mcu fic: therapy ch 6
Bucky pov. In this story, the Hydran serum gives psychic powers, and now that the War between Hydra and Shield has been won (by Shield), the Hydrans have been able to break their conditioning and use their powers for good. Bucky still doesn't remember who he really is at this point, because the Hydran wipes and implants went so deep into his psyche. He won't remember until he meets someone who remembers him.
====
The little spider left his suite, wiping away tears, overcome by the memory he had uncovered.
Memory was such a delicate thing, yet somehow impervious.
It lay untouched for years, buried beneath the hardened quicksilver of Hydran implanted memories. An implanted Hydran tried to know herself, but looking in the mirror, saw only what was revealed in the implant.
Sometimes the mirror flaked away on its own, and Agents broke free. Natasha had done this, despite years of conditioning and layers of implants. But she couldn’t get all the way through to the original memories of her core self. She had no idea who she’d been, no way to connect to those years.
Much like himself.
He looked into the mirror, and a silvery blankness looked back.
He remembered her at least, and through her, a little about himself. She was the one who had rescued him from them.
He could recall the flashes he’d gleaned from her with perfect clarity.
*flash*
He is in an implant room. Hydran Agents are ranged around him, chaining up to wipe him. He is cold, empty, fresh from cryogenic storage. He hates the wipe, and the implant even more, but it hurts so much more when he fights. She is there, she is the beautiful redhaired girl, so young, but so close to him, so far up the chain. She must be powerful. He respects power.
He feels the linked energies of the Agents as they build along the chain even though no one is Touching him yet. He is tense. He is afraid. He is so empty. Why must they take what little he has?
-the gleam of sunlight on fair golden hair
- laughing blue eyes that look with love into his
- the touch of red lips to his own
- a fragile, long boned hand clinging to his, and love flowing into him with no need for augmentation
- once there had been names, but those are long gone, beneath layers and layers of silver
The Agent next to him clamps a hand across his forehead and fire sweeps through his brain, scorching it down to the mirror.
Empty. Blankness. Ready for the implant.
Lukin, so full of hatred for Shield, spills his vitriol into the emptied mind of the Agent, who has no will but the will of Hydra.
*flash*
The redheaded woman is here. She seems familiar. He thinks of Agents, chained to make him ready. He thinks she has been one of them. Where are the Agents today? There are always so many, chained together to hold him back. He knows he is strong, stronger by far than any one Hydran, but he has no mission except the ones they give him. Does he?
He could do away with Lukin. He thinks it would be a good, to stomp the head of such a poisonous viper, who drips his venom into the Agent’s mind as into a crystal chalice.
But the beautiful woman is already taking Lukin down. Can that be right? Lukin arches away from the death she deals with her hands. Lukin never had much power, only hatred. The Agent cannot feel regret at Lukin’s demise.
Little spider, he thinks. So graceful, so deadly, threaded all around with the tendrils of her perceptions, the lines of her influence. She pulls at him with her white glinting eyes.
*Come* he feels her say. *Help* she offers him. *Free* she promises.
He will go. She does not take his hand, but he goes with her. Away from Hydra. He goes.
*flash*
They are in his new suite at Stark Tower.
“Be careful,” she says. “You have so much power. You could kill me with a Touch.”
“I would not kill you,” the Agent answers. Not an Agent now. What is he? A man; more. The Hydran.
“You can sway thoughts with a glance, read minds, maybe even the future. Don’t.”
Just for a moment he watches her future. It spins away, and he lets it go, gossamer. Now is more important.
“Your eyes do not glint,” she says. She doesn’t look at his face. “They shine. Your whole face shines. You have so much power.”
She is yearning for him to look past her mirror.
“For me to look past it would break you. Let it flake away.”
She shudders, full of sorrow at the locked box Hydra has made of her past.
“It’s not safe for me to look at you while you’re shining like this. Look at your arm.”
He looks. His whole arm shines with power, the hand he used to write with, when he was allowed such things as writing.
“Don’t Touch anyone with that until you are sure it is safe.” He sees the fear in her mind, the screaming, hearts stopping, bodies bursting into flame, crumbling into gray, charred dust.
“If I Touch you, I will be sure not to hurt you,” he promises.
*flash*
He Touches her. The beautiful Natasha. She comes to him with her sadness and he takes it away to exchange it for bliss. Her ecstasy cleanses his mind, flows into him and out of his deadly arm, and bit by bit he recovers pieces of her. She goes from him, but never far, weeping, sated, relieved, satisfied.
He is glad.
*flash*
Her new client is a handful. The Hydran sees him in her mind.
* golden hair * blue eyes * red lips * a strong, righteous hand * and a name. Steve.
Tears roll down the Hydran’s cheeks. He does not know why he is weeping. He wants to know.
====
The little spider left his suite, wiping away tears, overcome by the memory he had uncovered.
Memory was such a delicate thing, yet somehow impervious.
It lay untouched for years, buried beneath the hardened quicksilver of Hydran implanted memories. An implanted Hydran tried to know herself, but looking in the mirror, saw only what was revealed in the implant.
Sometimes the mirror flaked away on its own, and Agents broke free. Natasha had done this, despite years of conditioning and layers of implants. But she couldn’t get all the way through to the original memories of her core self. She had no idea who she’d been, no way to connect to those years.
Much like himself.
He looked into the mirror, and a silvery blankness looked back.
He remembered her at least, and through her, a little about himself. She was the one who had rescued him from them.
He could recall the flashes he’d gleaned from her with perfect clarity.
*flash*
He is in an implant room. Hydran Agents are ranged around him, chaining up to wipe him. He is cold, empty, fresh from cryogenic storage. He hates the wipe, and the implant even more, but it hurts so much more when he fights. She is there, she is the beautiful redhaired girl, so young, but so close to him, so far up the chain. She must be powerful. He respects power.
He feels the linked energies of the Agents as they build along the chain even though no one is Touching him yet. He is tense. He is afraid. He is so empty. Why must they take what little he has?
-the gleam of sunlight on fair golden hair
- laughing blue eyes that look with love into his
- the touch of red lips to his own
- a fragile, long boned hand clinging to his, and love flowing into him with no need for augmentation
- once there had been names, but those are long gone, beneath layers and layers of silver
The Agent next to him clamps a hand across his forehead and fire sweeps through his brain, scorching it down to the mirror.
Empty. Blankness. Ready for the implant.
Lukin, so full of hatred for Shield, spills his vitriol into the emptied mind of the Agent, who has no will but the will of Hydra.
*flash*
The redheaded woman is here. She seems familiar. He thinks of Agents, chained to make him ready. He thinks she has been one of them. Where are the Agents today? There are always so many, chained together to hold him back. He knows he is strong, stronger by far than any one Hydran, but he has no mission except the ones they give him. Does he?
He could do away with Lukin. He thinks it would be a good, to stomp the head of such a poisonous viper, who drips his venom into the Agent’s mind as into a crystal chalice.
But the beautiful woman is already taking Lukin down. Can that be right? Lukin arches away from the death she deals with her hands. Lukin never had much power, only hatred. The Agent cannot feel regret at Lukin’s demise.
Little spider, he thinks. So graceful, so deadly, threaded all around with the tendrils of her perceptions, the lines of her influence. She pulls at him with her white glinting eyes.
*Come* he feels her say. *Help* she offers him. *Free* she promises.
He will go. She does not take his hand, but he goes with her. Away from Hydra. He goes.
*flash*
They are in his new suite at Stark Tower.
“Be careful,” she says. “You have so much power. You could kill me with a Touch.”
“I would not kill you,” the Agent answers. Not an Agent now. What is he? A man; more. The Hydran.
“You can sway thoughts with a glance, read minds, maybe even the future. Don’t.”
Just for a moment he watches her future. It spins away, and he lets it go, gossamer. Now is more important.
“Your eyes do not glint,” she says. She doesn’t look at his face. “They shine. Your whole face shines. You have so much power.”
She is yearning for him to look past her mirror.
“For me to look past it would break you. Let it flake away.”
She shudders, full of sorrow at the locked box Hydra has made of her past.
“It’s not safe for me to look at you while you’re shining like this. Look at your arm.”
He looks. His whole arm shines with power, the hand he used to write with, when he was allowed such things as writing.
“Don’t Touch anyone with that until you are sure it is safe.” He sees the fear in her mind, the screaming, hearts stopping, bodies bursting into flame, crumbling into gray, charred dust.
“If I Touch you, I will be sure not to hurt you,” he promises.
*flash*
He Touches her. The beautiful Natasha. She comes to him with her sadness and he takes it away to exchange it for bliss. Her ecstasy cleanses his mind, flows into him and out of his deadly arm, and bit by bit he recovers pieces of her. She goes from him, but never far, weeping, sated, relieved, satisfied.
He is glad.
*flash*
Her new client is a handful. The Hydran sees him in her mind.
* golden hair * blue eyes * red lips * a strong, righteous hand * and a name. Steve.
Tears roll down the Hydran’s cheeks. He does not know why he is weeping. He wants to know.