Work Text:
Something's wrong.
That's the only thing that rings through Steve's head while he pushes through the snow, mindful of the rocks that spring from the ground. The spruce trees loom high over their heads, obscuring the path of the slowly-falling snow. For the first time in a while, nobody is talking. It’s too cold for it. Steve can feel the bite of the icy wind through three layers of protective gear and he doesn’t like it one bit. It wasn’t that long ago that he trekked through frozen woods in the middle of nowhere, just like this one. Were it not for the current team surrounding him, there wouldn’t have been a difference.
Clint and Natasha took point and are setting the pace of the group with Steve and Bucky following behind. New intel dragged them all the way to the west of Austria, somewhere deep into the mountains. The closest town was almost 150 miles each way, only a few barren villages scattered around here and there. A perfect place for a HYDRA base. Intel suggests that the base has not been operational in a while, but that it held some significance back in the war. That’s reason enough for Steve to check it out. Best case scenario, they find an abandoned building and level it to the ground so that the agents can’t come back and use it for any reason. Worst case – Steve doesn’t even want to think about it.
An owl hoots nearby in the early morning, and Steve suppresses a shiver. The strange ball of something that has formed in the pit of his stomach somewhere in the past hour only gets heavier. He can’t put his finger on it, but the forest feels familiar, somehow. But that’s impossible, because he would have remembered being here, if not the forest, then the map, surely. His super serum-charged memory doesn’t let him forget much, anyways.
The air is frigid when they make it over one of the bigger boulders, and Steve can’t suppress the next shiver. Bucky’s head turns in his direction, but Steve can’t see his eyes because of the goggles, nor his expression because of the balaclava. He ignores Bucky’s stare, because he’s fine, and the shiver was just a lapse of control. He’s fine.
Another twenty minutes pass before Clint opens his mouth, eyes trained on the radar in his hand. “I think we’re a few minutes out.” Steve almost sighs in relief, because he would take anything to get out of the cold at this point, even if it’s a HYDRA base. Ever since he woke up, he can’t stand the cold. Can’t stand the way it hurts his skin, bites at his cheeks and nose and lips and fingers, crawls into his throat and stays there. He knows his time in the ice messed him up, but it hasn’t been too much of an issue until now, so he ignores it. The few moments, or hours, of panic when he wakes up with the window open and his covers on the floor, shivering with tears wet on his cheeks don’t count. Those moments are rare enough that he brushes them off as a momentary weakness, nothing more.
“Good. We stick to the plan.” The other three nod and continue walking. Only a minute or so now until the base comes into view. Steve has a bad feeling about this. The scenery is similar to any and all places in the Alps he has been to, this and the other side of the century, but it still sends shivers down his spine – ones which have nothing to do with the cold.
“Can’t wait to get out of the fucking cold, God, why can’t Hydra sometimes choose a warmer spot for a base, like Mexico, or Sri Lanka.” Clint groans and pulls the protective goggles tighter into his eyes. His voice is muffled behind the scarf wrapped around his mouth, but Steve hears him loud and clear.
“You and me both, pal.” Bucky grumbles and sudden guilt that rushes through his core almost makes Steve stumble. God, why didn’t he think of this sooner? If the cold bothers him so much, what does it do to Bucky who has been frozen and unfrozen dozens of times in the past how-many years? Shoved into a metal coffin, wires and tubes sticking out of his body, eternally cold. The worst thing of all is that Steve knows. He knows how much the cold and the snow bother Bucky, because he hasn’t seen the other in short sleeves ever since he came back after everything that happened in DC – almost a year ago. He knows, and he still dragged Bucky out of the comfort of their warm apartment, right into the jaws of one of the worst winters he has ever seen. Bile rises in his throat and Steve painfully swallows it back down.
He can’t help but remember the bar, after the 107th got back from Azzano. How Steve had looked right into Bucky’s hollow eyes, empty of life and joy and everything that made Bucky Bucky, and still asked him to get right back out there. Turn back around, pick up a gun and follow Steve like it was the only thing he was good at. He had a chance to get out. Get out and go back home, to Brooklyn and find himself a lady, marry her and live the rest of his life in peace. But Steve, selfish and always itching to do what’s right, itching for a fight, dragged him back by the collar like a dog. And Bucky went, because he always went after Steve, always took care of him and watched his back. And Steve repaid him with destiny far worse than death.
Steve is so lost in his head for a moment that he doesn’t register the change of vegetation around him until it’s too late. The trees around them suddenly grow in unnaturally straight lines, like they were planted there on purpose; despite the rocky terrain, they stand in neat lines. This was a bad idea. Steve almost tells them to stop – turn back around and just let someone else deal with this, because something’s wrong – when they come to the edge of the small hill overlooking the base and Steve’s heart stops. There’s a hand on his back, in his back, tugging and ripping and shredding and Steve is screaming and it hurts, everything hurts –
Steve was born a freak.
He was normal for the first three years of his life, before wings started sprouting from his back. They were big and heavy and painful – Steve can still remember the pain of them growing out, pushing bone and ripping straight through the skin on his back. He doesn’t remember too much, since he was so young, but he’ll never forget the sheer volume of blood which filled their tiny bathtub. Every day he spent hours just sitting there, agony ripping through his back, bathing in his own blood. His Ma cried for hours the first few days. Then, she picked herself up and dealt with it. Went around and found out about other people like him, got some help. By the time he was seven, he had a leather brace that kept them hidden well enough beneath his clothes. They made his back look bulky, like he had more muscle, or severe scoliosis, but that was about it. Nobody ever suspected anything. He was always crooked and sick and wrong, anyways – nobody spent too long looking at him to figure out that something beneath his coat is not quite right.
He hid it the best he could, even though, at first, he didn’t completely understand why. But he understood enough to know that they would take him away from his Ma if someone found out, take him away from Bucky.
Bucky always knew. Steve doesn’t even remember how he found out, but he knew. There wasn’t a grand reveal or something of the sort, it was just always – there. Sometimes, when Steve was too weak, Bucky helped him put on the brace, smoothing his hand gently, so gently down the brown feathers. When Steve was particularly sick and allowed himself to be weak just for a moment, he would lean into the touch. Most often than not, he wouldn’t let himself. That was dangerous. He couldn’t be a mutant and a queer. He had enough problems as it already was, not to mention Bucky. He couldn’t do that to him – burden him with more than he already did. Bucky deserved better – deserved a friend who didn’t need an inhaler, didn’t sometimes need help in getting out of bed; someone who could pull their weight. Steve was none of that, and yet, Bucky kept him around.
When the war came, Steve knew he had to do something. He couldn’t just stand by and let other men, boys, let Bucky fight while he stayed at home and watched.
The night before Bucky shipped out, Steve found his Ma’s sewing shears. They were the sharpest object that could be found in their apartment. He debated it for a few agonizing minutes, but Bucky wasn’t here to stop him, so it didn’t matter. He had to do it.
The pain of cutting off his own wings was like nothing Steve ever felt. Every time he wanted to stop, to retreat the bloodied shears and just lay down on the ground and let the excruciating pain pass, Bucky’s face came to his mind. Bucky, alone and with a gun in his hand, in a foxhole deep into Nazi territory; Bucky dead, body lost somewhere in Italy and never to return home. He continued, through brown feathers, through weak muscle and hollow bones until there was nothing left but two large, bleeding wounds.
After it was done, Steve allowed himself an hour of just laying on the kitchen floor, cold seeping into his body, tears long since dry on his cheeks. Then, painfully, he got up, mopped up an almost frightening amount of blood, and wrapped the wings in some old nylon. Meticulously, hollowly, he showered, dressed and left his apartment stumbling. He never thought about how heavy his wings were and how easier it is to breathe with the strain on his back gone. He doesn’t let himself think anything past that – the way his whole center of gravity is skewed, the way the bandages rub painfully on the wounds with every breath he takes, the way Bucky used to touch the feathers near his back so, so gently. He doesn’t think about any of that, because two hours later he meets Dr. Erskine and everything changes.
“..eve? Steve? Steve, what’s wrong?” Bucky’s face is way closer to Steve than it was a moment ago, balaclava and glasses gone from his face. Frost has already started catching onto his eyelashes, and they frame his bright eyes so beautifully. His eyes, which are wide and searching and concerned and – Steve finally pulls a breath into his lungs. “What?” He manages to croak out, glancing at Clint and Natasha, who stand just a step behind Bucky, their expressions unreadable. Behind them, over the cliff, stands a building which is so frequent in Steve’s nightmares that he knows his way inside by heart. He can’t tear his eyes away from the snow-covered concrete monstrosity. Someone is talking, but Steve’s ears are ringing weirdly, and the only thing he can hear is the wind and his own heartbeat. It beats way too fast.
“Steve!” Bucky is suddenly right in front of him, hands burning brands where they’re clutching Steve’s shoulders even through several layers of clothing. Steve can count on one hand how many times Bucky touched him since he came back, and it’s almost as painful as it is delightful. “Steve, can you hear me?”
Steve finally manages to pull himself together, albeit barely, and clears his throat. “Yeah. Sorry, got lost in my thoughts.” The way his voice wavers doesn’t impress them even the slightest bit, if Natasha’s raised eyebrow is anything to go by. Even Clint looks concerned now, and Steve clears his throat once more. He takes a step back and dislodges Bucky’s arms, which fall at his sides, limp. Steve mourns the loss almost physically, but he can’t let himself be held like that, because he might just fall apart. That’s not warranted nor wanted, so he squares his shoulders, takes the shield off his back and straps it into its place on his arm. The weight of it is comforting, familiar – it tethers him back into his own body.
The sooner they get this over with, the sooner Steve can get the hell out of here and forget about this whole mess. Weird goosebumps prickle his skin, from neck all the way to his toes and there’s something lodged in his throat. It might be a scream.
“I’m fine. Stick to the plan, Clint, find a good vantage point. Nat – “ he doesn’t get to finish, because Bucky is huffing and staring at him like he started speaking French. “What? No! Steve you weren’t breathing for a full minute just now, and suddenly it’s all okay? What’s going on?” He takes a cautious step towards Steve again, and, embarrassingly, the back of Steve’s eyes prickle. He has to work his throat for a moment just to find his voice. “I’m fine, seriously. C’mon, the sooner we get in the sooner we are out and out of the cold.” He doesn’t look at their faces, doesn’t wait for reactions or words of protest before he’s trekking down the side of the cliff rapidly. The rocks are too sharp to be moving so quickly, but the pain of their sharp edges digging into the skin of his calves and thighs is almost enough to distract him from the knowledge of what he’s walking into. Almost.
When he gets to the bottom, he waits for Bucky and Natasha because he’s not stupid enough to barge in alone. It seems like Bucky wants to say something else, even seems like Natasha might speak up, but Steve beats them to it. “There is a second level below the vault which isn’t on the layout – watch out for that.” Instantly, he knows that he gave too much away. He doesn’t remember much about his stay here or the way out, but he remembers the way in; remembers the room in the basement of the base. He can’t let the two of them go in blind and get caught unaware just because he wants to keep his secrets. It doesn’t matter – Bucky doesn’t remember anyways.
When he came back, four months after everything that happened with the helicarriers and Hydra and everything in-between, he didn’t remember much. With passing months, it got marginally better. Steve moved them from the oppressing tower into a small house on the outskirts of Manhattan; Brooklyn was too much too soon. It isn’t home like it used to be. They got into a routine of sorts, and it helped. Sometimes, they did nothing. Sometimes, they flew all over the world and blew up Hydra facilities. Bucky’s got most of his memories back, except for the fact that Steve had wings. Steve doesn’t know if he remembers them or not, but he never asked, and Steve never said. They never talked about it, in any case. It’s not a common fact in the history books either – his physical wings got translated into little white wings on the sides of his cowl. After all, how could a mutant be a national hero? Especially the one whose only visible mutation got taken from him by none other than enemy forces. Not good for morale, that’s for certain.
“We’re talking about this after we’re done here, Rogers.” Natasha levels him with a look and Steve knows he can’t get out of this. Bucky looks pissed, but still concerned. He shouldn’t be worried about Steve, he’s fine. It doesn’t matter. His wings are gone, and they’re never coming back. He just wants to get out of here. With a nod, the three of them separate and approach the base.
Steve manages to get inside without any trouble. It seems like no one is here. That doesn’t make him any less tense. With a rapid heartbeat and quick, short breaths, he continues down the winding hallways. No one crosses his path, and he doesn’t find anything of importance in the rooms he searches through. There’s no data, no files – there isn’t anything besides some leftover trinkets, old bedding and cutlery. The air inside is stale, like there hasn’t been anyone in a while. Steve doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. “Status?”
“Nothing on my side.” Clint’s tinny voice rings out through the comm into the empty space. “Same here.” Bucky mumbles, still cautious.
“I may have something. The sub-level.” Steve wills his heart to calm down at Nat’s words, but it’s useless. He knows where the sub-level is, and what exactly it used to be for. There’s sweat running down the side of his face despite the cold which makes his bones shake. “On my way.” He manages to bite out before making his descend into the room of his nightmares. Bucky and Nat are already there, standing still at the entrance of the room. Their figures cover most of the room, and Steve knows what’s there, but it still doesn’t make seeing it with his own two eyes again any less terrifying.
His whole body goes completely numb. He can’t feel his face, or his fingers, or legs. He just stands there and looks.
The metal table stands in the middle of the room, still covered in heaps of blood long-gone brown and dry. The cuffs at its sides are also there, mangled and cut up like they haven’t been touched since 1945. Beside the table is another one, smaller. It’s full of various instruments, saws and hammers – Steve can vividly remember what each and every single one of them feels like on his skin. All around the room, in the blood and between the cuffs and the table and the floor and the ceiling, are feathers.
His feathers.
Acid burns strong in his throat and Steve just barely manages to swallow it down. He distantly hears Nat’s murmured: “What do you think happened here?”, and Bucky’s uncertain: “I don’t know”, but he pays them no mind. Because there, half-hidden behind the table and all the feathers and dust and cobwebs, Steve sees them, sprawled on the floor.
His wings.
Bucky died five days ago and Steve still hasn’t spoken a word. No one cares that his best friend, the only person in the entire world that Steve loves with everything he has, is dead. They offer empty platitudes and say “He died protecting his country” and “He fought for what was right” but it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong. Because Bucky didn’t for it for God, or the country, or the medals and empty thanks – he did it for Steve. Because of Steve. Because Steve dragged him back after he had a chance to get out, dragged him all over bombed out France and Italy and Austria and Germany – dragged him right to his death.
The generals don’t care when they send Steve’s team on another operation, send them to Austria with little to no information of the base they’re supposed to infiltrate, but Steve can’t bring himself to care. What’s the point, anyways. Because Bucky is dead and he is the last person that deserved it, and Steve is still alive when it shouldn’t be like that, it should’ve been him –
The team gives him a wide berth, for the most part. They force him to eat when too much time passes between meals, even when Steve insists that he’s not hungry – they know he’s lying, because with the serum he burns through calories like an over-powered engine. They don’t call him out on it. Nobody has the heart to, he guesses, when they look into his bloodshot eyes and see his hands shake. They watch his wings – messy and tangled and crooked feathers – and worry. Bucky was the one who helped Steve preen them, keep them in pristine condition no matter how dirty the rest of him was. Steve could go days without a lick of water touching his body, much less a shower, but his wings were always clean. Now they hang at his sides limply, catch onto branches and leaves and drag through the snow and mud – and stay like that. Nobody says anything, but they watch and they worry.
They’re ambushed somewhere along the border and Steve gives himself up in exchange for his team – gun and shield on the ground and wings safely tucked behind his back. They yell at him and plead with him but Steve doesn’t let them for long, because the German soldiers – Hydra soldiers – are getting antsy and their faces are full of cruel smiles when they realize what exactly they’re getting on a silver platter.
When the Commandos make enough ground that the Germans can’t follow them, Steve loses the fight. Not on purpose – they have guns that glow bright blue and destroy everything in their path and there are two dozen of them. They knock him out and take him away.
Later, Steve wakes up with a start. He can’t keep down the panic when he realizes that he’s strapped to a table, face-down – hands and feet and waist buckled tightly with something that glows blue. The top half of his body is naked, wings splayed over the sides of the metal table, unmoving. He can’t feel them aside from some strange tingling. He tries to flex his wrists and break the cuffs, but they don’t budge. Earlier he was indifferent to what happened to him because, deep down, he was confident that he would be able to break out of whatever they put him in. Now, when he pulls at the cuffs with all his might and they only groan in protest but don’t budge, he starts to panic. It’s the only feeling that penetrates the fog of grief and anger he has been stewing in since that day, and only then does it register how stupid he had been. He put his team in danger. Marched on without care, gave himself up without thinking anything through, left his team stranded in the middle of hostile territory just because he couldn’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to think. God, he hopes they’re okay. Because if they aren’t, if Steve got anyone else killed because of his recklessness –
The door behind him creaks open and half a dozen soldiers barge into the room. Their grey uniforms are distinctly German, with a blood-red Hydra insignia plastered proudly on their chests. They surround the table and Steve’s hackles rise, the vulnerable position he’s stuck in not making the rising panic in his chest any better. They speak German and it’s rapid and the accent is weird enough that Steve can’t follow a word. He tries to calm his quick breathing, tries to think how to get out of here when it all screeches to a halt when a hand buries itself into his wing.
He lies there frozen like statue when the hand caresses his wing almost gently and he recoils in shock, pulls the limbs as close and as tight to his body as he can. Nobody touched his wings, except Bucky, in what must have been years. There’s laughter all around him and suddenly his wings are being grabbed from all sides, spread out as far as the room will allow forcefully and there’s no air in his lungs. It’s so – violating. They grab at them with rough hands, twist the limbs this way and that and Steve can’t shake them off no matter how much he tries. His wings are strong, but not enough to ward off seven grown men.
They study them for several minutes before the first feather is plucked out. Steve can’t help the groan of pain it causes, and the laughter is instantaneous. Suddenly it’s like they can’t help themselves – feather after feather gets ripped out of his wing, sometimes only one, sometimes in chunks and Steve thinks he’s crying. It’s cruel and so, so painful. Every single feather that is ripped from his back sends a pulse of electricity straight down to his very core – it’s agonizing.
It hurts like nothing he’s ever felt before and he wants it to stop. It doesn’t.
It goes on forever and by the time the plucking ceases Steve is a mess of sweat, tears, snot and blood. His mouth is full of blood too – he must’ve bitten through his lip or tongue. He doesn’t know – everything is pure agony.
“Captain America! Big bird, like eagle!” One of them leers and then there’s more laughter. They throw insults at him, spit at him and hit his back and the back of his legs with belts and whips and everything in-between. They make sure that there is enough force behind every hit so that it hurts something fierce. Steve is almost grateful for it if it means that they’ll leave his wings alone.
They must notice that that’s where he hurts the most, because suddenly they’re quiet and there’s a man in front of Steve’s face, crouching so he can be seen. His cheekbones are unnaturally high, bright blue eyes piercing right into Steve. There’s a mole covering a big chunk of the man’s temple. He looks awfully young – younger than Steve, even. His mouth stinks of liquor. Acid burns the whole length of Steve’s throat, but he manages not to puke. He can’t give them that satisfaction.
“You have been a real pain in the ass for our mission, captain. I believe the Allied forces will not take so brightly to their angel when its wings are gone, you think?” A cold chill runs down Steve’s spine. His throat works but no sound comes out of his parted lips, terror running through his veins like ice, burning him from the inside out. No. No, they can’t do that. Because the wings won’t come back, this time. Steve knows, because he got rid of them himself once, and it was the worst thing he had ever done. But now? Now it was the only thing he had left of Bucky – the memory of his fingers running through the soft feathers, grooming the wings with patience he never showed anywhere else. If they do this, if they take his wings, they take the last of Bucky Steve has. He doesn’t think he could stand it.
“No.” He croaks out, broken and soft and scared, like a child. The man’s lips widen into a broad grin, yellow teeth on full display. “Oh, yes.” He whispers, hand coming back up and into Steve’s left wing, fingers passing through gently. Steve’s eyes water against his will. He can’t let them go, can’t let Bucky go. At the sight of tears the man’s smile grows even more and he bends down, closer than before. Steve can’t even begin to prepare himself when the man’s slimy tongue is on his cheek, licking a broad stripe across, catching the salty tears leaking from his eyes. Steve only manages to swallow down a sob, eyes closing harshly in the face of humiliation, fear, grief. Laughter rings out through his ears like gunfire and the last thing the man says to him will haunt him for the rest of his life.
“I will wear your wings as a coat when it is cold, and when they bore me enough I will use them as a rug for my shoes, and then the dogs will lie on them. Then I will take them to the fireplace and be warm for the rest of winter. You should have stayed in America, captain, and let the new world order take place. Hail Hydra.” Those are the last coherent words Steve manages to hear because then the hands are gripping him everywhere, spreading his wings painfully and then – agony.
They cut the meat and muscle of his wings with a knife, and when they reach bone they saw. When that doesn’t satisfy them they claw and rip and tear with their fingers. Steve is aware of every miniscule touch, of every tear that takes his wing further away from him. He screams and trashes and sobs and cries and begs to stop, please, please kill me, kill me –
But they don’t. The serum doesn’t let him pass into unconsciousness, so he lies there and takes it. With every slash of the knife to the muscle, every feather ripped and torn, another piece of Steve’s soul gets ripped away with it. He begs for death, but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t deserve the easy way out, anyways.
“Oh, God.” Is all he manages to whisper, because then he’s stumbling like he doesn’t know how to walk, like his wings have been cut off just moments before and not years. It’s all he can do not to collapse straight into them. His knees hit the dirty floor with a bang, but that brief bout of pain is nothing compared to the feeling of his heart tearing apart, his lungs filling with blood, his stomach falling out beneath his feet.
When he reaches a tentative hand towards the sprawled limbs, glove mysteriously absent, it shakes like it’s about to fall off. At the first touch of his feathers in years, Steve can’t keep the bile down anymore. All he can do is turn to the side and throw his guts up, retching and heaving until nothing comes out anymore but spit. There’s a hand on his shoulder, but it barely registers. All Steve can do is bring his gaze back to the wings and mourn.
They look terrible. There is more left of them then should be, but that must be the serum. The roots of them are ripped and torn and mangled beyond any recognition. He can make out pieces of muscle and bone and – dear God – nerves. The rest – Steve almost throws up again. There’s barely any feathers left. Bald patches uncover bloody and pale skin underneath. They look horrifying. He remembers how every single feather felt being torn out of his skin. How every single pass of the knife and the saw felt along his muscles and bones. There’s nothing to throw up, but he tries anyways. He thinks his heart is trying to jump out of his throat.
The worst part about all of this, Steve thinks, is that it’s all been for nothing. He remembers the soldier’s threats and gloats vividly, remembers everything they said they would do with his wings. This is almost worse. Because it means that it wasn’t about the wings, or about Steve, or even Captain America. It was pure, unrestrained evil. Those men could’ve tried to get any information out of Steve – locations, people, plans, anything. They could’ve gotten samples upon samples of his blood, saliva, hair and anything else that might get them closer to uncovering the secret of the super-soldier serum. Instead, they strapped him to a table and violated the very core of his being, cut off his limbs, just because they could.
“Stevie please, look at me. Please.” Bucky’s voice registers after some time. Steve doesn’t know how long it’s been. He can’t begin to care. But Bucky is here and he sounds like he’s crying, or is about to, and that’s wrong. Steve knows that’s wrong.
He lifts his eyes, and there he is. There’s no goggles and no balaclava covering Bucky’s head, so his expression is clear and visible. Steve can’t make out what it means. There’s a furrow to his brow, his lips are in a thin line and his eyes are shining with unshed tears. One of his hands is on Steve’s cheek. Steve can’t feel it. He doesn’t know if he wants to.
“Okay, you’re okay Steve. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He tries for a smile, but it’s all wobbly and crooked and Steve hates that expression on him fiercely. Hasn’t Bucky suffered enough? He can’t open his mouth to say so. He can’t bring himself to look back to the mangled forms on the floor either, so he tries to stand. His knees are shaking, but Bucky is here before he can embarrass himself and fall on trembling legs like a newborn fawn. One of his hands is wrapped around Steve’s waist, the other has one of Steve’s arms slung around his shoulder, bearing most of his weight. Steve can’t find it within himself to feel shame, or concern, or anything at all.
He doesn’t know how much time passes, but from one blink to the next, there’s noise. Explosions, gunfire. His body is numb. For the first time in forever, there’s no hands on his back. There’s no laughter, no voices in the room with him. Just distant screams in an unknown language. Maybe he does know it – he doesn’t care. All he can do is lie there, strapped to the freezing table, jacket and shirts gone. Wings – gone.
When they come into the room, he can’t do anything but flinch. There are voices again, this time familiar. “Cap? Jesus fucking Christ!” Their hands are on him and he wants to throw them away, to punch and kick and scream; there’s no voice in his throat and no fight left in his body. Suddenly, he’s standing and Monty is in front of him, eyes wide and face drained of all color. “Cap? Steve, you hear me?” When he nods, the man’s face briefly falls in relief. “Good man. Let’s get out of here, yeah?”
They drag him out into the early morning, Dum Dum and Dernier carrying most of his weight. Steve doesn’t quite remember the trek back to the base, but he throws up several times; gets on his knees and spills his guts out, even when there’s nothing left but blood.
Days or months or hours later, the medics tell him there’s nothing they can do for him. Damage too severe, nothing to try and sew back on – even if there was, there wasn’t a lick of healthy tissue to attach it back to.
A week later, Steve is staring down the icy ocean and it feels like relief.
There’s a hand on his back, placed right over the scar which was once his left wing. It burns, even through several layers of clothing and Steve can’t think anything besides get away, it hurts, and wrong –
His fists fly out before he’s aware of it and someone is yelling. Steve blinks to find himself on top of Clint, hands around the archer’s throat. His face is almost purple, eyes bulging out of his head. Bucky and Natasha are trying to rip Steve off of him, unsuccessfully.
With dawning horror, Steve rips himself away and takes a dozen steps back, eyes trained on Clint, who’s shaking and coughing in Natasha’s arms. There’s a bruise the size of Steve’s fist reddening the left side of his jaw rapidly. Steve is going to be sick again.
Bucky approaches him as quickly as he left, and Steve throws a shaking hand out, taking several more steps back. He can’t hurt him too. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to get past that. “Don’t.” It’s the only word that pushes through his clenched jaw, the only one his lungs allow. Clint is still breathing heavily, still coughing, on his hands and knees.
“Steve.” It’s a plead, for what, Steve doesn’t know. He can’t even begin to think about it, because bile is hot and acidic in his mouth and he’s puking again, mirroring Clint’s position, bare hands buried in the snow. It just goes on and on and by the end the only thing that comes out is saliva mixed with blood. Just like the last time. Except, the last time, the only person that was hurt was him and no one else – this time, he was the one that hurt his friend. The one that put his hands around the throat of someone who considers him family. When Steve finally manages to lift his head, his whole body trembling, his eyes find Bucky yet again. He’s on his knees a few steps away from Steve, looking tortured, like all he wants is to get close to Steve. He can’t. Steve will hurt him, like he has before; like he hurt Clint just moments ago.
That’s all he is capable of. There’s no salvation in his hands, in his touch. It’s just hurt and blood and broken skin and bones. That’s all he’s ever been capable of, really. Now he just has a body made so everything he does hurts ten times worse. Choosing him for the serum was a mistake – one Erskine and Howard and Bucky paid for with their lives.
“We need to get out of here, the snowstorm’s not too far away. I’ve located a safehouse.” Nat’s voice rings out over the howling wind, but Steve can’t bring himself to meet her eyes out of shame. Every rasping breath that painfully leaves Clint’s mouth strikes him into the heart; he hurt one of his closest friends – his family. “How far out?” Bucky asks, but his eyes are still locked with Steve’s – searching, almost desperate. “A little over six miles.”
“Steve? We gotta go, pal. C’mon.” Bucky’s voice is quiet and gentle and Steve doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve to be looked at like that, like he’s the only one that matters. Clint is hurt – Steve hurt him. Bucky should turn away and do everything he can to help him. Steve intends to say just that, but he can’t get out anything other than a weak “Clint?”
“He’s fine, look. He’s a little bruised, but nothing serious. You didn’t hurt him.” All Steve can do is shake his head, because his throat has closed up completely and words won’t even form on his tongue, let alone leave his mouth. They’re filled with cotton and all he can do is swallow – even that’s painful. He can do nothing when Bucky approaches him so, so carefully and he has every right to be so cautious because Steve is unpredictable and violent and he will hurt him. He doesn’t want to, but it’s just a matter of time before Steve raises his fist against Bucky, too.
“You have to get up now, pal. We can’t stay here too long – Clint and Nat aren’t resistant to cold, and neither are we.” For a moment, Steve wants to tell Bucky to just leave him here. Get to the safe house, warm up, eat, sleep and in the morning fly back home and leave Steve right here, where he died the first time. The ice will take him back, Steve knows, because it haunts him when he’s awake and when he’s not. Always there, waiting. Calling for him, calling him back to rest. If they leave, he can just let his body drop into the pristine snow marred only with his own blood, can let the strengthening wind render his limbs useless and let the falling snow cover his weary body. But Bucky is right there, touching Steve’s shoulder tentatively, then tightly, and hauling him up. Steve manages to get his feet under him, but doesn’t have the strength to get out of the circle of Bucky’s arms. The shield is strapped to Bucky’s back, and he looks good. The mantle would’ve suited him far better than it does Steve. He was always the hero, between the two of them.
Clint and Nat have started walking ahead of them, hand in hand. They don’t look back, and Steve is, guiltily, glad for it. Bucky’s arm is like a brand around his waist and Steve is suddenly, inexplicably furious.
Captain America, rendered almost immobile by a mere sight of the limbs he lost almost a century ago. Going boneless and on the verge of a panic attack just at the sight of something that hasn’t been his in years; attacking his teammate just because he touched him, showed concern when he wasn’t clear enough in the head to answer a question. He’s a soldier first and foremost and Goddamn it he better start acting like it.
Swallowing down the bitter feeling in his mouth, Steve straightens his back and locks his jaw firmly. He puts one foot in front of the other and matches the pace of the other three. The movement of his back dislodges Bucky’s arm and he retreats it cautiously. When Steve looks at him, Bucky looks like he knows, and like it pains him. He doesn’t have to worry. Steve is fine.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure, Steve. Okay.”
It’s silent between the two of them for the rest of the way.
The vita-ray chamber brought on one of the most painful experiences of his life in the span of several seconds. Steve could feel his skin stretching, muscles growing and reforming, his spine aligning itself back in place, growing. The most potent of all were wings sprouting from his back. It felt just like the first time, except it didn’t take months, but mere seconds. The pain was excruciating. When he stumbled out of the chamber – everything too bright, too loud, too sensitive – his eyes found a mirror first.
There, right in front of his eyes – good eyes which could see colors he never could before – stood a man. A tall, muscular, healthy man with huge brown wings sprouting from his back. The silence that stretched across the room was almost physical with the way it pressed onto his shoulders. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, because he had his wings back. He was loathe to admit, but he missed them something fierce. Without them he almost felt naked. He missed their comforting weight on his back, the softness of the feathers and the agility he never had in the rest of his body. The sight of them almost brought him to tears, because he got back something he never thought he would.
Nobody has time to ask anything because Erskine is killed and Steve is chasing the killer and he’s flying through the streets of New York and it’s exhilarating. He could never do that before. The wings on his back beat strongly, propel him straight towards the man he’s chasing. He feels drunk on the amount of adrenaline that rushes through his veins. He can fly.
None of them know that he was born with wings, so they chalk it up to a side-effect of the serum. Steve doesn’t correct them.
The soldiers and the show girls on the USO tour think that the wings are a prop, a really well done one. It doesn’t help that they represent one of an eagle. Steve doesn’t correct them either.
The first time someone actually realizes that they are real is in Azzano. He lets the men out of the cells, and in the end flies Bucky out of the facility just moments before it lights up in flames. No one asks him anything about it, but they stare. Steve doesn’t care, because Bucky is alive and in his arms and just for a moment, everything is okay.
Bucky never finds out that Steve got rid of his wings before the serum. In the end it doesn’t matter, because Steve – winged and able to fly, still manages to let Bucky fall to his death. When he’s clutching the side of the train – right wing shot through with the glowing weapon the Hydra soldier wields – he watches Bucky fall and doesn’t jump after him. He was afraid. A coward. And Bucky paid the price for his cowardice.
It takes them hours to get to the cottage Natasha picked. Steve doesn’t know if it’s a real safe-house, or just a hunting cabin, but he checks the perimeter anyways. Bucky watches him with sharp eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Clint and Nat have long since gone inside, but Steve can’t make himself face them yet, not even when the wind truly picks up and it gets harder to see more than a few feet in any direction.
“Enough, Steve.” Shoulders slumping in defeat, Steve allows Bucky to usher him into the cabin, bolting the doors behind the two of them. He didn’t realize how cold he was until the absence of wind makes him shiver again. The cottage is bigger than it looks from the outside. They’re standing in a small communal space which is filled with a single couch, a bear-skin rug and a fireplace. The fire is already burning, and Clint and Nat are in front of it, sitting on the rug, wrapped in another fur of an animal Steve doesn’t recognize. They turn their heads when Steve and Bucky step inside, and Steve swallows. Works his jaw, willing his voice to work. “Clint, I want to apologize.” The bruise on the other’s jaw is now well and truly swollen, and he is pressing a bag of snow to it. When he shifts, the fur slides down and Steve can see the red impressions of his own palms spread all over Clint’s throat. He can’t take his eyes away from it – it makes the back of his eyes prickle uncomfortably.
“No worries Cap, I get it. My fault, shouldn’t have touched you.” There’s a small smile gracing his lips and the worst of all, Steve thinks, is that he’s sincere. He really thinks that it was warranted of Steve to jump at him and almost snap his neck just because he touched a hand to his back.
“That’s not an excuse, I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m really sorry, Clint.” He tries to put every bit of sincerity that he can into his voice, but isn’t sure that it carries. Clint doesn’t seem to mind it, though. “It’s okay Steve. Really. I’ll get you back sometime.” He winks and the last bit of tension leaves his shoulders. Nat doesn’t smile, but her gaze isn’t overly hostile on his anymore. Fools, every single one of them. Steve wants to scream at them, shake their shoulders and make them see reason. They can’t trust him, can’t put their lives into his hands when they’ve seen just how out of control he is. He opens his mouth to argue, to make them see, to say anything, but Bucky stops him with a careful hand on his shoulder.
“C’mon Steve. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Steve digs his heels in right at the entrance of the cabin, suddenly overwhelmed with everything. He can’t let Bucky take care of him, can’t give him any more reason to not trust him or, God forbid, fear him. Bucky doesn’t let it go this time though, and tries to pull him by his hand. Steve can only manage to croak out a small “I can’t,” and hope that Bucky gets it, because he doesn’t know how to even begin to explain the raging ball of feelings churning at his very core. Bucky gives him a small, sad smile and grips his hand tighter. “Yes you can. Let me.”
Steve is helpless but to follow him to the middle door out of the three. They find themselves in a small bathroom, the mirror still fogged up from the previous shower. How this cabin in the middle of nowhere has hot running water, Steve can’t even begin to think about. For a minute, they just stand there – Steve staring at the tiles and Bucky staring at Steve. At last, Bucky raises his hands to Steve’s chest and starts unbuckling the first layer of clothing. Steve wants to recoil, wants to tell Bucky to stop, that he doesn’t have to do this, that Steve doesn’t deserve any of it – but Bucky speaks first, gray eyes boring right into Steve’s. “It’s okay.” Steve can do nothing but gulp down the lump which has risen in his throat.
Steve just stands like that in the middle of the small bathroom while Bucky peels him layer by layer. When the last, flimsy layer of his uniform is left, Steve grips Bucky’s wrist tightly and minutely shakes his head, eyes glassy. He can’t speak, yet again. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, just cups the side of his face and rubs his flesh thumb beneath Steve’s eye. It’s the gentlest way anyone has ever touched him, and Steve almost falls apart right then and there. Bucky doesn’t let him. He just grips the hem of the tight undersuit and lifts it gently over his head. Steve hasn’t let anyone see him naked since before the serum, since Bucky. In the war, because there wasn’t time and there wasn’t a reason – they never even had time for Bucky to preen his wings properly, and then he died and Steve died and it didn’t matter anymore. When he woke up, there was no one he wanted to be close to in any way, shape or form – at least not physically. This is the first time in years anyone gets to see the mangled skin of his back and he’s terrified.
But it’s Bucky. If anyone has seen, and will see everything that Steve ever was and ever will be, it’s Bucky.
“Can I see?” Steve can’t do anything but nod, take a deep, shuddering breath and turn his back to Bucky. It goes against every instinct ingrained in him from the moment wings sprouted from his back when he was a child, but – it’s Bucky.
“Oh, honey.” His voice is wrecked, fingers whispering over the puckered and white skin running down his back. Steve knows how it looks. Like a wild animal attacked him – two deep, mangled lines marring the space just beneath his shoulder blades all the way to his lower back. That was not the moment Steve found out that the serum doesn’t actually heal everything. It was months before, when a piece of rebar two inches in diameter pierced him right through the left thigh and nicked an artery. He almost bled out that night, Bucky’s ashen face among the last things he would ever see. Sometimes, he thinks everyone would’ve been better off that way. They removed the rebar for the lack of a better idea, and the serum took care of the artery. It took several agonizing hours. By the end of it, the internal damage was clearly too much for his body to be concerned with the superficial wound. After that, there were a few other close calls. Nothing like his back, though.
Steve shudders when Bucky’s fingers trace the whole length of the left scar, from top to bottom. “I wasn’t sure they were real.” His voice is a whisper on the nape of Steve’s neck. “I dream of them, sometimes – of you, flying me out of the Hydra compound. I thought I imagined it.” Steve hangs his head, chin almost touching the clavicle; in shame, or something worse, he isn’t sure. Steve has to take a deep, shuddering breath when warm lips ghost over the top of what was once his right wing. He won’t cry – he can’t. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop.
Bucky trails soft, almost reverent kisses all over his back, shoulder blades, the back of his neck; palms holding Steve up by his hips. Every touch is a brand on his skin. He can’t get enough. By the time the soft touches cease, Steve’s forehead is resting on the heavy wooden door, breath erratic and shallow. Bucky makes quick work of the rest of Steve’s clothes, but still so, so gentle. He isn’t so kind when he strips his own clothes off. Steve wants to offer to do it for him, but he still can’t feel most of his body, and besides, he doesn’t know if he’ll hurt him. Better not risk it.
Bucky ushers him into the tub and steps in right after him. It’s a tight fit; they’re pressed together from shoulders to thighs. “Buck, you don’t – you don’t have to do this. I – “
The shower turns on, and warm water hits Steve’s skin like a balm. He can’t help but to close his eyes, a small exhale leaving his nose. “I want to, Steve.” His voice is still so soft, like if he spoke any louder Steve would break apart. He still just might.
Bucky cleans both of them with a washcloth he found under the sink. His touches are gentle, slow and soothing across the planes of Steve’s back and shoulders and legs. The metal of his left hand is warmed by the water, and it’s solid on his hip. Steve’s hands are still hanging by his sides, curled into fists. He wants to return the gentle touches, wants to show Bucky that he deserves to be touched with kindness and reverence too, but he can’t. He’s afraid that his hands know nothing else besides violence, for they have been coated in blood longer than they have ever been clean. Bucky must notice the tension which is back in his shoulders, because he stops running the washcloth over Steve’s chest and places his fingers underneath Steve’s chin, gently lifting his head up. “You can touch me, Steve.” Steve just shakes his head, breathing labored. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The corners of Bucky’s eyes are pulled down by sadness where they search Steve’s, and Steve can’t look away. Bucky is the most beautiful person Steve has ever seen, both inside and out. Even after everything that happened to him, after everything those monsters did to him and made him do, he still came out on the other side one of the kindest and gentlest people Steve has ever known.
He never takes his eyes away from Steve’s own when he whispers, sincerely, “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Do you trust me?” It lands like a punch straight to Steve’s gut. Because how does he even begin to explain the way he feels when he looks at Bucky? How he’s anything close to a home Steve has ever really known; how Bucky was there from the best to the worst moments in his life; how neither of them are the same people they’ve been all those years ago, but that it doesn’t matter, because at the core, it’s still them. It’s still Steve and Bucky. They don’t fit exactly like they used to, but they still find a way. If Steve could, he would give Bucky his soul, no matter how broken and mangled and ugly – give it to him and let him do what he wants with it, because all of Steve has always been Bucky’s. That’s never going to change – not through time nor wounds nor anything else the universe throws at them. That has been the only constant in Steve’s life – the knowledge that Bucky holds all of him.
In the end, none of the words make it past his lips. He doesn’t even know where to start. “Of course, Buck.”
“My hands have killed hundreds of people.” A noise of protest rises in Steve’s throat, but Bucky just tightens his hold on the back of his neck. “Husbands, mothers, children.” His voice shakes and Steve aches. Aches for the boys they never really got to be and for the man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders and despite it, still pushes forward. “And yet, you still trust me to put them where it hurts the most and not have them dig deeper into the wounds.” Steve can’t argue with that because he does. God, he does.
“I trust you with my life, Buck.”
“Then allow me to trust you too.” Bucky’s hands grip his palms gently and raise them to his chest. Steve’s fingers tentatively rest on the other’s pectorals, before pressing the whole palms to the warm skin. He can’t help himself but to circle his arms around the other’s waist tightly and rest his head in between his shoulder and neck. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just continues to rub his hands over Steve’s back.
They stand under the spray in silence, until the water turns cold. Steve still feels numb through the most of his body but for the fingers on his hands, the ones that are gripping Bucky’s back like if he lets go he’ll disappear. Bucky dislodges him gently to get them out of the tub. Steve insists on drying himself, cheeks ablaze, but Bucky doesn’t budge. He dries him thoroughly before drying himself. The air in the bathroom is warm from the steam, so Steve doesn’t mind waiting, enjoying the view. He has been half-hard the entire time, but he doesn’t want anything – not right now. He just wants to look. Bucky gives him one cheeky grin to tease him, to let him know that he’s putting on a show, but Steve doesn’t mind it one bit. Bucky is gorgeous, just miles of scarred skin and rippling muscles. He’s beefier than Steve; shoulders and thighs wider than ever. He looks good; healthy. Steve loves that look on him the best.
He doesn’t remember when Bucky brought his duffel with them, but now he rummages through it and hands Steve a pair of socks, sweats and a hoodie. All Bucky’s. With warm cheeks, he puts them on, and feels something in himself settle slightly; the clothes smell of the detergent they use at home. There’s feeling in his toes now.
Bucky puts on a similar outfit and then they’re out of the warm bathroom and the bubble of comfort which enveloped Steve inside bursts sharply and almost painfully. Reality comes crashing down around him – hurting Clint, his wings, Hydra – and his stomach is suddenly heavy like he swallowed a rock. Bucky must sense the change, because he frowns and pulls Steve to the door right of the bathroom, the one which are not closed.
There’s only one bed, small enough that the two of them won’t fit laying side by side. That’s alright, Steve can take the rug in front of the fireplace, or the couch. God knows Bucky needs every minute of sleep he can get. He’s about to say so, but Bucky shakes his head, like he knows exactly what Steve’s thinking, and pushes him to the bed. Steve makes a noise of protest, but Bucky isn’t having it. “Get in the bed, Stevie.” Steve does.
He lies down on his side, back to the wall and Bucky crawls right beside him, facing him. The amount of control he is giving away by laying down with his back to the door doesn’t escape Steve and suddenly it’s all too much. He can’t breathe properly, can’t take his eyes away from Bucky’s own, can’t shake the phantom hands digging into his back. Embarrassingly, his eyes well up.
He tries to push it down, to calm down, but then Bucky’s hand is on his cheek, and he whispers: “Oh, sweetheart,” and Steve breaks.
His next exhale turns into a harsh sob, and then it’s over. Bucky brings him to his chest and Steve breathes wetly into his hoodie, fists grabbing the front. He cries for the first time since Bucky died and it’s almost painful in its intensity – letting go.
He cries for hours, mumbles apologies over and over, begs Bucky to forgive him; knows that he doesn’t deserve it. Bucky does so anyways, whispers things like “There’s nothing to forgive,” and “You’re okay,” and “It wasn’t your fault.” Steve thinks he may be crying too. He doesn’t really believe any of the words leaving Bucky’s mouth, but Bucky does. For now, it’s enough. It has to be enough.
He must tire himself out so much that he passes out, because the next time his eyes open – swollen and sensitive – the room is filled with soft light shining through the moth-eaten curtains. Bucky is asleep, his arms still wrapped around Steve, face relaxed. He looks peaceful for the first time in a long while. Steve allows himself to burrow his head in the juncture where his shoulder and neck meet, and dares to think that one day, they’ll be alright.