The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Sixty seven

Nyx POV

From what I can estimate, they've left me in a cell for three days since my last beating.

Three days to sit alone and stew on the fact that they took Peter from the cell next to me and that they haven't yet returned him.

I keep telling myself it's another scare tactic but I can't quite bring myself to believe it. Instead I sit and bear the perpetual feeling that the ceiling above me will collapse at any moment, the minute I let it crack.

War wages inside me, a battle between a choking panic and the urge to rip apart every single person who has hurt him.

And then there's my dreams.

I see him every time I close my eyes. Sometimes he comes as Bucky and sometimes as the Winter Soldier; I can't decide which memories are more painful. My chest aches every time I think of him, a deeper, lonelier feeling than just that of broken ribs.

And sat here by myself I have a lot of time to think.

It dawned on me at some point in my uninterrupted hours of solitude that they haven't given me a blocker. There's been nothing suspicious about the little food I've received, and definitely no injections to my knowledge. The thought puts me on edge.

I can't help remembering how both Mengele and Ilenova tried to provoke me, to unleash what I try so hard to keep contained. I'm certain H will try and do the same.

All of these thoughts whirl unrelentingly around my brain, nothing but an empty row of cages to keep me entertained. There's a chill in the air that never ceases, hanging as a constant reminder that I might know where we are but that the information is useless, only adding to the cacophony of emotions raging beneath my skin.

Letting out a slow breath through my nose, I lean my head back against the cold metal behind me. At least the wound on my scalp has stopped throbbing every time I move, though I can't say the same for the rest of me.

I'm not sure how long it is until the door at the end of the room scrapes open. My head shoots up, back becoming rigid, eyes forward.

I don't look to see who's approaching. Hydra agents are like wild animals - eye contact is antagonistic.

Two black boots, shined to perfection, stop outside my cell.

The door swings open.

"Get up."

I scramble to my feet immediately, knowing that if I don't move straight away, H will move me instead.

I stand rigidly, chin up, hands folded behind my back - exactly what is expected me.

It makes me feel sick how easily I fall back into what they taught me.

"After you, 184." He says, a pleasant smile on his face. I hesitate, unnerved.

H holds out a hand, gesturing for me to move past him. Trying not to seem 'disrespectful' while simultaneously keeping a close eye on the mountain of a man next to me, I cautiously move forwards, edging past him and out into the empty corridor.

His eyes burn holes into my skin as I feel him appraise me, but I keep my gaze trained forwards. Eventually he moves again, his hand finding the small of my back to guide me from the room and down the next hallway. Skin crawling, I walk along with him, my calm facade hiding the mounting revulsion swelling in my stomach.

H doesn't say a word as we travel for at least ten minutes, but his hand never leaves my back. The gesture could be considered friendly if I didn't understand the underlying threat in the contact.