The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Twenty

Nyx POV

Bucky

Oh God.

The oil rig disappears completely from view, replaced by fragmented memories of the Winter Soldier flashing uncontrollably across my mind. Most are too fast to focus on, but a few form brief, hazy images.

I see an outstretched silver hand; blue eyes alight with humour; the two of us sat on a rooftop somewhere; his lifeless gaze as he charges at me; the view from above as I try to climb the turret at the Hydra base; his hulking figure racing forwards; a bright, cheerful smile as he chuckles at a joke I made, shiny arm clutching his chest.

That was the one time I properly made him laugh.

"Shut up!"

The voice is distant and tinny, yet the words resonate around my head in the form of déjà vu.

My stomach drops as I realise what's coming next, and in the same instant the memory is pulled to the forefront of my mind.

Shut up.

"Shut up." Bucky hisses, his lip curled in disgust and effort.

My claws scratch fruitlessly at his metal wrist, his palm clamped around my throat like a vice. I writhe underneath him, desperately trying and failing to dislodge the super soldier as my vision starts to swim. My heart convulses painfully in my chest, strangled chokes escaping my lips as my wind pipe is crushed.

Somewhere in the very back of my mind I recognise it's only a memory. It fights in vain to focus on something else but the larger part of my conscious is terrified of what happens next, the image too real, too horrifying to be anything other than happening here and now.

I stare up into two desolate eyes, the man I once knew nowhere to be seen.

"Nyx!"

The voice is somewhere far away, but it's there.

"Turn it off!" Another one yells.

"Nyx Stop!"

Stop.

Stop.

Suddenly I'm stood in a room, the hand around my throat gone. My breathing is ragged as I gasp desperately for air, hunching forward and leaning heavily on my knees.

Eventually I recover enough to stand up. I scan the familiar Hydra training room, with its yellowing walls and worn square of blue mat. A clock ticks on one wall, the hands stuck at twelve o'clock, unable to move any further. I eye the silver steel of the door, panic starting to take over my whole body, weakening my knees and obstructing my oxygen intake.

It's like I can't breathe all over again, my lungs screaming at me for impairing them for the second time in a matter of minutes. Horror settles in my stomach, so heavy that I want to sink to the ground. But of course, I don't, that isn't how this memory goes

I know what happens next.

I try to think of something else, anything else, but it's no use. My brain seems to push my last piece of consciousness to the darkest depths of my mind and lock it there, as if it's eager for the memory I've imprisoned for five years to come spilling out.