Price didn’t remember it at all.

He was on the battlefield, fighting for his life and trying to get to the extraction point. He was shot, he knew that much. Saw the bullet exit his chest.

He woke up in a white room. It didn’t look Like a hospital, but it gave that same sterile feel. He didn’t believe it when he saw an angel. Or, he thought it was an angel. It looked…odd. He was asked if he wanted to become a seraphim, picked by the angels to become one because of his morals. He didn’t understand It, but he accepted.

Three years later, he was back in a human form, back with his team. He was a hidden angel, he still didn’t exactly Know what he was supposed to do, or why he was an angel. But he’d figure it out later.

Price only realized he had to actually let his wings out after his back hurt so bad that he couldn’t move. He later realized that he had powers. And after a year, he realized he was on the verge of falling.

He couldn’t really care, he never believed in angels before he became one and he could really care less about light or dark. Until it started to hurt. The first black feather had felt like a blade ripping through his skin. And the second had him throwing up. The third was worse. It burst forth in a violent eruption, tearing through muscle and sinew, and a scream clawed its way from his throat, echoing in the empty alley where he had sought refuge.

After that, he tried his best to be good.

But still, more black feathers came. And he started to loose hope. He knew it was because of one thing, and it was the single thing he wouldn’t give up.

You.

His lover, his secret. A man.

Price groaned softly as he sat on the roof of the base, looking at the tips of his wings and trying to pluck the black feathers. Blood trickled down the snowy feather as he pulled the black feathers and the small grey ones. It was late, the moon out and the sky dark. He sighed, smoking a cigar as he winced and grimaced at each feather plucked.