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teddiee · 7 months ago

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Into Each Life: Chapter 10

Summary:

Arnie’s expression clears, briefly, and he blinks up at Tony like he suddenly remembers the other Omega is sharing the cramped stall with him. “Y’told me it wouldn’t hurt, once. Before… before I left. You said—you said it’s what we’re s’posed to do.”

“Arnie,” Tony warns.

“Yeah, you did. You said that t’me. You smelled scared, though. Knew you didn’t believe it. What you were sayin’. But I trusted you anyway. And then… and then…” Arnie swallows, and rubs at his eyes, and Tony’s heart plummets into his stomach.

Perpendicular to him, Bucky shifts. Tony can’t bring himself to look at him. He wants to disappear.

“Roth,” Tony bites out sharply. “Shut the fuck up.”

Words: 9,952

Steve Rogers’ birthday, Tony learns, is Independence Day.

“You’re joking,” Tony sputters, unwittingly, when Steve drops the news in casual conversation. He bites his cheek and swats at Bucky’s hand as it reaches from behind to pinch at his hip bone when Steve turns around to face him, his brow furrowed.

“What? No, I’m not joking. Why would I be joking?”

It’s late on Wednesday evening. The Brooklyn boys, ultimately deciding it was too warm to heat anything on the stove for supper, had pooled together their pocket change and set off for the nearest Horn & Hardart Automat.

“Horn and Who?” Tony had asked warily, albeit delighted, when a soot-smudged and bright-eyed Alpha appeared outside his window to whisk him away from his ivory Omega tower.

He had only dropped him off there earlier that week, two days prior. And he had seen him every night since.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” Bucky had replied, shifting his weight onto his forearms and leaning over Tony’s window to grin at him. “The automat, princess. Where us workin’ class-type go to pay ten cents for a sandwich when our butlers can’t be bothered to make one for us.”

Tony nodded sagely. “Sounds humbling.”

“Y’gonna come out here? Or am I gonna have to carry you down?”

“I’m all booked up tonight, sorry,” Tony sighed. He shoved his socked feet into his shoes and reached for his suspenders, dangling loosely at his waist, to pull each strap over his shoulders. “I’ve got a swell date with my footman. He’s bringing hot pastrami on rye.”

Bucky laughed, loud and beautiful, and Tony’s stomach swooped. Somewhere down on the street below, a blonde Alpha groaned.

“For cryin’ out loud, can’t you two make moon eyes at each other later? I’m starvin’.”

“Aw, jeez. Shut your pie hole, Rogers. We’re comin’.”

Twenty minutes later, the young Alphas, hungry and irritable, bicker and grumble incessantly at each other as the trio slowly inch up a line stretched halfway down the block for their ten-cent suppers.

“We still haven’t even made it to one game this season, Rogers.”

“Last time I checked, Buck, I wasn’t the one pulling weekend shifts.”

“Don’t be a punk. I pick up Sunday doubles to help Nan and Pop with Becca’s tuition.”

“Not worth it,” Tony mumbles under his breath.

“Please. You were picking up Sundays so Hendricks would let you skip out early on Thursdays to chase skirts at Ruby’s.”

“Nice,” Tony says.

Bucky flicks Steve in the ear. “Quit bein’ a wiseass.” His tone is casual, but the scowl he delivers to his best friend over Tony’s head is dirty enough to send the angriest Nazi retreating with his tail between his legs.

He hooks his arm around Tony’s waist and rests his chin on the Omega’s head. Tony accepts his wordless apology easily and sags into the embrace, hoping his scent doesn’t show how secretly pleased he is to be touched like this in public. Bucky’s dating history is none of his business—besides, with how tactile Bucky’s been in the few short days since they started their…courtship? Entanglement?—anyone in a twenty-mile radius can smell Bucky’s unofficial claim on Tony like a forest signal fire.

Either way, he’s a silent sucker for the Alpha’s groveling.

Steve, to his credit, manages to look properly contrite as he casts an apologetic wince in Tony’s direction.

“I mean, not anymore, of course. Chasing skirts, and whatnot. Or, um—”

Tony snorts.

“The point is,” Steve continues haughtily. He begins waving his hands in the air for emphasis. “I’d be happy to go watch the Dodgers. I love the Dodgers. ‘The Pride of Brooklyn’, y’know? Let’s go Dodgers.”

Tony squints. “I don’t think anyone calls them that.”

Bucky yanks at Tony’s earlobe.

“I just don’t know if I want to spend my birthday at a baseball game.”

“But it’s a holiday,” Bucky points out, and the three boys shuffle up the sidewalk as the line slowly dwindles. Behind them, a surly Beta man in coveralls with grease stains on his fingertips occasionally leers in Tony’s direction. He smells like rotten seaweed and moldy plywood. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, too busy drowning under the plight of his current misfortunes, but Bucky shields Tony’s body with his own and keeps the Omega close. He keeps an arm slung around Tony’s chest, or a hand on his waist, or fingers curled around his hip. The primal, possessive creature inside of Tony thrums happily. “I don’t have work. You don’t have work. Tony doesn’t have work.”

“Hilarious,” says Tony.

“C’mon, Steve. Think about it. What’s more patriotic than baseball? America’s favorite pastime. Drinking shit beer and heckling the Phillies with my best pal—” he squeezes Tony’s waist “—and my best boy.”

My best boy.

Steve frowns again, and this time a crease forms between his eyebrows. “It just doesn’t seem right, I guess. Celebrating the country. While everyone else is off fighting for the country.”

“No need to be so contrite, Steve-o,” Tony says, reaching out and squeezing Steve’s bicep in sympathy. He hates it when Steve frowns, but more importantly, he hates that Steve continues to carry the incomprehensible weight of war-riddled guilt on his slight shoulders. “It’s just a birthday. Everyone has one; if I remember correctly, you even got me drunk and clobbered all of my shoes on the dance floor for mine.”

“You looked great.”

“Shaddup, Buck, I know I looked ridiculous,” Steve scoffs, face flaming.

“Wasn’t talking about you.”

Fifteen squabbling minutes later, they reach the front of the line. Steve admits that his birthday is the fourth of July—Tony guffaws, because of course Steve Rogers shares a birthday with Uncle Sam, the Star Spangled sap that he is —and Bucky orders Tony a hot pastrami on rye. When Tony tries pulling out his wallet, Bucky snatches it from his hands and tucks it into his own back pocket before Tony can even blink.

Eventually, once sandwiches find their way into the hands of cranky Alphas and appetites are satiated, the best friends manage to reach a compromise: they’ll attend the Dodgers game—it’s an afternoon game, anyway, and the Dodgers are having a stellar season, says Bucky, who apparently despises the Phillies with a vitriol Toby usually reserves for things like poetry class, and his mother’s homemade meatloaf—and then stick around Flatbush to watch the fireworks that night. Steve mentions something about a picnic blanket, and Bucky asks him if he’s going to weave his own wicker basket, too, and then Steve Rogers is wrangling Bucky Barnes into a headlock as Tony Stark happily munches on the worst sandwich he’s ever tasted.

Tony doesn’t mention that he has never watched the fireworks with anyone before or seen a baseball game; he's only listened to games on the radio with Ana (a devoted Yankees fan).

“Promised to buy me dinner, my ass,” Steve grumbles, wiping the crumbs of Bucky’s Reuben out of his hair. “I offered to cook tonight. That potato soup ma used t’make, with the onions. You liked ma’s soup.”

“Didn’t want no soup, Steve. S’too hot.”

“Dragged me out here… made me pay for my own damn sandwich…”

“—I told you I’d take you to dinner. Last time I checked, you made your own money, y’damsel.”

“Semantics. You bought Tony’s.”

“S’different. Gotta woo my fella.” To prove a point, Bucky hooks a finger into Tony’s belt loop and pulls him close until their chests are touching. He presses a light kiss to his nose. Tony blushes. “How’s the grub, doll?”

Tony feigns a sigh. “Passable. Don’t know what I’m going to tell Gaspard, he’ll be crushed.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “The footman?”

“Maybe. I’m still workshopping pretentious, self-absorbed French names. I’m open to suggestions.”

“Raoul,” Steve pipes in.

“Bertrand,” offers Bucky, voicd muffled around a stolen mouthful of Tony’s sandwich.

“Bertrand’s not French,” says Steve. “Is it?”

“You’re a real wisecrack today, you know that?”

“Bertrand’s French,” says Tony. “A snooty, French variation of ‘Bertram’. German.” He pauses, contemplative. “There’s a mathematician named Bertrand. I read his dissertation on non-Euclidean geometry back in grammar school. Not bad, if you don’t mind analyzing core mathematic principles served up with a heaping side of philosophical-yuppie-bullshit.”

“German?” Cries Steve, aghast.

“Love it when you start talkin’ etymology to me, honey,” Bucky husks into Tony’s ear, not bothering to drop his voice low enough to spare his best friend, who sputters indignantly in the background. Tony scoffs, amused, but Bucky smells like he means it: rich and tangy. Heady.

The warmth of it curls into his nostrils and settles pleasantly at the base of his spine. Tony tips his head back and grins at Bucky, eyelashes fluttering.

“‘Bertram’. Comes from the Old German words ‘beraht’ and ‘hram’. Means ‘bright raven’.” Tony’s taking the piss, honestly, but to his delight, he watches Bucky’s pupils dilate. “It’s very Shakespearean,” he finishes, a little out of breath.

“Jesus,” Steve mutters. “Get a room.”

“Don’t mind if we do,” Bucky snarks back, slipping his hand into Tony’s and tossing their trash into the nearest bin. “What time’s curfew, darlin’?” Like he doesn’t know.

“Uh. seven? Room checks are tonight.” Tony’s tongue feels dry in his mouth. Bucky’s looking at him the way he does when he—

“Great. Wanna go fool around?”

“I hate you guys,” says Steve, dropping his head into his hands. “I need new friends. Single friends. Beta friends…”

Tony’s lips twitch. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Spend the night.”

Tony pokes his tongue into his cheek to suppress his smile. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can. We’ll sneak out after curfew. I can have you back before the sun’s even up. No one would ever know.”

“I’m on thin ice. My room smells like you. Every week at room check, Tompkins sniffs around like a Basset Hound, hoping to find my secret rotating horde of Alpha lovers hiding in the closet.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky grins. “Who else do you keep on deck?”

Tony crumples his ethics homework into a ball and playfully lobs it at Bucky’s head. It bounces off the Alpha’s forehead and he catches it in his hands, cackling. He’s sprawled out on Tony’s bed, looking devilishly handsome and entirely too irresistible in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the Omega’s small dormitory.

“Humphrey Bogart. Lou Costello. That guy at the bodega in Gowanus who calls me ‘angel face’.”

“Knew I outta be worried about that guy. Looked far too pleased with himself to just be sellin’ you some canned vegetables.”

“Have to keep my roster fresh. In case my current rotation gets bored of me.”

Tony’s joking, mostly—mostly?—and he’s still smiling because Bucky does that to him. Makes him grin until his cheeks hurt, these past few days. He’s scribbling some nonsense onto a piece of paper so that he has something to turn in for class tomorrow—it’s not like he’s done an Ethics reading since he was sixteen, anyway, and he’s fully prepared to fail his final exam next week because who cares, honestly—but Bucky’s behind him, suddenly. He stands at Tony’s desk chair, wrapping his arms around Tony’s chest and pulling the Omega back against him. He leans down a bit, resting his chin on Tony’s head.

“Hi,” Tony says quietly. He feels Bucky’s heartbeat against his shoulder blades.

“Hi,” Bucky says back. He presses his lips to the crown of Tony’s head.

Despite Bucky’s jab at Steve earlier, the two of them haven’t done much fooling around since that fateful, heated morning in Bucky’s bed. True to his word, Bucky accepted Tony’s tentative approval of their courtship like a gentleman. He kept him close all weekend and doted on him—tending to his bruises and staying a noble three steps ahead of his seemingly predictable, blubbering outbursts.

Tony wept incessantly for two straight days, leaving him both outraged and deeply mortified. Regardless of his most valiant efforts, even the tiniest action seemed to trigger waterworks.

He cried on the telephone when he called Jarvis. He cried when Steve cooked him breakfast in the morning, and when Bucky pulled him into the shower and washed his hair—both boys in their underclothes—intimate and gentle and nonsexual. He even shed tears when Steve returned from the dry cleaners Sunday evening, carrying Tony’s godawful suit.

“Aw, Christ,” Tony gritted out, pressing his palms into his eyes to stave off the familiar burning pressure. He didn’t know how he had any tears left to spare, good God. “Thanks, Steve. Just—you could’ve tossed it in the trash. Or—I don’t know, burned it. Fed it to the pigeons, or something.”

“It’s a nice suit,” Steve protested, a little stunned and a lot wary. He cast a panicked look at Bucky, who was observing the unfolding situation with amusement from the kitchen table, casually biting into an apple. “It doesn’t… it’s as good as new. It doesn’t even smell like that Alpha, anymore. Honest.”

“Swell,” Tony said, voice wavering dangerously.

And then he started weeping.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky crooned. He pulled Tony into his lap and wrapped his arms around his midsection. “Of course we’ll get rid of it. Maybe we’ll spare the pigeons, though. I bet there are plenty of hungry termites in Brooklyn.”

“Buck,” said Steve, appalled.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Tony wailed. “M’so embarrassed. I’m not usually like this, I swear it. I just—I feel insane.”

“You’re perfect. Everything’s perfect,” Bucky said consolingly, hugging him tighter. “You’re letting go of eighteen years of shitty, repressed emotions. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to sock one of us in the face yet.” Bucky gestured to his roommate, who was stealthily hanging the suit on the far-facing side of the coat rack. “When Steve’s ma died, he got so drunk on Jim Beam; I found him passed out on the side of the road outside the cemetery. Had to throw him over my shoulder and carry him three miles home. Halfway there, he threw up down my back.”

“It’s true,” Steve said sagely. “And Bucky bawled like a baby the night we moved Becca into The Institute.”

“She was cryin’ all over me, begging me to take her home. She’s my baby sister, it was brutal.”

On Sunday night, he and Bucky finally went out. Bucky took him to a cozy mom-and-pop diner—somewhere he used to frequent with his parents after church on weekends. He held Tony’s hand, and paid for his food (much to Tony’s protest), and when they got back to the apartment, James Barnes pushed Tony up against the threshold of the doorway and kissed him like it was the one thing he was put on this Earth to do.

Bucky gripped his waist with one hand and cradled his cheek with the other and slicked his mouth over Tony’s with a spiritual sort of reverence. Tony, useless as always, sagged, his eyes fluttering shut as he choked out a desperate whimper. Bucky responded with a low chuckle of his own that carried an unmistakable sense of dominance, hauntingly Alpha.

He rewarded the Omega by sinfully curling his tongue around Tony’s own and Tony shuddered and sighed as he was greeted with a familiar roaring in his ears and a soft buzzing under his skin, his submissive instincts kicking into overdrive as he succumbed to Bucky’s unhurried, devout ministrations. His glands throbbed in a way that had him squirming and shuddering, and when Bucky’s thumb trailed delicately against the suck mark on his neck, he almost keened.

Bucky responded by pushing into the bruise harder and growling into Tony’s mouth.

“Good boy.”

Tony moaned lowly.

It was dangerous, the effect that Bucky Barnes had on Tony’s physical being. He found himself unable to do anything but submit as he yielded over control of the kiss, happily allowing Bucky to assert control in a way that felt so simple, so innate, it made his toes curl.

“James? Is that you?”

Bucky ripped his mouth from Tony’s and pushed him behind his body, Tony stumbling with the grace and discretion of a newborn animal. He latched onto the back of Bucky’s shirt for purchase, sucking oxygen into his lungs to put out the fire in his blood.

“Mrs. Lombardi,” Bucky croaked, before clearing his throat. “Hi, yeah, hello. It’s just me.”

Bucky’s elderly neighbor narrowed her eyes as she peered at the two of them from her doorway down the dimly lit hallway, three rooms away. “Is that Steven with you?”

Tony pressed his forehead into Bucky’s back and bit down on his lip to stifle his laughter. Bucky reached behind and gave his waist a warning squeeze.

“Not Steve, ma’am. This is Tony. My, uh… cousin.”

Tony almost choked on his spit.

And because he’s a terrible person, he stepped out from behind Bucky, nodding.

“On his mother’s side,” he improvised. “From Indiana.”

Bucky’s lips pressed together tightly, his mouth twitching. “Uh-huh. Visiting for the summer.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Mrs. Lombardi gushed.

“Isn’t it swell?” said Tony, grinning.

Bucky dropped Tony off at school early Monday morning before his shift at the docks. He followed him through his window, cornered him against Arnie’s bedpost, and kissed him slowly (and far too indecently for six in the morning) before promising to stop by after work.

“You don’t have to do that,” Tony objected weakly, chasing Bucky’s lips as the Alpha moved to pull away.

“Want to,” Bucky murmured, conceding. He curled his tongue around Tony’s and stole the protest from his mouth; Tony’s hitched whine tugging the corners of his mouth upward. “Goin’ steady, remember? I’m tryin’ to win you over.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony’s next breath tripped into a staggered moan as Bucky fisted his fingers into Tony’s unruly hair and sucked at the hinge of his jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head, hips stuttering for desperate purchase against Bucky’s firm, unyielding body. The hard outline of Bucky’s erection against his belly was a teasing, familiar presence after a weekend of sharing a twin bed—though, like usual, the Alpha seemed perfectly content to ignore his own arousal.

“You’re gonna leave marks,” Tony griped with all the conviction of an incensed Labrador. Bucky’s teeth dragged across his pulse point and Tony’s bones pulverized to dust, his head lolling back as if his spine had vanished inside his body. The only thing keeping him from braining himself on the wooden railing was a firm set of fingers urging his chin back in place.

“Babydoll,” Bucky husked into Tony’s jaw, grinning wickedly. Practically sinking his molars into Tony’s strangled mewl. “How am I s’pposed to leave you, huh? All dizzy and sweet for me like this.”

The air that Tony sucked into his lungs tasted like Bucky. It made his vision soft around the edges. “Gonna skip morning classes. Jerk off until I cry.” He swallowed audibly. “Or pass out. Maybe both. Then I’ll probably sleep ’til noon.” With his eyes glazed and his inhibitions ash, Tony hardly registered the candor spilling out of his mouth. He was so pent up he could combust.

Because it was the truth—while the near-constant physical contact Bucky offered over the past few days worked wonders in stabilizing his wonky, imbalanced hormones, all the exposure to the Alpha’s pheromones had also worked him up beyond belief. At this point, he was pretty sure he could come at the drop of a hat, if Bucky commanded it.

Bucky bit out a curse, his scent spiking sharp. He pressed his thumb into Tony’s bottom lip and Tony, feeling petulant and turned on and ten million other things, bit down on the digit. Bucky’s gaze turned molten.

“Good,” Bucky swallowed, throat bobbing.“You deserve it. Better be thinking of me, though.” He pulled away, but not before one last tug to Tony’s bottom lip. Eyes blazing. “You can tell me all about it tonight.”

“Roger Barnes?”

Steve flushes crimson, swiping the selective service card out of Tony’s hands. The ink from the "4-F” stamp smears on Tony’s fingers, still fresh.

“I’m running out of options, alright? I tried ‘Grant Stevens ’ just last month.”

“Ahh. Very stealthy, Nancy Drew.” Tony reclines, releasing a puff of smoke into the cloudless sky above. “Congrats on the impending nuptials, by the way. Where should I expect a wedding invitation from, Washington Heights?”

Steve squints down at the form. “Er, no. Bayonne.”

“NEW JERSEY?” Tony cries, scandalized. He pushes himself up on his elbows, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. “Hate to say it, pal, but it’s no wonder they rejected you this time. Not even Nazis are afraid of schmucks from ‘The Garden State’.”

Steve is smiling again.

Jackpot.

“Now you’re just bein’ mean. You’re uninvited from me and Buck’s wedding.”

“Shame,” Tony sighs. “I would have made the most fetching flower girl.”

“The mouthiest one, maybe.”

“Since when are they mutually exclusive?”

“Aren’t you supposed t’be studying?” Steve reaches for Tony’s long-discarded, school-issued study guide and flips to a page of practice questions. “You’re distractin’ me. We’re supposed to be going over…” he flips to another page and makes a vaguely constipated face. “…‘The Art and Duty of Childrearing’. Hell, is this actually one of your classes?”

Tony’s eyes roll back so far into his skull that he can see his brain.“Go on, then. Let’s review all the ways Mother Nature has blessed my fertile, bountiful womb.”

It’s warm outside, reminiscent of the first day Tony decided to bask in the sunlight on top of an old brick studio in downtown Brooklyn. Just like that first Thursday day, he lies on his back, his shirt untucked, collar unbuttoned, his cheeks turning pink from the sun.

Just like that day, he inhales small doses of oil paint, and charcoal, and turpentine, and lets the safe, tangy aroma of his friend’s pheromones soothe the jagged edges of his anxiety. Where the low hum of a trusted Alpha's voice—an Alpha he cares about—makes his eyelids droop and his spine soften.

And this time, he lets himself float a little. In a quiet, submissive space.

Or he would, perhaps. If Steve Rogers wasn’t so determined to disrupt his feeble grasp of serenity with questions about his—

“—endometrial lining? This certainly doesn’t seem relevant,” Steve mutters, scratching the back of his neck and peering down at Tony’s study packet as if it were written in Latin. “Are you sure this is yours?”

“Do you reckon the childbirth chapter for fellas would offer better insight?”

It’s not like he was even carrying around his final exam guides for these absurd classes on purpose, mind you. But Rebecca Barnes had cornered him during yesterday’s mealtime, halfway to hysteria with a crazed look in her eye, demanding a study partner since ‘None of the girls would partner with her, not since Sally Mendelsohn told the entire grade that she had been disguising dirty messages in her needlepoint using Morse code.’

“Have you?” Tony asked, impressed.

“It doesn’t matter!” Becca cried. “Sally’s a rotten busybody who wouldn’t know romance if it bit her on her stupid, powdered nose. She wishes she had a fella to send suggestive handkerchiefs to.”

It didn’t matter that he reminded her—repeatedly—that he had never once studied for an Institute exam during his two years of enrollment. His professors would pass him anyway; no one would risk holding back Howard Stark’s pain-in-the-ass son. In fact, Tony had it on good authority that most of the staff were anxiously ticking off his remaining days as a student on their desk calendars.

Becca had stuffed the study guide into his satchel anyway and called him a spoiled swine.

“Some of us can’t risk summer school in this loony bin. Quiz me, before I tell Jamie you’re being a real cad.”

Steve only found the stupid thing because he was digging around Tony’s satchel for a pencil. Which, you know, Tony had so generously offered him in the first place.

Nosy, meddlesome Alpha.

“Rogers, if you care about me at all, you’ll stop using the words ‘gland secretion’ in my presence.”

His complaint falls on deaf ears. Steve scans a paragraph—with excessive concentration, if the lines on his forehead are any indication—mumbles something under his breath, and makes a pencil notation onto the paper.

“Are you… correcting my ‘Art and Duty of Childrearing’ study guide? God, enough of this bullshit. We’re supposed to be criticizing your reckless life choices right now. And your clearly misguided death wish. And how all of this contributes to a self-sacrificial disposition that is, frankly, alarming.” Tony sits up and snatches the packet out of Steve’s hands. “We’re going to have a safe, wonderful time. Contributing here. On home soil. Pinning up posters and, I don’t know, helping old Roosevelt sell war bonds.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve replies. He’s biting back a smile, even if he smells a little sad. “How are we plannin’ on doing that?”

“Betty Grable auctioned off her stockings at a rally last month for forty thousand. How much do you think my tightie whities will go for?”

“I’m not answerin’ that.”

"What happened to that steadfast patriotism, Lieutenant Liberty?”

“Jesus, Tony. These nicknames keep getting worse and worse.”

Tony shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette. “Don’t be a drip, that one was catchy. You already shot down ‘Sergeant Spangles’.”

“That’s Bucky’s ranking. Why not sic him with some dorky comic book alias?”

“How many times do I have to remind you that comic books are neat, Rogers? Not dorky. Stop insulting my prized collectibles, or we’re going to have a separate problem. Y’know what’s dorky? Naming each of your acrylic paints after famous New York landmarks. How is ‘Coney Island’ yellow?”

“It felt right! You told me you thought it was sweet, jerk!”

Tony does think it’s sweet. Tony thinks everything about Steve Rogers is sweet, and safe, and wonderful, and Tony can’t even begin to fathom sending Steve off to war because that would also mean thinking about sending Bucky off to war. And that is an entirely different beast of a problem that Tony’s not ready to poke at with a thirty-foot stick.

“I think some shade names deserve careful reconsideration, that’s all.”

“We’ve already talked about this. I’m not calling my brown paint ‘Tony Stark’s Eyes’”.

“Well, pardon me, Rembrandt. It beats ‘Bronx Zoo’. Do you know what I envision? Mud. Screaming children. Animal crap.”

They’re still bickering half-heartedly when the rooftop door creaks open and Bucky slips through, looking handsome and work-weary and sending Tony’s heart tripping pathetically in his chest. Not unlike their very first encounter. Or any of their subsequent encounters.

“I can hear you two blathering on halfway down the block,” Bucky says, sending them both a look of mock exasperation. He crouches in front of Tony and ruffles his hair. Tony swats the intrusion away without any gusto, pretending he hasn’t been keening for the Alpha’s touch all day. Bucky links their fingers together instead and kisses the back of his hand.

“Welcome home, honey,” Tony says drily. “Thoughts on selling my underwear for war bonds?”

“Very noble. S’this a private bidding?”

Steve’s subsequent eye-roll is so delicious Tony can taste it.

They don’t go to Ruby’s. Bucky’s too tired, and Steve’s too cranky, and Tony’s too hungry. They end up at some seedy Irish pub that doesn’t blink twice at Tony’s designation (small mercies), and Tony feasts quietly on Shepherd’s Pie while Bucky drinks a Guinness and plays footsie with him under the bar.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with staying here, Stevie. We have this same conversation every week. Plenty to do to help out without getting yourself killed.”

“Easy for you t’say,” Steve mutters. He’s only halfway through his own beer but more than halfway to being tipsy. “You enlisted. We both enlisted. Tried to, anyway. Enlist.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky finishes his pint and licks the foam off his upper lip, pushing the glass out of reach in frustration. “Priorities have changed. If I could do things differently, I would.”

Tony shovels a large forkful of pie into his mouth and chews slowly, staring at his plate with fixed intensity.

“They’d take you anyway,” Steve grumbles. “Sergeant Barnes. Whole army’s probably filled with guys like you. Real Alphas.”

“You’re being a real asshole, y’know that?” Bucky replies. He snatches Steve’s beer from his grasp. “You’re cut off. Here, doll.” He pushes the glass in Tony’s direction. “Put me outta my fuckin’ misery.”

Tony scrunches his nose. “Don’t love a stout, personally.”

Steve steals his beer back and sulks.

“They don’t want me either, Stevie,” Tony tries to offer his consolation around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Not even as a nurse. Or, I don’t know, a French prostitute. Like the rest of the Omegas. Not that I’d make much of a healthcare provider.”

“I know,” Steve says miserably. “I watch you try to feed the rest of your paracetamol to Mrs. Lombardi’s cat.”

Tony grimaces.

“Jury’s still out on the French prostitute, though,” Bucky says. “Could definitely picture you in some nice lace garters.” He winks, and Tony’s cheeks flame as he’s reduced to a puddle of goo.

“Anyway,” Tony coughs. He waves his fork in the air. “Fuck ‘em. We don’t need ‘em.” He purposefully does not let his mind wander to a specific set of pencil-sketched blueprints sitting in some government-sealed folder on Howard’s desk.

Bucky reaches out to stroke his thumb over Tony’s warm cheek. “Their loss. No Germans would be a match for this big, beautiful brain.” Bucky is smirking, but he says it softly, meaningfully, and it’s a touch too honest for this shitty pub. Tony almost swoons into his pie.

“Don’t forget my dashing good looks,” Tony says stupidly, instead.

“Couldn’t forget those if I tried.”

“M’leaving,” Steve says, draining the last of his stout and tossing a couple of coins down onto the bartop. He stumbles out of his stool, and Tony watches him warily. “I’m behind on next week’s mockups. And I promised Missus O’Doyle I’d check on her kids before bed; she’s workin’ late tonight.”

Tony watches him with a frown. The Alpha smells dejected and sullen, and the pheromones make his nose twitch. He folds his hands in his lap and tries to ignore the impulses that tell him to reach out and provide comfort, like a good little caretaker.

“I’ll see you on Monday? I promised to reassemble your toaster. Not that it’s… irreversibly damaged, or anything.” Saturday evening’s check-in phone call with Jarvis had left Tony feeling fidgety. He was alone in the apartment—the Alphas had gone to pick up groceries for supper to give Tony a bit of privacy—and the nearest kitchen appliance immediately fell victim to his oldest anxious habit.

When the roommates returned thirty minutes later, they found Tony sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by wires, a screwdriver in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I’m reconfiguring its heating elements to create a signal that can, uh, disrupt nearby radio frequencies. It’s made of nichrome, so it’s pretty easy to repurpose the material to create electromagnetic interference. Once I modify the power source, it’ll oscillate at radio frequencies instead of, y’know, heating up. ” Tony explained sheepishly. “A portable signal jammer, if you want to get technical. Sorry about the mess. And your toaster. It was kind of a piece of junk, anyway.” He paused his ramblings. “Nope, didn’t mean that. It’s a lovely appliance. I’m certain it’s performed its job dutifully over the years, producing many slices of golden-brown Wonder Bread. I’ll fix it—maybe? I hope you both aren’t too sentimentally attached to it."

Bucky knelt on the floor in front of Tony’s mess of bolts and scrap metal. “We leave you alone for half an hour, and you get bored enough to commit espionage in our kitchen?” He swiped at Tony’s chin with his thumb to remove a rogue oil smudge, eyes crinkling with mirth. Meanwhile, Steve held up the homemade contraption and inspected it as if it were something sacred and not just something Tony hastily soldered together with a Zippo he found on Bucky’s nightstand.

Tony rubbed at the back of his neck. “Nothing that fun. Best case scenario, it’ll work for localized interference. The radius is way too much to cause significant damage, given that it’s a… toaster. I already tested it out on nearby coms, and was able to intercept the local police station. Also, your neighbor’s episode of Stella Dallas.”

Steve leaves the bar with a lukewarm wave and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and Bucky squeezes Tony’s knee under the bar top as he promises his roommate that he won’t be too far behind.

“He gets like this, sometimes,” Bucky says. He waves down the bartender to close out his tab, pulling bills out of his wallet. “He gets so caught up in the injustice of it all, of being turned away, that he doesn’t realize they’re savin’ his life. Sometimes, I wish they’d stamp his damn form just to shut him up. And that the war would wrap up before he realized what he was signin’ himself up for.” Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair, stirring a twinge of sympathy in Tony as he suddenly notices how exhausted the Alpha looks.

“I wouldn’t be able to think straight if I knew he was over there. Kid’s got a chronic illness for every damn letter of the alphabet. It’s bad enough to know that I’ll be leavin’ my own people behind, eventually. But at least… it’s safe here. And he’ll have you.” Bucky gives him a tired, crooked smile. The private one he reserves for Tony. “I have no doubt you two knuckleheads can find enough trouble to get into in Brooklyn without giving the Europeans their own headache.”

Tony considers this for a moment. “Hearing ‘no’ all the time is one thing. It becomes a pretty strong incentive to get the same stubborn jackasses to change their mind and start saying ‘yes’.” He pushes a few peas around his plate with his fork. “Choosing to say ‘no’ for yourself is a privilege, I think. For some people. Like… Steve.”

Bucky—who lives rent-free in Tony’s incessant inner monologue, apparently—hums quietly.

“Let’s get you home, gorgeous.”

“What’s the point?” Tony bemoans, sliding off his stool with the swiftness of a drunken sloth. “I’ve already missed curfew. Byron probably assumes I’m out cavorting with my secret harem.”

“I’ve already told you that you can spend the night. Offer still stands, don’t have to ask twice.”

Tony feels something warm pooling at the base of his spine. Bucky has extended some variation of this invitation to him every night this week, and while Tony keeps deflecting, the allure remains strong.

“Thought you were trying to make an honest Omega out of me, Barnes?”

“Come with me to the restroom, and I’ll make an honest Omega outta you right now.”

Tony doesn’t need to be told twice.

It’s not the most romantic spot, truthfully, to fool around, but Tony Stark has allowed Bucky to kiss him in secluded alleyways that smell a little like dumpster and against splintered doorways that dig into his back, so he’s not overly picky.

So when Bucky gets his hands on Tony’s waist and his mouth on his throat the way that makes him go fuzzy in the head, Tony almost forgets that they’re surrounded by leaking faucets and suspiciously stained urinals.

Almost.

“What if—oh—someone walks in?” he gasps, referring to the four (maybe five, if he’s being generous) other patrons currently occupying the establishment.

“Then they’ll get dinner and a show,” Bucky rasps. He captures Tony’s mouth again before the Omega can squawk in protest and Tony grips his belt for purchase, his whole body useless and pliant. His response to Bucky is always easy and physical, preparing itself for any likely scenario—the warm coiling in his belly and rush of slick that graces his underwear reminding him that yes, that scenario could easily include a random toilet in some sleazy Brooklyn pub.

Bucky always kisses Tony like he has all the time in the world to do so. The intensity changes, as does the urgency, but Tony’s learning that he likes these kisses with Bucky best. Deep, slow. Hard and bruising. The flat of his tongue curling around Tony’s and caressing his own like he’s trying to swallow the sighs and moans right out of the Omega’s throat.

Bucky takes and Tony gives, as much as he can, and he’s rewarded with the glorious ebb and flow of the Alpha’s heady scent. Encasing Tony in a fog thick enough to suffocate him.

“You smell so good,” Bucky growls, voice low. His warm breath fans across Tony’s cheek. “Jesus. Why do you smell so fuckin’ good?”

“That would be eau de toilette. Try not to inhale any more bleach; I think it’s messing with your synapses.” It’s unfair, really, because Bucky smells delectable, too. Practically indecent, really, for a public restroom.

There’s a predatory gleam to the Alpha’s eye that makes Tony think that he won’t be leaving the building with his dignity (or his underwear) intact, and Bucky’s grip tightens on his hip as he moves to drop his mouth back onto Tony’s, but they’re both interrupted, suddenly.

A small, choked sob echoes from stall behind them.

Both boys freeze instantly.

“Did you hear th—” Bucky starts, and Tony slaps a hand over his mouth. His heart takes a stuttering, stacatto beat in his chest.

Another stifled sob. This one louder than the previous.

And there’s no way that Tony isn’t the one hallucinating this time—that he isn’t the one who inhaled too many floor-cleaning chemicals—because he knows the source of that blubbering. He could recognize it in his sleep.

His poker face must be utter shit, because Bucky looks at him in alarm. “Do you know him?” he asks, his hands trailing down to Tony’s elbows. Steadying him.

Tony swallows audibly. “No. Nope.”

A loud, wet sniffle chimes in from the stall.

“Tony?”

Tony curses.

Bucky’s hand tightens on his arm. Tony drops his head to the wall behind him, letting it thump against the wood paneling. He closes his eyes and curses the constant, relentless situational irony that seems to plague his life.

“Arnie?” Tony replies. He scrubs a hand over his face. “S’that you, Roth?”

Please be wrong, please be wrong, please be wrong, please be wrong—

“Hi, Tony,” the voice hiccups. Then, from the seclusion of the corner bathroom stall where he’s huddled away, Arnie Roth bursts into tears.

Tony stares at the ceiling helplessly.

Bucky cocks an eyebrow and turns his head to face Arnie’s outburst. His gaze darts between Tony and Tony’s weeping roommate. Whatever he sees in Tony’s face must make him hesitate, however, and something heartbreakingly gentle slashes across his own features.

Feeling raw and all sorts of strange, he pulls out of Bucky’s embrace and strides over to the stall. “Roth?” He raps his knuckles on the door. “Roth, I can see you sitting down there. Not very seemly, by the way. Probably getting all sorts of weird stains on those nice slacks of yours.”

“M’okay,” the Omega says wobbly. “Floor’s clean.”

Tony’s nose wrinkles. He narrowly avoids stepping on a piece of toilet roll. “Think we have slightly different hygienic standards, but, alright. Sure. Wanna open up?”

He waits. Nothing happens.

He turns to Bucky and shrugs.

“I tried,” he mouths.

Bucky sends him an exasperated look. He’s still standing in the corner of the restroom, guarding the door. Giving Tony space.

Giving Arnie space.

Tony rolls his eyes. He knocks on the door again.

“C’mon, Arnie. Can’t a fella say hi to his favorite roommate?”

“I was your only roommate,” Arnie sniffs primly. “Your favorite roommate was yourself.”

Bucky’s mouth quirks.

Miraculously, the stall door clicks open.

Arnie Roth is as drunk as a skunk. His eyes are glazed with tears and intoxication; his clothes are wrinkled, and he sits with his bony arms wrapped around his knees. His skin is as sunken and pallid as a ghost, and he reeks of booze and distress and Tony fights the instinctual urge to recoil.

“Hey, pal,” Tony says instead. “You look great.” The acid in his stomach does somersaults, urging him to get lost and seek immediate comfort in the arms of his Alpha. He wants to pull his own hair out. He wants to spit the terrible taste in his mouth onto the floor. “How’s the bender?”

Arnie groans and drops his forehead onto the rim of the open toilet. Delightful.

“M’drunk,” he says miserably.

“Uh-huh, I can see that,” Tony replies, whipping around and shooting a frantic look at Bucky. He doesn’t know what sort of desperation he’s signaling, precisely, but Bucky’s locking the restroom door and standing over his shoulder in an instant. Tony can smell the exact moment Bucky perceives Arnie in all his boozed-up glory—an Omega reacting to another Omega’s distress is one thing; an Alpha reacting to an Omega’s distress is an entirely different innate, primal beast.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters.

Even Arnie swims through his inebriated stupor long enough to latch onto Bucky’s pheromones. He squints at the intrusion, nostrils flaring.

“Alpha?” He mumbles.

“Not quite,” Tony bites out. He edges closer to Bucky until his shoulder blade presses into the Alpha’s sternum. Bucky grazes his knuckles against the small of his back.“Where’s… Marcus?”

Arnie frowns. “Michael?”

“Sure. Him.”

Arnie groans and drops his head back onto the toilet bowl. The unexpected pull drags the wrinkled collar of his shirt downward, revealing the pale, veiny stretch of his neck.

Tony chokes on a high-pitched, strained whine that punches out of his lungs when he’s met with the sight of Arnie’s mating bite. Red, tender. Fresh. Something ugly and visceral pools in his gut and blood pounds in his ears, hot and heavy like thunder.

He tries to stagger back, but his feet won’t move. His hand instinctively twitches for his own throat before he aborts the movement. He feels the burn of Arnie’s mating bite as if it has been seared onto his own flesh. Hot and blistering, like a brand.

For better or for worse, Tony made a conscious effort to avoid thinking about Arnie after his sixteen-year-old roommate was pulled from school. Two months earlier, Arnie’s situation served as both a cautionary tale and a sobering reminder. If Tony wasn’t vigilant, if he didn’t play his cards right, he risked becoming Arnie: stripped of his own choices, forced to bond with some undesirable outcast for whatever social, political, or financial gain his parents deemed fit.

A distant, logical part of Tony knew what Arnie’s fate had in store. He knew that Arnie would go home, succumb to his heat, and emerge several days later biologically linked to an Alpha. He sat through class. He skimmed the textbooks. He knew the science.

He detached himself from Arnie because it didn’t matter that Arnie was the only other male Omega Tony had ever known. They weren’t the same. Tony wasn’t weak like Arnie; he wasn’t compliant like Arnie; he wasn’t going to roll over and show his belly to the first Alpha his parents threw at him.

And then Tony met Bucky.

And Bucky pressed his thumb into Tony’s unblemished mating gland and whispered soft promises into the base of his throat, and Tony could almost picture the Alpha’s canines sinking into the skin and he wanted it, in that moment. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything, more than he ever even knew he could want. His teeth ached with it.

And suddenly that unfathomable, corporeal promise of bonding didn’t feel so abhorrent. His desires didn’t feel like a consequence of his biology. Tony simply craved, without worrying about the repercussions. And for a few quiet, peaceful moments, his desire didn’t feel like something he had to fight.

Tony wonders if Arnie had wanted it. At the height of his heat, most likely fogged up and overwhelmed by pheromones, controlled by pleasure and need, he felt like he wanted it, too. At least for a moment.

Tony stares at Arnie’s mating bite and it taunts him like a punishment. A cruel reminder of Tony’s ugliest insecurities, his projections onto the Omega boy in front of him who didn’t deserve Tony’s internal scorn just because Tony couldn’t come to terms with his own bleak kismet.

Bucky releases a low rumble, and his hand drifts up to barely ghost the back of Tony’s neck. The Alpha’s pheromones pierce the bathroom to cloud Tony’s own—a terrible concoction of confusion, anxiety, and ill-timed arousal in response to his momentary lapse in judgement.

“Dinner. We were at dinner. ‘Cross the street. Down the street? Dunno,” Arnie slurs. He rubs a palm across his clammy forehead. “Ran into… his friends. From work. They joined. Ignored me. Which is fine. They were borin’.” A loud sniffle. “Had to use the men’s room, but they wouldn’t… wouldn’t let me in, without Michael. Without m’Alpha. ‘An he was busy. So I left. T’find a different bathroom. Didn’t even… didn’t even notice, I don’t think.”

Like most public places requiring Tony to have a chaperone after his presentation, it’s not uncommon for upscale establishments to require male Omegas to be accompanied to and from restrooms. For the Omega's safety and to avoid distracting other male patrons, which is straight crock, mind you, and Tony would sometimes just like to take a piss in peace, thank you very much.

“Ended up here. And… and I was alone. No Michael. Some men were real nice ‘an bought me drinks ‘an stuff. Said I was real pretty.”

“I’ll bet,” Tony grumbles.

“Dunno… dunno what happened. Never drank before. Wasn’t ‘llowed. Dunno if—if I like it. Tastes weird. Head hurts. Stomach hurts.”

And then Arnie’s yacking into the toilet.

Tony lurches forward, throwing himself to his knees to sweep the younger Omega’s hair back as he empties his guts and sorrows into the basin. Bucky curses and kneels next to Tony, rubbing a hand up and down Arnie’s sweat-drenched back.

“That’s it, pal," Bucky murmurs gently. His voice is a soft hum, mirroring the tone he used with Tony when Tony broke down blubbering over something inconsequential during the weekend, and Tony shudders instinctively. Even though he isn’t the one retching up cheap liquor. “Easy, that’s it. Get it all out.”

Arnie trembles beneath their grip, and Tony does his best to refrain from wincing as he blinks up at the ceiling and wonders how he went from necking with Bucky against the wall to holding his vomitous ex-roommate in his arms in a matter of minutes.

Bucky continues to soothe Arnie as the younger boy heaves and sobs, muttering gentle encouragements that make Tony feel bizarrely territorial. He bottles up his horrifically misplaced envy as best as he can while pushing Arnie’s bangs off his forehead, as this is clearly not the time, but the look Bucky shoots him over Arnie’s slumped body lets him know that the Alpha can detect it.

Bucky’s lips twitch and Tony stabs his tongue into his cheek and recognizes quickly that the two of them are completely ill-equipped to handle a situation of this emotional magnitude.

He wishes Steve were here.

“Where’s Matthew now?” Tony asks the ceiling.

“Michael,” Bucky interjects.

“No clue. Prolly out lookin’ for me.” Arnie says, and then pukes some more. Bucky grimaces and pats the Omega on the back. Tony glares at his hand.

“How long have you been hiding in your porcelain tower, Rapunzel?”

Arnie groans and bats Tony’s hand away. “T’many questions. No more questions.”

Bucky takes over. He pulls Tony away and pushes his palm for Arnie’s forehad. Arnie sags. “C’mon, Arnie. Help us out here, you’re doin’ so well. How long ago did you leave the restaurant, kid?”

The Omega whimpers. Tony feels like strangling something.

Or drowning his ex-roommate in the toilet.

Bucky, to his infinite credit, shoots him an apologetic look over his shoulder. Tony glares back.

“Not that long. Maybe… maybe that long. Like, twenty minutes?” Arnie pauses for several seconds. “Oh, no. S’not right. Maybe an’ hour. Or longer.”

“Fabulous,” Tony says.

“We need to find his Alpha,” Bucky says, always the voice of reason. “But I don’t wanna leave him like this.” He’s still holding Arnie upright. Tony resists the urge to grind his molars.

“I don’t… I’m not sure what he looks like. I never met him, or anything,” He says uselessly.

“I’m not leavin’ you here either, sweet boy.” Nothing about Tony feels particularly sweet at the moment, but the endearment is an olive branch to Tony’s hostile body language, so he accepts it begrudgingly. Bucky’s smooth Brooklyn drawl is an easy weakness of his. “We’ll wait ’til he sobers up a little. It’ll help, getting it out of his system.”

“Thank you,” Tony says instead. It comes out as a whisper. He’s sitting on the floor now, cleanliness be damned. His energy has been fully zapped. He gestures to Arnie vaguely. “For… you know.”

Bucky’s expression morphs into something soft, something belongs to Tony and Tony alone. Tony holds it close to his chest. “Don’t have to thank me, doll. What were we gonna do, leave him?”

In response, Arnie echoes something unintelligible into the toilet and then: “Don’ leave me. Feels nice. You feel nice.”

Tony snorts. “I take it back. That’s enough acts of service for one day.”

Bucky’s frowning at Arnie now. “What’s his Alpha like?” He whispers.

Tony shrugs. “Older. Teacher. Has kids, if I remember. Liable for negligence, clearly.”

“How much older?”

Tony picks at a loose thread on his pants. “Late thirties? Early forties, maybe? Could’ve been worse.” It’s the truth.

Bucky says nothing for a long moment. And then: “He’s bonded.”

Tony nods. “Noticed that, myself.”

“M’bonded,” Arnie garbles helpfully.

“That’s right, pal,” Tony says. “Was it everything you hoped and dreamed?” Arnie Roth, with his kind, supportive parents and his hopeless sexual naivety and eager willingness to sacrifice his body for the pipe dream of securing an Alpha who would keep him safe and protected from harm.

Fat lot of good that did him.

Tony doesn’t expect Arnie to answer, so it startles him when the Omega lifts his head, wipes at his mouth, and leans his head back against the wall behind him. Bucky pulls away but keeps his hands braced until Arnie steadies himself.

“Don’ remember much of the bonding,” Arnie says quietly. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused, like he’s talking to himself. “Think I blacked out, by the end.” Tony swallows. He drifts in and out of his own heats, sometimes. When the sensations become too much to bear. “Woke up with the bite. Hurt for a while. Felt different. Could feel… him.” He blinks rapidly a few times, and Tony suddenly wants to reach across and shake the Omega’s shoulders so he doesn’t have to hear anymore.

“Let’s not,” Tony says instead, knowing where a bout of liquid courage combined with a loose mouth can lead. He wants to change the subject but he’s paralyzed, and Bucky’s gazing at him like he doesn’t know what to do, leaving Tony with his jaw wired shut.

“Arnie,” Tony warns.

Perpendicular to him, Bucky shifts. Tony can’t bring himself to look at him. He wants to disappear.

“Roth,” Tony bites out sharply. “Shut the fuck up.”

“S’not so bad, every time. Not when… when my body wants it. Like in heat. But sometimes—sometimes, it still hurts. Just thought… y’should know.”

There’s no sound, for several moments. Just the roaring of Tony’s pulse in his own ears.

Tony studies his knees. He yanks hard enough on the loose thread to rip a hole into the fabric at his kneecap. His fingers tremble.

Bucky avoids Tony’s gaze entirely. He stares at the floor with a blazing intensity sharp enough to burn holes into the linoleum.

He smells murderous.

Arnie, blissfully aware of his verbal detonation, lolls his head toward the bathroom door.

“Oh,” he says simply. “Michael.”

Tony and Bucky snap their heads up in sync. The bathroom door is locked.

“No one there, buddy,” Tony croaks. His vocal chords feel as though they’ve been severed by a serated knife.

“Can smell him,” Arnie says simply.

The banging on the door starts two seconds later.

Michael Bech is tall but not as tall as Bucky, with a full head of white hair. His skin is tan and his belly a little soft, and he has smile lines.

For someone whose biological companion has supposedly been missing for more over an hour, he doesn't smell particularly distressed. He tsks when he pulls a moaning, barf-covered Arnie into his arms, and cracks a joke about “Omegas and alcohol consumption, amiright?”

“Couldn’t find this one anywhere, thought he walked all the way back to Manhattan,” Michael says, eyes crinkling. “Had to check every building on the row. Nice fellas at the bar finally told me they saw a wisp of a thing stumble into this here pub, smelling like a fresh rose, and I thought, ’Yep, sure sounds like my Arnie’.”

Arnie sighs and tucks his face into Michael’s neck. Tony turns away.

Michael thanks Bucky for his help, and Bucky shakes his hand with a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Michael doesn’t acknowledge Tony, but he spares him a fleeting, curious glance and says, “Anyhow, sorry for all the trouble. You know how Omegas can be.”

Tony ignores him, accustomed to the slight, but Bucky openly bristles.

Michael tugs Arnie’s collar up over his throat before they leave.

“Call me, if you can,” Bucky whispers. They’re outside The Institute, and Tony is looking anywhere but the Alpha. His blood feels like lead in his veins.

“Sure,” he says. He scrapes at a rock with his shoe.

“Tony,” Bucky says, more firmly. “Tony. Sweetheart. I need to know you’re alright. Can you do that for me? If you have a moment, just… give me ring.” The words sound distorted in Tony’s ears. Warped.

A firm hand grips his chin. “Doll.”

“Mhmm,” Tony answers.

Tony doesn’t like the way Bucky smells. Well, he does—he always likes the way Bucky smells. But right now, Bucky smells like he did when he found Tony in his window. It makes his jaw ache. It burns inside his nostrils, acrid and oversensitive.

In fact, every minute twinge in his body feels heightened. His neck feels stiff, and there’s a dull pounding behind his eyes. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He feels like scratching himself. Or clawing at his skin.

He also feels like sagging into Bucky’s neck and disassociating. Surrendering his thoughts and his body to the Alpha in front of him, who will surely take away the pain and soothe out the ache, if Tony just lets him.

But he can’t. So he just blinks at the street lamps and grinds his teeth and supresses the swooping, churning feeling in his belly and ignores the way his glands throb when Bucky grips his chin a little tighter and lets his vision go a little unfocused.

Tony doesn’t know what Bucky detects, but the Alpha’s pupils dilate in the reflection of the streetlight and he presses his forehead to Tony’s. The Alpha’s body is taut, full of restrained tension.

“Omega,” he murmurs softly. Oh.

Tony sighs.

“Call me, tomorrow night. When you get home. I don’t care how late. Can you do that for me, sweet thing? Can you try and promise me?”

Tony nods slowly.

Bucky exhales visibly. “Good. Good boy. Thank you. As late as you need, okay? Just need t’hear your voice.” Tony trembles at the praise, like Bucky knew he would. When he falls into the Alpha’s embrace, Bucky’s arms are there to catch him.

“I’ll miss you this weekend,” Bucky says into his hair. “Who else is gonna hog all the covers?”

Tony nips at his collarbone. “S’only way to get you t’stop kickin’ in your sleep.” He feels so warm. He feels sore. Every inhalation of Bucky’s woodsy, wintery musk feels like sensory overload. “M’sorry,” he says before he can stop himself.

Bucky’s arms lock around him like a vice.

“What’re you sorry for, baby?”

What is he sorry for? Tony hides in Bucky’s shirt. He could suffocate happily here, he thinks.

“Tony?” Bucky’s hand comes up to lightly scratch at the hair at the base of Tony’s neck, and Tony’s spine goes lax. He drops his head back and shudders. “Words, gorgeous. Talk to me.”

Tony scrunches up his nose. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants Bucky to kiss him.

He wants Bucky to fuck him.

The thought has him swallowing down a moan. God, he wants Bucky to fuck him. He needs it. He would be so perfect for him, and Bucky would make him feel so good, he knows it. His cock perks in interest, and he shivers and presses his hips into Bucky’s thigh to seek out friction.

Bucky goes still. “Tony,” he warns.

Tony likes the way Bucky says his name. Low, and gravelly. He wonders what the Alpha’s voice would sound like saying other things.

The things that Bucky says in his dreams.

Large hands cradle his face. Blown pupils find his own. Bucky peers down at him, expression carefully guarded. He presses a thumb into Tony’s cheek, steadily adding pressure to pull Tony back down to Earth.

“What’s goin’ on, Tony?” Bucky’s thumb traces the slant of his cheekbone. Tony blinks at him blearily. “You smell…” The Alpha stops, mouth twisting. His nostrils twitch, and so does Tony’s prick. “Is this because of Arnie? What he said?”

No, Tony doesn’t want to think about Arnie. He doesn’t want to dwell on anything that the other Omega said—the way he blabbed all of Tony’s darkest, most shameful insecurities out loud in a public restroom stall, of all places. Right in front of Bucky.

“I’ve gotta go,” Tony says—mumbles, really—and pulls out of Bucky’s grip. “I’ve gotta—I’ve got. Homework. Studying.”

“Tony.”

“I’ll call you. Promise. I’ll try. From the Jarvises’ phone. Tomorrow night.”

“Tony.” Bucky reaches for him but Tony flinches out of his touch, and the Alpha’s hands drop to his sides. The look on his Bucky’s face morphs into hurt and Tony has to look away so his own despair doesn’t chew at his insides.

“Don’t do this, Tony. Not after last weekend. Talk to me, sweetheart. M’not going anywhere.”

“I’m okay,” Tony says. “Really. I’m… I’m fine. I’m great.”

Tony doesn’t know what he is, exactly. But he’s not great. And he’s probably not fine, or even remotely okay, really.

And he knows this, for certain, twenty-four hours later.

When he’s sitting around his family’s dining room table, stuffed into another godforsaken suit, sandwiched between his mother and Tiberius Stone.

Feverish. Burning. Plummeting straight into heat.

#winteriron #bucky barnes #wip #tony stark #steve rogers #captain america #ao3 #alpha/beta/omega au

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