XL. Emris

It's five in the damn morning and I'm still awake.

I sit curled into the far end of the couch, blanket draped over me like some sad, half-dead ghost, feet tucked under my thighs. My fingers are cold. Everything is cold. Not just the air slithering in through the cracks of this old safe house in the Norwegian mountains, but something deeper—colder. Like it's settled in my chest.

Outside, the wind moans low, dragging frost across the windows. Inside, silence—so quiet I can hear the radiator ticking in surrender, like it's given up trying to warm this place.

Steve's nightmare had started around two. One of the louder ones. Something about drowning in ice, Peggy on the other side of the water. I don't want to see it, don't mean to—but it finds me anyway, threading through the walls like smoke, seeping into my mind. I feel his panic like static, blaring and restless.

I haven't slept since.

My head droops for a moment. Just a blink. Just one—

Click.

I'm up.

No hesitation, no fog. Just pure instinct. My body snaps to motion before my thoughts can catch up. The blanket slumps to the floor like a corpse. My fingers wrap around the hilt of the dagger beneath the couch cushion. It's smooth, warm from my body heat, familiar.

Another sound. A careful push of the door. A whisper of wind.

Someone's here.

Not one of the boys—none of them move like this. Not Steve, not Sam, not even Bucky. This is practiced. Silent. Measured.

An intruder.

My breath slows, becomes purposeful. I move barefoot across the wooden floor, avoiding the creaky plank near the bookshelf. The hallway ahead is a narrow throat of shadow. I melt into it, hugging the wall, the dagger pointed down along my forearm.

I reach the corner where the hallway opens into the entryway.

Another step. Another breath.

Now.

I spin out, blade up, body low, momentum clean. My forearm pins someone against the wall, dagger pressed beneath their jaw before I can register a face.

There's a gun in my face.

Of course there is.

"Easy," comes the low voice, calm despite the Glock leveled between my eyes.

"Natasha," I breathe, blinking against the spike of adrenaline. "You really know how to make an entrance."

She arches a brow. "And you really know how to say good morning."

We hold position for a heartbeat longer, her finger still firm on the trigger, my blade not moving an inch from her throat. It's not tension exactly—it's calculation. We're reading each other like chessboards. Every angle, every breath, the weight shift of a knee. Neither of us flinch. We've both been trained not to.

I finally pull back, lowering the dagger slowly, deliberately. She mirrors me, gun sliding back into the holster beneath her jacket.

Natasha exhales once through her nose, her eyes flicking across my face like she's checking for damage. "You always this jumpy before sunrise?"

I shrug, flipping the dagger in my hand before sliding it into the sheath strapped to my thigh. "Try living with three ex-soldiers who dream loud enough to crack walls."

She gives a soft hum of amusement and steps past me into the living room, her boots nearly silent on the floor. I follow her, tension still coiled under my ribs like a second spine.

"The boys are still out cold," I say, leaning against the arm of the couch. "Except Steve. He'll be up soon. Has that annoying sunrise moral compass thing."

There—right there. A twitch. Barely a millimeter, but her spine straightens, just a little. Her eyes flick toward the hallway. It's subtle, like everything she does. But I see it.

Huh.

I file it away. Not my business. Not yet.

I wrap the blanket back around my shoulders, watching her scan the room like she's already mapping exits, memorizing lines of sight. Some habits never die.

She looks thinner. Sharper around the edges. But her expression is unreadable, as always. Still, I want to ask.

I almost do.

How's Tony?

The words are right there. Sitting on the back of my tongue, pressing against my teeth.

But they die before they make it out.

Too much happened in Berlin. Too many broken pieces between then and now. I don't know if she even talks to him anymore. I don't know if she can.

Instead, I nod toward the kitchen. "There's coffee. Probably burnt by now."

She gives me a dry look. "You offering to make me a fresh cup?"

I snort. "Please. I'd rather fight you again."

She chuckles, just barely, and heads in that direction anyway.

I let myself relax—just a little. My fingers flex, tingling from the adrenaline crash, the fight-or-flight dissolving into something else. Something closer to familiar irritation.

But there's a knot at the base of my skull that won't unwind. Natasha being here means something's changed. Or something's about to.

And I have a feeling that whatever peace we've carved out in this frostbitten house? It's about to end.

The kitchen is barely warmer than the rest of the house, which isn't saying much. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting a sickly yellow glow across chipped counter tops and old pine cabinets. It smells like burnt coffee and cold metal—like someone forgot to clean the pot again. Or maybe that's just the general aesthetic of our lives lately.

Natasha moves like she owns the place. Opens the cabinet. Grabs a mug. No wasted motion. Of course she knows where everything is. Of course, she's already been here before. After all, she is the one who set us up with it.

I trail in behind her, grabbing my blanket from the floor and wrapping it around my shoulders like a cape of sarcasm and exhaustion.

And that's when I see him.

Bucky's already at the small kitchen island table, half-shrouded in shadow, nursing a mug like it's the only thing tethering him to the waking world. He's dressed in a dark long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, vibranium arm glinting slightly under the flickering light. Hair still damp. Must've showered already. He doesn't look up when we enter.

Of course he doesn't.

I stop in the doorway, one brow lifting. "Oh good," I say, voice dry as bone. "The brooding statue awakes."

No reaction. Just a slow sip of coffee like I'm background noise. He lifts the mug slightly toward Natasha, not me. A silent greeting. Nothing more.

Charming.

I drop into the chair across from him with the kind of thud that says I meant to be this annoying, legs kicked out wide, blanket pooling around me. I stretch my arms overhead like a cat waking up in the ruins of a battlefield.

"Don't strain yourself with the enthusiasm," I mutter, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to be a declaration. My fingers drum against the table, a rhythm that used to drive handlers insane.

Bucky finally glances at me, barely. Just a flicker of blue eyes, one heartbeat of acknowledgment. "Wouldn't dream of it," he says smoothly, mouth twitching in a half-smirk before disappearing again behind his mug.

The silence stretches like a wire between us. Natasha leans against the counter, sipping her coffee, saying nothing—but she's watching. Reading. Clocking every glance, every non-glance, every fraction of breath between me and him.

I keep my expression carefully neutral. Blanketed in disinterest, framed in apathy. But underneath the surface, irritation simmers—sharp and brittle.

Four nights ago, he let me in.

Not just mentally, not just let me use my powers—he let me see him. The cracks. The ache. The sheer goddamn loneliness of it.

And now?

Now it's all brick and steel again. Walls back up. Doors bolted shut. Like it never happened.

I expected it, though. I didn't act any different either, didn't mention it the next morning or at all in the last couple days.

Besides, I didn't do it for him, I did it for me. Because I needed some fucking sleep and his stupid nightmares were keeping me up.

I did it for me.

"Didn't hear you come in," Bucky says suddenly, not looking at me.

He's talking to Natasha.

She shrugs, sipping her coffee like this is just any normal morning and not a room steeped in ghosts and unspoken things. "Didn't want to wake the house."

"You didn't," I mutter. "The psychic insomniac beat you to it."

That earns a sideways glance from her. A ghost of a smile. She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she knows I've been up all night. Probably the dark circles gave me away. Or the vibrating edge of my voice. Or the fact that I'm one more passive-aggressive grunt from Bucky away from stabbing him.

Bucky finishes his coffee. Gets up. Rinses the mug with robotic precision. Doesn't say another word.

I track his every movement with my eyes, but I don't move. Don't speak.

He dries the mug with a towel, folds it, places it on the rack. The way soldiers do. Controlled. Routine. Rehearsed a thousand times. Muscle memory instead of thought.

"Gonna check the perimeter," he mutters.

To no one in particular.

Then he's gone.

The door swings gently shut behind him, leaving a strange kind of silence in his wake. Like he dragged half the tension out with him, but left the rest behind just to spite me.

I exhale through my nose. "He's such a ray of sunshine."

Natasha lifts a brow, but still doesn't speak. Just leans back against the counter, mug cradled in both hands, watching me like I'm a puzzle with a few missing pieces.

"What?" I snap, sharper than I mean to. "Say it."

She tilts her head. "Didn't say anything."

"You're thinking something."

She doesn't say a thing.

I could just read her mind, but I'm trying to block out others' thoughts so I can possibly get some sleep. Probably not a good idea to get in her head right now.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The back porch creaks under my weight as I step onto it, a weathered plank groaning like it's personally offended I exist. The Norwegian air is crisper today—brisk without biting, the kind of cold that wakes you up but doesn't punish you for surviving the night. I breathe it in like it's something sacred.

Sam's already out here, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and wearing the kind of blanket-wrap that makes him look like a retired Jedi. He glances over his shoulder at me and lifts the mug in greeting.

"Didn't hear you coming," he says, smiling.

"That's the idea," I reply, nudging him aside with my hip so I can sit on the old bench beside him. "You hog the good corner."

"Yeah, well, some of us didn't grow up in a murder cult and learn how to move like a ghost."

I smirk. "Not my fault you stomp around like a cartoon elephant."

He snorts into his coffee. "Not my fault your standards are unrealistically high."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. It's rare, lately—comfort. Rarer still in silence. But Sam's always been the exception. He doesn't need to fill the space with questions or pity. He just lets it be.

He stares out at the trees, the stretch of dense pine that sways like a hush on the wind. "So," he says, nudging me lightly with his shoulder, "how long do you give them?"

I blink. "Give who what?"

He tips his head back toward the house. "Steve and Natasha."

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. "You mean the intense eye contact and weird hovering every time the other one leaves the room?"

Sam grins. "Exactly. They've been making googly eyes for years."

"Oh, it's worse than that," I say, smirking. "His subconscious is monogamous now."

Sam pauses mid-sip. "Wait... what?"

I stretch my legs out across the porch, folding my hands behind my head like I'm delivering an academic lecture. "Used to be Peggy in his dreams. Her voice. Her smile. Always dancing in the background, soft-focus, tragic sepia tones. Always. But lately?"

I glance over at him, savoring the expression already brewing on his face.

"It's Natasha," I finish. "More and more. She's replacing her."

Sam blinks. "Okay, hold up. How do you know that?"

I shrug, casual. "You three dream really loudly."

His mouth falls open. "Wait. What?"

I offer an innocent smile.

Sam sits up straighter, now full alert. "Wait-wait-wait—hold on—you can see our dreams?"

"Not fully see," I correct. "More like... visions and eavesdropping. Feel them. Echoes of emotion, flashes of thought. Depends on how deep you are in sleep. Depends on how close I am. Depends on how noisy your subconscious is. And you three are very noisy."

Sam stares at me like I've grown a second head. Or maybe like I've been secretly reading his diary.

"Wait," he says again, slowly. "Have you seen my dreams?"

I smile wider. "Oh yes."

He sets his mug down a little too hard, liquid sloshing. "Hell no. No. Nope. What did I dream? Tell me it was flying. I know I dream about flying sometimes. That's cool, right?"

I tilt my head like I'm seriously considering his request. "The flying ones... and the explicit ones."

He makes a noise that is somewhere between a strangled cough and a dying engine. "Oh hell no."

I stand up, stretching my arms over my head with a lazy grace that only makes him more nervous. "Relax," I say, already walking back toward the door. "I know you don't have feelings for me."

His expression is pure horror. "You don't know that! I mean—I don't!—but still!"

I laugh. A real one. Full-bodied and unexpected.

Behind me, I hear him grumbling something about "boundaries" and "psychic nonsense" while trying to salvage the remains of his dignity and spilled coffee. But I can feel the smile behind it. The warmth. The absurdity of it all.

And it stays with me.

I lean against the doorframe for a second, just long enough to watch him pick up his mug and give it a suspicious glance like it somehow betrayed him.

He's still muttering to himself, pacing in little frustrated loops, trying to rewrite the past ten minutes of his life. I can't help but grin.

God, I missed this.

Not the chaos. Not the safe houses or the secrets or the looming dread of being hunted like a rabid dog.

This.

Someone laughing at my jokes.

Someone who doesn't look at me like I'm a bomb about to go off. Who doesn't treat me like a liability or a weapon or a ticking clock. Just a person. A snarky, dangerous, sleep-deprived person—but still.

Fuck, I'm missing something I've never even experienced before this.

I exhale slowly, the air fogging in front of me before it vanishes. Like everything else. Like every good thing I've ever had.

Sam glances over and sees me watching. He sobers for a beat. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"You ever see anything in your own dreams?"

I hesitate. Not because I don't know the answer—but because I do.

"Sometimes," I say. "But I don't trust them."

He nods. "That makes two of us."

There's a pause. The quiet kind. The thoughtful kind. Then—

"You ever see Bucky's?"

I arch a brow. "That's a dangerous question."

"Is it?"

"Depends," I say. "Are you asking because you're worried about him?"

Sam's eyes shift. He doesn't answer right away.

I already know the truth. It's written in his heartbeat, in the slight twist of guilt behind his eyes. Bucky's keeping his distance—not just from me, but from everyone. He's been quieter. Harder. Like he's bracing for something.

Or maybe just waiting for it to fall apart.

"You don't have to worry," I say softly.

Sam looks at me again. "You sure?"

I don't answer right away.

"I'll keep him safe," I say eventually. "Even if he hates me for it."

Sam holds my gaze for a long second. Then nods once. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

What does he mean by that?

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The cold bites harder as morning stretches thin. Frost clings to the windshield like cobwebs, stubborn and glittering in the pale light. Sam grumbles about the chill while I toss the grocery list into the glove compartment without reading it. I already know what we need—food, fuel, distractions.

The others emerge from the house with squinted eyes and stiff limbs. Steve peels off toward the auto shop next door with Natasha beside him, keys swinging from his finger like it's a normal errand day. It isn't. Nothing's been normal since Berlin.

Sam climbs in first, wriggling into the backseat with a dramatic huff. "This is not designed for grown men with combat shoulders."

Bucky follows, glaring at the limited legroom like it personally offended him. He doesn't say anything—just folds himself in with military efficiency, wedged between Sam and the window like a piece of tactical luggage.

I slide into the driver's seat and can already feel the tension radiating behind me.

I glance back. Bucky's face is smashed slightly sideways, his jaw clenched like he's trying to pretend the situation is beneath him.

It's not. It's hilarious.

I snort. Loudly.

His gaze snaps to me, expression deadly. "Laugh again. I dare you."

I twist to face him fully, one brow raised. "That sounded like a threat, Barnes."

Sam, ever the instigator, snickers beside him. "You do look like a pissed-off action figure in the box."

"If I throw one of you out of the car, will it be quiet?"

"Try it," I say sweetly, shifting into reverse. "But you'll be the one cleaning brain matter off the dash."

Bucky doesn't respond. Just settles back with a grunt, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes stay on me longer than they should.

The roads wind through sleepy hills and pine-thick ridges, the occasional cottage blinking by in quiet surrender to winter. We drive in silence for a while, the engine rumbling steady beneath us. The kind of silence that pretends it's casual—but it's not.

It's the silence of people carrying too many ghosts.

I drum my fingers against the wheel.

Sam breaks first. "We should split up inside the store. Cover more ground."

"Yeah," I say. "Try not to flirt with the cashier this time."

Sam grins. "She flirted with me, for the record."

"I was in her mind," I remind him.

"Alright," Sam interrupts, "you're banned from mind-reading for sass. New rule."

"I don't make the rules," I say, pulling into the parking lot. "I just weaponize them."

The grocery store is aggressively normal. Bright. Too bright. Sterile with the faint tang of bleach and something vaguely citrus. The overhead lights hum a little too loudly, flickering at the edges like a migraine about to bloom.

I hate places like this.

The air-conditioning battles with the heating vents in a confused war of temperature. We push through the entrance as the doors whoosh open automatically—too smooth, too welcoming. My skin prickles.

I grab a cart. Sam takes another. We split without speaking.

I head toward the pasta aisle first. It's empty, rows of boxes stacked in unsettlingly neat lines. I toss a few into the cart at random.

Behind me, Sam rounds the corner. "Pasta, huh?"

"It's the only thing Rogers can cook without a fire extinguisher."

Sam snorts and grabs a bag of rice. "Accurate."

I sense Bucky before I see him. A low pressure behind my ribs, like gravity shifting. He's silent. Heavy. Always watching.

I glance to the side—there he is. Not close, but not far. Hands in his pockets. Not touching anything. Just... standing there.

His eyes are locked on me.

I keep moving. Slowly. Purposefully. My fingers trail along the boxes like I'm looking for a specific brand. I'm not. I'm trying to keep the chill from crawling up my spine.

He's too quiet.

I roll the cart forward, rounding the next aisle. The cereal section. Sam's somewhere near the registers now, chatting up a woman restocking shelves. His voice is a buffer, distant and harmless.

But Bucky doesn't follow. Not immediately.

I double back. Not because I'm worried. But because something feels off.

And not just with him.

With me.

My skin's too tight. My heartbeat's wrong. It's not panicked—not yet—but there's a static building beneath my ribs, like a hum only I can hear. It scratches behind my eyes. My mouth tastes like metal.

I grip the cart harder, knuckles whitening.

I know this feeling.

It's not nerves. Not fear.

It's a trigger.

Someone's watching me. Not just Bucky.

I glance up at the mirrored dome in the corner of the ceiling. One of the security cameras. A flicker. Barely noticeable. But enough.

I roll my neck. Inhale slow.

Focus.

Bucky appears again near the end of the aisle. His expression hasn't changed. Still cold. Still unreadable.

But his eyes... they've narrowed.

He knows something's off too.

I meet his gaze. Hold it. A silent exchange, just a second too long.

Then he breaks it. Turns away.

"Let's wrap it up," he says quietly. "This place is giving me a headache."

I nod. Even Sam catches the shift in tone. He abandons his casual small talk and falls in step behind us.

We head to get the final few things quickly.

I'm reaching for the jar of pasta sauce when the world splits open.

One second, I'm standing in aisle five, comparing labels. The next—

A piercing screech slashes through the store's intercom, unnatural and shrill, like metal dragged across bone. It tears into my skull without warning, a jagged sound that bypasses the ears and goes straight to the spine.

I don't even remember falling.

My knees slam into the tile. My fingers claw at the shelves, but nothing holds. Pain detonates behind my eyes, blooming white-hot and expanding, filling every neuron like fire racing down a fuse.

My mind is screaming.

No—I am screaming. I think.

I can't hear myself over the sound. Over the frequency. It isn't just noise—it's coded. Sharpened. Targeted. Made for me.

I double over, forehead pressing to the cold floor. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. My thoughts are unraveling, threads yanked loose, fraying faster than I can grab them.

Footsteps. Distant. Too far.

"EMRIS!"

Sam. That's Sam's voice. He's close, but he sounds miles away.

A hand lands on my shoulder—firm, steady.

Sam. No, maybe Bucky.

Another burst of static rips through the speakers, and I shudder.

Then, the voice.

Low. Russian. Calm. Familiar.

It slides like oil into my ears, heavy with command.

"Okhota nachinayetsya, zmeya." The hunt begins, Serpent.

I stop breathing.

That voice doesn't belong in this time. In this life. It belongs to another version of me—

The one who obeyed without question.

The one who killed without mercy.

The one who belonged to him.

Dragunov.

The name carves itself into my thoughts like a brand. I flinch, but there's nowhere to run. I'm already inside the trap. My mind isn't mine anymore.

A pressure starts behind my forehead, slow and methodical—like fingers curling around a lock, twisting.

I try to resist.

I try to scream.

But then—

He speaks again. Not aloud this time. In my head.

Direct. Unstoppable.

"Come home, Serpent."

Everything fractures.

"Back up," Bucky warns. His voice is low. Not to me—to Sam.

"She's not going to hurt—"

"She's gone, Sam."