Flames flickered to life against his palm, the heat a barely there sensation as he willed it to slither between his fingers and around his wrist, caressing with utmost delicacy the strong pulse that fluttered beneath his skin. Sometimes, if he tried extra hard, he could actually make himself feel the pain, let his skin burn just a fraction before the Extremis in his veins prevented any more damage.
He could make himself feel alive .
A soft chuckle escaped his lips at the thought. The irony of it all, a bittersweet memory that never truly left his head, that bit and thrashed to remind him that it was still there, that just because he was enhanced and immune didn’t mean he was free. He would never be free. He would never be able to break the chains that bound him to the souls of the men that put him in such a position in the first place. Because despite it all, his wants didn’t trump his needs.
And no matter how twisted the situation was, he needed to see them again. He needed to look them in the eyes once more, to have them break his heart and step on it like they did at the bunker in Siberia. Like they did all those times prior when they spouted honey coated words in order to mask the repugnance that lay beneath. When they brought him meals down to his workshop and stayed until the late hours of the night, simply talking about things that to others would have made no sense.
He needed to hear them say the words that he regretted having said first, to have them smile falsely at his face and look at him with pity. Pity he’d initially mistaken for something softer, something warm and, dare he say it, loving. Because that’s what they had done. They‘d played him like a fiddle, strung tunes that he mistook for dedicated symphonies. They didn’t correct him when he asked the truth behind their intentions, choosing to remain silent instead.
What a fool.