Chapter Text
A dark cloud drifts across the sky, obscuring the bright moonlight that guides Bucky through the ticket of trees. He tails a group of couriers, a couple hundred metres ahead; the only other moving shapes at 3am in the outskirts of nowhere a few miles from the edge of Brooklyn. They're still about a mile from base but the objective is mostly complete, Bucky asses, although his fingers still grip his rifle tightly.
There's a rumble up above and Bucky scans the skies for airplanes or thunder, despite it not being a sound he recognises. The clouds have collected and gained strength - they won't get home dry.
Then there's a crash of branches and leaves as something falls from the sky behind Bucky. He rolls forward for cover and spins round with the barrel facing the direction of the noise. Silence falls on the forest and after a few minutes Bucky inches forward. There's a gap in the canopy above marked by snapped branches, and a trail of broken bushes that lead to where the object landed. Except it's not an object - it's a person. They don't move so Bucky lowers his rifle and whistles to the group he's supposed to be tailing. He's not sure how far ahead they are but they hear him and give a faint reply. He whistles the signal that will let them know he's fallen behind and to carry on, and waits for confirmation that they've heard. He hears the shrill sound moments before the person on the floor makes a noise. Bucky raises his rifle and takes a closer look at the person; they're huddled in a heap wearing some old fashioned clothes. Bucky checks for injuries or weapons, and a parachute - there's no way they could've survived without one, but he can't find it. He inches forward and starts gently shaking the person, who's beginning to come round.
"How did you get here? Who are you?" Bucky asks, stepping away and raising his rifle again as the person sits up, facing away from him. They look around and then turn to face Bucky. It's a man, around Bucky's age, he thinks, with light hair and a pale face.
"My name is Steven Rogers and, well, I fell." The man blinks and rakes a hand through his hair.
"Yeah, but fell from where? Did you parachute in? What government division are you from?" Bucky persists as the man slowly gets to his feet, oblivious to the rifle Bucky's still pointing at him. Bucky notices he's quite tall, and well built, as the man, Steven, looks up past him at the hole in the trees.
"Like I told you, I fell. We don't call it the government we call it Palace of Wings, and I'm certainly not from any of their 'divisions'," the man answered, matter of factly, "not any more." He added quietly. Bucky frowned.
"What? Are you on drugs, buddy?" He wasn't holding the rifle as stiffly anymore, as the man looked at him curiously.
"No, they're prohibited in Heaven." He stated, and brushed himself off.
"Heaven? You're shitting me. This is New York State, pal." Bucky shook his head in disbelief and lowered his rifle.
"No, I am not 'shitting you', which sounds unpleasant, and is that where we are? Sounds interesting." Steven walked past a confused Bucky, and began walking off. The loud noises of twigs snapping under his feet and leaves brushing past him made Bucky run after him and grab his arm.
"Hey, where are you going? If you carry on like that we'll get caught!" Steven looked at him blankly. "Oh, just come with me." He tugged Steven's sleeve so that he followed him, and indicated that he needed to be quiet. Steven did so, and although he wasn't anywhere near Bucky's level of silent moving, they somehow managed it and three hours later Bucky stumbled onto the couch and promptly fell asleep.
His last thought was that it hadn't actually rained.