XLIII. Emris

The siren splits the silence first.

That Red Room scream—mechanical, shrill, and soul-deep—rips through my skull like a serrated knife.

My feet slam against the floor. I'm running, even though I don't want to. My hands grip a Makarov with blood-slick fingers. A little girl with white-blonde pigtails turns her head toward me. She's maybe nine. Her eyes are blank, her ballet shoes soaked in crimson. She raises a gun that's too big for her. I hear the command: fire.

Synchronized gunfire.

One step. Two. A breath.

Then gas fills the room, and someone screams through a rebreather mask.

I can't breathe.

I can't think.

The floor tilts—

My eyes snap open.

I'm in bed. My room. The Norway safe house.

It's still dark.

My chest is heaving, soaked in sweat. I stare at the ceiling, but the scream still echoes. The blood's still on my hands. The smoke is in my lungs.

But the dream wasn't mine.

I sit up slowly, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. I know the difference now. I've trained myself to feel the thread when it happens—that moment when my consciousness latches onto someone else's dreamstate. It's always faint, always flickering like static on a dead channel. But Natasha's mind? Hers pulls like a current. Sharp, heavy. Brutal.

I didn't mean to drift into her nightmare.

But the connection was already open before I realized it.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, every nerve buzzing like I've been electrocuted. My tank top clings to me. My lungs still burn. The siren's long gone, but it's still ringing in my ears.

The worst part?

It could've been mine.

The faces might've been different. The blood might've belonged to a different set of hands. But the feeling is the same.

No control. No escape. No mercy.

I shove myself to my feet and pace once to the far wall, then back. Still too jumpy. I yank open my drawer and drag out black leggings, a sports bra, and thick socks. As I dress, I rub at my temple hard, like I can scrub the dream out of my skull. I hate when this happens—when I'm not just in my own head, but someone else's hell.

I throw my hair up into a messy bun, grab the elastic off my wrist, and yank it tight enough to bite. My shoes are by the door, but I don't put them on yet. I need air. I need quiet.

When I open my bedroom door, the hallway is empty. Shadows stretch long down the corridor. The floorboards creak under my weight. I glance toward the left, where the guys are asleep—Steve, Sam, Bucky. Closed doors, no sound.

Then I turn to the right.

Natasha's door is wide open.

No light inside. No silhouette.

She's not in bed.

I frown and step closer, peer inside just to be sure. The bed is made. Sheets smooth. Pillows untouched.

Okay. Not just not in bed—she never went to bed.

My brain races. Maybe she went to the couch. She does that sometimes.

I pad softly down the stairs and lean into the living room. Couch: empty. No blanket, no crumpled pillow, no redhead curled into the corner trying to ignore her memories.

Nothing.

"If she's dreaming..." I murmur under my breath, turning slowly back toward the hall, "and not in bed..."

My fingers twitch.

"...where the hell is she?"

I head back to the living room, jaw tight, fingers twitching like they're still wrapped around a weapon. The house is too still. Too clean. I can hear the radiator clicking in the wall and the distant creak of timber settling in the cold.

I make a beeline for the front door. My hand closes around the knob—

And a burst of frozen air punches through the seal.

I flinch back instinctively.

"Jesus," I hiss. My breath fogs instantly, curling like smoke around my lips.

Of course it's freezing. Of course.

I glance toward the coat rack—empty. My hoodies? Buried in the laundry pile upstairs, all of them dirty and sweaty. No chance I'm dragging myself back up there just to smell like a gym locker.

Then I see it.

A black hoodie slung over the back of the dining chair.

I grab it without hesitation, yanking it off the chair with one hand.

It smells like cedar and heat and something faintly sharp underneath. Musk and clean laundry and... maybe a little gunpowder.

Definitely not Sam's.

I hesitate. The sleeves are longer, the fabric heavier, the shoulders broader. I know this fit—this feel.

It's Bucky's.

I should take it off. I should toss it back over the chair and go freeze my ass off like a responsible adult who doesn't borrow clothes from the emotionally stunted assassin she occasionally dreams about stabbing.

But I don't.

I slip it on and let the warmth sink into me like a drug.

It's soft. And warm. And the second I pull the hood up, the world gets just a little quieter.

The sleeves hang past my wrists. The hem hits halfway down my thighs. I could drown in this thing.

And maybe that's the point.

I step outside.

The cold slaps my face again, but this time, the hoodie dulls the edge. I tighten the hood around my head and shove my hands into the front pocket as I hit the gravel.

The first few strides are rough. Ankles stiff, breath short, every muscle still coiled from the dream.

But then—

Breath fogs.

Feet find rhythm.

Heart calms.

The gravel crunches beneath my shoes in a steady, grounding cadence.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Left. Right. Left.

It's just me and the cold and the stretch of empty countryside. Pine trees blur past in the blue half-light of pre-dawn. The sky is a cold bruise, smeared with the promise of snow.

My mind doesn't slow, but it sharpens.

Natasha's dream.

Then flashes to Norway.

Nat's bruised neck.

The cut on Sam's cheek, as well as the bruise on his jaw.

All of them courtesy of me.

Not even a week ago, I was a weapon in someone else's hand again—no thoughts, no hesitation, just execution.

I pull the hood tighter around my face and push harder, lungs burning. Maybe if I run far enough, fast enough, I can leave the guilt somewhere behind me.

I know it's not my fault.

I know.

But knowing doesn't stop the weight.

Eventually, the cold seeps through even the hoodie's thick fabric. My ears ache. My nose is raw. I slow to a jog, then to a walk.

The world is quiet. Still.

And I feel better. Not fixed. Not clean. But like I can breathe again.

I make my way back to the house, steam rising from my skin in lazy curls. My hands are numb when I open the door again.

Warmth hits me like a wall.

The air inside smells like coffee and old wood and dust. The radiator hums louder.

I kick off my shoes, one at a time, and lean against the wall to peel off my socks. My calves ache, but it's a good ache. Earned.

The hoodie clings to me, warm with my body heat and something else—something steadier. I press my palm against the front pocket and let my eyes drift shut for just a second.

It's easier to breathe now.

Almost normal.

Almost.

The second I step back into the warmth of the house, I head upstairs to grab my disgusting pile of clothes. The hoodie's cozy, sure, but I'm not about to marinate in post-mission grime and whatever emotional residue comes with wearing Bucky Barnes's outerwear.

My room looks like a bomb hit it—blankets half on the floor, shirt tossed over the lamp, leggings draped across the back of a chair like I murdered a yoga instructor in here. My room has never looked like this before. I scoop up the pile, shove it against my chest, and head for the laundry room tucked behind the kitchen.

The washer groans when I crank it open. I toss everything inside, socks last, and jam the door shut with my hip. Soap, cycle, press. Done. Domestic bliss.

I'm halfway down the hall toward the bathroom, still feeling the last threads of cold slipping off my skin, when something—movement—catches in my peripheral vision.

A door creaks.

Soft. Careful.

Steve's door.

I stop walking.

The hall is quiet. Still. But the light in his room is on, a sliver of it leaking across the floor like a spotlight on a stage.

And then I see it.

A flash of red hair.

Bare feet. Silent. Calculated. But not as stealthy as she thinks.

Well, well.

Natasha slips out of Steve's room and closes the door behind her without a sound. No dramatic click. No awkward hesitation. Just smooth, professional extraction.

But I've seen enough to know she didn't just borrow a damn book.

Her hair's a little mussed—frizzed in the way that only happens after sleep or... other horizontal activities. Her walk is casual, but there's tension in her shoulders, like she's waiting to be spotted.

And her shirt is not the one she went to bed in.

I recognize it though, it's Steve's.

Oh, Natasha.

My mouth stretches into a slow, satisfied smirk.

The plot thickens.

I should charge rent for the drama in this house. Really. I'm practically running a soap opera with a body count.

She doesn't see me. Not yet. I could say something—throw out a little one-liner, maybe a sultry "Morning, Red," just to watch her reaction.

But where's the fun in confrontation when I can let this simmer?

So I just keep walking.

Past the door.

Past the crime scene.

Right into the bathroom.

I shut the door behind me with a quiet click, the grin still plastered across my face.

Oh, this is gold.

Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Captain America and the Black Widow. The Boy Scout and the Ice Queen.

I lean against the bathroom counter and stare at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed from the cold, hair messy from the run, hoodie still wrapped around me like armor.

The bathroom's warm, a little foggy from someone else's earlier shower. The mirror's streaked, and there's a towel on the floor.

This place is chaos. Controlled, caffeinated chaos with just enough sexual tension to choke a horse.

I let out a quiet laugh and turn on the sink.

Guess I'm not the only one who couldn't sleep.

Steam still clings to my skin as I tug on a fresh pair of leggings and a soft, oversized T-shirt. My hair's damp, curling ever so slightly at the ends, and my limbs feel loose, relaxed, post-shower. For the first time in what feels like days, I'm clean. No sweat, no blood, no psychic overload.

I walk into the living room, peel off Bucky's hoodie, and toss it back over the chair like I'm returning something borrowed, which, technically, I am.

The moment I turn around, I freeze.

He's there.

Bucky.

Leaning in the hallway just outside the room like some kind of glorified hallway goblin. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. That murder-glare locked and loaded directly at me like I kicked his puppy and insulted his vibranium arm in the same breath.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I meet his scowl with a deadpan blink. "Morning to you too, sunshine."

He doesn't answer. Just keeps glaring like I've broken some sacred hoodie code.

I roll my eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in my skull and shove past him without another word. If he's that offended I wore his hoodie for twenty minutes, he can take it up with his therapist.

The kitchen smells like stale toast and yesterday's coffee, and I make a beeline for the counter. Mug. Kettle. Caffeine. Priorities.

I'm halfway through pouring water into the French press when footsteps shuffle in behind me.

I glance up.

Steve Rogers. Poster boy of guilt and repressed emotions. Walking into the kitchen with his usual stiff morning gait—except this time, there's something different. Subtle. But I see it.

A bruise.

A very specific bruise, purpling just beneath the collar of his T-shirt.

A hickey.

Oh my god.

I keep my face neutral, but my insides are screaming. The second he walks past me, I turn slightly and take a long, pointed sip from my mug, hiding my grin behind ceramic like the world's most caffeinated detective.

Then she walks in.

Natasha.

Hair down. Skin flushed. Expression carefully blank, but her eyes flicker—just once—toward Steve, and that's all the confirmation I need. The awkward tension settles instantly, thick enough to choke on. Someone could cut it with a knife. Or, knowing this house, a throwing star.

No one says a word.

Natasha leans against the counter like nothing happened. Steve crosses his arms like he's guarding a state secret. I sip my coffee and mentally file this under Best Morning Ever.

A second later, Sam strolls in like he's just woken up from the best dream of his life. "Mornin', folks," he says, yawning, stretching, totally unaware he's walking straight into an awkward war zone.

He stops next to me, sniffing the air. "Is that the good coffee?"

I wordlessly pour him a cup and hand it over. He grins and clinks his mug against mine like we're co-conspirators in a much bigger scheme.

We kind of are.

Natasha clears her throat. "We're training outside today. Be ready in twenty."

And just like that, she's gone—ghosting out of the kitchen before anyone can respond. Steve follows her after a beat, saying nothing, because of course he does.

Once they're out of earshot, I nudge Sam with my elbow.

"Steve and Nat hooked up last night," I whisper behind my mug.

He nearly drops his coffee. "What?!"

"Yep." I pop the P.

He squints at me. "No way. How do you know? Actually, I don't even wanna know how you know."

I smirk. "Didn't hear or see anything psychically. No mental snooping involved, scout's honor." I raise three fingers, then immediately lower them because that's a lie and we both know it. "Saw Nat sneaking out of his room this morning. Bedhead. Telltale shirt change. It was textbook."

Sam looks like he's processing a war crime. "I can't decide if I'm impressed or disturbed."

"Both is healthy."

"Do they think we're blind? We live here."

"Apparently stealth is part of the foreplay."

He makes a face. "Ugh."

Across the kitchen, Bucky's still leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, expression thunderous. His gaze shifts from me to Sam and back again like he's daring me to speak to him directly.

I don't.

But Sam notices the tension and nudges me again. "What's up with him?"

"He's mad I wore his hoodie," I say breezily.

Sam raises a brow. "That hoodie? The black one with the sleeves that swallow your hands?"

"That's the one."

"Damn. No wonder he looks like you burned his motorcycle."

"Seriously," I mutter, "what is it with men and their sacred fabrics?"

Sam sips his coffee and tilts his head to Bucky. "Hey, when did Nat join us on the run?"

Bucky answers before I can even open my mouth. "Two weeks and three days."

That was weirdly specific.

Sam squints. "You counting now?"

I grin. "Oh my god. Sam. You owe me twenty bucks."

His head snaps back to me. "No, you said they would hook up before three weeks of her joining us."

"Exactly. I was right."

He groans and digs into his sweatpants pocket, pulling out a crumpled twenty like it's killing him.

I snatch it and tuck it into my waistband. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Bucky mutters something under his breath and walks out of the kitchen.

Sam watches him go. "You really think he's that mad about the hoodie?"

I shrug, sipping my coffee. "I think he's mad about everything. But the hoodie's a convenient excuse."

He grins. "This house is cursed."

"No," I say, grinning back. "It's entertaining."

The backyard's been cleared for training—makeshift mats tossed over frost-kissed grass, the sky above pale and cold, and the air sharp in my lungs as I tighten the straps on my gloves. My black combat gear is snug but flexible, designed for speed. Precision.

Everyone's already out here. Steve's stretching like the responsible Boy Scout he is. Sam's cracking jokes as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Bucky's silently pacing along the fence line like a wolf looking for an excuse to bite.

Natasha's in the center of the mat, twirling a staff like she's bored. "No one-on-one today," she announces. "You'll need to learn to handle chaos. Group format. On the mats. Now."

I step up. So does Steve. And—surprise, surprise—so does Bucky.

Great. Team testosterone.

I exhale through my nose, roll my shoulders back, and nod.

Let's dance.

Steve makes the first move, always the gentleman. His footwork's clean, calculated, meant to herd me into Bucky's reach. I duck under a swing of his arm and twist out of range, only to see Bucky already there—fist flying toward my jaw.

I block it with my forearm, but the impact rattles through me like a shockwave. He hits like a sledgehammer, even pulled. My bones vibrate.

"You boys always this bad at working together?" I grunt, stepping between them, spinning low to avoid Steve's returning elbow. I jab at his ribs. He blocks—barely.

"She's fast," Steve mutters.

"I noticed," Bucky says through gritted teeth.

They come at me together this time. Steve from the left, Bucky from the right. A pincer. I duck under Bucky's arm, slide across the mat, and slam a foot into Steve's knee, not hard enough to damage—just enough to unbalance him. He stumbles back. One down, for now.

Bucky doesn't pause. He lunges, a brutal, fast hook aimed for my side. I twist with it, letting the blow graze me instead of taking it head-on. It still stings.

He follows with a sweep. I jump—barely—land on the balls of my feet and drive a fist up under his guard, aiming for his gut.

He blocks it with his vibranium arm and shoves me back. I skid across the mat, breath heaving, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.

It's fast. Fluid. Vicious. Every move we make is muscle memory clashing with instinct. Hit. Dodge. Counter. Breathe.

I don't know when this stopped being sparring and turned into something else. I can feel it—the tension in my limbs, the tight coil in my chest. I'm not just defending. I'm fighting him.

He moves like someone trying to make a point.

Fine. So am I.

Bucky charges again. I duck, slam my shoulder into his ribs, and hook my leg behind his. One swift twist—he's airborne.

He crashes to the mat with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him.

I don't even get to gloat.

A blur—Steve—slams into me from behind. I twist, too late. His arm hooks around my waist, and my balance vanishes. The world flips.

I hit the mat hard—right on top of Bucky.

His arm jabs into my ribs. Pain flares white-hot under my skin, sharp and sudden. I wince, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.

He groans. "Get off me."

"Gladly," I snap, pushing off his chest.

I roll to my side, forcing myself up to my knees. Everything aches, but I hide it behind a smirk.

Steve offers me a hand. I take it.

"Not bad, Grandpa," I say, brushing myself off once I'm standing.

He chuckles, breathless. "You almost had us."

Bucky doesn't say anything. He just gets to his feet and walks off the mat, jaw tight, the muscle in his cheek ticking like he's chewing down something bitter.

The tension's still there—alive, electric in the air—but I don't follow. I don't apologize. I don't even look at him.

Instead, I stretch my arms overhead, roll my sore shoulder, and smile like the devil.

Let them wonder what I'm thinking.

I'm fine.

I'm always fine.

"You were pulling your punches."

I glance over my shoulder as I strip off my gloves, sweat cooling on the back of my neck. Bucky stands a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight. Still glaring like I lit his favorite arm on fire.

"I wasn't," I say flatly.

"You were."

"No," I turn, voice sharper now, "I just happen to have restraint. Try it sometime."

His eyes narrow. "You want to bleed, Barnes?" I add, stepping closer, "Say it. Out loud. I'll make it happen."

He doesn't answer.

He just throws a punch.

I duck. The wind of it grazes my cheek, and my heart spikes into overdrive.

I straighten with a snarl. "Fine."

The world narrows into instinct.

I slam my forearm into his throat, forcing him back a step, but he recovers fast—vibranium hand sweeping low toward my ribs. I twist, barely avoiding the hit, and jab my knee toward his gut. He catches it and shoves me hard. I skid across the mat, catching myself on one palm.

No rules. No partners. Just rage.

He's already charging again. I meet him halfway.

Fist. Elbow. Palm strike.

Block. Duck. Gritted teeth.

The fight turns savage—no more clean footwork or pulled strikes. Just two weapons clashing. His vibranium arm catches my side. It sends pain blooming down my ribs, but I grit my teeth and twist under his guard, driving a punch into his jaw.

He grunts. Staggers. Comes back swinging.

I duck and sweep his legs. He goes down, but takes me with him, dragging me by the wrist.

We hit the mat hard, tangled, breathless. I claw my way free, nails scraping his arm as I roll and spring to my feet.

He's up in seconds, blood at the corner of his mouth now.

Good.

"That all you got, soldier boy?" I sneer.

He roars. Actually roars—and lunges. He tackles me full-force. We crash into the dirt beside the mat, the air knocked from my lungs.

I twist and slam my elbow into the side of his neck. He snarls something wordless and grabs my wrist, twisting. Pain flares up my arm. I kick out, landing a solid blow to his side, and we roll again, fists flying, breath ragged, both of us slick with sweat and fury.

I grab a fistful of his shirt, yank him forward, and headbutt him.

"Enough!" Steve's voice barks, sharp and commanding—but distant.

I barely hear it over the thud of my heartbeat.

Bucky's fingers wrap around my throat—just enough pressure to warn. I stare into his eyes, breathing hard, daring him to do it. My nails dig into his forearm, not backing down.

My hidden dagger comes up to his side, poking slightly, so he is aware of its presence.

"Emris—Bucky—stop it!" Natasha's voice now, closer.

Strong hands haul me back. Steve's arms lock around Bucky, dragging him off me.

I'm still panting, fists clenched at my sides, blood trickling down my chin.

Natasha grips my arm. "What the hell was that?"

I yank away. "Don't touch me."

Her hand drops.

I wipe the blood from my lip and turn my eyes on Bucky.

He's glaring too—eyes full of ice and fire. His chest heaves. There's a bruise already forming on his cheek. One I gave him.

Good.

We stare at each other—wordless, vicious silence stretching like a razor wire between us.

I could say something.

But I don't.

Instead, I turn on my heel and walk off the mat, boots crunching the gravel, my body aching and burning and alive in the worst possible way.

Let him keep staring.

Let him stew.

He started it.

And next time?

I won't stop.

I slam the door behind me hard enough to rattle the hinges. The echo bounces off the tiled walls like gunfire. My boots scuff against the floor as I cross to the sink, yanking the faucet handle so hard it nearly comes off.

Scalding water bursts from the tap in a hiss, steam curling upward, fogging the mirror. I brace myself against the edge of the porcelain, head bowed between my arms, chest heaving. My hands tremble—still riding the tail end of the fight, the fury, the chaos I haven't shaken loose.

They're streaked with grime and blood. My blood. Maybe some of his. I hope so.

My reflection stares back at me through the rising steam—distorted and wild-eyed. My left cheek is already purpling. My lip's split and crusted with red. I look like an animal that just survived a cage match.

The door creaks open.

I don't have to look.

"Get out," I snap, my voice low, tight, razor-sharp.

Silence.

He doesn't move.

I clench the sink until my knuckles ache. "I said—get. Out."

I whip around.

He's already there. Blocking the doorway. Shoulders broad, arms loose at his sides, eyes locked on me like I'm some wild thing he hasn't decided whether to cage or kill.

Towering. Still. Too close.

I instinctively step back—but the sink catches me at the butt. Cold porcelain digs in. I'm cornered, and we both know it.

"Don't hold back," he says. His voice is calm, infuriatingly so—cool water poured over a stovetop. "We can handle you."

He knows that I wasn't fighting like myself.

My pulse spikes. "I know."

I try to turn back to the mirror, but I barely make it an inch before his hand catches my chin and yanks me back. It's not gentle. It's not cruel. It's deliberate.

"Next time," he growls, low and quiet, "maybe try aiming at me. Not the air beside me."

I glare up at him, defiant. "You want me to kill you, James?"

His expression doesn't shift. Not even a blink. He just looks at me, steady and unreadable, like he's peeling back layers I didn't give him permission to see.

I hate it. Hate him for it.

I wrench my head sideways, but his grip tightens just enough to stop me. Pressure flares across my jaw.

"Ow," I snap, trying to twist away again.

He leans in. "That doesn't hurt."

Then his hand drops. Slides down.

And presses into my side—right against the bruised ribs he knows are already on fire.

Agony lances through me. Sharp, immediate, blinding.

I hiss, body jerking. One hand flies to his wrist—firm and unyielding—and I dig my fingers in like I'm ready to snap it off.

"That does though," He murmurs. I clench my teeth.

We freeze like that.

His fingers still on my side. My hand locked around his wrist. Barely a breath between us.

His body radiates heat, crowding the space between us like a second skin. I can feel the slow, steady rise of his chest. Hear the low hum in his throat. My own breathing comes too fast, too shallow. Like I'm still fighting—just a different kind of war.

His gaze drops to my mouth.

And lingers.

There's something feral in his expression. Not anger. Not guilt. Something heavier. More dangerous.

I swallow, throat dry.

His thumb brushes the corner of my lip. A soft touch. Too soft for a man who just made me bleed.

I flinch. Not from pain—just... confusion. Contact. Proximity.

"Don't touch my hoodie," he murmurs, almost lazily.

My brain stutters. "What?"

His lips twitch into the ghost of a smirk. "Don't touch it again."

And just like that, he steps back. Cold. Detached. Like he didn't just set a match to a gasoline trail and walk away.

The door opens.

He walks out.

The door swings shut behind him with a whisper-click.

I exhale shakily, only now realizing I've been holding my breath. My fingers release the counter in slow increments, joints screaming from the tension.

I turn back to the mirror. My reflection is still a battlefield—bruised, bloodied, unbroken.

But my chest won't stop rising and falling.

My skin still tingles where he touched me.

And I can still feel his thumb on my mouth.

"What the fuck just happened," I whisper.