[Now that is something beyond the bounds of his existence so far as he remembers it. He tilts his chin, examines the Captain as if he speaks an unknown tongue.]
[He looks down at the plate, and doesn't say anything for a moment, like he's trying to line up how to say this. How to even think it without feeling like he's betraying someone, or something.]
I want to be able to touch someone without violence. Without the promise of violence.
[He curls his hands into massive fists.]
I want a life that is my own.
[And that's the greatest sin of all. The wanting of it, at least, does not suggest that he thinks he will ever get it.]
[He could let the Captain touch him, but not without violence. They are both made to be weapons: touching him would be like tracing a fingertip down the barrel of a gun. Touching him will hurt, and he will never be free of what he is.
At his core, a part of it was always there. Built on and built into him, but present. This potential. With misguided loyalties, this is what it becomes.
Though the Soldier feels something over that. It might be regret.]
[He knows better. He knows that this was never something anyone could give him, let alone the man who he would want them from. He has felt more keenly than the other, he has always been a little more complete, a little less of a weapon, for all that they are both deadly.]
no subject
Do you have wants?
no subject
[Yes. He does, and they're private, they're the only things that he considers his.
That's why there's a gun with a bullet that has his name etched in it, and there isn't one for the Winter Soldier.]
no subject
I... want to know them. [He wants more than that, perhaps, but takes small steps.]
no subject
I want to be able to touch someone without violence. Without the promise of violence.
[He curls his hands into massive fists.]
I want a life that is my own.
[And that's the greatest sin of all. The wanting of it, at least, does not suggest that he thinks he will ever get it.]
no subject
[He could let the Captain touch him, but not without violence. They are both made to be weapons: touching him would be like tracing a fingertip down the barrel of a gun. Touching him will hurt, and he will never be free of what he is.
At his core, a part of it was always there. Built on and built into him, but present. This potential. With misguided loyalties, this is what it becomes.
Though the Soldier feels something over that. It might be regret.]
no subject
[He knows better. He knows that this was never something anyone could give him, let alone the man who he would want them from. He has felt more keenly than the other, he has always been a little more complete, a little less of a weapon, for all that they are both deadly.]