Two big, begging eyes stared up at you, tearful and too blue. They pierced through you and left guilt swirling itself into a tight knot in your stomach.
The barrel of your gun was pressed between the sad eyes, the girl before you pleading on her knees for her life. The handgun felt heavier than normal and the trigger wouldn't move, no matter how much you tried to bring yourself to pull it.
Three guards stood around the dark room, adding more eyes watching your slightly trembling form. The room was heavy with tension, the thick silence only broken by the girl's gentle sniffles and begs. You couldn't move, couldn't think.
In the corner of your eye, you watched a guard raise his own gun at you. You didn't hesitate.
There was a ground-shaking bang, a sickening splat and finally, a thud. The barrel of your gun smoked victoriously in your hand, the smell of gunpowder so sharp it stung your eyes.
Crimson leaked onto the dark wood floor and matted the girl's blonde hair. She lay there, blue eyes glassy, just another girl lost to the Red Room.
You were both deer, poached and hunted by wolves and forced to hunt each other for their entertainment masked as your survival. But the mask was just as real as the amusement it brought.
It was almost you... and you knew one day it would be.
It was the heavy sickness of the guilt that jolted you awake. And it was the unfamiliarity of your surroundings that put you on high alert.
You had expected to wake up to thin sheets that didn't keep you warm enough and a bed low enough that you could roll out of it in an emergency. You expected to see rows and rows of other girls sleeping in the same conditions as you. To wake up isolated in the dark was jarring.
But you had no time to reflect before you were dashing to the en-suite door opposite you. You burst in and skidded to the toilet, falling to your knees ungracefully as the contents of your stomach emptied itself into the white porcelain bowl.
Snatching tissue off the roll beside your head, it was unusually soft when you wiped it over your lips. It brought a frown, almost offended. It felt like you were being soothed for your weakness instead of punished. You threw the tissue in the toilet and flushed it away in petty revenge.
The white toothbrush on the big marble counter was still in its packaging, lined up neatly with mint flavoured toothpaste and vanilla scented shampoos, conditioners and body washes beside the embedded sink. It was all very neutrally decorative, fancy without trying too hard.
The toothpaste was a fresh mint—sharp and clean. It didn't leave coarse grains in your mouth or a bitter taste. The bristles of the brush were soft and gentle on your teeth and gums. The toothpaste was clear instead of marbled with red when you spat.
Everything felt disoriented and out of place, heightened without chemicals running through your veins keeping you subdued. Colours were brighter, the sounds of the city in the early morning just outside your window louder.
Your chest locked up, tight and immovable. You sucked in a breath, short and shallow that did nothing to soothe you. Your eyes were starting to prickle with heat as the whites turned pink in the mirror. But the image of yourself was starting to blur.
You waited for the numbness to return, the control that wasn't in your hands repressing your nervous system and forcing your muscles to relax.
But nothing came, the shaking of your hands didn't pass, and it didn't become suddenly easier to breathe. You were trapped in this state where everything was suddenly too much, too loud, too bright.
Your chest wasn't relaxing. You still couldn't breathe and you weren't being punished for it.
You tore off your clothes and stepped into the huge shower, turning the water to freezing and blasting the pressure on high. The water turned your skin to goosebumps and tensed your body as you gasped.
Tiny icicles stabbed at your skin as you soaked in the cold punishment. It was cold and awful but familiar, reminiscent of the nights you spent locked out in the snow. You tried to push the thoughts away as you grabbed your new body wash and began to scrub.
Your body was pink by the time you turned the shower off, the cream-coloured loofah sitting like a weapon on the waterproof shelf. You grabbed your towel and wrapped yourself up in the strange fluffiness.
Stepping back out to your room, you felt lost in the come-down of emotion. The heavy duvet that was more suffocating than cozy had been kicked too the floor, as were the excess of throw pillows. You didn't feel deserving of such comfort, not with so much blood on your hands.
A knock at the door pulled you away from the sights of the city below you. You were dressed in another pair of sweatpants and a hoodie you'd found in your mostly empty wardrobe and had been sat by the window as you watched the sunrise.
Years of lightly trained feet padded over to the door to unlock it. It slid open with that futuristic swoosh and you were face to face with Romanoff again. She smiled when she saw you.
"Good morning, glad to see you didn't run away from us in the night," she said.
"The Red Room is most likely looking for me already, it wouldn't be safe." You frowned, wondering why she wasn't understanding the obvious.
"It was a joke, sweetheart," she said softly.
"Do you want some breakfast?" Romanoff changed the subject.
Hunger was scraping at you stomach properly for the first time in years, growling periodically as you tried to ignore the unfamiliar sensation. The suggestion of breakfast caught you off guard, however.
"But- I am a prisoner..." you hesitated.
"Oh, come on," Romanoff chuckled. "Tony can believe what he wants. While you may not be part of the team, you're definitely not our prisoner. We keep prisoners basement level."
"You like your new digs?" She asked. You nodded indifferently.
"Homely." Was all you could manage. Romanoff smiled.
Standing opposite another ex-Red Room project and not seeing any visible signs of trauma was jarring. She had managed to move on and you were struggling, feeling things you'd been punished for feeling.
"Come on, let's get some breakfast in you," she nodded her head as she lead you down the long hallway.
The kitchen was quieter than you expected. You imagined it was usually busier but had been cleared out for your sake. The only people in the room were Rogers at the stove in an apron that read 'kiss the captain' in red, white and blue, and Barnes sat at the island pouring two mugs of coffee.
The room had a mix of aromas, mingling in the air to form an unfamiliar but pleasant smell. The smell of food made your stomach growl.
"Good morning," Rogers smiled at you from the stove. "I hope you like bacon and pancakes."
The words were foreign to you, the names of the foods sizzling before Rogers unspoken around the Red Room.
Romanoff caught your confused gaze and chuckled.
"Not a thing where she's from," she said. She gestured to the island beside Barnes. "Sit."
You slid into the seat beside Barnes and he pushed a cup towards you.
"Drink. It'll give you some energy." Barnes muttered as he raised his cup towards his own lips, taking a sip.
You copied his actions, sipping the dark liquid as Romanoff stood by Rogers as she sprinkled some more salt onto the bacon. The coffee was bitter and sharp on your tongue, the taste unfamiliar but comfortingly punishing.
Bucky chuckled when he saw your grimace.
"Here," he took back your mug and sprinkled some sugar with a dash of milk. "Try again.
The coffee was sweeter this time, but still unfamiliar in its taste and how it no longer bit sharply. You savoured the taste and tried to decide how it made you feel, how strange it felt to have something adjusted for you. Someone had noticed, Barnes had noticed.
"Better?" Barnes asked as Rogers put down a plate piled high with bacon and eggs. You settled for a nod in response.
"No coffee where you from either?" Rogers asked, not interrogative or prodding, just curious and light.
"No." You couldn't form any other response, it was just that. Luxuries like coffee weren't for people like you. Rogers simply nodded.
"Try this," Romanoff filled your plate with some bacon and a few eggs. "You'll have to eat now you're not on the chemicals."
You exhaled as she placed the plate in front of you. It looked so foreign in front of you. You poked gingerly at the meat.
"It's bacon." Bucky said blankly.
You felt a little stupid not knowing exactly what it was.
"It's pork, pig. Salty but nice," Rogers explained gently. "Here."
He handed you a knife and fork and you cut a small piece off. You bit into it and the flavours bloomed on your tongue.
"Good?" Romanoff asked. All eyes were on you.
"...I feel like I am back in the interrogation rooms." You muttered, eliciting a chuckle from the red-headed woman. "But it is good..."
Rogers smiled and nodded proudly.
You, Barnes, Rogers and Romanoff sat around the table sharing pancakes and bacon, quiet but comfortable nonetheless. The quiet was broken only by Rogers narrating what his plan for the day was and the scraping of silverware against plates. The food was different, nothing bland like what they fed you just for some real nutrients. This was food that tasted good, swimming in grease and salt.
Your body didn't welcome it easily. A slow sickness crawled around your stomach, the mix of bacon and pancakes not sitting right after a short while. It seemed to be thrown off by the sudden change, and as your stomach rolled again, it looked like you were going to be sick for the second time that morning.
"Is there a toilet nearby or do I go to my room?" You asked, cutting through Rogers's voice. Everyone paused.
"Uh, it's just down the hall," he said carefully. "Everything alright?"
You couldn't even nod before you were leaving the room, heading down the hall like you'd been instructed.
The lock clicked behind you as you entered the bathroom and lowered yourself to your knees by the toilet, much more controlled this time. You quietly emptied your stomach of the grease and salt, syrup and sugar followed it. The soft tissue was just as offensive as last time, but you weren't as petty when you flushed it.
Something was wrong. Your body was rejecting what you were eating. Part of you wanted the chemical back in your system, feeding you artificial nutrients that meant you didn't have to fuel yourself. The numbness that meant you didn't have to chew and swallow and throw it all back up again.
That meant you didn't have to embarrass yourself in front of Avengers.
A heavy hand knocked the door, heavier than Romanoff's gentle but announcing knock. It made you pause in front of the mirror.
"Um- everything okay in there?" It was Barnes's voice that called out. And from the unease in his voice, he'd been sent.
"Fine." You called back, but you still unlocked the door. A strange, weak part of you ached for some sort of human interaction.
Barnes gently pushed the door open as you washed your hands.
"All okay?" He asked, his voice quiet in a gruff attempt at gentleness.
"My body is rejecting the food." You muttered, expecting a big reaction. But he simply nodded.
"I did too for the first few months..." he seemed to be slightly retreated into his memories.
You thought back to when news spread about the Winter Soldier being de-conditioned by the Avengers, the panic it had caused in the Red Room. There was a mass lockdown, and everyone was trained and beaten harder for months.
"You caused a hysteria." You muttered as you pulled paper towels from the dispenser. "When you broke from Hydra."
He looked up, coming back to the present.
"I did?" He asked, his voice actually gentle now.
"Yes. We were all re-conditioned that week. I've never worked harder in my life." You thought back to the hours and hours of dancing, scrubbing, praying and torture you'd endured. Barnes looked genuinely apologetic.
"I'm sorry." He said quietly. Your eyes flickered to his through the mirror.
"What for?" Your voice matched his, but with much less emotion.
"I caused that for you," he looked pained. But you shook your head.
"No. Much more fucked up people did." You didn't want him to feel guilty. Partly to not deal with any emotions and partly because it really wasn't his fault. You couldn't watch him kick himself for something that was never his fault... "Nobody expected you to stay in such conditions."
"Look... I'm sure you have Natasha for everything, but... if she's never around..." he swallowed apprehensively as the words teetered on his tongue. "You can come to me... I understand it all too."
His words hit you like a truck, your mind starting to spiral. You wanted to reciprocate, to thank and appreciate and respect. But it clawed up your throat, reminding you of your own weakness.
"I'll be fine." You muttered as you turned and pushed past him, briskly walking back to the elevator to take you back to your room.
Your fingernails dug into your palms and you felt your eyes burning again. You dug your nails deeper, the sparks of pain distracting you from feeling weakness. A distraction from Barnes's dark eyes watching you as the elevator doors shut.
A scream burst from your lungs, angry and confused. This wasn't you, feeling and being emotional. You couldn't take it.
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