Usually, when given an order, Agent Barnes obeyed immediately. If he was told to disarm himself, he did it, regardless of his personal feelings about it. His feelings didn't matter. Would never matter. He was a weapon, and that he had feelings at all was an unfortunate glitch that hadn't yet been solved. The general expectation, he had discovered, was that orders were not for later, unless specifically stated. Disarm yourself required immediate action; detonate the charge when you are thirty feet away from it did not.
They didn't usually give him orders with a vague timeline. That meant that either his handler trusted him, or he didn't care. Agent Barnes let himself think of it as a matter of trust.
And for once, he let himself just continue before he automatically obeyed his orders. The weapons could stay on his person and he could retain his feeling of safety, however false the illusion was, for just a while more. He kept eating, and although he didn't dare eat too slowly, he found that he was enjoying it.
He didn't like this place. He didn't like being cut off from the superior officer he recognised. He didn't like the uncertainty. But he was starting to like the food, and he was starting to like that his biggest concerns were practically minuscule compared to taking down the Russian bitch and her patriot boyfriend.
“My arm,” he said, between bites. “I can remove the grenades, the knives, and the guns, but I can't remove my arm.” It didn't explode, wasn't sharp, and wasn't a gun, but you'd have to be stupid not to consider the thing a type of weapon, given what it was capable of. “I don't have a way to disable it, either.”