Steve presses his hand against the wound until he can feel his pulse pumping against his palm. He's bleeding. A lot. Enough for it to ink his shirt maroon around the injury and start oozing blood between his fingers.

His earlier sympathy is gone.

"You're lying." He says it in the exact same tone, flat and nearly emotionless. For him, it's tantamount to screaming. He remembers being this ready and willing to kill. After he lost Bucky, before the final assault on Schmidt's stronghold - before he had the comfort of knowing that one way or another, things with Hydra were about to end. Before he lost everyone. And the irony of it, the miserable irony of it, is knowing he didn't lose anyone. That they lived, they died, that he can look back at the records and see how their lives played out if he wants to.

That's not how life is supposed to work.

He hefts the parking meter again, one-handed, and it slips slightly in a palm smeared with blood. He can't cover the distance between them before Loki pops himself into a different location. But he can hurl the meter at the Asgardian's head in a blur of gunmetal gray.