The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Forty eight

A/N: listen to Gasoline - Halsey

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"Under no circumstances does anyone interrupt." I warn, gripping the tablet in my hand. "No matter what happens."

The team looks back at me with expressions ranging from anxious to pained to calculated, all uncomfortable with what's about to happen but for different reasons.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Tony asks, brown eyes concerned.

No.

"Yes."

My voice is as cold as I feel.

I catch two blue eyes staring back at me from the other side of the room. Bucky's face remains chillingly stoic as he slouches in his seat, jaw set firmly. He studies me for a moment longer before his gaze drops to the ground. He doesn't look at me again.

I glance around at the rest of the Avengers, all gathered in the small room opposite Ilenova's interrogation cell. It would be comical to see them all squished around a tiny metal table if it weren't for the man visible through the one way window.

He stares straight at me, and for a moment I'm sure he can see through the glass and into my soul.

Maybe he can - devils are not normal men.

Letting out a constrained breath, I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins and infecting my heart, forcing it to beat faster and faster until the noise is almost deafening in my ears. Despite this, I fight the million racing thoughts to the very back of my mind, locking them tightly away as I have done so many times before.

I allow the steel to build in my muscles, steadying my legs and straightening my spine, chin up and proud. I don't look at Tony as he talks.

"Good luck."

My nostrils flare as I take a few final breaths, fighting the revulsion at what I'm about to do, who I'm about to become.

I walk into that room as Agent 184 or I don't walk in there at all. Anything less and Ilenova will win.

My legs move before my brain can tell them not to as I cross the excruciatingly long five metres to the door, the tablet clenched in one sweating palm, the other out of its sling but too painful to use. As I walk, I push away the guilt simmering in my stomach, instead allowing my head to flood with awful images of what this man has done, what he made me do.

A silent snarl tugs at my lips.

He deserves this; we need this.

I grip the cold metal handle as the person I used to be: brutal, emotionless, robotic.

"Agent 184."

The door falls closed behind me with a metallic thunk. My blazing eyes find his and stay there, meeting his challenge unwaveringly no matter how much I want to look away.

"Sergeant Ilenova."

I pull the chair from under the table, easing myself into it despite the protest from my shoulder. I place the tablet to one side, screen down. My face remains passive through the pain, unwilling to give away even the smallest hint of weakness. It's all part of the facade.

Grey pits meet mine with malicious delight. The man sits straight in his chair, shoulders back and chest out in clear soldier's habit, his meaty hands clasped in almost comic politeness on the metal table. Heavy duty cuffs chain his wrists to the sturdiness of the counter, leaving him only a few inches of movement.