[The problem with Bucky’s arm is that he knows it’s beautiful but hates its intent. He loves it—loved it—for what it is capable of and can accomplish. Yet, it was made for destruction. The brand on the outside of his arm reminded him daily.
Maybe whenever he gets a new one, he can reclaim its meaning properly. So that he doesn’t regret loving something so magnificent and yet so deadly. But that would take time, something he doesn’t know if he even has much of.]
Yeah. Your room.
[So he can feel like he belongs somewhere. His own room always feels so empty by comparison, even with the few belongings Bucky can say are definitely his.]
no subject
Maybe whenever he gets a new one, he can reclaim its meaning properly. So that he doesn’t regret loving something so magnificent and yet so deadly. But that would take time, something he doesn’t know if he even has much of.]
Yeah. Your room.
[So he can feel like he belongs somewhere. His own room always feels so empty by comparison, even with the few belongings Bucky can say are definitely his.]