The ghosts we hide (Winter Soldier x OC)

Thirteen

I stay in my room for three days without another visitor. On the first day after Steve left, I slept though the afternoon and night. To my surprise, a tray of food had appeared on the floor just inside the door to greet me as I woke up.

This routine continued every morning, though I didn't eat much. Once you've been used to consuming relatively little, it becomes habit. And in Hydra, food was always rationed.

On the fourth morning, I sit, legs crossed, staring out over New York.

My mind is a turbulent mess and staying secluded in a single room with only my warring thoughts for company really doesn't help. Yet the thought of having to face the others sends a shiver of anxiety through me.

They all know I lied.

The door opening sends me spinning around as Tony stands just inside the threshold of the room, arms crossed.

"Get up."

I hesitate, scanning his guarded brown eyes. He raises his brow at me expectantly, his face stoic.

"Don't make me ask you again." He says, anger seeping into his voice that he's obviously trying to hide. I scramble to my feet, the impulse to obey ingrained in my brain. He stares at me for a long second, a frown pulling at his lips, before nodding and walking out the door.

I follow a few steps behind, keeping a careful distance between us in case he decides to swing round with a fist. His fury is obvious, rolling off him in waves. The only question remaining is who, exactly, it's directed at.

I'm starting to get the impression that it's me.

He leads me down the corridor and to the door of the same meeting room, stopping outside and gesturing for me to go in first as if he expects me to try and bolt. He follows me in, closing the door firmly behind him. Apprehension burns in my stomach.

"Sit." He commands.

I watch him watch me as I sink hesitantly into one of the ten empty chairs around the table.

"Jarvis, pull up the CNN live broadcast."

"Right away Sir." The A.I replies.

Once again the table seems to spawn a 3D image. A building billows smoke as ambulances and fire crews scurry about, urgency and panic on their faces. The shot changes to a close up of the building, or what's left of it. Half of the premises have been ravaged by flame, only a scorched skeletal structure left, reaching for the sky like gnarled fingers. Bright yellow police tape flaps in the wind, cordoning off countless areas covered in white sheets.

Bodies.

Nausea grips the back of my throat as I read the headline - hundreds dead in hospital terror attack.

The image flicks to a news anchor speaking soundlessly, her eyes portraying the faked sincerity that all successful journalists master. Suddenly the image disappears, gone with a flick of Tony's finger.

"Three guesses on who's behind it."

Stark's voice is uncharacteristically cold. Wrath burns in his gaze like molten chocolate as he places both hands on the table, leaning towards me.

"They set explosives in the basement, strapped right onto the gas tanks. When they blew up it sent sparks shooting up the pipes, combusting the CO2 and successfully setting fire to the whole of the east wing. Over three hundred dead and counting." He states, venom dripping from his tone. "These are the people you're protecting. Who knows, maybe we could've stopped this if you'd had the guts to help us."

Unable to hold his searing gaze, my eyes drop to my clenched fists. My left hand burns from the force but I don't let up, using the pain as a distraction from the sickening guilt boiling in my stomach.