AN: This is part of a series, but I think it can be read as a stand alone. The other stories are "The Sins of the Father", "Reckoning", and "Forest of Apple Trees".
Nothing graphic about what happened to Steve is described, but he has a lot of ptsd responses through out.
The Red Room liked betas.
If Natasha hadn't presented as a beta, then it's unlikely she would have survived much longer as a Widow. (She doesn't know what they did with the other girls when they presented. She doesn't want to know.)
Being a beta made everything easier for the Red Room. No messy heats to deal with. No feral instincts to fight. Betas are simple. Betas can calm an enraged alpha and then turn around and comfort a panicky omega.
Betas are overlooked, unseen. Quiet, and unobtrusive. Even their scents are lighter, less defined. Less noticeable.
After leaving the Red Room Natasha finds herself in a world filled primarily with other alphas. Outside the Red Room, alphas excel in her line of work. Even nowadays people subconsciously expect alphas to be leaders, to be in charge.
Which is why she only sighs in quiet resignation when Fury assigns her to the Avengers. The only beta— the only non-alpha of the the only woman.
Typical alphas, she thinks as she watches Steve Rogers and Tony Stark snarl at each other in the lab of the Helicarrier.
An ego-spat, as she'd come to call these incidents. It's not the first one she'd witnessed, because alphas seem incapable of working together without first establishing some kind of hierarchy between themselves.
She barely keeps from rolling her eyes. It's the last thing they need.
She will admit that even without animalistic instincts, she doubts Steve and Tony would mesh. Throw in a cocktail of hormones and an avalanche of stress and well… It does not surprise her that the two are having a hard time getting along. Loki's attack had forced the team together, and neither Tony nor Steve seem to be the type of alpha to back down.
I hope you know what you're doing, Nick, she thinks as she watches Tony bare his teeth and snap something cutting. Steve bristles, every muscle in his back rippling as he turns fully to face the man.
His scent is absent, unlike all the other alphas, and Natasha takes stock, breathing subtly through her mouth to avoid the layers of poorly hidden scents.
Bruce, her main charge, is looking stressed and agitated. His scent is usually more mellow than most alphas, but now the curry and wool notes of his scent smell burnt and charred. An ominous warning.
Thor's scent is something strange, the dynamics on Asgard not matching up exactly with those on Earth. If she had to guess, she'd say it was some kind of spice mix, but she reads his annoyance more through his face and words than from any hints his scent gives her.
She is pulled from puzzling over his mixed signals when Tony does something supremely alpha and supremely stupid.
He stands nearly shoulder to shoulder with Steve, bristling with irritation. Whatever scent blockers he'd had on are worn off after his clash with Thor earlier and the leather in his scent is thick and musty. Natasha misses exactly what he and Steve are now arguing about, but she watches with a sharp eye as Tony scoffs, reaches up, and slaps his hand down on Steve's shoulder.
There is no way an alpha wouldn't recognise that as a challenge of authority, especially given their heated spat. But in his heightened mindset she doubts Tony had bothered thinking that far—allowing his instincts to guide his movements rather than try to de-escalate the situation.
This isn't that. It's the furthest thing from de-escalation. He'd just grabbed another alpha in a fight, inches away from his throat and then held him there as though he could keep him down. To make matters worse, his wrist is pressed against Steve's shoulder, scent-marking him.
They really, really should have had another beta on the team.
It doesn't surprise her one bit when Steve reacts with a jerk and a growl. He knocks Tony's arm to the side, his lips curling back to reveal his teeth.
"Back off," he snaps.
There is a dangerous fire in his eyes that almost has Natasha stepping forward, ready to diffuse the clotting scents in the room. Encourage Steve not to rip out the throat of one of the strongest alphas on their team—no matter his knotheaded decisions.
But to her surprise, Steve's aggression doesn't continue to build. He keeps his teeth bared and his shoulders pulled back in warning, but he doesn't try to force Tony backwards. He doesn't push the fight further, forcing one or the other to defer and admit defeat.
In her experience, alphas whose fights get into ego-spat territory don't let up until some kind of clear victory has been had. After the stunt Tony had pulled she would expect Steve to lash out and try to reassert his dominance. Force Tony to back down even without his scent to help him.
But he doesn't.
Instead he pulls away from him. His eyes are ablaze and his hands are clenched in warning. No one could mistake his steps backwards as a retreat but… But that isn't how alphas act in a fight. Not one that has escalated this far.
Her brows pull down in confusion, her eyes following Steve as he and Tony continue to trade barbs back and forth. From a distance.
It's… not what she was expecting. She doesn't get the chance to analyse it further though because the threat of a Hulk incident begins to take precedent.
And then Loki's forces attack the Helicarrier and she gets caught up in the push and shove of frantic fighting. Fleeing from the Hulk becomes her priority, and then it becomes fighting Clint and not killing him.
And then Coulson dies and the small scuffle in the lab is the furthest thing from her mind.
oOo
It's several weeks later before she thinks of it again.
She's in Stark Tower. Avengers Tower, she supposes. The last of her bruises are beginning to heal, but the emotional scars are still evident in her restless nights and the grey pallor of Clint's face. She puts that away for today.
Today Tony has invited them all to the top floor for a get-together. An informal celebration of their win against all odds and recent official team status. The New York city skyline is still grey and smoking, and the bedrooms in the tower smell of new spackle and fresh paint. The signs of the battle are everywhere, but for one day, they all seem to be willing to put on a good face.
Even Tony and Steve avoid trading blows. They mostly remain on opposite sides of the room, doing their best to hide the bags under their eyes with polite nods (in Steve's case), and wide smiles (in Tony's case).
Natasha doesn't want to analyse them right now. It's mentally draining and today she just wants to exist in the same space as people she mostly believes she can trust. Everyone else seems to be on the same page, the atmosphere remaining light and shallow.
She dots her plate with cheeses and meats and carrot sticks, sipping water only. It feels…nice to sit in this neutral environment. She isn't on assignment and the fight is over. She can actually focus on the apparent members of her team (not a pack, not really.) Figure them out without the pressure of a mission weighing her down.
She lets the conversation wash over her, contributing periodically and keeping an eye on Clint. She knows he's taking their last battle particularly hard and she also knows that Fury intends to send him home to Laura for a leave of absence in the coming future. She wonders if she might be allowed to come too. Hide away from the world for a little bit and lick her wounds.
She gets pulled from these thoughts when the ever-watching part of her taps herself on the shoulder. Something is off. She blinks and scans the room, trying to pick out what had bothered her. By now, everyone is gathered around a semi-circle of couches, chatting in little groups of twos and threes as they nibble on their appetisers.
Her corner of the couch is quiet. Clint doesn't make much conversation next to her, instead focusing on picking the pretzels out of a bowl of mixed chips on the table in the middle. Tony is next to Bruce, a drink by his knee as he gestures with his hands, the two discussing some scientific theory Natasha doesn't care to know about. Pepper had had to duck out fifteen minutes ago for work and Steve—
Her eyes narrow. Steve is sitting across from her, his hand rubbing restlessly at his leg as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He'd been like that for a while, she realises. A subtle discomfort gradually growing throughout the party.
It's clear he'd been trying to keep whatever it is to himself, but now it's more obvious and that rings alarm bells in her mind. Steve is an incredibly reserved alpha. She'd seen him act that way even in the middle of an ego-spat. Whatever is bothering him now must be—
She stops moving entirely as Steve stiffens, something like pain flashing over his face before he drops his left hand down to dig at the couch cushion. His knuckles go white and she's surprised he doesn't poke holes in it, the unfocused look in his eyes making it clear he isn't aware of his actions.
Natasha sits up. "Steve?"
She's aware of the party quieting down around her in concern but she keeps her attention on Steve. Tension crawls across her skin like tiny spiders. Whatever is happening, she doesn't like it.
"Steve?" she repeats, leaning in, her eyes focused across the couch. "What's wrong?"
Steve's eyes jump to hers and there's obvious desperation there. Fear. The hand on his knee climbs up to clutch his stomach, his shoulders hunching forward.
"Something's…" he twitches, his eyes skating around the room wildly. Natasha can practically hear his breath hitch. "Something's wrong," he manages, his voice thin.
Before Natasha can respond another flare of pain crosses Steve's face and he folds inwards, slipping forward off the couch. He lands gracelessly on his knees, his breath catching on something that is almost a whimper.
Natasha's stomach drops before she fully understands why, and she watches in slow motion as the other members of the party step forward in concern. That's the worst possible thing they could have done apparently because Steve panics.
His head snaps up, his eyes wide, a hint of teeth showing. Natasha doesn't even think he breathes before he is up, lightening fast as he scrambles backwards, over the back of the couch. Before she can blink he's across the room. Crouched in a corner, his arms over his head, panting in terror.
The party is dead silent, confusion cutting through all the scents around them. Tony stands uncertain at the other end of the couch, his alpha scent mixing with the others to make a truly overwhelming cocktail of smells.
"JARVIS," he says, shock clear in his voice. "What's happening?"
Natasha's eyes drop to the couch where Steve had been sitting and she sees a small wet patch. Her stomach turns over, the hair on her arms prickling. Wait. That couldn't be—
"It appears sir," JARVIS replies, confirming her sudden, horrible theory, "that the Captain seems to be experiencing an abrupt onset of a heat."
Опа! she sputters internally in Russian. That explains so much.
It also raises a lot of questions but Natasha forces herself to shove them aside as the rest of the group reacts to the unexpected news. Steve is an omega going into heat and— Yup, she can scent him now. Apple and honey, sweet and ripe from heat and coated with thick, sticky fear.
She doesn't have to guess why.
(It's familiar. How many girls had gone into heat in her dorm? The scent terrified and choking because they knew—)
Natasha puts her plate down, her eyes narrowing as the rest of the room becomes background noise. She moves around the couch with a single mindedness she usually reserves for missions. She ignores the rest of the alphas busy reacting to an omega in heat. She has a job to do.
"The rest of you, get out of here," she orders sharply, stopping to crouch a few paces away from where Steve sits hyperventilating. "I'll take care of him."
She can smell Clint's worry like sun on hard-baked earth as he wavers briefly. Probably concerned about leaving her in a potentially volatile situation.
"Nat, are you sure—"
She doesn't have time for that. "He's an omega from the forties," she snaps, aware of how Steve twitches at the sharpness in her voice. "Going into an unexpected heat, in the middle of a room full of alphas."
She can smell the moment the others catch on to what she's getting at. The scents get cloying with horror and Steve folds deeper into the corner. Clint concedes immediately. He guides the rest of the alphas out of the room, the elevator closing behind them with a quiet click.
Leaving her with a terrified omega in heat.
Natasha breathes in, trying to settle her scent. She isn't sure how much Steve can pick up given the overwhelming alpha scents in the room. The air is thick with terror, concern, slight interest, and horror. She needs to do something about that.
"JARVIS?" she calls, copying Tony. "Can you cycle the HVAC system? Clear the air a little?"
"I can, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS replies. Steve shrinks down deeper into the corner at the sound of his voice and Natasha hears the ventilation system kick in. Hopefully it won't take too long to alleviate the worst of the scents.
She can smell Steve's heat stronger now. The scent is syrupy and heavy and so, so scared. Natasha breathes out, wiping her tacky hands on her pants. It's not the first time she's dealt with a frightened omega in heat. She can handle it. There's no one else.
"Hey Steve," she starts quietly. "Can you hear me?"
Steve flinches at her words, his scent managing to turn sour. That combined with the teeth-achingly sweet honey nearly makes her gag. His fear is so intense she can feel it crawling on her skin.
This isn't good for him. This much stress on top of an unexpected heat is going to wreak havoc on his body. She needs to get him calmer, get him to a safer place, somewhere he doesn't feel so exposed.
Of course, that means getting him to move out of the corner he's pressed himself into. Which will be a struggle.
Natasha keeps her voice soft. "It's okay, Steve. I know you're scared." She tries to focus on her own scent, autumn breeze rustling through yellow leaves. Calm, at ease.
"You're uncomfortable like this, right Steve? Why don't we get you to your room and we can—"
Steve's head snaps up, his eyes wide and his teeth bared. A growl rumbles in his chest.
"No alphas," he snarls, sounding more like an animal than a man. His chest heaves, a wild look in his eyes as his hands clench and flex into claws. "No alphas, no alphas."
Natasha rocks back on her heels, cursing internally. He's feral. Feral and terrified. It's also very clear what he's expecting. She has no doubt that back in his day the assumption would be alpha assistance. No matter what he said. For all she knows that has happened to him before.
But that isn't going to happen now. Even if he hadn't explicitly stated that, she wouldn't bring in an alpha with no agreements pre-heat. She'd hospitalise him first. Hopefully it won't come to that. She doubts a hospital room will do anything to calm a feral Steve. She'd heard how he'd broken out of the room Fury had built.
A low growl brings her back to the situation at hand and she looks at Steve. He's hunched defensively in the corner, trembling and panting and glaring at her with all he's worth.
"No alphas," Natasha says lowly. "I promise, Steve."
Steve flinches and eyes her suspiciously before a wave of pain hits him and he crumples inward, gritting his teeth against the heat cramps. Despite his efforts a whine breaks through and he shivers.
Natasha changes tactics. "Let's go make a nest."
She keeps herself completely still as Steve looks up. "Let's get away from these alphas and make a nest." She can see his instincts latching onto the idea, his pupils widening. Nests are safe and escaping foreign alpha scents is safer.
"C'mon, Steve," she says, soft as possible. "Let's go nest."
It takes ages for Steve to slowly uncurl from the corner. He remains tense the whole time, his breaths stilted and fast. His eyes dart from her to search the rest of the room continually, his teeth never less than half-bared. He breathes in through his nose like a bull preparing to charge, whatever lingering scents he picks up making him stiffen and growl. Occasionally his heat scent will spike and he'll stop entirely, bristling and keening low in his throat.
Natasha lets him go at his own pace, backing up slowly and staying low as she gradually leads him to the elevator. She keeps her scent as simple as possible. Sun on leaves, warm and safe.
She's thankful that JARVIS had managed to clear most of the scents in the room or else she doubts she'd have ever been able to get Steve into the elevator. He eyes it suspiciously, the doors staying open unusually long as she continues to mutter reassurances about nests and safety.
At last he darts forward in a half-crouch, shoving himself into one corner of the lift, keeping himself as guarded as possible. She knows he must be uncomfortable, his clothes cling to him from more than just sweat and he won't turn his back to her.
JARVIS brings them down to Steve's floor and it is a whole nother process to get Steve out of the elevator and down the short hall to his room.
He eyes the elevator doors suspiciously when they open, tensing up and growling as though expecting someone to come through. He scents the air aggressively, and Natasha can only guess he's picking up on scents she can't.
Omega noses are sensitive in heat, and with the serum Steve must be even more so.
It's lucky Natasha is a beta. Betas are meant to guard and protect the pack when omegas and alphas are vulnerable during heat. Betas take care of the young and watch over their packmates when they need it. Natasha is doing exactly what Steve's hindbrain expects.
That doesn't mean he trusts her.
She gets him into his room, but the place is sterile and impersonal. There's an empty kitchen with shiny countertops, a living room with stiff-looking beige couches and a wide-screen TV. The bookshelves are all but empty, a few boxes on the floor by the bedroom door.
It's far from ideal. Natasha doubts Steve had lived there for more than a few days. Tony had only just invited him, and his scent had been covered the whole time.
It doesn't look like home. It doesn't smell like home and now Steve's fear scent takes over.
Natasha curses silently and tries to guide Steve towards the bedroom, hoping the enclosed space will make him feel safer. That backfires though because one wall of the bedroom is entirely windows and the bed doesn't look like it has been slept in at all.
Steve balks at the sight and ducks away from her, scuttling towards the living room. There's a couch and a loveseat that do actually look like they've been used, a decorative throw blanket laid out on the couch like it's being used as a bed.
Natasha doesn't take the time to question it, focusing more on Steve as he cringes away from the windows looking out to the city. He hurries half-crouched to the couches, his breath coming in heavy bursts as he tugs on the arm. The couch hardly seems to weigh anything at all as Steve pulls it towards him, using the two couches to form a barricade between him and the rest of the room.
I guess that's where he's going to make his nest, Natasha thinks, glancing despairingly around the barren room. Steve is still anywhere but calm and there's hardly anything here to help him.
Food, Natasha decides as Steve begins pulling the cushions off the couch. Start with the basics and move from there.
Except… except there is no food in Steve's kitchen. She stares at the empty shelves and spotless fridge, her heart in her throat. She can still hear Steve in the other room, soft keens escaping him as he fumbles with the cushions. His scent is thick with fear and distress as he tries to nest with practically nothing.
He has the cushions and the throw blanket and she can grab the duvet and pillows from the bedroom but that's it. No special nesting material, nothing with familiar scents, no comfort pillows or sheets designed for sensitive skin. Steve is feral, in heat, and there's nothing to nest with and no food in the kitchen.
She doesn't realise her hands are sweaty and her heart is pounding until JARVIS speaks up.
"Agent Romanoff," his voice is quiet but she nearly jumps. "Can I be of assistance?"
Natasha breathes out, closing her eyes and pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. Tony had briefly explained what JARVIS was, but she's still getting used to the idea. Maybe this will be her saving grace.
"JARVIS?" Natasha breathes in and pulls her shoulders back, settling herself. "Can you order things to the tower that I need?"
"Certainly, Agent Romanoff."
Natasha's scent droops in relief. She can still do this.
AN: I wanted to write this from Natasha's pov. I feel like this heat can show even more of what Steve's been through than what we saw with Bucky.
This story is complete, and I'll update every week.