honey
You’d been known for your knives at SHIELD, quickly becoming more comfortable with them than any gun you were being trained with. Most days, you didn’t even carry your gun because you were simply that confident with your knives in any combat situation. Hell, you’d loved them so much that you named the first one (which, over the years, became your favorite and most-trusted) you grabbed after carefully looking over the array in the armory. She had a sweet, six-inch blade with the slightest bit of serration on one edge, and a handle you had custom-wrapped in a beautiful, blood-red, vegan leather. You named her Patsy.
For your one-year anniversary at SHIELD Peggy had a sheath made to add onto your thigh holster for Patsy, made out of the same leather you’d had the handle wrapped in, with your initials stamped into it.
At your five-year anniversary celebration, the crowd urged you to cut the first slice of cake with one of your knives, and after a small fit of laughter, you obliged.
The panic of being trapped was quickly replaced by, heartbreak?
Yes, heartbreak.
You’re vulnerable, left sitting in a room god knows where, only clothed in your underwear and bra (you make a mental note to find out who took your clothes, to give them hell when you got the chance), and you don’t have the things that you rely on for safety when you’re caught in a sticky situation, the crafted metal blades that had just as much shaped your time working as an engineer as the Stark Tech you’d built countless machines with. It felt like your safety blanket you’d come so used to having was just ripped out from under you, and the panic quickly came back to join with the heartbreak, causing a pain to pull at your chest and tears to start pooling from your eyes, a choked sob making its way up your throat.
Whoever brought you to this place must have been standing right outside the door because the second the sound left your mouth; the metal door swings open and the same tall man you remember from the last time you were conscious waltzes through the doorway. His hand rests at his hip on his gun, the other hand sends a quick motion to… someone outside the door?
“She’s awake.” He chuckles lowly, Russian accent still hard to understand, head nodding towards you.
Within seconds, another man crosses the threshold, quickly making his way into your space. He hadn’t been one of the four that had been there when you were taken from SHIELD. His hair is black, the looks from his dark hazel eyes immediately making you uncomfortable as his gaze travels over your bloodied body. It feels like he’s burning into your skin the longer he looks over you.
“Well, good morning princess,” he drawls, voice rough and gruff, American.
The pet name makes you even more uncomfortable, which you really did not think was possible.
A hand brushes your cheek which makes you jump and jerk your head to the opposite side- a mistake- as the dull throbbing in your head quickly becomes a sharp pain that makes you wince and suck in a breath. That pain passes in a split second as a slap makes its way across the same cheek his hand had just caressed. Asshole.
Before you can manage to bring your head up on your own, his hand roughly grips your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his directly for the first time. It was an expression of evil, darkness, and mischief. The look all but paralyzes you, making you feel completely unsure of what he was going to do next, making you feel completely at his mercy. You’ve never felt so helpless and that thought shakes you to your core, bringing another round of tears from your eyes and you quickly scold yourself from showing that much weakness so fast.
“You should learn to look at someone when they’re talking to you, sweetheart. No need to be disrespectful.” He shoots you a smirk and removes his hand from your chin only to bring a finger up to wipe away the tear that had betrayed you and started making its way down your face.
You jerk away.
Another slap, opposite cheek.
He tuts at you, turns, and walks out the door into the hall, turning left.
You let out a breath and relax your shoulders.
That relaxation doesn’t last more than ten seconds, though, as he returns with an identical chair, placing it no more than two feet in front of your own. He circles it, he sits. He smirks again, he crosses his arms over his chest. He leans back in the metal chair.
“Ready to start?” He offers.
You shoot him a glare before straightening your shoulders once again.
He chuckles and rolls his eyes before leaning forward, saying; “We can do this all day, honey.”
“Fuck you,” you manage through gritted teeth and a sore jaw before he even finished rattling off the newest pet name.
Once again, everything is black before you can even list off the insults you had in mind for this asshole.
Gaining consciousness the second time was even less fun than the first.
The throbbing in your head has started spreading down your neck, and opening your eyes was proving to be a lot harder than before, too. However, when you flex your arms to try and waken your body the slightest bit, they shoot open.
It’s a different room, a different chair, a different temperature, and best of all; different restraints. You’re now in a? Lab? It looks like? Thick leather straps are tight across your arms, legs, wrists, ankles, and chest. God, this is something out of a fucking horror movie- like when the patient in the insane asylum gets thrown into a chair and wheeled off to get tortured by a possessed nun or something. You can’t really register if that gruesome thought fuels fear or anger in your mind before the tall man and the man with the audacity to call you sweetheart walk into the lab.
“So, maybe you’re ready to start now that we’ve so graciously made you more comfortable?” The American says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You can’t deny that on the bright side, this chair is astronomically more comfortable than the small metal one in the last room. At least it has some padding and it doesn’t feel like it will break from under you at any moment.
He catches that you’re letting your mind wander and clears his throat impatiently.
You shoot him a glare while cocking your head to the side.
He clearly still doesn’t appreciate your absolutely angelic demeanor, as the action causes him to pull something from his belt and flip it out. It opens up like a police baton, but with the click of a button, the tip starts to glow and crackle with bright blue electricity.
“Cut the shit, honey, I don’t have the time to deal with your attitude.” He growls.
“Don’t call me that.” You growl back… as best as you can with a dry throat.
“Will you stop being such a bitch and actually cooperate if I call you…” He trails off before turning to a table and grabbing a file, flipping it open to the first page and turning back with a smile plastered across his stupid face. “Miss Anderson?”
Hearing your name fall from his mouth disgusts you and you can’t help but grit your teeth, sending a searing pain throughout your jaw and down your spine, making you flinch
“Probably not, but it’s a start.” You reply after a second of recovery.
He chuckles and rolls his eyes, stepping in front of you.
“Fine. Let’s do this. Where’s Stark.” He’s inches from your face when he spits the words out, making your heart stop.
“Why?” You can only hope the fear that undoubtedly crossed your face didn’t show as much as you felt like it did. Why do they want to know where Stark is?
“Mr. Stark has something we want, Miss Anderson.” He’s still too fucking close to your face.
“Which is?” You push, punctuating your words harshly.
“Why would we tell you?”
“You assholes clearly have a file made on me already, I’m sure you know that Stark and I worked closely on many projects. If you let me know what it is you’re searching for, I may know where it’s at. Hell, I may have even worked on it with him.” You lean forward as much as possible in the restraints while speaking, holding eye contact and glaring while you try and not let the fear consume you.
“Cut the attitude, princess.” His words are short, his voice raised.
“I told you, don’t fucking call me that!” You raise your voice more than his, and immediately recognize your mistake.
He sneers at you before raising the still-crackling baton and bringing it to your left thigh, letting it hover for a moment, letting the warmth radiate into your skin. Your eyes go wide as you frantically try to move, obviously to no avail when the leather doesn’t budge.
He presses the stick to your leg and you let out a scream as the skin of your thigh feels like it’s being lit on fire . He holds the electricity there for what feels like an eternity, but what is probably no longer than five seconds. The pain absolutely wracks through body and tears start barreling down your cheeks before you can fight against it. You’d expected the burn to feel like a tazer, like the ones you had to get shocked with in training at SHIELD. You didn’t expect it to feel like a lighter was getting permanently buried in your flesh.
You writhe against the chair and the restraints, pain only growing due to the movement. Choked sobs leave your throat as you still, hoping if you tried not to move the burning would start to subside. The man takes a few steps back and crosses his arms over his chest once again, he smiles while watching you suffer. Seeing that look on his face immediately forces you to power through, brewing anger causing a wave of adrenaline to shoot to your thigh, letting the burn turn to a sharp ache. You squeeze your eyes shut, tight , trying to pull focus off the leg and to why the hell they want Stark.
When you open them, you find the man’s eyes as soon as you can, giving him a look that dares him to try again, a look that you hoped said you won’t win that easily, prick.
You feel tears still rolling down your cheeks unconsciously as he shakes his head, smile still prominent. He stands up off the edge of the table he’d been leaning on and makes his way back towards you. He crouches when he is about a foot from you, tilting his head up to look at you, eyes burning into yours nearly as much as the baton did.
“Serum.” He says firmly.
What? Serum?
You lightly shake your head, eyes closed once again, trying to process what he was saying.
“Sorry, what? What are you talking about?” You reply, genuinely, though slightly aggressive.
He didn’t take the aggression well apparently, as he quickly stood and growled while gripping your right arm with bruising tightness. You watch as he steps to your right side as well, lifting the baton once again as he moves. You realize what is happening a moment too late, bracing yourself for the pain just as the torch presses to the skin of your upper arm. This time, he decides to drag the electric point from your shoulder straight down to your elbow. He doesn’t even stop at the restraint that is wrapped around your arms and chest; he simply cuts right through it with the electricity. By the time the burning reaches the crease of your arm your vision is nearly completely white, the stinging so harsh that you are genuinely surprised that you’re still holding onto consciousness. You feel his presence leave your space, though your head is lolling slightly from side to side as feeling starts to come back to your limbs, one by one.
When you finally are able to open your eyes fully, vision restored and ringing in your ears subsided, the man is seated in another metal chair in front of you. If you never see a metal chair again, it would be too soon.
“So, the serum? Where is it?” The softness in his voice catches you off-guard when he speaks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You’re surprised to hear your voice slurred, barely understandable.
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” He shouts while rushing you, hands flying to each side of the headrest, a portion of your hair getting caught beneath his hand as he grips the chair. The intense stinging at your scalp causes you to wince and look up at him.
“I swear, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. He never told me about a serum? Jesus, I don’t even know what he would be using a serum for.” You start rambling, rattling off every thought you’re having about this serum. Clearly none of it is helpful, as you hear the crackling of the baton start up again, so out of it you could barely register the pain as he pressed it into a spot near the original on your left thigh.
You open your eyes, feeling movement around you. Another man had come in at some point; he and the tall guy were working on taking off the restraints as the other man pulls out a phone and begins talking. It sounds like he’s just mumbling, though, so you try to gather the energy to focus and listen, to little avail. All you’re able to make out is “she doesn’t know anything,” and “asset” as two pairs of hands grab both of your arms. You let out a scream that turns into a sob within a split second when one of the men tightly grasps the burn on your right arm, deliberately pressing into it as they lift you to your feet.
“Rumlow, where do you want her?” The tall man says.
“Uh, just, take her back to the room. We’ll deal with her later.” The man on the phone, Rumlow, replies, going back to his phone call immediately after.
“Rumlow.” You slur out a couple times, trying to commit the name to memory, however foggy it may be.