The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Sixty eight

I'm sure the floor lurches under me.

The realisation hits me like a train, sweat suddenly pouring down my back as my mind whirls painfully.

Now Peter watching makes sense.

"Do you understand, 184?" H spits, bending down so that our eyes are level. The excitement in their muddy depths makes me want to vomit.

I have to kill him.

H can see the realisation blossoming across my face because his smile grows even wider, almost maniacal. He stands up straight and turns to his fellow agent who is gripping the man by the back of the neck.

I try and think of a way out of this, any way, anything possible; My mind comes up blank.

I can tell by the look on the man's face that his agent has had a very similar conversation with him. There's a grim determination set in his jaw, but his eyes show a spark of fear, something he's trying and failing to keep hidden.

I wonder what it's like to know you're probably going to die.

Unconsciously, I glance over at Peter, instantly regretting it. His eyes are wide, holding even more fear than the man opposite me. I can tell he wants to call out to me but is holding himself back, incomprehension and apprehension freezing his speech.

Steeling myself, I focus back on the man before me, trying to fight the sudden influx of nausea contorting my stomach.

He's going to hate me.

The thought goes round and round in my head. It's one thing to have a vague idea of a person's history - it's another thing entirely to see first hand what they're capable of.

I don't want him to hate me.

I have no more time to spare on the thought because a hand shoves me roughly forwards, towards the decaying floor mats and a man whose heart won't be beating in five minutes.

I can barely breathe. It feels like I'm trapped by a giant hand, squeezing and squeezing until I'm sure my ribs will crack and my lungs will collapse.

But they don't.

The man and I circle each other.

He's more cautious now, his earlier frenzied attack now giving way into a tense apprehension. He doesn't want to attack first, but neither do I.

The tension seems to multiply each second, filling the room until I can almost feel it touching me, cold and clammy against my skin. I can feel H's mounting annoyance too, but it's not enough to spur me into action.

Eventually it is him who cracks under the strain.

He jumps forwards suddenly, trying to end this quickly with a jab to the throat. Unfortunately it's an amateur move, one I'm ready for. I catch his wrist, slipping sideways as I twist his arm, forcing it to bend at a painful angle. He lets out a gasp and has to collapse onto his knees to prevent a broken bone.

I could end it here. It would be so easy.

But a part of me won't let go of the hope that there's a way we can both walk away from this.

It's partly my preoccupation and partly my conscience that allows the man to get in a punch to the stomach, the impact knocking me backwards. His wrist leaves my grasp as I bend over, my already cracked ribs protesting the new damage with a wave of nausea that takes me a few seconds to stave off. In this time the man manages to regain his feet, my upper hand dissolving.

I brave a glance at H, who watches with his arms crossed, shoulder to shoulder with his fellow agent. He doesn't look impressed.

Swallowing a cough, I duck my opponent's next attack, retaliating with a jarring punch to the jaw. I hope it will knock him out but I'm not that lucky.