Saving Bucky (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Chapter 1 - The Interrogator

There are many who believe that should you walk in the dark long enough, you'll learn to see without the light. But after a full day underground tending to your newest guest in the interrogation chambers you still struggle to distinguish the pattern of your blouse from the pattern of the bloodstains that have seeped into the cuffs of your sleeves. The weak, yellow glow cast by the thin filaments running across the cement ceiling makes it difficult to tell where the fabric designs end and the stains begin. You squint at your hands. Tracing the red up your arm, you let out an irritated huff as you realize this shirt is likely doomed for the bin. 

"Moron," you grumble beneath your breath as scalding hot water pours from the bathroom sink. It cascades over your knuckles and palms leaving your skin glowing white-hot. You scrub until your fingers feels raw - the spotless porcelain veneer of the sink stained a sickening red.

This particular interrogation had turned...physical.

Unlike most of the other interrogators here, you don't enjoy getting your hands dirty. You'd much rather use words over a blade - after all, when wielded correctly they're just as sharp. But sometimes it's what must be done. And Agent Ramirez had swiftly blown your cover by not switching out his sidepiece for the specially crafted Desert Eagle 9mm with combat grips. The one you specifically left in his locker with instructions to equip. Your guest had seen Ramirez's Beretta and knew immediately the two of you weren't Mossad, as you had claimed.

He clammed up.

You weren't left with much of a choice. Your usual head games weren't going to work and the Company had you on a clock - eager to get results. Your hand was forced and you had to use your...less-preferred method of extracting information.

All because Ramirez couldn't follow one simple goddamn order.

Oh yes...you're going to have a word with the Controller about his precious Ramirez.

You glance down to find the water in the sink finally running clear, so you scrub between your fingers once more before drying off. You move to grab your black duffel bag from the counter, but stop abruptly as a subtle, yet uncomfortable pounding sets in behind your left eye.  You reach for the edge of the sink - your grip iron tight. You try to catch your breath and fight off the growing ache as your eyes flit across the crimson spatters left behind in the bowl. Small droplets tumble down the side of the sink leaving behind small scarlet rivulets - a sanguine rain that drips down a porcelain window pain. The small muscle in your left cheek twitches at the sight.

Strange.

Blood doesn't usually bother you.

But this blood has been spilt by your own hand. And there had been something about this particular interrogation that unsettled you. Not the feel of torn skin beneath your blade or the smell of voided bowels. No, it was the way the informant had screamed for his wife. Then his children. And finally for his mother. Even now the memory causes your stomach to knot.

You let out a small, disapproving huff beneath your breath. This reaction is illogical. Even before you became known as The Interrogator you had learned that even the most hardened of criminals cry out for their mothers in the end.

That man's screams were nothing new.

Yet you're forced to close your eyes, grimacing as that dull pounding in your head turns into a sharper pain. With a snarl of frustration your shaking hands reach for the black duffel on the countertop, fumbling for a moment with the zipper as clumsy fingers search for that little bottle.

"Goddamn migraines," you spit through clenched teeth as you finally catch a glimpse of blue, and pull out a small pill bottle. You toss two of them back dry.