TW: Vomit

Bucky wakes up to a foot stepping on his hand.

His noise of pain gets caught in his wadded up blanket and he opens his eyes to see a bleary shape bolting for the bathroom. The room is dark and the bright light from the bathroom spills out onto the floor, making Bucky squint.

He isn't sure how long he'd stayed up reading before he'd finally turned out the light and curled up next to Steve's bed, but there is no hint of light from behind the blackout curtains.

The sound of retching from the bathroom drags him further into consciousness.

He pushes himself up, fumbling as he rubs his eyes and stumbles to the bathroom. The sharp light pierces his weary eyes and he squeezes them shut, blinking hard to get them to focus. He bumps into the doorframe and grabs it to steady himself.

Inside, Steve kneels on the white tile, leaning over the toilet bowl as he gags.

Goosebumps rise on Bucky's skin as Steve coughs and violently rejects everything he'd eaten over the last six hours. His pained pants fill the bathroom and he shudders as another wave of nausea hits him and he throws up again.

Bucky's nose wrinkles but he tries to ignore the smell. He is sure it is worse for Steve. Steve's latest attack eases and he sucks in a breath, his fingers white on the porcelain bowl.

Bucky scans him anxiously. "Are you sick?"

Worry drips into his scent. Steve shouldn't be able to get sick, right? The serum should prevent that. Why—?

Steve doesn't respond, his whole body tensing before he convulses and retches again. Nothing much comes up this time and he whines in pain. Heart pounding, Bucky steps forward, his gaze pinned on his friend.

Steve jerks away. "No don't—" his hand raises half-heartedly to shield himself.

Bucky rocks back on his heels, his eyes wide. Steve grits his teeth and throws his hand down, his movements tight and angered as he snatches up some toilet paper to wipe his face. Bucky notices that his body is still angled away from him, his hunched shoulders belaying his wariness.

"Ugh."

His eyes jump back to Steve's face and he watches as he grimaces and wipes tears of exertion out of his eyes. He doesn't look at Bucky, his throat flexing as his stomach tries to heave again, despite being empty.

"Just—" Steve hacks into the toilet and waves at him sharply. "Just go."

His instincts yearn to do the exact opposite. But Steve had asked him to leave. That is more important.

Bucky swallows and forces himself to take a step back, retreating to the darkened room. His feet take him back to the pile of blankets on the floor, but he is too restless to lay down.

Behind him he can hear Steve throwing up again and he rubs at his hand, the delicate bones aching where Steve had stepped on him. He bites the inside of his cheek and paces back to his bed. He has a guess for why Steve is sick, and it has to do with the same alpha who had started this all.

He gives up on sleeping and switches on the lamp. He tugs on his hair and glances at the clock. It is almost dawn. At best, they've only had two or three hours of sleep.

The toilet flushes from the direction of the bathroom and he looks over.

Steve doesn't come out right away. Instead he hears water running in the sink. The familiar sounds of Steve brushing his teeth reach him, and he sits down on his bed, waiting. Steve spits, only to rinse off his brush and start again. He brushes much longer than any lingering aftertaste could survive, making Bucky think he's trying to brush away something else. Something that isn't as easily forgotten.

He shakes his head and cuts off that line of thought. In the bathroom, Steve spits for the last time and water runs as he rinses his toothbrush and splashes his face.

His hair is damp when he appears in the doorway, either from water or sweat Bucky cannot tell.

Bucky's eyes sweep over him, noting his dishevelled clothes and haggard expression. He opens his mouth. "Are you—?"

"I'm fine," Steve cuts him off, pushing off the doorframe.

He walks swiftly back to his bed, his brows drawn down and his mouth pencil thin. He ignores Bucky as he yanks at his blanket, throwing it off the bed. His whole nest is in disarray, the pillows and blankets twisted out of alignment.

He must have been having a nightmare, Bucky realises as he watches Steve begin to rebuild it, his movements sharp enough to cut glass.

Steve's mood drags thunderclouds behind him. If he had his scent, the room would be filled with sharp, sour apple and burnt honey. Instead Bucky has to read his anger through his stance, his spine ridged and his shoulders stiff as boards.

The sharp snap of the blanket as Steve spreads it out is the only sound. He keeps his back to Bucky, leaving him at a loss. Before he can think of something to say, Steve's feet snag on his blanket on the floor and he catches himself with a growl, kicking it away.

Bucky stands up. "Here, let me—"

Steve spins around, snatching up the blanket and hurling it at him. It's not a very good projectile and it lands on the floor between them, leaving Steve heaving in great gulps of air.

"I'm not helpless," he snaps, irritation and disgust clear in his voice. "I'm fine. I'm not some baby omega that needs watching all the time. I'm not made of glass, you don't gotta—"

His voice grows thin and he cuts off, clenching his jaw. His hands shake by his side and he lets out a frustrated noise, whipping around to glare at his bed. He reaches for a pillow but he can't seem to place it right. Every arrangement he comes up with is unacceptable, forcing him to tear it apart again and start over.

Bucky watches the muscles in his back ripple with suppressed tension and he bites his lip, breathing out. He thinks he gets it now.

Steve had done this after Sarah too. He'd hated pity. He hated being a burden. And he'd talk himself into believing that Bucky's efforts during his grief were an amalgamation of both.

You don't hafta look at me like a kicked dog, he'd snapped once, after Bucky had made soup because Steve hadn't had the energy or will to eat all day. I'm fine.

Of course he is. Because he's always fine. Except now he's obviously not, even with the serum and the respect he's gained. He still has to hide his true self, and Stark had exploited that to make him even more powerless than before.

It's no wonder he's angry.

"I know you're not made of glass."

Steve doesn't turn around and Bucky steps back to sit cross-legged on his bed. He places his hands palms up on his knees, encouraging his senses to ignore the angry atmosphere and ease into calmness. This isn't a fight. Steve isn't angry at him, not really.

"You think I'd treat this any different if you were a beta? Or an alpha?"

Steve's head raises and Bucky knows he's listening, his movements growing slower as he smooths out a blanket.

Attacks on betas, but more especially alphas, are not as acknowledged. But Bucky knows they happen, and he knows that if Steve's designation were one or the other, he wouldn't be acting any differently.

Bucky keeps his voice low and serious. "Being an omega has nothing to do with this. I wanna help because I'm your friend, Stevie. I worry cuz you're my friend. I'm not lookin' down on ya."

Steve's nest making has slowed to a crawl, the irritation that had permeated his every move draining away. He sighs and drops his head, staring at the pillow in his hands, his fingers digging into the white fabric.

"I don't need anyone to save me."

Bucky keeps his scent neutral. He knows what Steve means. He's not helpless. He's not some gallant or damsel waiting for an alpha saviour to come galloping to his rescue.

Bucky nods, even though Steve can't see him. "I know," he says simply. "But everyone needs backup some days."

And some days, he thinks sadly, the universe tries to break you in half. The least I can do is try to help you pick up the pieces.

By the bed, Steve breathes out, the last of the tension leaving him. He lets go of the pillow and rubs his eyes tiredly.

"I know." The words are strained with emotion, fatigue clear in the stoop of his shoulders. "I know, I'm sorry."

Bucky doesn't say 'it's okay', because he imagines the phrase might trigger Steve's defences again. Instead, when Steve glances back at him, he shrugs, raising an eyebrow.

"Now all you gotta apologise for is stepping on my hand."

Steve snorts abruptly and shakes his head, replacing his final pillow in his nest. His look of exhaustion eases into a lighter weariness, his mouth pulling up.

"Not my fault you were there," he retorts as he crawls into bed. He looks relieved at the new subject.

Bucky relaxes, his lips curling upwards as he stands to grab his blanket and turn off the light.

No, he thinks as he settles back onto his own bed this time. But I'll be there as often as you need. No matter how many times I get stepped on.

oOo

Steve is lethargic the next morning. He lays on his side in the bed, watching Bucky get ready with a blank expression on his face. His eyes follow his movements, but there is a deep tiredness to his gaze. Only his face peeks out from the nest, the rest of him buried in blankets and pillows.

Bucky can imagine how he's feeling. The morning after Steve had rescued them from Austria, he'd woken up dead tired, curled up around a tree root. His body ached and the sun was too bright and every thought in his head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

And Steve had been there.

Steve had been the one to fold up his jacket under his head in the middle of the night, and Steve had been the one to divvy out the meagre rations the group had managed to procure. It was Steve who peeled open the tins while Bucky sat hunched, his jacket draped over his shoulders.

And so, Bucky gets up and gets dressed. He opens the curtains to let the warm sunlight in and pulls his shoes on.

"I'll go get some breakfast sent up," he says, and he sees the Steve-bundle relax at the prospect of not having to get up quite yet.

Bucky shuts the door quietly and makes his way down to the lobby. It's easy to organise breakfast service for Captain America and soon two trays are being sent up to their room.

They eat in silence for a while, Steve sitting cross-legged on his bed, his tray balanced in his lap and his blanket pooled around his hips.

He picks at his food. Bucky knows that he needs to eat a lot now, thanks to the serum, but that doesn't mean he always gets enough. He watches as Steve pokes at his eggs and cuts up the pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces, without actually putting more than a bite or two in his mouth.

Bucky cuts into his own pancake and wonders if Steve is still nauseous from last night. He tries not to stare. Steve never liked to be pitied or patronised. He knows how much food he needs to eat, and he doesn't need Bucky nagging him about it. In fact, doing so would probably spark another outburst like last night.

He mops up some syrup with his pancake and pops it in his mouth, looking up as Steve sighs and puts down his knife and fork. His gaze is focused on the window, the sound of traffic drifting past the curtains.

He looks like he has something on his mind, and Bucky scans him. His eyes catch on his cheek and he is pleased to see the bruise from yesterday is gone—even if the reminder of the injury makes his blood boil.

His scent must change because Steve looks over and cottons on to what he is looking at. His mouth slants up sardonically and he grabs his fork again, spearing a bit of pancake. He stares at it for a moment before looking back up at Bucky.

"You know what Colonel Philips said about Howard after I came back from Austria?"

Bucky blinks in surprise and shakes his head.

Steve sighs again, fiddling with his fork. "He was spittin' tacks cuz Peggy and Howard helped me. I guess Peggy told Howard, and Howard told me. All smug as anything."

Steve eyes drop back to his plate and he goes to stab another piece of pancake, even though his fork is full. The piece is too small to pick up easily—it's nearly falling apart with how much Steve has played with it—and scooping it up consumes Steve's focus.

"Apparently Philips was gonna punish Peggy for helping me go AWOL," he says, continually pressing the damp crumbs of his pancake into the bottom of his fork. "He told her: 'I can't touch Stark. He's rich. Not to mention he's the army's number one weapons manufacturer'."

Oh. Bucky understands now.

He isn't surprised by what Steve had said. It had always been implied. They can't report Stark for what he is doing. It wouldn't do anything. He's a is too important, and Steve's position is too vulnerable.

Which Stark undoubtedly knows.

Bucky huffs a breath of air through his nose and grabs his coffee cup. He sips it and grimaces. Rationing has made the brew not much better than coloured water. He glares into the murky depths.

"Bastard," he mumbles.

Steve snorts and Bucky's head darts up. Steve shakes his head, a wry, tired smile on his face. His shoulders drop and he finally leaves his poor pancake alone, lifting his fork to eat the bite.

"Yeah," he says around the mouthful. "You could say that."

oOo

Bucky wouldn't say it is a relief to get the Howard Deal out of the way. Mostly because now they have to cope with the aftermath for the rest of their leave, but at least the appointment itself isn't hanging over their heads anymore.

They try to make it through the week the best they can. In an effort to actually give them rest, most of their meetings are scheduled for the end of the week. They have a few press interviews but beyond that they are allowed to explore London and find entertainment.

Not that Steve and Bucky do much of that.

"I'm really sorry," Steve mumbles into his pillow, only a few tufts of his hair peeking out from his nest bundle. Even without his scent Bucky can sense the shame pouring off him in waves.

"Don't be," he says simply.

He leans back against Steve's bed frame, his own blanket pulled around him as he once again settles on the floor next to Steve's bed. The room is bright, sun streaming through the window, the sound of bustling streets reaching their ears.

They won't be joining the crowds today. Steve's melancholy has yet to lift. He'd sat hunched on the bed for most of the morning, his sketchbook balanced on his knees, a dark look overshadowing his face as he'd drawn in silence. Bucky had tried to keep his eyes off him and give him his privacy, but he could see how his hands shook sometimes or how he'd often stare at the wall for minutes at a time, before going back to sketching in a feverish rush.

He'd eventually set it aside and gotten up, but he'd gone sheet-white and shaky the first time he'd approached the door to leave.

"I just keep thinking I'll run into him," Steve admits, his voice muffled by the blanket. "It's stupid 'cuz we should be done, but I hate him looking at me, and I can't stop worrying that he'll keep pushing an' ask for more. He—" The blankets shifts as Steve curls up tighter, his words fainter. "He taunts me about that sometimes… How he could get whatever he wanted an' I'm lucky he's only askin' for this much."

Bucky has to swallow hard to keep down a rumble. He repositions himself and breathes in, keeping his scent calm.

"We don't have to go out yet," he reassures. He can't promise Steve that Stark won't push his luck if they ever run into him, but he can try to assuage his current guilt.

"These days are for us," he says. "We can do whatever." He pulls on a grin and looks back. Steve's head lifts enough to meet his gaze and Bucky reaches for his copy of The Time Machine.

To be honest, staying inside is a relief for him too. Stark's actions had only heightened his paranoia while walking down the street. They shouldn't be under threat, but not only does he have to watch for Hydra agents, his alpha instincts stay on edge because the omega next to him doesn't feel safe and he has to watch his back.

Sometimes things are easier on the battlefield. At least then he knows who the enemy is, and he and Steve have a whole pack to keep them safe.

He breathes out and pushes the thoughts from his mind, lifting his book and looking back at Steve. "Wanna keep going with this?"

Steve nods and Bucky relaxes against the bed frame. He cracks the book open, careful of the ragged pages, and scans the chapter.

"Let's see…what's the last thing you remember before you fell asleep?"

oOo

They can't stay inside forever. Their leave winds down and they begin making preparations to depart. It is only the promise of escape that allows Bucky to get through the meetings Stark makes an appearance in.

He doesn't do anything, but he doesn't have to for Bucky to want to strangle him. He sits with folded arms and keeps his eyes on the table while Stark talks, knowing he won't be able to keep from glaring if he looks up.

"The next batch of Steve's suppressants are ready," Stark reports, shuffling a stack of papers as he prepares to wrap up the meeting. "The next dose can be administered before you leave and I'll pack up the rest to send with you."

"Morita can give it to me like usual," Steve speaks up, and Bucky nods subconsciously. There is no need for Stark to worm his way into the process any more than usual.

Up front, Stark coughs into his fist. "The batch is in my lab," he states, and Bucky's hands tighten on his forearms. "You two can come down after."

Out of the corner of his eye Bucky sees Steve nod stiffly, his mouth a thin, stressed line. Bucky scowls and focuses on burning a hole into the table with his glare.

Looks like they're in for another trip down to Stark's warehouse.

Morita doesn't look surprised when Bucky joins them after the meeting on their way to the warehouse. Steve's relief is subtle, a slight relaxing in his squared shoulders. Bucky gives him a tight smile, jamming his hands in his pockets. Morita probably notices their less-than-cheery mood as they make the trek, but he doesn't comment on the silence.

Stark's workshop is as busy as usual. Bucky scans the room with a dark gaze, his brows pulled down. He knows the instant Steve spots Stark, his spine stiffening as he sucks in a breath.

Stark waves them over. His gaze pauses briefly on Bucky before he leads them into a more private corner of the warehouse, the bustling noise of his employees fading behind them.

"Here's the batch," Stark announces, stridding to pat a small canvas bag on a wooden table. The bag is clasped shut with a leather buckle and the thing no doubt has the same scent as Stark. Bucky can't prove Stark scents the things he sends to them, but… He wouldn't put it past him.

Morita steps forward to inspect the bag and Bucky listens while Stark discusses the details. They will have enough for monthly doses, plus extras in case there are any problems.

The story Morita and the rest of the world had been fed about Steve's suppressants is that they are meant to protect him from Hydra. Scent patches are fallible, and the Allies don't want to risk Captain America getting compromised on a mission because some Hydra grunt picks up on his Serum-Enhanced Alpha Scent.

The enhancing effect of the serum on his scent is an utter lie, but it gives them a good cover story. It also, conveniently, gives them an excuse to censor any talk of Steve's scent pre-serum. Steve's scent profile is now a military secret.

As for why nobody else gets to be protected by fancy suppressants, well…

Bucky watches as Morita unclasps the buckle and opens the bag, pulling out a small, pointed needle.

It is a syrette needle, like the morphine doses Morita has in his pack that do nothing for Steve. The needle itself is enclosed in a thin plastic cap, designed to protect it from damage. The needle and medication come in one compact unit, a flexible tube attached to the bottom of the needle so that all Morita has to do is insert the needle and squeeze the tube to administer the dose.

The concentrated medication is much more effective than any scent patches or ingestible medication, but it's expensive to make and impractical for wide-scale distribution, which is part of why it isn't standard issue.

The other reason makes Bucky queasy every time he watches Steve get his next dose.

"You can sit here," Morita gestures to a wooden bench by the table and Steve sits down, already unbuttoning the top of his shirt so that Morita can have easier access to his neck.

Stark's suppressant works wonders, considering how there hadn't been a commercially available omega suppressant before now. But it has to be injected directly into the scent gland.

Bucky swallows and blinks away thoughts of Hydra experiments they've come across. This isn't like that, but it never fails to remind him.

Steve's jaw clenches when Morita reaches for the cap on the needle and Bucky sees his eyes dart between them and Stark still at the back of the room. He grimaces. The injection is vulnerable at the best of times. Having Stark here is like rubbing salt into a wound.

To his surprise Morita picks up on Steve's discomfort, his gaze jumping sharply from Steve to the rest of the room. It lands on Stark, and Bucky watches as Morita takes his time inspecting the syrette, delaying the procedure.

"You can head back," he tells Stark casually, barely glancing up. "Too many alphas in a room at once for this isn't a good idea."

He doesn't mention how he'd administered the drug before squeezed into a tiny dugout with every other Commando, the squad stuck cheek by jowl as they waited out a bombing raid. The proximity of pack alphas is not a problem for this. But Stark is an outsider.

There is little Stark can do to argue with Morita, although Bucky can see his thinly veiled irritation as he tromps out of the room.

An underlying tension he'd barely noticed leaves with him, and Bucky lets out a breath. Steve's hackles lower almost instantly, and Bucky catches the ghost of a satisfied smile on Morita's face as he turns back to the needle.

"Looks good," he says, stepping up to Steve.

Bucky can't smell him from here. His scent patches are fresh, and his beta scent is mild and less defined than an omega or alpha scent. But he wonders if the serum allows Steve to catch a whiff of Morita's coastal prairie smell.

Whether or not he can smell it, he looks relaxed as Morita approaches him, tilting his head obligingly so Morita can access his scent glands.

Bucky has to admire him. The gesture is submissive for an alpha, let alone an omega, and the fact that Steve is willing to do this for Morita after everything with Stark just goes to show how comfortable he feels with him.

Conscious of this, Morita keeps his touches light as he feels Steve's gland and then positions the needle.

"Slight pinch," he warns as he does every time, his hands steady and his gaze focused as he inserts the needle just under the skin of the scent gland. Steve takes in a measured breath and Morita presses on the tube, slowly injecting the medication.

Bucky doesn't understand all the logistics of how the suppressants work, but he knows they do something to the scent gland directly, halting the production of omega hormones altogether. The method is effective, each dose lasting about a month before it begins to wear off and Steve needs another injection.

He supposes they are lucky they don't have to administer it more often, or else they risk Steve's omega status being discovered. As it is, not a single Howling Commando has ever smelled Steve.

One gland finished, Morita gently tips Steve's head so he can stick the other side of his neck. It must be painful, the needle in his scent gland, but Steve doesn't make a sound.

He has the same faraway look on his face that Bucky had seen countless times growing up. Steve is far too accustomed to getting poked and prodded by doctors, and he stares past Morita's shoulder, breathing in slow, even breaths.

Morita pulls away with the used syrette and Bucky breathes out. The hard part is over. The last two injections are for the glands on Steve's wrists and Morita finishes up with those quickly, letting Steve relax and button up his shirt.

He looks genuinely happy that the procedure is over, his lips spreading in a smile. "Guess I'll see you again next month, doc," he quips.

Morita lets out an amused sound. "Better not be any earlier than that," he replies, waving a finger at Steve as he packs up the remaining supply of suppressants. "I want no major injuries on this next mission."

Steve's mouth pulls up and he whips out a satirical salute. "Sir, yes sir."

As it is, they would not be so lucky.

AN: Hello all!

With this chapter I wanted to explore some more of Steve's emotions dealing with this. He'd definitely feel angry and frustrated with his situation, and I feel like that would reflect back onto himself and those around him sometimes.

I also wanted to go more in depth with Steve suppressants and show how they work. I didn't think pills would last long enough, especially considering how long he went without suppressants in "This Sins of the Father".