The Winter Soldier's horse shies away from the wind, sharp with a chill and damp that Bucky can no longer feel. The clouds gather hard upon the peaks of Sokovia, reeking of rain and worse to the vampire's supernatural nose. A few stubborn leaves dangle from bare branches like decayed flesh clings to bone.
Bucky sighs.
"You coddle him," his companion says.
Bucky turns in his saddle. "That's not what I was thinking."
Natasha snorts, a strange sound from a fellow blood drinker but that's Natasha. Never what anyone expects. .
"I was thinking," Bucky continues, "that the wolves are in for a rough night if the weather continues to worsen." He glances back towards the keep, traitorous thoughts adding "the cold won't be doing the punk's lungs any favours either…"
"He's a liability," she presses, "and you spoil him."
"As if you don't dote on Clint just as often," he retorts. His horse picks its way along the darkening path. Natasha raises one perfectly angled eyebrow. His concern must be showing on his face.
"Clint is useful," she says, "his eyes and aim are nearly a match for ours. Of what use is a sickly artist to our cause? It's a wonder he doesn't faint from your feeding alone."
"His heart is large and his blood strong," Bucky snaps, "The merest sip can sustain me more nights than a larger feeding from a lesser vessel." He runs his eyes over his bivouacked men. It isn't the worse camp they've ever suffered, but he would be a lot happier had they been able to fit more of them within the walls. "What does it matter what he looks like? If he fails to satisfy, I'll take another."
Natasha smiles as she urges her horse forward, fixing him with an exasperated glare over her shoulder. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
"Let's just get this done," he growls, "I'm hungry."
A careless shrug is her only response.
The wind picks up a little as rain begins to fall.
Dawn is hours off still, he can feel it. Unlike the legendary vampire, Bucky does not burn in the sun. The glare pains him slightly, but that's due to his heightened senses, not some mystical weakness. He attempts to keep his hopes from rising with the sun No maneuver is guaranteed success, not even one planned with the care of an immortal. He is a good soldier, perhaps the best that Pierce has, and yet he is tired of war. Seventy years of strife takes a toll on even the hardiest soul. A summer of fierce campaigning has brought the wolves to the table at last. As long as Rumlow holds up his end, the wolves won't know what hit them.
The breeze shifts, bringing with it the scent of campfires and unwashed men, of nervous horseflesh and shit, both human and animal; underlaid by the ever-present decay of detritus and above it all, the slightest whiff of...something entirely unexpected.
He doesn't see the look on Natasha's face as he spurs, full gallop, towards the keep.
The gate and the courtyard pass without notice. His horse vanishes, presumably towards the stables but he is oblivious to everything around him, fixated upon that one, indescribable scent that pulls him towards Steve like a lodestone pointing north. It makes him feel…
Safe, and dry, surrounded by wiggly bodies that are warm and soft and falling over each other to welcome the newcomer. He's small and his scent is weak but he holds himself firm as if he has something to prove. The rest of his litter has succumbed to the fever and returned to the earth, but this one has survived. They pile on their newest brother, rubbing and scenting and tasting until there is no space between his scent and their own..
It smells like home.
The building can barely be called a keep, the stones old and cracked, ill fitting even when new. The great hall never warms beyond chilly and some of the stronger gusts threaten to out every candle in the place.
Bucky doesn't care.
Up, up, up the crooked steps, towards a heaven that Bucky has despaired of ever finding. The smell…
Still isn't strong but it's memorable, pine needles and sweat and anger and love. He finds Steve on the cliffside, legs dangling defiantly and mouth twisted. Bucky wants to reassure him, some of them (us?) are late bloomers, someone had to be first…
It smells like a lie.
It's stronger here, on the landing. Not quite as he remembers, deeper somehow, healthy at last. Honey-sweet and spice and notes of older things that have no human name. It smells of…
Sex. Heat. Rut. Another Autumn has come and gone and left Steven behind. Bucky's first rut has been intense, his older, beta partner, kind, and yet he feels, somehow, unfulfilled. He wants to talk to Steve, reassure him of his considerable worth but his friend is nowhere to be found. He probably doesn't want to be reminded of what he can't have. After all, how many times can a wolf hear, "maybe next year," before he breaks?
At least once more, apparently.
The door yields to metal, the great oaken hinges askew. The room is ransacked but all he sees is…
Blood and Fire. Noise. Smoke. Steven. Mate. "RUN!"
His consort is nude, splayed across the bedding. Delicate and slim, but never fragile, bones stand out in sharp relief against skin painted with an unfamiliar flush. A shine of sweat coats his flesh, glowing gold in the shifting firelight. He squeezes his eyes shut as he his hands work between his legs, one grasping his flushed cock and the other…
He's never seen anything more beautiful.
Steven shifts, he must have heard the door, turning over onto his belly and raising his head. Those blue eyes meet the vampire's, swimming with Lust and Heat.
That's all the invitation Bucky needs.
He Growls and Leaps, the smaller man yelps in surprise and delight as Bucky pins him to the bedding. Somehow, the boy is on his back again, as Bucky's tongue maps out each and every dip and swell of his small chest. Steve seems rounder somehow, softer, fuller as if his body is preparing for something momentous. In a strange reversal, Steve buries his nose in the vampire's neck, mouth hanging open as if to consume Bucky's scent. Bucky ruts against his consort, and the latter Purrs in delight.
"Alpha," the boy pants.
"MINE," the vampire replies.
His riding leathers have vanished somewhere along his journey, but his shirt and breeches remain. Bucky sheds the top half as Steve's slick hands fumble with the laces, interrupted only by Bucky's mouth lapping at those slender fingers. Neither notice the 'snap' as the leather bindings give way.
Bucky's lips find their way back to Steve's as soon as his legs are bare. His metal hand grips at his consort's shoulder as his flesh one explores Steve's soaked inner thighs. His own cock throbs with need, pulsing despite the lack of life in his veins. For the first time since he turned, he feels Alive.
He'd almost forgotten.
Steve thrusts impatiently at Bucky's teasing, sighing when his lover palms his sex. His balls are pulled high and tight against his body and behind them...well, if Bucky were in anywhere near his right mind he would think it strange that someone so obviously male would have a swollen, leaking slit.
If.
"FUCK ME," Steve whines, and whatever strangeness evaporates in a haze of hunger and need. Now is not the time for apologies or explanations. Bucky takes himself in hand and slams home.
Someone that bony should not be able to arch like that. Someone might hurt himself.
Slim thighs grip his hips as Bucky takes his pleasure. Steve's skin smolders as his voice sings a multitude of animalistic tones. It's hot, it's dirty, it's transcendent. Steve's body surrounds him, his scent holds him safe, and his love…
The omega's cock pulses in his hand before he stiffens and comes, tightening around Bucky and triggering the alpha's release. He howls, swelling deep inside his mate as he comes harder than he ever has, either living or dead. Steve bares his throat and Bucky bites down, his fangs piercing flesh as the iron tang of blood explodes across his tongue. It's possible that Steve comes again, but Bucky really can't tell, lapping and sucking at the broken skin. Steve's blood has always been sweet, it's why Bucky asked him to become his consort, (after he saved him from getting his ass kicked by Rumlow, stupid punk), but this...this is Life.
The haze recedes, slowly, Bucky nicks his lip so that Steve's wounds will heal, kisses the blond and goes to pull away.
And finds he cannot.
Sense returns to Steve's face as Bucky tries to separate from him once again. "Hey, hey, stop. You're going to hurt yourself."
Bucky confusion must be evident, because Steve runs his hand through his damp hair and swears. "Damn, I thought...I thought you had remembered…"
Mother, Father, Den, Home. Racing through the forest under a shining moon, snow crunching beneath his paws and the taste of his prey's fear on the wind. Heart pumping, lungs heaving, ALIVE.
The meat will be good for Steve.
It's nearly impossible to process, they aren't even really memories, more like feelings and urges, barely contained and so unlike anything he has ever known. Undeath is calm, undeath is focus and that has been his entire existence for so long...could he truly have forgotten? Are these feelings even real?
It's too much. He has to get away. Unfortunately, Bucky's next attempt only manages to roll them over, Steve straddling him as a wave of pleasure/pain courses through his body. He's...stuck, somehow? Steve groans at the shift and his eyes flutter shut.
Bucky begins to panic.
"It's ok, calm down!" Steve pleads, and Bucky forces his lungs to expand. He doesn't need the air, but it does help him shut down his terror.
Assess the situation, gather information, and only then, when everything is clear and still, act.
He fixes his thousand yard stare upon the blond in front of him.
"What. The. Fuck?" he demands.
Which is how he finds himself, buried balls deep in Steve, who describes himself as his 'mate' no less; weaving a tale which, in any other circumstance, would strain credulity. Bucky doesn't remember being a werewolf, doesn't remember nearly dying in a raid and being captured by Pierce, much less being taken as his prize consort. He only vaguely remembers being turned, which isn't supposed to be possible but apparently happens with some regularity.
"They steal our pups," Steve tells him, "Most of them die, but some of them survive to serve, never knowing what they really are…"
As far as Steve knows, Bucky is the first fully grown werewolf to make the change.
Lucky him.
There is a sense of unreality that hovers around the entire situation. Tomorrow, he'll be angry. Tomorrow, he'll be afraid and lost. Tonight, he has Steve and Steve has Bucky and they're mated, formally this time. The bite on Steve's neck proves it.
It gives Bucky a strange sense of pride. He and Steve are meant to be together, he knows it in his balls.
That still doesn't explain what Steve is doing in the middle of the vampire camp.
Steve hems and haws, but there is only so much evading one can do when you're tied together in such an intimate fashion.
"I was going to kill you."
Bucky can't help it, he bursts out laughing.
"Not YOU, you, the Winter Soldier," Steve huffs, his pride as prickly as ever.
Trying not to giggle, Bucky asks him how he managed to go undetected. "I know what a werewolf smells like, Steve, and you don't have it."
Flushing even darker, Steve glowers so hard his eyebrows touch. "I've never managed to shift, my body…" he raises his arms, "isn't the healthiest, in case you hadn't noticed."
Bucky sits up, which causes some very interesting sensations that tries very hard to ignore, with limited success. "How the hell were you planning on killing a vampire, a well known, murderous vampire at that, if you can't shift? Are you crazy, or just stupid?"
"Everyone lets their guard down sometime," Steve says, more that a little pout coming out around those full lips.
Bucky rolls his eyes.
"Of course," Steve continues, "once I figured out it was you, I had to find out what happened, what you remembered."
"Not much, as it turns out," Bucky supplies.
"Right. So I got as close to you as I could."
"Holy Hell, Steve, you've been letting me feed off of you for months! I could have killed you!"
Steve shoots him a flat look, "You'd never do that Buck. I know you."
Idiot.
"I think you can move now," Steve says. He pulls away experimentally.
They separate.
Steve yawns and his eyes droop. "I've got to sleep, I had no idea how much a Heat can take out of you."
Bucky's mind reels with the influx of information, but he won't begrudge his partner some rest if he can find it. He watches as Steve's breathing evens out as much as it ever does. One blond lock flops down into his eyes and Bucky raises his hand, absently…
Brushing the hair out of Steve's face. They're hidden away in an abandoned den. It's a risky move, anyone could catch them but Bucky doesn't care. After tonight, it won't matter anyway.
"I should be going," Steve says.
Not this again. "We've been over this, you're an Omega…"
"Omegas can fight." Steve argues, his uneven heartbeat speeding up alarmingly. Bucky's Alpha instincts flare and he sees red.
"You can't shift, Steve!" Bucky bellows, anger and fear forcing the uncomfortable truth, leaving it to echo in the sudden silence. Bucky longs to take it back, to go back to the bittersweet ache of their out of season coupling. It's the only kind Steve can manage, as he's never been able to sustain a heat, but Bucky will take it, will cherish every second he has and fight until his last breath to protect his Love, his MATE, and damn the fucking consequences. He'll leave the Pack, become a lost one, forego pups, family, everything, as long as he has Steve…
"What do you expect me to do, wash the dishes, bury the trash, and nurse all the orphan pups with my bulging Omega bosom?" Steve snaps as he gestures derisively at his decidedly un-ample chest.
"YES!"
Steve pulls in as deep a breath as he can manage, "Bucky, c'mon, there are wolves giving up their souls…"
"You'd Die, Steve." Bucky interrupts, for once stopping Steve's tirade cold. "And then I'd Die, because that's how it works."
"We aren't mated," comes the sullen reply, but even Steve knows when he's beat.
"Doesn't matter, and you know it."
Even a lifetime of experiencing one crippling disappointment after another doesn't make this last truth any easier to swallow, it seems. Still, after a long pause, Steve sighs, taking it like a champ. He always was the strong one.
"I'm telling Thor and Bruce that they had better keep your tail safe, Buck, I mean it."
Bucky kisses him lightly on the lips, trying to convey everything he feels in the simple gesture. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back."
"How can I?" Steve smiles. "You're taking all the stupid with you…"
"Bitch," Bucky teases.
Steve's answering "Jerk" gets lost somewhere between the two lovers' lips.
The hours slide by as he tries to make sense of what he's learned. The fire burns down to embers, cloaking the room in darkness. Bucky doesn't notice, as memories come flooding back, too swiftly to truly process. After that comes the fear, and he'd almost rather take the confusion. They can't stay here, Pierce will kill them (or worse). It's not as if they can go back. He's a monster, how many of his kin has he slaughtered? Then again...Steve's his Mate, he needs the protection of a Pack…
And round and round it goes.
Steve wakes as the sky lightens, the little divot between his brows reappearing as he takes stock. "I think my Heat is over?"
"Is that...normal? For you, us, I mean…"
"Not really, Heats usually last three or four days at least. Unless…" his hand finds it's way down to his abdomen, a sort of horrified realization dawning on his face.
And then, from somewhere outside, the screaming begins.