XXXVI. Emris

The hallway is cold against my bare feet, the air still tinged with plaster dust and gunpowder from the chaos two nights ago. Even with reinforced windows and a triple-locked door, it still smells like survival. I zip up my black jacket to my collarbone, the snug fabric clinging like armor. My leggings are tactical, matte, and pocketed—quiet footsteps and full mobility. I move like a shadow through this house, slick and sharp and coiled tight.

I pass a mirror mounted on the wall beside the stairs and catch a glimpse of myself—raven hair tied back into a sleek braid, green eyes fierce, predatory. I look dangerous. Good. I want to be.

The kitchen light is on.

Voices murmur low, steady. I step into the doorway and let my eyes sweep the room like I'm clearing a perimeter.

Sam sits at the table, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, a chipped mug in hand. He's still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, lounging like he didn't almost die with the rest of us forty-eight hours ago. He nods at me, casual.

Steve stands by the far wall, sorting through intel reports. Probably from the stash Beatrix left us—thin folders, some in Dutch, some coded. His face is set, jaw tight, brow slightly furrowed like he's already bracing for bad news. The Captain America version of insomnia.

And then there's Barnes. Leaning against the counter like a statue someone forgot to dust off, arms folded, eyes tracking me like I'm holding a bomb. Hair slightly messy, shoulders stiff. He doesn't blink.

I meet his stare and hold it. I could map his microexpressions like terrain. One twitch in the jaw, one flicker near the temple—he's annoyed. Or wary. Or both. Good. That makes two of us.

I walk to the table, grab a glass, and pour water from the pitcher. Silence follows me like a cloak. I sip, then set it down with a soft clink.

"Get dressed," I say. "Training clothes."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

I turn to him, deadpan. "Unless your plan for the day was to nap through another ambush, I suggest we get reacquainted with hand-to-hand."

He holds up a hand. "Hold up, what happened to breakfast first?"

Steve glances over. "We haven't trained since the Ljubljana hit. It's not a bad idea."

Sam groans. "Man, I did not wake up today thinking I was gonna get folded like a lawn chair."

"You won't," I say mildly. "Unless you fight like one."

He snorts into his coffee. "Remind me again why we brought you?"

"To keep you alive. Barely. Plus you were the one who begged me to stay, Birdy."

Steve's lips twitch. He's trying not to smile. Barnes still hasn't moved.

I look at him again, tilt my head just slightly to the side. He's still watching me like I might launch across the room and tear out his throat. I let the smallest smirk ghost across my mouth.

"Relax, James," I say. "I'm not going to murder you in your sleep."

I pause. Let the moment hang in the air. Let it breathe.

"...Today."

His jaw tightens. One heartbeat. Two. Then he pushes off the counter and leaves without a word, boots heavy against the wooden floor.

Sam watches him go and whistles low. "You two seriously need a sitcom."

Steve clears his throat. "Let's not poke the bear."

I shrug, pick up my glass again. "Then the bear shouldn't scowl at me like I pissed in his porridge."

Sam chuckles. "What about you, Goldilocks?"

I shoot him a lazy look over my shoulder. "I just want to hit something."

The glass is cool in my hand, but the adrenaline underneath is already warm—my pulse syncing to a rhythm I haven't danced to in weeks.

Combat is home. And I'm about to drag the boys back into it, one bruise at a time.

Combat boots on hardwood sound different than bare feet. The boys return one by one—Steve first, of course. Punctual, prepared, born to follow a mission briefing. His hoodie's navy, sleeves shoved up, and his pants are regulation-grade tactical gear. Clean lines, tight laces, zero slack. Captain America dressed for war in a suburban kitchen.

Sam shows up next, tugging gloves tighter over his knuckles, muttering something under his breath about "weekend workouts turning into death matches." His shirt clings to his chest, dark gray and damp from sweat he hasn't earned yet. His smirk's back. I'll wipe it off soon enough.

And then Bucky.

Black long-sleeved henley. Combat pants. The vibranium arm gleams under the low light, exposed this time—no jacket, no attempts at covering it. He doesn't say a word. Doesn't need to. That stare says enough.

I turn on my heel and head to the back of the house, not bothering to see if they're following. They will. Curiosity kills cats, but it drags soldiers like magnets.

The bookshelf is built into the wall, floor to ceiling. Dusty, but not untouched. I run a finger along the spine of a book near the center. Het Boek der Slangen. The title is embossed in deep emerald, the leather cracked and well-worn. The Book of Snakes. How fitting.

"You seriously have a Batcave?" Sam asks, slowing beside me.

"No bats," I murmur, curling my fingers around the spine and giving it a sharp tug. "Just ghosts."

A loud click echoes through the room, followed by the groan of gears buried behind drywall. The bookshelf rumbles forward, then pivots inward like a vault door swinging open. A gust of cold air spills out, smelling of rubber, oil, metal, and dust—the scent of memory.

Behind the shelf, a staircase spirals down into darkness, lit only by faint LED lights embedded in the wall. The air is cooler here, old and untouched by surface life. My breath feels sharper in my lungs.

I start down without waiting for them, feet landing silently on each concrete step. The sound of their boots follows—Steve steady, Sam casual, Bucky controlled.

The training room opens before me like a cathedral for war.

High ceilings. Reinforced walls layered with carbon fiber and ballistic glass. Weapon racks lining the left side—throwing knives, staffs, escrima sticks, weighted chains. A grappling ring dominates the center, surrounded by padded mats worn down by too many falls and too many fights. Mirrors stretch across the far wall, cracked in one corner. The back of my head made that crack. The lights glow a muted amber overhead, not harsh but clear enough to catch every detail of movement.

I inhale. It smells like history.

Like sweat and bruises and old blood scrubbed clean.

Like Beatrix throwing me across the mat at sixteen, her boot pressing against my spine as she told me pain was a privilege.

Like Adrien grinning at me over his shoulder, knife still spinning in his hand after we'd both failed a precision test and were forced to start over.

Like becoming someone else, someone honed and sharpened until I forgot what softness felt like.

I step further inside. My fingers trail over the handle of a knife I used to favor. Still here. Still balanced. Still mine.

Behind me, Sam whistles low. "Damn."

"Yup," Steve mutters. "This is definitely not standard issue."

Bucky says nothing. But I feel his eyes on the back of my neck, cataloging everything. He recognizes the language of this place. We both speak it fluently.

"Well," I say, clapping my hands together once, sharp and loud. "Get to work boys, God knows you're all very out of practice."

Steve doesn't waste a second.

The second his boots touch the edge of the mat, he beelines for the punching bag like it's calling to him. Each strike lands with the precision of a machine—measured, forceful, like he's checking off boxes in a training regimen programmed into his DNA. Left hook, right jab, uppercut. His face is blank, his movements sharp. Efficient violence, refined through decades of war.

Sam rolls his shoulders as he heads to the bag next to Steve's. His style is different—more rhythm, more sway in the hips. Boxing with flair. Like he's dancing with the damn thing. His hits land just as hard, but he makes it look smooth. Clean. Almost too clean.

I watch them for a moment. Calculating. Steve's got brute strength and soldier form—every move is part of a sequence. Sam's reactive, adaptable. Quick on his feet. Neither of them are sloppy. Neither of them are reckless.

But they're predictable.

That's the problem with soldiers—they follow the blueprint.

I turn away.

My boots make no sound as I move across the room to the weapons rack. My hand hovers over the blades before selecting a set of balanced throwing knives. The metal is cold against my palm, familiar. Weighted just right. They practically hum in my grip like they remember me, too.

I step back across the mat until I've got a clean line of sight to the reinforced target wall. No need to measure. No need to breathe. Just throw.

Thunk.

The first blade lands dead center.

Thunk-thunk.

The next two split on either side of the bullseye, close enough to whisper secrets to the first.

I walk forward, slow, deliberate. Fingers brush over the hilts, yanking the knives free. The targets are scarred and cracked, but mine are the only fresh hits.

I switch them out for throwing stars—lighter, faster, more temperamental. You can't muscle these. You have to feel them.

I step back again. Adjust my stance. Wrist loose. Eyes locked.

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye.

One of the stars slices through the edge of a previous blade mark, embedding itself deep enough to make the target shudder.

Behind me, a voice cuts through the silence.

"You scare the shit out of me."

I turn my head slightly. Sam's watching me, one hand still loosely wrapped around his punching gloves. There's no humor in his voice this time. Just awe. And maybe a little unease.

Good.

I smirk. "Then I'm doing something right."

Steve glances over, hands on his hips, sweat already dotting his temple. "We should spar," he says, like he's casually suggesting a group jog. "Might be good for us to learn how each of us moves. See what styles we're working with."

I nod. My fingers curl around the last star before setting it back on the rack. "Fine by me."

Sam lifts a hand, pointing directly at me. "She goes first."

Of course.

"She's the murder encyclopedia," he adds, walking toward the center of the mat. "Let's see what we're working with. I want the full tour—Krav Maga, Muay Thai, whatever hellspawn stuff they taught you in Hydra Hogwarts."

I raise an eyebrow. "You sure? I don't offer refunds."

He flashes me a grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he's ready for a warm-up round. Adorable.

I walk toward the ring, body relaxed, fingers flexing at my sides. There's no need for theatrics. No need for power displays. The real danger isn't in how hard I hit.

It's how little I need to.

I tilt my head, cracking my neck. The mats underfoot feel like memory. My muscles itch for the fight. For the burn. For the clarity.

They want blood.

Just not yet.

"Alright," I say, circling Sam slowly, eyes locked on his stance, his weight distribution, the little twitch in his dominant hand. I could break him in six moves. Maybe five, if he hesitates.

"Let's see what kind of fighter you are when you stop dancing."

Sam circles me, shoulders loose, gloves on. He's got that grin—the one he wears when he thinks he's about to have fun at someone else's expense.

"Alright, Snake Eyes," he says. "Don't hold back on me."

I smile sweetly. "Oh, I won't."

But I do. At first.

He throws a feint jab, testing the waters, and I let it glide past my cheek without flinching. His stance is solid. Footwork tight. But he's reading me like I'm some underfed rookie straight out of boot camp. Big mistake.

We trade a few light blows. He goes for a combo—left hook, uppercut, low sweep—and I sidestep with ease, letting my body flow like water around him. I pivot behind his guard and tap his shoulder with two fingers.

"Tag," I whisper.

He spins, trying to catch me with a backfist, but I duck, slide beneath his arm, and flip backward into a wide stance. Still holding back.

"Are you even trying?" he huffs, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"You sure you want me to?" I ask, cocking my head.

Sam throws his gloves off and stretches his neck like he's warming up for real now. "I live with a super soldier and a grumpy murder popsicle. I can handle you."

I arch a brow. "Alright. Your funeral."

He charges. Fast.

But I'm faster.

I pivot low, sweep his legs out from under him, and watch him hit the mat with a satisfying thud. He's still recovering when I grab his wrist, twist, and plant a knee into his spine.

"Still think I'm cute?" I ask, leaning close.

"Shit," he wheezes, eyes wide. "That's a yes and a tap out."

I release him and roll off smoothly, landing in a crouch. Sam groans and flops onto his back, arms spread wide like he's trying to make a sweat angel on the mat.

"I'm not even embarrassed," he mutters.

"You should be," I reply, grabbing a towel and tossing it at his face.

Steve chuckles from the sidelines. "You good?"

Sam waves him off. "My pride's in critical condition, but I'll live."

I turn to Steve and crack my knuckles. "You're up, Grandpa."

Steve steps into the ring like he's approaching a diplomatic meeting. Controlled, respectful. But there's a glint in his eye—he's been itching for this since I called him "Boy Scout" three safe houses ago.

He squares up, fists raised, and nods once.

I don't wait.

I strike low—just a test. He counters with a palm block, rotates, and pushes me back with a clean shove to the shoulder. Solid. Precise. His form is textbook—too perfect.

I dart in again, this time feinting left. He falls for it.

I use the opening to land a palm strike to his ribs. He grunts but doesn't stumble. Instead, he grabs my wrist with vice-like grip, yanks me forward—and flips me clean over his shoulder.

The mat slams into my back, knocking the air out of me for a heartbeat.

"Old-school move," he says above me, amused. "Sorry."

I smirk up at him. "Don't apologize. That was cute."

He offers a hand. I take it.

But instead of pulling myself up, I twist my wrist, lock his elbow, and pull—using his balance against him. Steve's eyes widen a split-second before I send him crashing to the mat beside me.

I roll up onto my knees, straddling his chest, both hands pressed against his shoulders. My hair falls loose from its tie, shadowing my face as I lean in close.

"I didn't tap out."

He coughs, staring up at me with a stunned laugh. "Yeah. I got that."

We're both breathing hard. He's stronger than I expected—less soldier, more tank—but I read him faster than he could read me. Predictability is a weakness. Even when it's wrapped in enhanced muscles and good intentions.

I stand, offering him a hand this time. He takes it with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

"You're not like anyone I've trained with, only slightly similar to Nat" he says.

"That's the idea."

I glance over. Sam's watching from the corner now, towel slung over his neck, still sprawled like a roadkill gladiator.

Bucky hasn't moved from the wall. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on me. His expression is unreadable—guarded, but focused. Like he's cataloging every strike, every pivot. Watching. Waiting.

Good.

Let him.

Because I'm just getting started.

You're turn pretty boy.

The room feels colder the second he steps into the ring.

Bucky moves with calculated stillness—like a weapon that hasn't decided what it wants to kill yet. His arms are loose at his sides, sleeves rolled up to reveal that cursed vibranium arm, glinting faintly in the ambient light.

He doesn't speak.

Neither do I.

Because with Bucky, words are unnecessary. The air between us crackles like something volatile—history, memory, mutual distrust, something too sharp to name. This isn't going to be like Sam or Steve. This won't be about learning technique or comparing styles.

This is going to be a war.

He nods once. A simple, silent challenge.

I respond with motion.

My first strike is fast—a left hook to test his guard. He deflects with the metal arm, and I feel the shock run down my knuckles like a live wire. He's stronger, but I'm quicker. My body flows into a spin-kick, aimed low to unbalance him. He jumps back. We reset.

Then he comes at me.

Hard.

His punches are heavier than Steve's. Every blow meant to bruise or break. I duck one, catch another against my forearm, and slam an elbow into his ribs. He grunts, catches my wrist, and yanks me toward him.

I twist, pivoting midair, using his grip to swing around and land a knee into his sternum. It connects, but he barely staggers. The man absorbs pain like it's breakfast.

"Hit harder than that," he mutters.

"You first," I snap back.

He lunges, and we collide in a flurry of fists, elbows, knees, each of us blocking and striking in perfect sync. It's like sparring with a mirror. He predicts every angle. I anticipate every shift.

I step into his guard, go for a disarm—hook the vibranium wrist, twist, drop beneath his center of gravity. It almost works. Almost.

He counters with brutal simplicity.

One hand grabs my collar, the other my waistband, and suddenly I'm airborne. He slams me into the mat hard enough to jolt my spine, pins my wrists above my head.

But I'm not done.

I lock my thighs around his waist, twist with all my weight, and we roll—once, twice—until I end up straddling him. One knee on the mat, the other tight against his ribs. I grab his left wrist and slam it down beside his head, breathing hard.

"Yield," I say.

His eyes lock on mine. Pale, stormy blue. Chest rising and falling beneath me.

He doesn't answer.

Just stares.

Like he's daring me to push further. Or waiting for me to let go.

"Alright," Steve calls from the side of the ring. "Tie. Break it up."

I stay there a moment longer. Just long enough to feel the tension shift. He's not resisting. But he's not surrendering, either.

I ease off him slowly, uncoiling like a snake. He sits up, expression unreadable, jaw tight again.

I toss him a smirk as I stand. "Technically, I won."

He doesn't argue. Just stands, brushes off his pants, and turns away without a word.

Of course he doesn't.

I exhale slowly, pushing sweat-soaked hair out of my face. My heart's still pounding—not from exertion, but from the way his hands felt around my wrists. Familiar. Like déjà vu from a nightmare I can't quite place.

The silence hangs thick until Sam claps his hands.

"Alright, alright, Cap's too pretty to break, and I'm too smart to fight her again. So let's see what Frosty the No-chill does to me."

Bucky raises one eyebrow. Then steps back into the ring like he's already tired of this.

"Go easy," Sam says, holding up his palms. "I like my face."

Bucky lunges.

Sam barely gets one block in before he's flipped onto the mat with a bone-rattling slam. He bounces once, groaning.

"Jesus," he wheezes. "Okay. I'm good. We're done."

Bucky hauls him up by the arm, almost too fast, and Sam stumbles straight into me.

I catch him instinctively, steadying his balance as he winces.

"Really?" I mutter, glaring past him at Bucky.

He meets my eyes with that infuriating smirk. Like it was on purpose.

I resist the urge to throw a throwing star into his stupid, smug expression.

Barely.

Pain is a funny thing.

You don't always feel it in the middle of the fight. Adrenaline makes you a liar. Tells you you're fine. Strong. Untouchable.

But now, as I step out of the training ring and the endorphins start to slip away, I feel every brutal echo of impact—all the hits I took, and the one that matters most.

My side burns. Not sore-burn. Not bruised-burn.

Something wet and warm leaks beneath the waistband of my leggings.

I press my hand to it.

It comes away red.

"Fuck."

No one sees me slip out of the room. They're laughing now—Sam groaning dramatically on the mat, Steve helping him up, probably some jab about ice baths and retirement. I move quietly. Efficiently. No footsteps wasted.

The bookshelf slides back into place behind me as I climb the stairs.

Every step tugs the skin at my waist. Feels like someone's sawing through my nerves with a dull blade.

I make it to the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and brace both palms on the sink. My reflection is pale, sweat-slicked, strands of hair clinging to my face. My breathing comes short and uneven.

I peel off my zip-up jacket. It sticks to my skin like a second layer of pain.

Then I lift my tank top.

The wound is angry—ripped open, the skin around it purpled and raw. Stitches popped like someone cut them loose with wire. The bullet graze is deeper than it was yesterday. I should've stayed still. Should've let it heal.

But I don't do still. Not well.

I grab the first aid kit from the cabinet. Sit on the edge of the tub and crack open a bottle of antiseptic. The burn is immediate and blinding, white-hot lightning across my ribs.

My hand trembles as I pick up the curved needle.

Threading it used to be second nature. I did it in the dark, half-conscious, in war zones and kill rooms. But now my vision blurs at the edges, and my fingers slip against the thread once, twice, again.

I hiss.

"Dammit—"

The doorknob clicks.

I freeze.

"Get out," I snap, not even looking.

Bucky steps in anyway, quiet as a shadow.

"You're bleeding," he says.

"No shit."

He walks closer, eyes locked on mine, until he's close enough that I feel the chill rolling off his vibranium arm.

"You're so stubborn," he says.

I glare. "You're one to talk."

He doesn't argue. Just crouches in front of me, plucks the needle from my fingers like I'm a child who can't be trusted not to stab herself.

I let him.

Only because my hand is shaking again.

He threads the needle in a single motion, smooth and practiced. Hands steady. Always steady.

I reach for it.

He doesn't give it back.

"I've got it," I growl.

"No, you don't."

And then he kneels beside me.

I should stop him. I should shove him out the door and finish it myself like I always do.

But when his hand brushes my bare side—slow, careful, grounding—I don't move.

I freeze.

His touch isn't clinical. But it isn't invasive, either. It's... respectful. Gentle in a way that makes my chest twist. He steadies the skin around the wound, fingers warm against the bruises, and begins to stitch.

Each pull of the needle makes me flinch, but I don't make a sound. Pain, I can handle. Silence, I've mastered. But this?

This quiet between us?

It's unbearable.

His breath is even. His jaw set. Focused.

He doesn't speak once.

When he finishes, he knots the thread, wipes the blood gently with gauze, then stands.

For a second, I think he's going to say something.

But he doesn't.

He just walks out.

Closes the door behind him.

And I sit there, staring at the space he left behind, heart still pounding, pulse fluttering against my ribs like wings trapped under skin.

The pain is dulled now. But I can't stop shaking.

Not from the wound.

From everything else.