and I have to bite my lip to keep from hissing as I pull it free. The sports bra follows, dark with dried sweat and soot. The graze on my side is angry now, stitched but swollen. Skin flaring red around the puckered edges. My ribs ache when I breathe too deeply.

The water hits me like a slap—hot enough to scald, almost too hot—but I don't flinch. I need it. Need the sting. Need the burn to wake me up, scrub off the last twenty-four hours clinging to my skin like a ghost.

The soap lathers slow, thick, the vanilla cutting through the stink of adrenaline and fire. I scrub hard—too hard. My side protests violently. I brace a hand against the tiled wall and let my forehead rest against it, steam rising in heavy curls around me.

For a second—just a second—my mind slips.

I see Beatrix in the rain, years ago, crouched in the mud with a rifle slung across her back. Her face bloodied, one eye swollen shut, whispering in Dutch, "If we both shoot, neither of us walks out."

I see my own hands, steady on a pistol. My breath, shallow. A mission I never talk about. A target I never missed.

The memory flickers out before I let it burn.

When I shut off the water, I stand dripping in the fogged mirror, staring at my reflection like she's an intruder. My hair is slicked to my skull, eyes sharper than I want them to be.

"You don't care what they think," I mutter to my reflection.

Except... I do. Enough to care if I look half-dead. Enough to feel something sour twist in my gut when Bucky stares too long, and it's not disgust.

I wrap myself in a towel, then pull on a clean hoodie—soft, worn, too big—and a pair of drawstring shorts. My feet are bare, my ankle still bruised from the earlier run-in, but at least I feel a fraction more human.

The kitchen greets me with warm, humid air and the smell of boiled pasta and weak spices.

Steve stands over a pot, stirring slowly. Focused, jaw tight. There's something calming about the way he moves—deliberate, careful. Like this is a mission too. A simpler one.

The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting him in a soft glow. The room is cluttered with mismatched mugs, scratched pans, and the faintest sound of cutlery clinking.

"Cooking now, Rogers?" I say, leaning against the doorway. "Gonna tell me this was your fallback plan after the shield?"

He doesn't turn. "Everyone needs to eat."

I sniff the air, raise a brow. "Is that...oregano? Wow. Spicy."

His lip twitches, but he doesn't bite. Too easy.

I cross to the table, dragging my fingers across the cool wood. It's scratched, dented—lived in. There's a half-empty bottle of water nearby, a folded map beside it. Sam and Bucky are elsewhere, probably checking security or pretending they're not mentally plotting each other's deaths.

I sit down slowly, ginger with my ribs. The ache flares, then dulls.

Steve finally speaks again, voice quieter. "Feel better?"

I glance down at myself. Clean. Dry. Wounded but breathing. "Define better."

He doesn't push. Doesn't look. Just stirs the pot like it's the only thing holding the world together.

I breathe in the steam and let myself sit still. For the first time in days, no alarms. No gunfire. Just the sound of a wooden spoon scraping the bottom of a pot and the faint hum of electricity in the walls.

It's not peace.

But it's close enough to pretend.

The kitchen is too quiet.

Steve stirs the pasta like it's a bomb that'll go off if he stops moving. His shoulders are rigid, jaw tight, and he hasn't said a word in a while. Sam's setting the table with the sort of care people usually reserve for defusing tripwires. The metal forks clink against ceramic plates, too loud in the silence.

I lean back in my chair and stretch out my sore ankle under the table. The movement draws a twitch from the stitches in my side. I bite down on the wince and keep my expression blank.

Sam slides a cup toward me. "So..." he starts, too casually. "That woman. Beatrix. You two go way back?"

I blink once. "Yeah. We trained together. Black Lotus and Hydra." My tone is clipped, flat, a warning embedded in every syllable. "She defected before I did. We've done each other favors. She owed me one."

Bucky's voice cuts in, cold and quiet. "Can we even trust her?"

I freeze, cup halfway to my mouth.

Here we go.

I set it down slowly, turning my head to him. He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed like he's the voice of reason in a room full of idiots. His face is unreadable, but the judgment is sharp enough to sting.

"You wanna interrogate everyone who helps us now?" I ask, my voice sharp as glass. "Should we waterboard the barista next time someone buys us coffee?"

"She showed up out of nowhere. Gun drawn," he snaps. "Forgive me if that doesn't scream ally."

"She lowered the gun when she saw me," I say, rising slowly to my feet. "Or did you miss that part while you were too busy brooding in the shadows?"

His jaw clenches. "I'm saying she could lead Ross here or Black Lotus. For all we know, she's telling on us right now."

"Oh, I see," I say, laughing once, humorless. "So now everything is my fault again. Got it. Let's go ahead and write it in permanent marker this time."

"You keep things from us, Emris." His voice is low, tight. "Secrets. Half-truths. Things that get people killed."

I take a step closer. My blood is pounding now, hot and bitter. "Don't pretend like you're some open book. You've got enough ghosts rattling around in that metal skull of yours to haunt a goddamn city."

Sam groans audibly. "Again?" He doesn't even look up. "You guys need therapy. Or a punching bag. Or both."

Steve still says nothing. Just keeps stirring. Stirring. Stirring. Like if he focuses hard enough, he can pretend we're not about to implode in his borrowed kitchen.

"I'm not the one sneaking off," Bucky bites out, stepping forward. "I'm not the one hiding past connections with Black Lotus agents in the middle of a damn fugitive op."

I scoff. "I told you about Beatrix the second it was relevant."

He gets in my face. "The second you decided it was relevant."

We're close now. Too close. Voices low, dangerous. His breath smells faintly like mint and regret. Mine probably still carries hints of blood and vanilla soap. We're staring each other down like it's a fight. Because it is.

"You act like you're better than me," I growl. "Like you're the reformed one. The good weapon."

"I never said that," he snaps.

"You didn't have to."

He narrows his eyes. "One of these days, you're gonna push too far."

I smile, all teeth, no humor. "One day, I'm gonna kill you in your sleep."

His lips twitch. "Get in line."

"Dinner," Steve snaps.

His voice cracks through the tension like a whip. Sharp. Final.

The room goes silent.

No one moves.

Bucky and I are still locked in a stare-down, unmoving. I can feel my pulse behind my eyes. My side aches, and the muscle in his jaw ticks, but neither of us blinks. The moment stretches out like a wire pulled tight, one heartbeat away from snapping.

Then Steve steps between us, plate in hand. He sets it down in front of me with enough force to rattle the counter.

I look away first.

The loss tastes bitter.

I pick up the serving spoon and scoop a pile of bland pasta onto my plate. The smell is vaguely like oregano and frustration.

Without a word, I cross the kitchen and drop into the chair next to Sam. He passes the salt and pepper wordlessly.

We eat in silence.

The kind that vibrates with everything unsaid.

The silence is so thick I could slice it with my butter knife.

We sit at a table that wasn't meant to hold this much unresolved trauma. Four fugitives eating bland pasta in a reinforced Belgian safe house, pretending this is fine. That we're fine.

I twirl a forkful of noodles. Mechanical. Lifeless. Flat, like it's trying to avoid offending anyone.

Bucky sits directly across from me.

Naturally.

He's not eating so much as dismantling his food with surgical precision. Every bite deliberate. Slow. The clink of his fork against the plate makes my eye twitch. He chews like he's got all the time in the world and no intention of backing down from the stare-off he's locked me into.

I meet his eyes.

Of course I do.

If he's going to glare at me like I'm a ticking bomb, then I'll give him the show. Two can play at this game. Hell, I invented this game. Silent tension? Slow-burning hostility? Passive-aggressive pasta eating?

Please. Amateur hour.

I take another bite without blinking. Sauceless pasta slides down my throat like it's doing penance.

To my right, Steve exhales through his nose, subtle but unmistakably exhausted. The fork in his hand hesitates just above the plate.

"For fuck's sake..." he thinks.

I almost snort.

Instead, I glance at Sam in the corner of my eye, who's chewing like it might save his soul. He's not looking at either of us. Smart man. His inner monologue, however, is not so diplomatic.

"They need to just hook up already."

I snap my head toward him so fast my neck cracks.

"What?" he blurts, blinking at me.

"One," I say, pointing my fork, "I didn't mean to listen."

Steve's fork stops mid-scoop. Bucky raises one slow brow.

"Two," I add, voice sharp enough to slice concrete, "never. In a million years. Not even if the world was ending and we were the last two human-shaped lifeforms on Earth."

Sam throws his hands up. "I didn't say it out loud!"

"You thought it loud enough," I mutter, stabbing a noodle like it insulted my ancestry.

Across the table, Bucky hasn't stopped watching me.

Not once.

He's chewing lazily now, like this is amusing. Like I'm some unpredictable wild animal and he's waiting to see which way I'll snap next.

I narrow my eyes.

He quirks an eyebrow, all smug silence and soldier stillness.

A vein pulses in my temple.

The table creaks slightly as I shift my weight, matching his energy. I lean forward just enough to make it a challenge. His eyes flicker down—barely—but I catch it. He's reading me. Calculating.

Good luck with that, pretty boy.

Steve pushes back his chair suddenly, the legs screeching against the tile. He mutters something about dishes—like that's the problem here—and stalks over to the sink. Water runs, clattering over plates. A metal spoon clinks down with a little too much force.

I turn back to Bucky.

He's still watching.

Still daring me.

My pulse skitters against my throat like it's trying to escape. The weight of his stare is unbearable. Intoxicating. I hate that it makes my blood heat, makes my breath catch just for a second. I hate that he doesn't blink.

That he knows I won't either.

Sam coughs once, deliberately loud, like he's trying to defuse a bomb with awkward sound effects. "Sooo. Weather's nice?"

Neither of us answers.

We resume our game.

Forks scrape against plates.

Steam curls up from the forgotten pot on the stove. My shoulder twitches as pain from my stitched-up side throbs beneath the fabric of my hoodie. I don't show it.

Bucky's fingers tap once against the wood grain. Rhythmic. Unapologetic.

I curl mine into fists in my lap, digging my nails into the meat of my palm until sensation floods back. Focus.

He tilts his head slightly, like he's seeing something he didn't expect. Or maybe he's just poking the bear. I honestly can't tell if he wants to fight me again or—

Nope. Don't go there.

I focus on the last noodle on my plate and impale it with unnecessary force.

Steve still hasn't turned around. Sam's decided to abandon ship and is suddenly very interested in his water glass.

I chew slowly. I blink once.

Bucky still hasn't looked away.

"Find something fascinating, Barnes?" I say, tone sweet as cyanide.

He shrugs with infuriating calm. "Just wondering how someone so loud can chew so quietly."

I smile at him. Wide. Fake. "That's because I know how to multitask. Like being charming and dangerous at the same time. You should try it."

He chuckles under his breath. A deep, dry sound that scrapes along my nerves.

The silence that follows is heavy with unresolved shit. Memories. Baggage.

I glance away first.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to blink.

The loss tastes like rust and ash in my mouth.

I stand slowly, scraping my chair back, and take my plate to the sink where Steve is pretending the water is more important than our mutual breakdowns.

I don't say anything. Neither does he.

Behind me, I can still feel Bucky watching.

Watching like he sees something I haven't admitted yet.

Watching like I blinked and gave him a victory.

Fine. He can have it.

For now.