Buried Knives (A Bucky Barnes enemies to lovers story)

Part 1: Heavy Chains

The room smelt faintly of iron. Iron and sweat. Familiar. Homely even. 

Her neck ached and creaked as she lifted her head. Her body was heavy and sore. Freshly clotted cuts summoned her, stinging bitterly along her exposed limbs. Hair was plastered to the side of her face with blood and who knew what else. Smoothing the scratchy, matted mess off her cheek as best she could she yawned and blinked open her eyes. The fluorescents made her eyes burn. Clenching her teeth she assessed her surroundings. Every time she did a small, withering part of her hoped she wouldn't be greeted by the same four, peeling walls. The same rusted bed frame and tarnished tiles. That part of her needed to hurry up and die.

There were some things she knew for certain. The sky was blue, people existed, and Hydra was doing everything in its power to right this mess of a world.  And she was helping them, in her own bloodstained way.

But other things she didn't. The date, her parent's names, where she was last night.  

She reached up, unfurling her spine and stretching her joints, rotating her neck and wrists with a harmony of satisfying clicks. Chains clinked and shifted against the industrial chair when she flopped back into it. the black leather sticking to her exposed skin. Some shallow slices covered her forearms and shoulders and one of her cheekbones definitely felt bruised and swollen.  All-in-all the damage wasn't too bad.

She knew her memory got reset. From what she gathered, in this very chair. That's why she never remembered how she had gotten hurt. 

But other than that everything was a mess in her head. A sickly jumble of almost memories and foggy feelings, like insanity calling her home. 

There was no clock in the room but she knew someone should be coming around to feed her soon. And drop off a clipboard. 

She knew she had killed people. She didn't know who, or when but she knew she had. It didn't matter. She was a thief of blood and lives. It was one of those things you knew. An instinct.

Only it didn't seem to bother her. Not as much as she knew it should. She was a soldier or an assassin, she wasn't entirely sure. Either way, it was in the job description. The top-secret Hydra job description. So secret even she wasn't allowed the privilege of knowing exactly what her contract entailed.  

She wasn't one who enjoyed admitting her shortcomings but this was something clear to her. As mindless as breathing air. Follow instructions. Especially ones that come through the hatch in your door on a black clipboard with a red confidential stamp. 

But something felt off today.  When you remember nothing you get used to relying on instinct and accepting it as fact. And something was off today. 

Usually, the little hatch on her door would slide open within minutes of her waking up. Releasing a waft of cool air, a silver tray of sustinance and a clipboard. She watched the door intently, eyes never leaving the hatch, willing it to slide open. But still, nothing came. She wanted food. She wanted an assignment. And she was getting impatient.

Eventually, she rose. Slowly, to account for her aching thighs and groggy head. If the delivery was late she might as well shower. Blood had dried in a clump of her ash coloured hair. Matting it and promising to be hell to clean. Before she committed to bathing she waddled to the door. Maybe the hatch was jammed on her side and they simply weren't able to open it. 

Squatting low to examine the door, her hand barely brushed the cool metal before a siren barked into action, almost knocking her off her feet. She scrambled backwards. Having to compose herself from the shock. The lights in her room switched from a bright white to a glaring, flashing red. 

 An alarm started mechanically screeching;

"Внимание, нарушение безопасности."

"Attention, security breach."

She rolled her eyes and stood. Some idiot probably walked into a door, set off the alarms and now she was missing out on lunch... or breakfast. It didn't matter, she was already getting cranky. If she was out at all hours the least they could do was-

Her door slammed open. She ducked and rolled out of the way on instinct, hopping to her feet by the wall. 

If it weren't for the years of training she knew she'd had she would have frozen, maybe even cowered from the man in her doorway. He was imposing, dark-haired and taking up most of her doorway. One of his hands seemed to be covered in a metal glove. What the hell was he doing here?

A part of her brain, most likely the sensible part, screeched at her to turn and run, hide. Good thing she liked to ignore it. Grinning she launched herself at him, her blood calling for a fight.