Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steve’s Ma used to tell him of the angels of the Lord when he was young. Of Michael, Gabriel and the fallen Lucifer, to name only a few. She told him of their giant white wings, blessed they were with holy divinity. He always thought they must look magnificent, their giant white plumes resplendent.

A man with giant wings was surely a marvellous, almost euphoric sight to behold.

Standing here, shirtless and clammy in front of a murky mirror, with two giant wings of his own splayed limply behind him, all he feels is horror. 

Steve is not an angel of the lord. So he must be some sort of monster, unnatural and perverse. A weak imitation of God’s angels, a cruel mockery. Not born from a divine image but the result of a man made serum, injected into his body in a burning crescendo of agony. It runs through his veins now, a foreign chemical diluting his blood.

God surely will not look kindly upon him now, if he ever did. This is surely blasphemy, to pretend to be something he is not. To impersonate that which is divine. It must be a sin in the eyes of the lord, and he shall surely be punished for it. 

_________

Nobody told Steve this would happen, nobody even hinted at it. Now the only man who may have given him any answers is lying cold on the laboratory floor, fatal bullet wounds in his still chest. 

Steve pursued the doctor’s killer, an oversized trench coat thrown haphazardly over his wings in an attempt to conceal them, but the man died by cyanide before he could get any answers. Steve returned to the lab and quietly slipped into the bathroom, body buzzing and mind reeling.  

The wings are a heavy weight at his back, his shoulder blades still pulsing with the pain of their rapid growth. His back had torn open while still in the vita ray chamber, the unholy masses spilling out from underneath his flesh. Steve hadn’t noticed too much at the time, his whole body consumed with the searing agony of his transformation, but the blood that dripped in rivulets down his back was evidence enough. 

The wings are huge, the feathers a glittering gold like the rising sun, shining an almost iridescent blue when caught by the light at certain angles. Flecks of what looks like pure gold speckle the feathers, glimmering and gleaming when illuminated.

On anyone else, on an actual angel, he would say they were beautiful. Perhaps even exquisite.

But on Steve? On him he can’t help but feel they are almost grotesque. 

They are a physical manifestation of his own greed, born of pain. His greed for better health, for a body worth fighting in a war. He rejected what God gave him, and now he has been branded with these foreign appendages to forever leave him an outcast, an alien among men.

Looking at the wings now, they look an almost sickly yellow under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. Steve’s own skin looks sallow and pale from shock, clammy from the exertion of running and the stress of his transformation. His eyes are red rimmed from the tears that gather there. The tears that beg to be shed for his damned soul. 

Steve’s hulking, muscular form is almost unrecognisable as his own body, his face the only thing familiar to him now. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, lean muscle adorning his entire body, chiselled as if he were made from marble. He feels such raw power thrumming through his veins, an untapped pool of strength lying just beneath the surface. It’s dizzying in and of itself, even without the added complication of the wings. 

The strength is intoxicating, it’s all he ever wanted. This is what it feels like to be healthy, to be free from chronic pain and sickness. But there is a new pain now, a deep unsettling ache in his shoulder blades, a heavy weight straining at his back. Everything comes with a price. 

It would seem that Bucky didn’t take all the stupid with him after all, when he left a mere few months ago (it feels like a lifetime). No, he must have left his fair share behind, because lord knows Steve has really fucked up. 

_________

Steve keeps his wings hidden while he’s on tour. Nobody knows about them, apart from the people who were in the room when project rebirth finally came to fruition, all of whom are sworn to secrecy. 

They are tightly compressed at all times in a custom made back brace, especially designed for him by Howard Stark. It’s dreadfully uncomfortable and the thick leather straps rub welts into the sensitive flesh of his wings, friction burns tearing off the delicate feathers. But it is a necessary evil, the only way to assure the wings stay hidden beneath his clothes.

The only hint the wings even exist are the small white wings depicted on the cowl of his Captain America costume. Steve’s not sure who’s idea that was, probably somebody’s feeble attempt at an inside joke. He likes to think he can find the humour in it, the thrill of hiding in plain sight, when he’s not worrying over his condemned soul.

Look, Steve’s not overly religious, not like his Ma was. He’s not a bible thumper or a puritan. Sure, he went to church every Sunday with his Ma, a habit that petered off after she died, but most of the time he just doesn’t really think about it. Besides, he hasn’t exactly lived his life according to the Ten Commandments. 

But when one is raised with religious teachings as fact, and then proceeds to sprout a pair of spontaneous wings, courtesy of a mysterious drug, well, he thinks it’s only natural to spiral into an existential crisis of biblical proportions. 

Either that, or he’s just very dramatic. 

Bucky would probably say it’s the latter. As a matter of fact, Bucky would probably chew him out for getting mixed up with all this whacky science experiment bullshit in the first place, before insisting his wings were the swellest thing this side of the Hudson. Bucky’s always loved science fiction. 

To be fair, Steve’s calmed down a lot since he first stepped out of the vita ray chamber and discovered two huge golden wings dragging limply behind him. He still fears for his mortal soul, but that’s sort of on the back burner for now. 

At the moment he’s more concerned with finally getting to go overseas. Well, not to fight, unfortunately, but he’s going to Italy to do a show. It’s suppose to boost morale or something like that, although he has a sneaking suspicion the soldiers aren’t going to appreciate a guy in tights lecturing them on war bonds. They’re sure to love the girls, though. 

Who knows, maybe he’ll see Bucky. Although at this point he can only hope and pray that will be the case, or that Bucky is even alive at all. 

It’s best not to think like that though, or he’ll quite literally drive himself crazy with worry, the ever present snake of anxiety constricting further around his chest. 

Steve still prays for him, though. Even if he’s convinced no one’s listening to his prayers anymore, he still prays for Bucky every night.

__________

When Steve finally finds Bucky, delirious and weak, strapped to a metal table in Zola’s lab, he knows God isn’t real. 

Because if he were, he surely wouldn’t allow this. For as good a man as Bucky to be tortured and violated in this way. For Bucky to be mutilated and tormented by wicked men who think it’s okay to treat people like commodities. It makes Steve’s blood boil and his heart break, to see that pale face and those haunted eyes. 

Where was God when Bucky was strapped to that table, being tortured and exploited?

Not to mention the countless daily atrocities committed in the name of war. The suffering and the death, the blood soaked battlefields. The young lives cut down, for no other reason then a few powerful men playing God and following their own agendas, sending boys off to catch bullets in turbid fields on foreign soil. 

Then there’s the unholy sight of Schmidt, his red raw face evil personified. A devil amongst men. 

Steve’s serum did it’s best to turn him into a mocking caricature of an angel, but Schmidt’s turned him into some sort of demon. His red raw complexion bestial and demonic. 

Bucky’s muttered, ‘you don’t have one of those, do you?’ Strikes Steve deep. Because no, he doesn’t look like that, but he does have something. 

Maybe Schmidt’s right, maybe they really have left humanity behind. They’ve transgressed too far, they’ve sacrificed their humanity to become beings of unimaginable strength and beastly nature. 

Surely if God were real he would strike them down, obliterate that which upsets the natural order of the world.

So Steve knows now, with an absolute certainty, that God is not real. Either that, or he has forsaken them all. 

It’s a relief in a way, knowing he will not be individually condemned beyond the general condemnation of life at war. His soul will not be sent to hell, to burn and be tortured at lucifer’s mercy. But that relief is short lived, when he knows no one is watching out for him, for any of them. They are alone in this, no divine hand to intervene and stop the carnage. There is no moral scale to uphold, only a chaotic free for all.

It makes him fight harder, because if God is not going to help them, then fuck it, he’ll fight for all the innocents himself. 

___________

The wings are a constant aching pressure on Steve’s back. They’re always in the brace, even when he sleeps, and consequently have not cultivated enough muscle to hold themselves up properly. 

They sit atrophying in the brace, heavy and unyielding in their desire to be acknowledged. A constant aching strain. Steve hates them. They’re a reminder of how different he is, how unnatural, some part of him now animal. 

They scare him, to be honest. Steve thinks perhaps that’s why he hates them. He doesn’t know what they mean, what to do with them. They hurt all the time, but if he lets them hang loose he can’t wear a shirt, and everyone will see what a freak he is. 

An aberrant monster.

It’s difficult to keep them hidden when travelling with the Howling Commandos and going on missions. When they set up camp Steve can never bathe with them in the rivers and streams they find, instead having to sneak off and wash after dark. He can never share a tent with any of them, even Bucky, lest they catch sight of a wayward feather. It isolates him from them, his secret a heavy burden sat upon his weary chest. 

Steve thinks Bucky suspects something, but he hasn’t asked. Steve catches him staring sometimes, though. He knows Bucky catches sight of the winces he sometimes can’t hide when his wings twinge painfully in their brace. 

Bucky sits with him one night by the fire, the rest of the Howlers asleep in their tents, and muses on how much Steve has physically changed. Steve can’t help but cringe internally at the iceberg nature of the topic. So much hidden beneath the surface that Bucky doesn’t know, that Steve carries alone. 

“Still catches me off guard sometimes, seeing you like this,” Bucky muses with a rueful little smile, the orange glow of the fire dancing across the planes of his face. 

Steve huffs a little laugh, “you and me both, pal.”

Bucky turns to look at him, intuitive eyes searching Steve’s face. “Must be weird for you,” he prompts.

“You have no idea,” Steve sighs, shaking his head slightly and turning towards the fire. He watches the flames lick up into the night sky and tries not to feel the wings pressing ponderously against his back. They twitch and he stifles a grimace. 

“Are you okay, Steve?” Bucky says suddenly, his voice gentle and imploring. Steve jerks up to look at him again, eyes wide.

“Of course Buck, I’m fine. Why?” Steve asks, his heart suddenly thumping. His wings throb in time with his pulse, the friction burns - well, burning. 

“I dunno, I just worry ‘bout you is all,” Bucky shrugs, “I just figure it’s gotta take a toll on a guy, a change like that.” Steve nods along numbly and Bucky chews his lip contemplatively before adding, “Besides Stevie, I know when you’re in pain and trying to hide it.”

Steve’s breath hitches for a moment and he gawks at Bucky. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

He can’t know, he can’t.

“I- I don’t know what you mean-”

“C’mon Steve, I’ve known you your whole life. I know when something’s up,” Bucky says insistently, turning a hard look on Steve, before he must catch Steve’s panicked expression and his eyes soften. “You can tell me Steve, please tell me. Whatever it is. Are you in pain?” Bucky asks, his eyes wide and earnest. 

“Bucky I’m not-”

“But I know you are Steve, I know you,” Bucky insists. Steve deflates and looks away again, feeling raw and exposed, fissures of panic striking through him. 

Bucky sighs, “Look, I know you’re Captain America now and all that bullshit, but you’re still a person. You don’t have to be strong all the time, hell Steve, you never have.” Bucky reaches out a warm hand and grips Steve’s shoulder, just above where his right wing sits constrained and throbbing. 

Steve turns to look at him, at his earnest storm grey eyes reflecting orange in the fire light. Bucky’s looked so tortured recently, so haunted. He tries to hide it, but Steve knows he’s plagued by whatever Zola did to him on that godforsaken table. Steve’s tried to help him, tried to get him to talk about it but he won’t budge, always says he’s fine.  

It’s the most frustrating thing, and it breaks Steve’s heart everytime. He feels like he’s failing Bucky all the time, he wants to help him but he doesn’t know how. If only Bucky would talk to him. 

It strikes Steve that that must be how he is making Bucky feel right now, and perhaps how he’s repeatedly made Bucky feel all throughout their lives. It feels like another failing on his part and it makes his heart ache. 

The tortured look is in Bucky’s eyes now, the helplessness. Steve suddenly feels the urge to tell Bucky everything, to rip the brace off and lay himself bare in front of his best friend. He wants to expel all his sin, purge all of his wrongness and weep into Bucky’s shoulder, confess how scared he is. 

But Steve can’t. He can’t add to Bucky’s load, can’t burden himself on Bucky like that. His wrongness is his own weight to carry, he won’t drag Bucky down with him. Won’t shackle his problems to Bucky’s ankles and throw him into the roiling river. It kills him, but he can’t give Bucky what he wants.

He doesn’t want Bucky to know he’s a monster.

Steve dredges up and claws on his mask of stoicism, locking his own pain and fear behind a wall of strength and neutrality. Bucky’s face drops miserably like he can physically feel Steve pulling away, and it stabs through Steve’s heart like a rusty old knife. 

“Thanks Buck, but I’m okay. I…” he hesitates, before he swallows around the lump in his throat and grits his teeth, “I promise.”

Bucky stares at him a moment longer before drawing his hand back and turning away, shaking his head ruefully. Bucky lets out a long suffering sigh, “whatever you say, Cap.”

And just like that both of their walls are back up. The moment passes and Steve feels regret start clawing at his gut, but he won’t let it consume him, he pushes it down deep. Just another emotional boulder on the pile. 

They continue on as normal after that. Steve and Bucky banter and bicker as usual, but they both feel the yawning space between them, filled with the things left unsaid. 

Steve’s painful secret stays hidden, and he keeps telling himself it’s better that way, forcing himself to ignore the tearing in his heart and his feathers. 

Except, of course, the truth comes out anyways.

Shit goes side ways in a spectacular fashion and Steve’s agonisingly kept secret unravels before them all. Laying him completely bare, quivering before them as he awaits judgement like a sinner at the pearly gates. 

Chapter Text

The mission was suppose to be simple. 

It was a milk run, infiltrating another low-level HYDRA base, something they’d done half a dozen times before. Infiltrate and capture useful individuals and information before blowing the building to the high heavens. Perhaps that was the problem though, their continued success had lulled them into a sense of misplaced complacency.

What Steve had failed to account for, was the fact that he and the Howling Commandos had made a name for themselves by this point. They had gained infamy among the HYDRA ranks, their exploits leaving several integral bases ravaged. They were now recognised as a force to be reckoned with, and thus HYDRA had enacted their own precautions. They were waiting for them. 

It started off simple enough, the only variable that was different from their other missions was the thick fog that hung heavy in the air, covering the dense woodland in a milky shroud. It allowed for cover, which was both useful and a hindrance. It put Steve on high alert, because the fog meant cover for them, but also for their enemies.

Steve didn’t hear them until it was too late.

The Howlers had been careful to keep close to the tree line, never stepping out into open territory too close to the base, but it made little difference. The agents emerged from the fog like dark shadows sent from the depths of hell, the mist leaving their figures blurred and distorted. 

At first the fog warped them into one large imposing shadow, all merged together and creating a pool of darkness that only grew as it rushed towards them, before splintering off into individual silhouettes. 

Steve breath hitches as his mind catches up with what is happening.

An ambush. 

Steve’s brain kicks into overdrive and he grabs Bucky, who had been marching along side him, and ducks for cover behind a large tree trunk. “Ambush!” He yells, forcing the rest of the men to snap their heads to attention and dive for cover. Caught unawares, the Howlers scramble for their weapons while Steve bellows, “Fire!”

It’s absolute carnage from then on. They get a few good shots in, but it seems HYDRA has not been skimpy with the amount of men they’ve sent out to intercept them. They’re outnumbered six to one, at least. 

Dernier does the most damage, pelting grenades at the crowd of agents and dispatching of several of them. It’s no use in the long term though, they’re outnumbered and outgunned. The HYDRA agents are steadily advancing towards them despite their casualties, and it dawns on Steve that their only chance is to fall back and run like hell.

“Retreat!” Steve shouts, shoving Bucky in front of him and yelling at him to run. Bucky looks back at him desperately and Steve can tell he’s loathed to leave without him, but Steve just shoots him a look and yells, “Now Bucky! I’m right behind you!” 

Bucky hesitates for a second before giving a decisive nod. “You better be,” He says, before taking off in a sprint and leading the men back the way they came.

Steve lags behind for a minute, covering for his men as they make their escape. He throws his shield out in a devastating spiral, watching as it takes out several men before ricocheting off a tree and returning loyally to his arm.

He braces behind his shield and runs into a group of agents lined up and firing, charging into them like a battering ram. They topple over, successfully rendered unconscious. Steve is dazed for a second, but comes back to himself just in time to hear the tell-tale noise of a hydra weapon powering up. 

He rolls out of the way just in time, a burst of blue light shooting past where he was just seconds before and straight into a large tree trunk, eviscerating the wood and burning a large flaming hole in the centre. 

Steve allows himself a second to gape in disbelief at the massive hole before he hears the tree creak alarmingly and he shoots up to standing and darts for cover. The old fir tree lets out an agonised groan before succumbing to it’s injuries and crashing to the ground. 

The trunk catches a few agents on its way down, including the man with the specialised gun that shot it in the first place. Taking it’s revenge, the tree crushes the agent and the gun, trapping several more men in it’s branches.

Taking advantage of the ensuing chaos, Steve breaks his cover to continue firing at the remaining men. Holding his shield up to cover him as much as possible, he fires fatal shots at a number of agents, before his gun clicks, alerting him that he’s out of bullets. He chucks it at a nearby HYDRA agent’s head, successfully knocking them out, before taking off in the direction of his men. 

The hiss of bullets whizzing past his ears accompanies him as he thunders through the forest, dodging trees and leaping over fallen logs. His heart thumps in his chest as his boots slam into the ground, propelling him forwards with inhuman speed. He can feel his wings chaffing painfully in their brace, unhappy with his hasty movements, but he forces himself to ignore the pain.

Soon enough, a bullet grazes his side and distracts him from the discomfort in his back with a sharp burst of fresh agony. He yells out despite himself, before gritting his teeth and willing himself to pick up speed.

He catches sight of his men soon enough, the dense fog dissipating and affording him a glimpse of their retreating figures. They’re running full pelt, weaving in and out of the trees and fast approaching a clearing in the woods. It’s the same clearing they had marched through earlier, blanketed in fog but recognisable, so Steve knows they’re going in the right direction.

Just as they all reach the clearing, Steve’s ears prick with the thundering of boots fast approaching them from behind. He casts a glance backwards and sees a pool of black uniforms flooding the forest behind him, advancing forward at an alarming pace.

Steve’s heart picks up speed and he calls out to his men to run, run faster. He makes sure to stay behind his team, despite the fact he could easily overtake them and sprint on to safety. He has to watch their backs.

Steve’s mind is a whirl, his blood pounding round his body in tandem with his thunderous heart. He’s shaking with the adrenaline, his head a swirl of battle plans, disaster scenarios and self recriminations. 

How is he going to get them out of this? 

He should have heard the ambush earlier, damn it. He should have taken more precautions. It’s his fault. It’s his fault.

They’re almost out of the clearing and back behind the relatively safe cover of the tree line when Dum Dum trips and falls, his boot caught in a wayward rabbit hole. He smacks the ground with devastating force and lets loose a breathless groan, downed and winded. 

The others stop in their tracks to help him up and Steve’s whole body seizes with panic. They’re too exposed. They’re too exposed.

Jesus fucking Christ they’re going to die, they’re going to die and it’s all Steve’s fault. 

Time seems to slow down then, as Steve snaps his eyes from Dugan’s fumbling form to the HYDRA agents finally breaching out from the tree line. His heart stops before giving one massive thud, followed by another. 

The HYDRA agents cock their guns, aiming straight for Dugan and the rest of the Howlers, caught compromised and vulnerable. They need cover. If they find cover they can probably take down the rest of the HYDRA agents. Steve did a fair bit of damage back in the forest and he can see now that their numbers have noticeably thinned. 

But they don’t have cover, and their sitting ducks out here. It’s a straight shot right to Dugan’s head. To Bucky’s head. 

That settles it. He’ll be the cover.

He can jump in front of them and take the brunt of the bullets, god knows he can heal freakishly fast so he might actually have a chance of survival, but he’s only big enough to cover two of them at most. 

There’s only one way he can shield them all.

Adrenaline rushes through his system in an icy sweep, his heart threatening to punch right out of his chest. The thump of his heart rattles his rib cage and time continues to stretch on agonisingly slowly for a few terrifying moments, before he plants himself in front of his men and braces.

Bucky shoots up to standing once he’s got Dugan on his feet again and locks eyes with Steve. They’re standing face to face, and it’s just coincidence that Steve seems to have planted himself in front of his best friend. Except if he’s dying for anyone, you can bet your sweet ass it’s going to be Bucky. 

Drawing courage from Bucky’s wild storm grey eyes, Steve sucks in a breath.

For the first time he lets himself feel, really feel his wings, lets himself embrace the sensation of them on his back, the raw power that thrums through them. They’re not as powerful as they should be, neglected as they are, but adrenaline and desperate panic fuels him. With a roar he funnels all of his strength into his wings, willing them to tear free of their constraints.

The brace groans and strains to keep them trapped, before finally bowing and snapping under the immense pressure. White hot pain flares across where the straps dig into his already abused and sensitive flesh and he forces himself to choke back an agonised scream.

His wings explode free in a blur of gold and shining blue, ripping through the fabric of his suit and tearing it to shreds. He feels the sharp chill of the winter air cascade across his bare skin, but the adrenaline and determination electrifying his veins numbs him to the cold.

He only has a split second to stretch his wings out fully before the bullets start raining down.

There’s almost too much pain to register as bullet after bullet embed themselves into his bare back. It feels like pin pricks at first, before his back explodes into a map of screeching pain, a scream clawing up his throat and out into the fog laden air.

Everything seems to freeze for a moment, the first burst of enemy bullets pausing as they reel back from the sight before them. If Bucky’s expression is anything to go by, this is quite the shock. Tell him about it. 

Bucky doesn’t blink, his eyes wide with astonishment as his mouth drops open on a whispered, “What the fuck.”

What the fuck indeed, Steve thinks ruefully. He shakes himself. Focus. Their enemies’ shock gives them an advantage, they need to seize it or die from the consequences. 

“Holy hell,” Dugan chokes out from in front of Steve, but Steve forces himself to ignore his men’s stricken faces.

“Fire!” Steve bites out fiercely, his throat raw from screaming. His voice snaps then into action, and a few seconds later his men are peaking the muzzles of their guns over the tops of his wings and firing into the crowd of HYDRA agents. He can hear the shouts of pain behind him, but it’s all static in comparison to the flaring agony that is the backside of his body. 

Steve’s knees wobble with the pain, a stray bullet caught in his thigh sending jolts of pain down his right leg. He grits his teeth. He needs to stand firm, he needs to shield them. 

Shield them.

Shield.

He snatches his shield off his left forearm and thrusts it at Bucky. “Throw it!” Steve grits out, his teeth still clenched through the pain.

“Steve,” Bucky gapes, expression utterly bewildered. 

“Just do it!” Steve shouts, ignoring the bite of guilt that stabs in his chest. They need to be quick, time is of the fucking essence. No time for chatting now, he’ll explain everything later. God knows they’re going to want an explanation. 

Bucky dutifully takes the shield and tosses it artfully over Steve’s shoulder. Steve can hear the shouts of pain as it collides with bodies, as well as several thuds as they hit the ground. 

An explosion sounds behind him, the blow back brushing against his back in a smoking billow of hot air. It draws his attention back to the oozing bullet wounds in his skin and he whimpers, tears springing to his eyes as the pain continues to register, only getting progressively worse.

His body is crying out to him, begging to just collapse and curl into a ball, but he plants himself like a tree and refuses to fail his men. His wings are two long lines of flaming agony, but they hold steady.

It’s so strange and foreign to have them out like this, fully stretched and splayed open, and it’s awful, he’s fully exposed and in agony, but it’s also right. Like an itch has been scratched. They’ve been begging to be free this whole time, but Steve has kept them trapped, sequestered away in their brace. They’re weak and emaciated from lack of care and exercise, but they hold fast and true.

Adrenaline pumps through his body, most likely the only thing keeping him upright. He’s hated his wings this whole time, rejected them and shunned them away, they make him a monster but at least now he’s using them for something good.

Steve very well may die here, he might die a monster, but maybe he’ll be forgiven.

It’s over shortly after that, the remaining HYDRA agents only get a few shots off in their disordered state. The howlers making short work of them, and between their fusillade spray of bullets and Dernier’s bombs, they come out victorious.

A thick silence fills the air, the shrill sound of gunshots still ringing in Steve’s ears.

Pain flares in his back, chased by agony all throughout the backside of his body and along the sensitive flesh of his wings. He chokes out a pained sob, his body an exposed nerve of white hot agony. 

The pain is worth it though. Steve shielded them. They’re okay, they’re alive.

His eyes once again lock with Bucky’s and Steve almost loses himself in the storm for a moment. He wants to wrap himself in the soothing crystalline grey, in Bucky’s warmth. He wants to escape the world, escape the pain. 

Except horror fills Bucky’s eyes and Steve feels himself shrinking back from it instinctively. He yearns to avert his gaze, escape the judgement he knows is coming, but he’s stuck, frozen in place by the piercing gaze of his best friend. 

“Sweet Mary and Joseph,” Dernier gasps from somewhere on Steve’s left.

“Bloody hell, Captain,” Monty proclaims breathlessly, but it’s all white noise.

The pain burns through his nerves. His cheeks are wet. When did they get wet? Oh, he’s crying. He’s sobbing.

“Steve,” Bucky chokes, dropping his gun and bringing shaking hands up to Steve’s face. He’s a blur now, Steve’s tear filled vision warping his surroundings. “Steve, oh my god. Oh my god,” Bucky says, gripping Steve’s jaw.

“Surprise,” Steve breathes, shooting Bucky a wet and rueful little smile before his eyes roll back, his knees buckle, and he falls to the ground.