The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Sixty six

Nyx POV

I flinch away as a hand touches my arm, not yet prepared for another onslaught.

"Hey, it's just me."

My eyes snap open to focus on Peter's bruised face, his forehead leaning on the bars separating us. I unfurl myself from where I was curled up on the floor, trying desperately to keep as much pain off my face as I do so.

He doesn't need to see that.

I can tell by the despondency in his wide eyes that I must look like hell, no flinching necessary.

"Are you ok?" I croak, scouring his hunched figure for any kind of serious injury. To my relief I find none. His face is more bruised than the last time I saw him though, crusted blood highlighting one nostril as if he's hurriedly tried to clean up a nosebleed.

Anger simmers dangerously in my stomach. For once, I let it stew. It's nice to feel something after so many hours of zoning out. There's only so many times you can be punched before everything turns numb, the punishment almost boring.

Peter sighs, closing his eyes. His forehead rests against his hands which grip the metals bars between us, knuckles white.

"Have you seen what you look like?" He asks, managing to let a little bit of humour seep into his voice, however twisted.

I chuckle then instantly regret it, the ribs I'm sure are well on their way to being broken aching deep in my chest. Leaning my head back against the metal sheet behind me, I let my eyes close, breathing slowly through my nose.

They haven't asked me a single question yet and I don't expect them to. They trained me in withstanding interrogation, they know they won't break me now. Peter is who I'm most worried about. He's a kid - soft, easily broken.

So far he seems better off than I am, but I know it's too much to hope it stays that way.

I have to get us out of here.

A hand brushes mine.

I look down, studying where the tips of Peter's fingers over lap with mine. That small action speaks volumes without either of us having to open our mouths. It tells me that he wants to help me even though he knows he can't, that he's there and he's not going anywhere, and it tells me that he's scared. It tells me that he doesn't want to admit it but he's terrified.

My eyes start to sting as I look at our hands, both grubby and cracked. If I allowed myself to, I could cry. I could let everything go and allow my own panic and terror consume me. But I don't.

You don't cry in Hydra.

Peter jumps away from me as the door at the end of the corridor scrapes open. They put us in separate cells, though adjacent, in a room resembling a jail, more metal cages lining the walls around us. There's a walkway in the middle, flanked by two doors at opposite ends of the space.

I pull my arms around myself, tucking my hands into my armpits in an attempt to stave off both the pernicious cold that seems to hang eternally in the air, and the sudden emptiness from Peter's absence of touch.

I wince as a freezing draft attacks my skin, enveloping me in a biting hug for a few moments before it dissipates. Footsteps draw my attention, but I keep my eyes low, submissive. I don't want to give them any more reason for a beating.

What I'm not expecting to see is white bordering the otherwise black boots of the agents as they march past, as if they've just been walking across deep snow. I study them as they pass, mind whirling. Once they've safely moved through the next door, I crawl tentatively forwards, ignoring the spasm of pain in my stomach.