The months slip by too fast.
The routine of the missions and the companionship of the Commandos lull them into a false sense of security. It's easy to get used to the relative safety of their pack. Sure, they might be getting shot at more often than not, and sure, they spend most of their time raiding the most dangerous and disturbing bases in all of Europe…
But at least Stark isn't there.
It says something that Bucky would rather stay camped out on the muddy, brown slopes of Greece than go back to London.
But there is nothing he can do. Command wants them back every six months for planning and rest. There is a bitter part of him that wouldn't put it past Stark to somehow be behind the insistence that they all come back to London regularly. While meeting and strategising is an absolute necessity if they are ever to take down all of Hydra, travelling across the country is an unexpected risk for the army to take.
The dread and anticipation starts building a whole month in advance. Bucky sees it in Steve's face the moment plans start being made. He gets tenser, twitching at errant sounds and touches. He gets quieter in an effort to hide it, but Bucky is certain the Commandos notice something.
The days creep by and Bucky's nerves get thinner. The night before their extraction he sits stiff and grumpy by the fire, his foot tapping anxiously as he waits for his evening ration to heat.
The Commandos are settled into a small clearing, the trees providing shelter for their tents. The nights are warmer now and spirits generally brighter, what with their successful batch of missions and upcoming leave.
Well, Steve and Bucky don't share in the joy for the second one.
Steve sits crouched a few feet away, watching over his pocket stove. He has his arms clasped around his knees, the curve of his shoulders making him look more vulnerable than usual.
Steve has to spend most of his time looking and acting like a self-assured alpha, but now that facade is slipping away. His lips are bitten and red, the skin dry and flaking.
As Bucky watches, Steve bites his lip, his teeth tugging at the shedding skin. The flake tears, leaving a raw patch behind, and Steve sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, gnawing at a new spot. He doesn't seem to notice the nervous habit, his eyes focused on the tiny flame of the stove, the rest of his body achingly still.
Bucky only looks away when he realises he's nibbling at his thumb nail. The nail is cracked and dirty, bitten down to the quick. He grimaces and wipes his hand on his pants, focusing on his food.
It is the same beef and pork loaf he's been eating every three days for who knows how long, and he gags when he tries to force it down. His throat is dry, his hands shaking on his spoon. He closes his eyes, only to jerk them open a moment later when Dernier approaches Steve. Steve's shoulders pull taut and his hands clench on his legs.
Bucky straightens and watches Dernier raise his mess cup in a salute, his pack slung over his shoulder.
Bucky knows he's probably coming over to eat like everyone else, but he remains on edge, watching the man with unwarranted suspicion. His heart pounds in his chest, trying to convince him with every beat of an unpresent danger.
The muscles in Steve's back ripple in a suppressed flinch as Dernier sits down near him and Bucky has to bite his tongue to keep from growling. His hands curl into fists and his stomach threatens to chuck his dinner.
He's safe, he has to remind him. He's safe right now. He's in a pack. He's protected. He's safe.
Until tomorrow.
His dinner is cold by the time he manages to grab it again.
He catches Dugan watching him, his brow furled as he reaches for his spoon, and Bucky has to look away. His vision blurs and he breathes in carefully, mindful of his weakening scent patches. He breathes out and focuses on the tin can in his hand. The rest of the ration tastes like mud on his tongue.
oOo
Bucky's hands shake throughout the plane ride back to London, but Steve is worse, his face grey, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He sits in choking silence, his eyes pinned to the floor, his hands clasped in a bruising grip in his lap.
Gabe leans over to Bucky in concern and he's forced to make up some lie about Steve and flight-sickness. He isn't sure if that's a real thing, but his thoughts are too strung out to be useful.
All he can think about is that they are going back. They are returning knowing full well what is waiting for Steve and they're just going to have to let it happen.
It is so wrong. It grates against every sane bone in Bucky's body. He can feel a scream trapped in his throat, a desperate shriek of why why why that echoes in his skull. His eyes grow damp and his breath gets sharp and shallow if he listens to the voice for too long, so he tries to shove it back.
I can't stop it, he reminds himself. Stark made sure of that.
Their plane lands in late evening, and Steve looks overly stoic as they exit and get set up.
They are being boarded in the hotel again for their week's leave, and this time Bucky is sure Stark has something to do with that. It is, coincidentally, the same hotel that Stark stays at. It's not like Stark wouldn't have been able to blackmail Steve otherwise, but this makes it a lot easier to do it without anyone noticing.
This time things will be a little different. In the days before their departure Bucky had pulled Steve aside and they had discussed it. As uncomfortable and unpleasant as the topic was, it needed to be addressed, and Steve had appeared relieved to finally talk about the elephant in the room.
"I think we should get a double room," Bucky told him, after a long internal debate. Last time, Steve had needed his space, but he had also needed comfort and support. Bucky doesn't want to risk Steve trying to hide away in his room alone this time.
Luckily, Steve agreed, his thoughts more preoccupied with something else.
"I, uh, I think…" He rubbed his hands on his pants. "I think I'm going to— to do it soon after we get back."
Bucky's stomach turned over and Steve's gaze remained fixed on the ground, red creeping into his cheeks.
"Howard said I have the whole week but…" he bit his cheek and huffed in frustration, his shoulders drawing in on himself. "I think I'd rather get it over with. I— I think I'll have a nervous breakdown if I try to wait."
Back in the present Bucky grinds his teeth as he waits in line for his room key.
Steve stands next to him, his shoulder stooped with exhaustion. Bags sit under his eyes, highlighting his sleepless nights and how tired being stressed all the time has made him. Leave should be a time for him to finally relax and recuperate, but that's impossible.
Bucky breathes in and steps forward to accept his key. Steve follows him, moving with only half-awareness. Bucky closes his eyes and forces himself to relax, pushing his scent into something damp and green and growing. His scent patches are worn down, and Steve should be able to smell something.
They have a double room like they wanted. He knows what is coming in the next week, but tonight they will have the comfort of going to sleep like they have done for years.
oOo
The next day is filled with initial reports and meetings with the Allied command. After that they have to speak to news reporters and stand for photographs—the sharp flash and smell of smoking bulbs not unlike battlefield explosions.
Steve is tense throughout and Bucky hangs onto his control with an iron-fisted grip.
He can still remember his words to Steve when he thought he was worried about the propaganda usage of Captain America. It's laughable now to think that had been his biggest worry. Sure taking staged photos feels superficial, especially knowing the initial oppression Steve had faced due to his omega status, but that's nothing compared to the emotions surrounding their last meeting of the day.
Their final appointment is an SSR meeting, one in which Stark makes an unfortunate appearance. Bucky can see the moment Steve catches his scent, his hackles rising as he steps into the room.
Stark stands at the head of the table, a smug smile on his face and a cigarette in hand. The cigarette mixes with the faint strains of Stark's leather and polished wood scent and Bucky has to keep his nose from wrinkling. Once again Stark is wearing deodorant instead of the more effective scent patches.
He shouldn't be surprised.
Steve sits down in the seat the farthest away from Stark and Bucky sits next to him, letting the Commandos file in around them. Not only do they provide a physical barrier, they create a windbreak, hints of their muted scents and regular body odour acting as a welcome distraction from Stark's smell.
Bucky spends the whole meeting continuously reminding himself not to glare at Stark and swallowing down the growl that rises in his throat every time he opens his mouth.
Steve has gone cold and professional next to him, his eyes hard and his voice flat any time he has to address Stark. It is not the silent wariness he'd sported these last few days. Instead Steve shoulders on with a grim determination, subtly displaying his unhappiness and his refusal to be cowed while Stark can't do anything to him in public.
Up front, Stark narrows his eyes, his smile still pasted on his face, and Bucky knows the message had been received.
And then the torrent of meetings and events are over. Bucky finds himself back in his room, evening beginning to fall outside his window. The Commandos had invited them both to a bar night, but Steve had declined, citing the need for sleep. Bucky sinks down onto his bed and looks across the room to Steve's bed.
Steve's empty bed.
So it's starting.
Revulsion churns in Bucky's stomach and he has to look away. His hands curl into fists and he pulls in a breath through his nose. He trembles and his eyes burn, his teeth clenching against the rising emotion in his throat. He shakes his head and breathes out sharply, glaring at his knees.
The ferocity of his expression does nothing to quell the tears that try to leak out of his eyes.
He releases a whine of frustration, the sound thin and plaintive.
He hates this. He wants to curl up in despair. Ball up under the sheets like he used to when he was young and afraid of the dark because if he just stuck his head under the covers then none of this had to be real and he wouldn't be sitting alone in his room waiting for Steve to come back from being raped.
A sob breaks past his lips. He flinches as he tries to muffle it, his stress levels rising as his scent takes a dive towards bitter and burnt. It isn't a raging forest fire. That would be better. Instead he is left with the aftermath, burnt out trees dripping with ash coloured rain, not a green thing in sight.
His fingernails dig painfully into his palms. He blinks, and realises tears are slipping down his cheeks, his breath coming in stuttered gasps. He hunches over his knees and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, his breath hitching.
He gasps on a sob and his body refuses to let him hold back any longer. His shoulders shake with the force of his cries, his whole body shuddering if he tries to muffle them. He weeps. It is the kind of crying that can't be swayed. He has no choice but to let it wash over him and eventually pass.
He isn't sure how long it takes before his tears taper off, his breath catching every so often as he calms down.
He sits up and tries to steady his breath, his nose stuffy. His eyes feel scratchy, his whole body heavy and tired. He hadn't expected to feel so drained after his cry, but it is like he'd cried out every bit of emotion in his body, leaving him damp and empty.
It is the smell that gets him up. The room reeks of his grief. Wet, charred pine seeping into every crevice. He can't have Steve come back to a room like this. He's had his private moment but now he needs to be ready for when Steve comes back.
He gets up, moving on creaking knees to open the window. The night air is still warm, the breeze brushing his damp cheeks. He wipes his face on his arm and heads for the bathroom.
He isn't surprised by the red-rimmed, swollen eyes that greet him in the mirror. His expression looks about as haggard as he feels. He breathes in shakily and takes his time blowing his nose and washing his face. He wets his hair and goes through the motions of styling it, letting the familiar routine calm him.
He knows he can't let himself get trapped in his head while he waits for Steve. He doesn't know how long he will have to wait and he doesn't want Steve to walk in on him having another breakdown. That will absolutely tank the situation.
So he gives himself a list of tasks. Things he can do to try to make Steve more comfortable and things less awkward when he comes back. His hindbrain sighs in relief as he gives himself something to focus on, some way to help the omega it is otherwise helpless to protect.
He starts with nesting material. He orders extra for their room and waits impatiently for it to arrive. Steve will have his own bed this time to nest in, but Bucky is determined to make it as comfortable as possible.
Back home, Steve's bed had always had a few more blankets and pillows than his, both for nesting and to keep him from catching cold. In the field they have no space for extra bedding—their tents only a little better than sleeping on the ground.
Bucky wonders how Steve's omega instincts handle it.
The additional blankets and pillows arrive and Bucky tries to keep his scent off them as he sets them at the foot of Steve's bed. If Steve wants him to scent them then he will do so happily, but not before being asked.
He continues on to the bathroom, his scent drifting into calmer territory the longer he works. He sets out the towels and soap, grabbing a new set of clothes so that Steve can change out after his bath.
He wavers when it comes to grabbing the clothes. He has Steve's bag this time, so he can give him his own clothes...but Steve had been comforted by his scent before. What if he wants Bucky's scent? Especially since his own clothes don't carry any trace of his apple and honey combo?
Bucky huffs and grabs Steve's bag and brings it to the bathroom. He places it by the toilet and then goes out and grabs a set of his own clothes. He puts those down by the bag, nodding in satisfaction. Steve can choose which clothes he wants to wear, and Bucky will have done good by giving him both options.
Something untwists a little in his chest and his alpha hindbrain settles. It has always been like this with Steve, or any omega really. But Steve is the one he's around most.
A good alpha listens, his father told him. A good alpha will try to give an omega what they need, but that will only work if they listen.
That advice had given him a 'gentleman alpha' reputation with the dames he took on dates. Some of his buddies would ask teasingly what his secret was, and he'd internally roll his eyes.
It's not that hard, he'd think, maybe a bit naively. Giving options and listening to the choices. Isn't that what your instincts push you to do anyways?
Evidently not.
Bucky gets pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a key in the door. He blinks and only has a moment to step out of the bathroom and check his handiwork. The bathroom is set up, the bedding is ready, and the scent in the room has mellowed out, smelling simply of pine and moss, with none of the grief from earlier.
He moves swiftly to shut the window and the door swings open behind him. He turns to find what he knew would be there, Steve, lingering in the doorway.
He stands as though he'd rather not be seen, his eyes downcast and his shoulder pressed into the doorframe. He has a hand clenched around his key, the other a tight fist by his leg.
They hadn't had to do this part last time.
Bucky swallows and silently clears his throat. Right now he needs to step up and keep things from getting awkward. They both know what had happened, and now comes the aftermath.
He can do this.
He keeps his voice soft, but free from the pity that annoyed Steve to no end growing up. "Do you want me to run a bath?"
Steve's jaw clenches and he nods sharply, his eyes avoiding his.
Bucky's throat is dry as he moves to the bathroom, his hands trembling as he turns on the taps. He hears Steve move into the room and he glances over his shoulder, trying to keep his voice natural.
"Your clothes are in here," he calls, breathing in the steam of the bath.
Steve doesn't respond but Bucky doesn't expect him to. There isn't much to say. They both know what happened.
A wave of dizziness hits him and he braces himself against the tub, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits for it to fill.
Keep it together, he chants to himself. He has to be strong for Steve. He grits his teeth, staring at the dark line around the bottom of the tub, marking how high they can fill it thanks to fuel rationing.
Five inches of water. It's barely deep enough to be a hip bath and Bucky doesn't feel any guilt as he lets the water run a few inches over.
He knows he shouldn't, but he doesn't care.
Once the tub is full enough he turns the bathroom over. Steve brushes past him without a word, his mouth pressed into a thin line, the faintest limp in his step. Bucky breathes in accidentally and bile climbs up his throat at the greasy smell of aroused alpha following Steve.
The bathroom door swings shut. Bucky shudders and stumbles over to his bed, gulping down lungfuls of air. His eyes burn and he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. This is so wrong. This is so, so wrong.
He slumps onto the mattress, fatigue hitting him like a truck. He hadn't been paying attention to the time, but it is well past one o'clock. He feels wrung out, like a towel left to mildew in the corner. He breathes out slowly and rubs his hand over his face. His eyelids hang heavy with exhaustion, his brain feeling slow and sluggish.
He can't remember ever feeling this tired. Even when he was dragging himself through illness to meet quotas in Hydra's factory. The mental strain of dealing with this on top of everything is something else.
He drifts for a while as he waits for Steve to clean up. He's too tired to think of anything to do, and it is just easier sitting like this. At last he hears the water draining from the tub and the sink running while Steve brushes his teeth, and he blinks himself out of his stupor.
He might still be out of it, but it feels like Steve brushes his teeth longer than usual, the sink turning on and off as he rinses his brush and begins again more than once. Bucky taps his fingers on his knee, his eyes on the ticking clock as he waits.
The door clicks open and Steve emerges, his hand fisted at the neck of his shirt. Bucky notes that he'd chosen his clothes over his own.
A satisfied rumble fills Bucky's throat and he ducks his chin with embarrassment. To his surprise Steve's mouth pulls up and his shoulders relax slightly as he makes his way to his bed.
He hadn't thought of how Steve's omega instincts would settle him, even now. It's not something they can really help, but at least it works in their favour tonight. Pleased alpha equals pleased omega, and vice versa.
Steve still hasn't said anything and Bucky watches as he begins to sort through the blankets and pillows. The familiar ritual is its own type of comfort to Bucky. Back home Steve had never had a plethora of nesting materials, but he'd collected some over the years and inherited some from Sarah after she died. On the nights Bucky didn't work late, he'd drift off to the sound of Steve rearranging his nest.
A warmth fills his scent that hadn't been there before. He notices Steve throw a glance at him and Bucky looks over, assessing him. He doesn't like the silence they are sitting in but he doesn't know how to break it.
Maybe he just has to dive into it.
"You feeling okay?"
Bucky instantly wants to smack himself in the forehead because obviously no, Steve is not feeling okay.
Steve nods anyway, because of course he does. Bucky watches helplessly as he climbs onto the bed, pulling the blankets around him and nestling into the pillows. He somehow looks small in the middle of the pile. Small and tired and hurting on the inside.
Bucky breathes in quietly, picking anxiously at his blanket. "Do ya'think you'll be able to sleep?"
Steve shifts in the nest, his gaze dropping as he kneads the blanket. "I…" The single word sounds rough and Steve breathes in, his hands clenching on the comforter. "Um…"
He buries his face in his pillow, as though trying to hide from him and Bucky's heart squeezes. His voice drops. "What d'ya need, Stevie?"
Steve's eyes dart up and then down again, only the top of his face visible above his pillow. His breath shakes as he breathes in. "Can… can you talk?" His words come out in a mumble, further muffled by his pillow. "I dunno, could you just… read something? I don't wanna think right now."
Right now Steve could ask him to lasso the moon and Bucky would do it.
It is a relief to be given something to do. Bucky turns to his bag, reaching for the first book he sees. His ratty copy of The Time Machine by H.G. Wells.
Sci-fi had always been an interest for the both of them, and the cheap paperbacks distributed to soldiers give them a chance to read all sorts of things they never would have, if only to stave off boredom. He had gotten his copy from Dugan, who had gotten it from a Private Logan. Bucky isn't sure who had had it before then, but books get passed along until they fall apart.
It feels solid and grounding in his hand, and he rubs his fingers over the worn paper as he turns back to Steve.
"This good?" he asks, holding it up. Steve's eyes peer up at him from the blankets and he nods before his arms tighten around a pillow.
"Can you…" Bucky has to strain to hear him. "Can you come here?" Steve curls up tighter in his nest, no longer looking at him. "I can't… Not in the nest with me. Just… nearby."
Steve tenses even more and Bucky blinks at him. The question catches him off guard, until he remembers how Steve had spent the night next to his bed last time. It wouldn't surprise him if the proximity soothed Steve's omega instincts and he feels a rush of warmth at the fact that Steve had felt comfortable enough to ask.
"Sure," he responds softly, reaching for his blanket.
Anxiety drains from Steve's shoulders and he sits up as Bucky lugs his bedding over. He finally looks somewhat at ease, watching him as he arranges it into his own kind of nest near the head of Steve's bed.
Bucky steps back once it's finished and looks up at Steve, a small smile on his face as he prepares to settle in to read.
And that's when he sees the bruise on Steve's cheek.
It's faint, a light brown and yellow smear on his cheekbone, under his left eye. Without thinking, Bucky's hand comes up, and he only realises he's reaching for Steve's face when he flinches back.
He freezes, his hand hanging in the air as his heart drops down to his toes.
"He hit you."
The statement is hard and hollow with shock. Steve's gaze falls, turning his bruised cheek away as his shoulders hunch inward. He swallows, his fingers digging into his comforter. His voice comes out tired and resigned, the words stuck in the back of his throat.
"It'll be healed by morning."
Bucky stiffens, a whiff of smoke sneaking into his scent. "That's not the point."
Steve twitches and his chin dips, his voice even fainter than before. "I know."
Bucky instantly feels bad and his hand drops, his shoulders loosening as he unconsciously tries to appear non-threatening to the nervous omega.
His thoughts war with each other and Steve doesn't look at him as he sinks into the blanket by his bed. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised, but he hadn't been prepared for this, and he doesn't know what to do.
"What—" his dry throat chokes the word. "What happened?"
Steve grimaces and looks away, obviously reluctant.
Bucky sits back, feeling like a heel. Of course Steve doesn't want to talk about it. He'd just said he didn't want to think for a while. Recalling the night's events is the exact opposite of that. He shouldn't have asked.
Some of his regret must seep into his scent because Steve sneaks a peek at him, his eyes searching. He sighs and pulls his blanket up around his shoulders, burrowing into it as he clutches it around his neck. A series of expressions flicker over his face and Bucky watches him, trying to make them out.
He is as scent-blind as ever when it comes to Steve and he wishes he could have some kind of hint.
Bucky huffs through his nose, rolling his shoulders to break the tension. "You don't hafta tell me," he says, his voice louder and steadier than before. He lifts the book again. "We can just read if you'd rather."
Steve's eyes are unreadable as they rest on him, and his gaze flicks away, his expression distant as he hugs his blanket to himself. Bucky stays silent, waiting.
Steve bites his lip before a glimmer of familiar stubbornness flits across his face. He breathes in and turns back to Bucky, looking apprehensive, with a hint of determination.
"He can't stop me from…" Steve swallows and meets Bucky's gaze. "He can't stop me from talkin' 'bout it here."
Bucky nods mutely and Steve's lips press together, his head turning so that Bucky can see the bruise more clearly as he stares at his knee. Despite Steve's statement, they sit without speaking a word for several minutes, the seconds slipping away into the night.
Bucky's legs cramp. His toes tingle. He doesn't move.
"He—" Steve doesn't look up, his gaze fixed firmly on his knee. The rest of him is eerily still. He swallows. "He wanted…" His fingers dig into his blanket. "For me to— to call him Alpha."
Bucky pulls back in disgust. A shudder ripples through Steve and he hunches, his teeth digging into his lower lip. His knee bounces with anxiety, his Adam's apple bobbing with unspoken words.
Bucky forces himself to breathe in, focusing on his scent and keeping it centred on forest greenery.
It takes some doing because his head feels ready to explode with rage.
Calling a partner Alpha or Omega is extremely intimate. His parents rarely did it in front of him while growing up. He always knew they were feeling something strongly when the title came up. It is the ultimate sign of trust and respect between partners. He'd never done it on any of his dates. He doubts Steve had ever called anyone Alpha in his life.
For Stark to demand it now… The very thought fills Bucky with revulsion.
Of course he did, he thinks bitterly. He wouldn't be the first alpha to twist and abuse the title, and he won't be the last. Stark is exactly the type.
In front of him, a near-invisible tremor invades Steve's body, his breath shaky.
"I… I'm s'possed to do what he says and I—" his shoulders climb up to his ears, scentless shame radiating off him. "I couldn't have bruises all over me tomorrow."
Bucky closes his eyes and it takes every inch of his willpower to keep his scent from going toxic. The process is familiar by now and he pulls himself out of the current of raw emotions to focus on Steve and what he needs.
"I understand," he whispers, because he does. He knows exactly what Stark made him do. "It's not— 's not your fault."
His eyes skate over the faint bruise and he wonders if there are any other marks hidden on Steve's body. How had Stark managed to bruise him in the first place? The serum heals Steve fast, so how hard had he been swinging? Or had he swung multiple times?
The line of questioning makes him sick to his stomach and he looks away, pulling in a breath. "Well, after the war you can hit him right back."
Steve's head darts up in surprise and Bucky tries to give him a smile. A garbled chuckle fights its way out of Steve's throat and he looks more shocked than Bucky at the sound.
"Well, I've knocked out Hitler over two hundred times," he rasps, the tension in his frame easing minutely, even if his eyes remain shadowed. His hands tremble. "Should be a piece of cake."
Bucky laughs, probably only due to how unfunny the situation is, but the heavy mood around them becomes less choking.
His scent shifts into something fresh, the moss bravely regrowing on blackened soil. Steve's brow smooths out in relief and Bucky lifts the book once more.
"I'll bet," he replies, breathing in. "Now, how 'bout we start this, yeah? I think you'll like it."
Steve nods thankfully and Bucky turns around, pressing his back against the bed frame as he cracks the book open.
Steve's blanket shifts as he settles deeper into his nest, his quiet breaths filling the space as Bucky begins to read outloud. His muscles unwind as he lets the story wash over both of them.
He doesn't want to think anymore either, and he keeps reading until Steve's breaths drift off into sleep.
AN: I decided to post on Saturdays from now on since it works better with my schedule.
This chapter felt really emotional. I wanted to show Bucky's breakdown because I don't think it'd be possible to see this happening to a friend without falling apart at some point. I also wanted to show his habits as an alpha (listening and caring etc). For anyone who's read "Reckoning" you can see the foundation that feral-Bucky was working with.
Meanwhile Howard is the type of alpha who has to display and lord his power in every way possible.