Chapter Text
In Bucky’s defense, the compound’s a revolving door, and he barely recognizes half the faces most of the time, let alone pays attention to memos that pop up on his phone. His last level 8 mission lasted exactly twenty fucking days, and it's a miracle he even remembers his own name when he and Clint finally trudge back in the middle of the night, exhaustion dripping from every pore.
So he ain’t in a state to fight it. Not that he could—fight it, that is—since, well, surge.
"Eat shit, Barnes," Clint flips him off when they reach a fork and nuzzles his nose at Bucky's chin with a grimace. "Ugh, you stink. See you at breakfast."
“Fuck off.” Bucky shakes his head. “If I don’t see you for the next twenty years, it’ll be too fuckin’ soon.”
Florida was a nightmare—humidity, alligators, and an endless parade of assholes. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and Bucky should get credit where credit’s due, since he didn’t gag Clint into shutting up on day one. Which was a real possibility and a very real temptation, pack or not.
The point is, Bucky’s pissed, wants a drink, a shower, and a week of uninterrupted sleep, in that order. So when he walks in the opposite direction from Clint and into the lounge, dragging the stench of the entire Everglades with him on his tac gear, he doesn’t even suspect he’s a few steps away from being royally screwed. Just heads straight for the bar, dropping his duffel on the floor as he approaches.
Tony should've warned him, given him some kind of heads-up about the changes around here. Properly warned him, by means other than a skinny phone, which Bucky doesn't even bother charging half the time since almost everyone he knows lives with him already.
But no, warning Bucky in person would require basic human foresight—something Tony selectively lacks, despite all his other questionable, but mostly redeeming, qualities.
Not that Bucky is specifically thinking about those qualities right now. Instead, his focus is on the bottle with the "S" sticker, which Tony claims stands for "Super." Nat and Sam, on the other hand, insist it stands for "Stupid." Bucky tends to agree with the latter, though he figures it’s probably “S” for “Steve” (not that the punk drinks), or maybe for “Stark.” Whatever. He pours himself two fingers of it anyway. The amber liquid splashes into the glass, and he takes a large sip of what might as well be liquid gold, as far as he’s concerned.
He then drags his sorry ass to his preferred couch and drops down next to a pile of balled-up blankets. Bucky gives zero fucks about who left their crap behind, doesn’t even pay it much mind at first. Hell, there could be a dragon under there, and he’d still sit down—that’s his spot, no matter how many jokes Sam makes about it.
The cushions give way under his weight, springs quietly bitching in protest, and he sighs. For a moment, he just sits there, glass in hand, letting the sweet-sweet sound of Clint-less silence creep around him. All he needs is a few minutes of this, maybe knock back another two fingers to guarantee actual sleep, and then he’ll crawl to the shower, as planned.
And that’s—
Well, that’s when the new smell slithers its way in through the muck clinging to Bucky’s skin.
He tilts his head, the world tilting a bit with him.
Bucky doesn’t think “Omega.” Not consciously. Doesn’t even think “Shit,” although he probably would’ve if his capacity to think hadn’t taken a long fucking walk off a short pier the moment he took that first whiff. He’s too tired and already slightly buzzed to resist—Tony’s grade of liquor has enough kick to floor an elephant—and Bucky, the colossal idiot that he is, leans his mug toward that smell and absentmindedly sniffs. Once. Then—
God.
Fuck.
Ambrosia.
Scent-drunk off his ass faster than you can say "pheromone frenzy."
Bucky’s head spins from blankets that smell fresher than laundry sunbathing on a hillside in summer or a crisp morning after thunder. Not things you’d usually want on your tongue, but there’s a touch of honey in there, and the combination makes his mouth water.
He licks his fangs, leans closer, inhales deeply, and doesn’t even hear the tumbler drop on the carpeted floor as he dives, face-first, into a slice of heaven after plowing through hell. His eyes flutter closed as he rubs his face against the fabric, purring low in his chest. Oh god, it’s so good. He wants to bury himself in it, mark himself with it, nuzzling against the blankets, so soft against his scruff.
“Holy shit,” he groans as the scent claws its way into his brain, hooks in deep, and pulls.
Bucky figures he could taste it if he just… tries a little harder. He presses closer, mouth greedily nipping at the thick fleece. There ain’t a single part of him that even attempts to hit the emergency brake or point out that this is just a pile of throw blankets in the Avengers compound, not some mystical source of bliss. He rubs the patch that smells the strongest on his neck, rolling on the couch, and lets out a long, satisfied growl, instinct taking over, hoovering in the scent.
One more deep inhale, and it completely floods his senses. He’s wrapped up in it, drowning in it, and he feels—
The exact opposite of how he does on any given day, despite the pack’s best efforts. Guilt and doubt are annoying that way.
But—
Wanted.
It smells… different.
Fucking horrendous, actually.
Bucky wakes up in his bedroom—small mercies—surrounded by the aftermath. He’s sprawled on the floor, butt naked and covered in so much come that he briefly suspects it’s caked over every inch of his body. Upon further inspection, he ain’t even that wrong.
The last thing he remembers is the lounge, that mouthwatering scent, and then everything going straight to shit with no pit stops. He rolls over, coming face to face with a bunch of blankets. They aren’t soft anymore. They aren’t clean. And they sure as hell don’t smell like anything close to heaven now. They reek of sweat, filth, and something vaguely burnt—the fuck? Must’ve been his self-respect torching itself and going up in flames.
His head is pounding, his heart is pounding, his den’s a war zone, the bed broken. His goddamn mattress looks molested. Jesus. What the fuck was that? This is the closest he’s come to hitting a rut without actually hitting one, considering the building’s still standing.
"Hell no," he exhales, dragging himself up to a sitting position. His body feels like it’s been through a meat grinder. Twice. Then thrown back in for another go.
Bucky gathers the blankets that caused his first-ever surge, stumbles into the bathroom, and shoves them into the laundry. If these things could talk, he’d have them sworn to secrecy. Yeah, that sounds about right.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—hair a disaster, eyes wild, his own bite marks decorating his right arm. Well, that’s a new low. A shower is in order. No, a shower is a necessity. Possibly several showers, back-to-back.
He scrubs his skin raw. Then, for good measure, scrubs it again. Sadly, it doesn’t do much for the shame burning his face or the dread wrenching his gut.
He’s hunting for socks and only finding mismatched ones—typical—when a demented weasel pops his head out of the vent, with no regard for privacy or conventional entrances, and whistles:
“The fuck happened here?”
"Use the damn door," Bucky snaps, not in the mood for this circus act. Especially not today. Not ever, actually.
Clint grins that lopsided grin that says he’s too amused to be considerate and lobs an energy bar at Bucky, who catches it reflexively but tosses the cardboard onto the dresser. He’d rather starve. It's possible Tony has them all spoiled.
“No time for pancakes, wheels up in five,” Clint blabs, jumping down, the vent cover clanking back into place. “A quick op, in and out, no fuss. A big scary rat or something. No, seriously, the fuck happened here? Is that—”
“Ugh, no,” Bucky looks around, scowling. Any chance he can convince Clint it’s just his batshit brain, overworked and underpaid, playing tricks? Nah, probably not. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Look at this mess,” Clint drawls, stepping toward Bucky’s bed and eyeing his mattress. “If this thing wasn’t so utterly wrecked and so very dead, it would report you to HR. Now, I am sexy and I know it, so you could have just rubbed one out like a normal person back in Florida, instead of building it up to property damage.”
“Can it,” Bucky grumbles, running his hand through Clint's hair as Clint bumps his shoulder in greeting. Finally finding another black sock—why the hell does he have so many Christmas sets?—he begins to shove them on his feet, followed by fresh pants and still-muddy boots.
“Anyone new in the compound?” he asks, throwing the words out as casually as he can while lacing the boots up with sharp, angry tugs.
(In retrospect, Bucky should have known better than to rely on Clint also not skimming through memos, if that.)
In the meantime, Clint, ever the encyclopedia of useless information, shrugs and leans against the wall next to the door, scratching his blonde head. He then yawns, makes a face, for all intents and purposes looking as if he’s trying to remember if he left the stove on and not about to recall some critical intel.
Finally, he spits out, “Dunno. Spider-Man finally moving in? I think. Maybe.”
Bucky snaps a lace mid-tug.
He's dead.
Not just officially dead, but the overkill kind where Tony will rip Bucky's throat out for surging on his kid, feed it to his corpse, resurrect him with some fancy techy shit, and kill him again.
He forces a breath out, tucking the snapped lace under the crisscross. Hey, maybe he’ll trip over during the op and save the Prime some trouble. Wait—
“Spider-Man ain’t pack,” Bucky frowns.
“Duh. Dude smells like paper clips,” Clint says, picking at his nail. “Not a requirement though, don’t be racist. I'm telling Nat.”
Oh, thank Christ.
Bucky's got a good thing going here—at least, that’s what Steve keeps telling him, not that the punk would know—and the last thing he needs is his dumbass alpha sniffing around Tony’s golden boy.
Bucky had a pack before, thought the Howling Commandos were tight enough to withstand any storm, but then Hydra and the ice happened. He might have been busy being brainwashed instead of detoxing from the bond and popped out of the freezer without withdrawal symptoms, but even the theoretical thought of going through it twists his insides into a knot.
So yeah, thank fuck for that.
“Hey, you okay?” Clint peels himself off the wall.
“Left my duffel in the lounge,” Bucky deflects, realizing his gear, along with his favorite gun, is currently back in that godforsaken room, having a better morning than he is.
He lets Clint nudge his face into his neck, taps him on the back a few times, humming. Still not sure how he ended up Second after joining last and not having to fight his way up; times haven’t changed that much—then diverts to grab whatever weaponry ain’t out gallivanting.
The jet’s already hightailing it into the sky when they make it outside, and Bucky and Clint have to run for it. Bucky grabs the open rear hatch, his fingers closing around the metal just in time. He's half hanging off, his feet still touching the grass and mowing the lawn when the jet twists right and up. Clint doesn’t need an invite—he vaults onto Bucky’s back, using him as a makeshift human stepladder.
"Is Sam flyin'?" Bucky grunts. Given the jet's bat-out-of-hell ascent, it's a no-brainer, but Bucky's still gotta ask. He hauls them both up, cursing under his breath at Clint's choice of footholds, which conveniently include a not-so-subtle grab of Bucky’s ass, just for shits and giggles. Clown.
Once inside, they scramble to their feet, and Tony swivels around from his seat by the cockpit.
"Slowpokes," Tony chides with a smirk, followed by a wink aimed at Clint. But then his eyes fix on Bucky.
"C’mere, kitten" Tony calls out, standing up. "Strut on over to Daddy."
Now, Bucky might spend a significant part of his existence puzzling over why the fuck this pack accepted him in the first place and two more parts chewing himself out for not deserving any of it, but he opts to walk over because, whether he likes it or not, Bucky’s alpha would die for Tony.
Bucky would die for Tony.
And it's not just because Tony’s the type of Prime who could wrangle an army with a smart-ass comment and a shrug, nor is it because Bucky’s up to his eyeballs in life debts to the guy, but because—and Bucky would bite his tongue off before admitting it out loud—he downright adores the mouthy bastard.
Case in point.
Tony pulls Bucky into a hug so tight it has Bucky purring like a tricked-out engine at the starting line. Tony's firm grip borders on a chokehold, and his breath is hot against Bucky’s neck as he indulges Bucky with a slow, possessive lick that melts his spine. The accepted hierarchy is annoying that way too, even if Bucky could snap Tony in half without his suit on. But damn it all to hell if the bond doesn’t claw at Bucky instead, begging for a minute under Tony’s thumb.
Bucky eventually extracts himself from Tony's grip, only to settle down by his feet, stretching out his legs and leaning his back against the metal hull of the jet. It’s less submissive than it looks. He's just strategically placing himself within reach, as always. Protecting.
Wanda moves when Bucky motions her over, tucking herself by his side without taking her eyes off her phone. Fuck, did he miss her scent. They don’t exactly get along—she honest-to-god scares the shit out of him more often than not—but she’s pack, the only omega too, and Bucky throws his arm around her without hesitation, pulling her closer, getting a quick whiff while his eyes land on smiling Steve.
“Hey, man,” Bucky nods, making a valiant effort at a half-smile but failing, just as Tony's hand finds its way to his hair. Bucky doesn’t bother holding back another, louder purr, which rumbles through his chest. In his book, life doesn't get better than this.
Clint snickers at Bucky from his seat, the smug asshole not jonesing after twenty days away like some people, but Bucky’s too caught up in the comfort Tony's dishing out to muster a good glare.
"Shut up, you slept in his den last night, didn’t you?" Bucky nearly rolls his eyes as Tony's fingers rub behind his ear.
"Don't knock it till you try it," Clint stretches in the seat across from him, his grin all teeth.
Bucky doesn’t do that. Can’t bring himself to curl up at the foot of Tony’s bed. Couldn’t do it after he threw himself at Tony’s mercy in Siberia three years ago, fully expecting to bite it, and can’t do it now. Not that he doesn’t see the appeal, but—guilt. Doubt. He’s been told he’s welcome.
"Boys," Tony warns, tugging on Bucky’s hair. Bucky mutters a subdued, "Fuck off," not quite under his breath, but not loud enough to be a challenge. He’d never challenge Tony. Tony's hand pauses, then resumes its movement, fingers digging in deep and scratching just right. It’s good to be back. Not that Bucky would admit that out loud either.
“Get comfy,” Nat pops up out of the cockpit to toss him and Clint a pair of apples, ignoring the zoo. It’s not normally this bad, but twenty days away is twenty too many. “We’re at least an hour away.”
Nat’s not pack. Neither are Steve, Sam, Bruce, or, well, Vision. If someone had told Bucky back in the day that this would be his life, he’d have told them to lay off the cheap booze. It works though; they’ve all got Tony and his compulsion to collect strays, regardless of their designation.
Bucky is halfway through his apple, juice slick on his fingers, holding it out for Wanda to nibble on, when a small shape wrapped in blue and red detaches itself from behind Steve’s bulk, followed by a timid wave.
“H-hi,” stutters a familiar voice, blindsiding Bucky of all people. So much for focusing on everything but what’s in front of you. Fuck.
Bucky’s not exactly proud of his lips curling to flash some fang, or his arm clamping down tighter around unimpressed Wanda. She huffs out some air, but by then he’s already relaxing, Tony’s hand moving down to rub his neck. Bucky chances a careful sniff, just in case, and yeah, Clint’s right. Spider-Man gives off a tang of paper clips, even through his suit. Bucky should’ve remembered; it’s not their first rodeo, but who remembers these things?
He nods at the kid, losing interest.
Betas tend to smell odd. Nat reeks of charcoal, Sam of rubber, and Steve of plain, unmistakable peanuts. Not all scents are bad, but all are one-tier, no depth, no layers to them. Then again, apparently they do smell different to each other—not to mention the perfume they drench themselves in—but Bucky's no expert. Scent is scent. You can’t mask what’s actually there.
Bucky’s done with the day's quota of giving a shit, still rattled from last night, so when he catches Spider-Man still looking his way, he just scowls and mutters:
“It ain’t a staring contest.”
Alright, a bit uncalled for.
Spider-Man mutters a quiet “Oh, sorry,” and Tony's hand stills on Bucky’s neck, then pulls away in reprimand, causing Bucky to blow out a frustrated breath. Goddamn it. Any other day he wouldn’t give a flying fuck—or at least not as much—but the cabin suddenly feels ten degrees colder. He shifts on the floor, trying not to let it eat at him, but it does, and it’s got Wanda both whimpering and hissing:
“Jackass.”
Bucky scoots closer to Tony, partly for her, partly because he’s a reluctant sucker for comfort, and rests his head against Tony’s thigh, wrapped in his flight suit. This is as close to an apology as he’ll ever get without actually vomiting the words. Clint cackles, laughing his ass off, prompting Bucky to throw the remains of his apple at him.
Minutes drag like hours.
Bucky’s about to swear off any semblance of pride and apologize to the kid directly when, mercifully, Tony’s hand lands back on his head, fingers carding through his hair, then pulling at his hair tie, letting it loose. Even better. Bucky sighs in relief, tension bleeding away under the slow, deliberate strokes. Wanda shifts, getting comfortable against his chest, and Bucky’s eyes close, the frustration fizzling out, replaced by encroaching drowsiness.
“Lights out, growly murderbot,” Tony murmurs, the words rough but not unkind, drifting down to him. “You’re okay.”
Something’s off.
And not just because they’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence.
Nor is it because an art supply store seems to have thrown up all over the inside walls of the large one-story building they’ve landed next to.
Everything’s covered in bright murals—smiley suns and stick-figure families. Real cheery stuff. Nothing cracked or peeling, but you could shoot one of those horror movies Sam likes so much in here.
No signs of a struggle, no blood. Just... unsettling abandonment.
Here one minute, gone the next.
Bucky shoves through another door, leading into what is probably a rec room. Pool table, TV, a couple of couches. There’s an—huh—Avengers board game set up on a table, pieces frozen mid-play. An old edition, with the Chitauri, before Bucky’s time, but no dust covering the cardboard, no mold on the half-eaten sandwich on the plate by the figurine of Thor. He prods the bread with the barrel of his gun to check for give. There's some.
“What is this place?” pipes up Spider-Man, who’s been sticking close for no good reason. Not that Bucky objects specifically—the kid’s handy in a fight. Bucky glances back and sees him holding a piece of paper, a drawing maybe, eyes behind the mask narrowed to expressive slits.
“A commune,” Bucky answers, sidestepping someone’s backpack on the floor. The kind of makeshift place where folks used to come together, play house under one leader, live the good life. But—
“Like a pack commune?”
“No,” Bucky shakes his head. It’s got all the signs and none of the scent. “There ain’t been a pack here in years.”
He moves to a window, looking out at the neat playground. Swings creak in the breeze, an empty slide, a fresh coat of paint on the monkey bars. Outside, Clint bends over, picks something up from the grass, and flashes one of those skinny phones at Bucky, mouthing, “What the fuck?”
It doesn't smell of baseline betas here either, though that’s harder to make out. Just—
Bucky lifts his hand and brushes his nose twice with an “R.” Clint nods in agreement, the stench obviously there, and grips his bow tighter.
—reeks of rats.
“C’mon,” Bucky motions for Spider-Man to follow, moving out. “Not gonna find them here.”
This is so fucked.
It’s not the first time they’ve come across something like this, and, guttingly, it probably won’t be the last. There’s a ton of medical equipment and records in the lab in another building, as well as a bunch of life signs in the decommissioned nuclear silo under this commune, only—
The missing people ain’t people anymore. “A quick op, in and out, no fuss” Bucky’s ass.
Sam sends Redwing to map the maze while everyone waits topside after a single contact that took two clips from Bucky’s gun and four of Clint’s arrows. The little drone buzzes off, and Bucky stays leaning against the jet, arms crossed, expecting the inevitable bad news.
This wasn’t even forced. Surprisingly, it rarely is. Tony calls this shitshow of terrible decisions a “bond fad.” Bucky isn’t sure if it’s an official term for being gullible and downright stupid.
Betas just don’t get it.
Pack is life, sure, but these desperate fools who willingly lined up for experimental shots should have stuck to obsessing over inaccurate movies, going to church, having bake sales, and living in whatever a cul-de-sac is.
Instead of mutating into giant rats.
Though Bucky doubts this is what they were going for. Not that there was a chance in hell of succeeding. And Bucky would know—Hydra tried to manufacture a handpicked pack for decades. Sucked out enough of his bone marrow to fill a water tower, only to finally conclude it can’t be done.
Gotta be born this way. Not made.
The feed from Redwing eventually comes back, and it’s a nightmare. Not a pack, if that was the intention, and... ugh, eating each other. Even Wanda looks a bit green around the gills, and that’s saying something. She comes up to Bucky and lets herself be pulled into a half-hug. They stay like that while silent Tony stares the schematics down as if they might reveal a hidden answer.
There ain’t one. You don’t come back from this, and the silo makes a decent mousetrap.
When they’re back, Bucky’s the first off the jet and ready to drop.
There’s some, but not much, unenthusiastic banter behind him, a few calls to hang out, but Bucky just beelines straight to his room with his head down. His den’s gotta be better than spending the evening dodging what everyone’s thinking but no one’s saying out loud.
Swinging his door open, he's more embarrassed than surprised.
His duffel’s by the window, he’s got a new bed, a new mattress, and the invisible elves that keep this place running have left the blankets Bucky spent all last night rolling in—plus some—folded on top of his comforter.
His boots are still dirty when he parks himself on the bed, his thoughts dirtier, commune or not.
Bucky rubs the top blanket with his metal fingers and would lie through his teeth if he said he wasn’t tempted to go sniffing, despite the scent zappers scattered all over the compound, the severe lack of door handles for anything to cling to, and the zero chance that any hint of that olfactory witchcraft survived Tony's housekeeping brigade.
Besides, what’s the point? He’d only end up right where he started—surging at another hit of that mind-fucking ambrosia and dry-humping the furniture.
He doesn’t have a specific rep to maintain—gave up on that nonsense the first time he saw Clint mistake Tony’s new portable armor for a coffee maker (that mess was legendary, and he was a sip of water shy from pissing himself laughing)—but Bucky reckons some shut-eye is preferable over aimlessly wandering around sniffing walls like an idiot and bumping into others who are busy pretending they didn’t just commit a small genocide.
Or, God forbid, he actually runs into that omega, whoever they are.
He’d fuck them dead. Then... probably keep on fucking. Nothing worse than an animal taking over. And his animal happens to live inside a body that’s been pumped full of Hydra’s bargain-bin serum, attached to a vibranium arm.
First thing tomorrow, he’s going to tell Tony about this. Get that oblivious O out of here, before they and Bucky cross paths. Or before Bucky sniffs them out on purpose. Thankfully, he doesn’t obsess over it for too long; sleep grabs him by the skull and drags him under quick enough.
Bucky wakes up to the sun being an absolute asshole through his window. His first thought is a heartfelt "fuck off" to the cheerfully invasive light. Second, that he didn’t dream of the scent. Or if he did, his brain was decent enough to wipe the slate clean after.
He gets up, shuffles to where his duffel sits, digs through it, chucks used-up clothes into the laundry, puts his weapons away, and tosses his dead phone onto a charger built into his nightstand.
Bucky could’ve waited for the damn phone to light up—hindsight—but no, he dives straight into a quick shower. Clothes on in a flash; sweats and a t-shirt, because who the fuck dresses up for breakfast? Not them. Then out the door within minutes, hair still dripping, mouth gaping wide enough to snag flies.
The compound halls roll out in never-ending heated floors, the whole place smelling of static. Nothing about it tips him off. Just the usual humdrum, the kind that has you half-awake, stumbling on autopilot to the massive kitchen where the real morning action is.
No hint, no clue.
He walks through the kitchen doors that slide open, yawning another monster that could split his face, bumps into an unidentified blur carrying a plate of pancakes, hears "Oh," and… his knees hit the floor.
Bucky knows what surge is. Basic, primal, pull-your-dick-out-and-ask-permission-never madness. A runaway train of instinctual fuckery that’s impossible to control—dangerous as hell. An attraction to scent that’s supposed to be beyond resistance.
This... ain’t it.
His whole body locks up tighter than a bank vault, and he loses some time, not even sure how much. When the rush of sound, color, and—oh god—smell comes back, all of it zeroes in on the short guy standing over him with a plate of food in hand. Staring down at Bucky so intently, with his doe eyes so wide, as if he’s never seen anyone or anything like Bucky before.
The guy’s not moving, might not even be breathing, not saying anything—but Bucky’s got nothing either.
He’s just staring back up, and it’s not the overwhelming, all-consuming surge. Something else. Something that clicks. Fits. What, Bucky has no clue, but this kid has him on his knees without lifting a finger.
He smells… exactly the same as those blankets, but so pure it almost hurts.
It claws at Bucky’s insides, demanding something of him he can't give because he doesn't even know what it is. Whatever it is though, the kid can have it. Especially if he does that again—laughs like he’s doing right now—a nervous, quiet chuckle that’s almost unfair. A sound, any sound, shouldn’t be allowed to do that to a man.
“I’m—” Bucky croaks, throat dry, scrambling to catch up.
“Bucky,” the kid helps, nodding, edging closer, and that’s not helping. “I’m—I’m—uh, Peter?”
Is he asking or telling? Bucky’s good with Peter. That—
That works. Right? That’s a name.
What—yes.
Bucky keeps staring. Doesn’t know for how long, since the world’s blurred to hell, everything muted except for Peter, and Bucky’s still got nothing, except for, apparently, instinct. Honestly, he could stay here on his knees indefinitely, just looking up.
Could—
There’s movement behind him, the doors sliding open again, and Clint’s sleepy voice booms through the fog, not quite, but almost snapping Bucky out.
“Bro, you gonna move or what?”
It’s just Clint. Bucky knows Clint. Clint’s pack. Bucky occasionally, albeit rarely, doesn’t even want to strangle Clint. It’s fine. It’s—
Another alpha.
Time slips again.
The next thing Bucky knows, the kid—Peter—is sitting on the counter, looking dazed. There’s a broken plate of pancakes on the floor by Bucky’s feet, and Clint is shouting, “What the fuck, Barnes?” while holding onto Bucky’s wrist.
Bucky blinks—once, twice—his hands massive on Peter's waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel the sinew of warm muscle. The world sharpens somewhat, and Bucky tears himself away to look at Clint, who seems more confused than angry, his nose… shit, bleeding. Bucky’s not sure how he got here, how any of this happened, but Peter isn’t squirming and isn't trying to get away. That counts for something, right? That’s—
The only thing that matters.
“Bucky, you maybe wanna let go of this nice little O?” Clint tries speaking softly, cautious, as if he’s talking to a spooked animal, and Bucky shakes his head, not letting go. Physically can’t. Doesn’t want to either. Actually a bit afraid of what happens if he does.
“Back off,” he growls at Clint instead, flashing some fang. Then frowns, because. Because. Clint’s pack.
“Jesus, alright,” Clint releases his wrist, stepping back. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
Too late for that. Bucky’s already knee-deep in stupid. He looks back at Peter, and there’s no fear there. Trust? Fuck, Bucky hopes it’s trust. Bucky hopes for a lot of things. He couldn’t name a single one of them, but he’s suddenly more hopeful than he’s been in years.
“Alright?” he purrs, tilting his head, and Peter nods slowly, a blinding tentative smile tugging at his lips. He seems comfortable, which is good. Calm too, which is amazing. Too calm for someone with an alpha who might have gone insane looming over him, maybe, but Bucky ain’t complaining. He’s got absolutely nothing to complain about.
“Yeah, it’s just… a lot,” Peter admits, and there’s that laugh, giddy and nervous and… precious. “You know?”
Bucky does. Now he does. He feels—
Whole.
He’s finally caught up to what his wolf figured out in an instant.
Bucky’s not an idiot—at least, not most of the time. He’s been around the block long enough to know how this is supposed to go. Maybe even sat through one of those awkward classes back in the day where they talked about instincts and the importance of keeping your shit together. There’s a process, sort of—rules of engagement when an alpha and omega get tangled up like this. Steps. How to handle a situation when your wolf decides to choose based on a single fucking sniff and one eye contact. Alphas going soft, omegas melting into puddles; theory they all know. What to do. How to behave, if you’re lucky enough, that is. Slow and steady, mutual consent, all that. How to—
Peter’s leaning into him, his eyes half-lidded and hazy, and, as it turns out, theory’s a bunch of bullshit when you’re staring at and holding the real thing. And the real thing—Peter—is here, right in front of Bucky, warm, and smells of mate.
Bucky’s wolf is begging to lock it down, so Bucky listens. He leans in, rubbing his nose along the side of Peter’s cheek, letting the sensation seep into his skin, kissing his temple, eyes closing.
It’s—
Peter’s fingers tighten around Bucky’s t-shirt, fisting the fabric, and Peter’s breath is scorching. And soothing. Both. Then Peter whimpers, just a bit, and Bucky’s heart stutters like a faulty engine. It’s dizzying. Peter’s dizzying. A wonder. Bucky’s wonder. Right?
“I think—I think you’re making me dumb,” Peter whispers into Bucky’s ear, breathless, laughing again—light, shaky. “I feel dumb. Kinda? It’s... it’s great? Don’t… Don’t let go? Please?”
Bucky loves that sound, that voice, and he’d tear the world apart just to hear it again. He huffs out a laugh too, nuzzling closer, pressing forward and between Peter’s thighs, snaking his arms around his small, lithe body.
He gets it now, he really does. He feels dumb as hell, sure, but that’s nothing new. Might be a pre-existing condition, actually, but it’s the best kind of dumb Bucky’s ever felt. Dumb and lucky and fucking terrified. Arguably, he’s at least mildly aware of his brain having left the building, hitchhiked to the next state over, and set up camp somewhere in the wilderness. So Peter ain’t the only one riding the “so happy I am stupid with it” train. But—
“I’m just gonna,” Bucky purrs, feeling Peter’s smile against his jaw, a small curve of warmth that makes Bucky’s chest tighten. “I’m just gonna hold onto you just in case, yeah?”
Peter smiles wider, warmer, and it sends more weird, reckless pulses through Bucky’s veins. His wolf is doing somersaults, tail practically wagging, torn between something fragile that sizzles right down to the bone and a nagging need to claim as soon as possible, to make sure every fucker out there knows this one’s his.
He pulls Peter even closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck, thumb brushing against the hair there. This is supposed to be the part where Bucky steps back, where he gives Peter some space, maybe takes a breath himself to remember how to act like a human being instead of a wolf with a one-track mind. But—
Can’t. Won’t. Rules? Fuck rules.
“I’m gonna have a little taste, sweetheart,” Bucky mutters. This is what he’s supposed to do, what he needs to do. He tilts Peter’s head, lips brushing against the skin of his neck, and everything else fades away further.
“Yeah,” Peter whimpers again, now downright clawing at Bucky’s t-shirt, trying to climb him. Huh, succeeding, and Bucky’s hips are nearly crushed from sudden pressure applied all around him, small palms holding onto his shoulders. Strong little omega. Adorable. “You—you do that.”
The room might as well be empty for all the notice Bucky gives it. This—this is the only thing that makes sense right now. True north, and the scent’s stronger here, right against the pulse point in Peter’s neck—sweet and fresh. Bucky breathes it in deep, something in his chest settling even as his heart races. Peter smells of comfort, of home, of that one thing that Bucky knows will keep him from tearing himself apart over and over.
And then, as if to completely wreck Bucky’s shit, Peter purrs:
“Alpha.”
The word rolls out, rolls over Bucky, and gets his wolf howling—unstoppable—and Bucky growls.
Low, heavy, from somewhere primal that hasn’t seen daylight in years. Ever. That word isn’t just inviting; it stakes a claim too, just as deep as any mark Bucky might leave on Peter. It takes whatever control Bucky might have had—what little he’s clinging to—and frays it, splits it at the seams, cutting him open, letting the animal out. And Bucky can’t fight it—didn’t even want to before, sure as hell unable to now.
Bucky’s mouth is on Peter’s skin before he even realizes he’s moved.
His tongue swipes over, dragging along the curve of Peter’s neck, hot and wet. There’s a shudder that runs through Peter, and Bucky feels it everywhere. Fuck, it’s good. Better than anything Bucky’s ever had, better than he imagined he could ever have it.
Peter trembles against him, hands sliding down to Bucky’s back, tightening their grip, nails digging in, fingers bruising. Bucky licks again, rougher this time, savoring the way Peter’s pulse jumps under his tongue, fast and erratic.
“Fuck,” Bucky rasps. His lips trail lower, teeth grazing the tender flesh, teasing, testing. He’s got him, and Peter is melting into him, pliant, exactly how Bucky wants him. Peter makes a new noise—a half-whimper, half-moan that shoots straight through Bucky. He bites down lightly, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make sure Peter feels it. A promise.
“More,” Peter breathes out, and that would drive any alpha wild. Bucky’s no exception. He’s already mostly gone, and Peter’s just poured gasoline on the fire. Can’t stop now. Not when Peter smells this good, tastes this good. Not when his wolf is purring with satisfaction.
Peter’s head falls back, giving Bucky even more access, and he doesn’t waste it. He licks up the side of Peter’s neck, Peter’s skin burning under his mouth, and it’s so incredible it scares Bucky a little.
“You taste so fuckin’ good,” Bucky grunts against Peter’s skin, lips brushing over the spot he just licked. He lingers there, breathing him in, letting the scent of Peter—his mate—fill his lungs. Peter’s fingers dig into Bucky’s shoulder blades so hard, Bucky nearly flinches. “I got you, sweetheart. Ain’t ever lettin’ go.”
Peter gasps, this quiet, breathy sound that’s half another moan and all surrender, and Bucky’s hooked on it—addicted already—and it’s only been minutes. Seconds. Fuck, he doesn’t even know anymore. He licks again and completely loses his mind when Peter moans properly. Loudly. Bucky forgets who the fuck he is. Where he is. His wolf’s snarling now, more insistent, demanding he take what’s his, and Bucky’s mouth waters further, fangs out.
“You’re mine,” he growls—not a question, not a request—just a fact. “Say it.”
“Duh,” murmurs Peter, nibbling on Bucky’s ear. “‘Course I am. Yours.”
Bucky’s grip tightens, holding Peter in place, making damn sure he’s not going anywhere. Not that Peter’s trying to. No, Peter’s stuck to him, pressed into him, giving himself over completely, and Bucky’s world locks, his wolf taking the wheel. Pure possession, and Bucky’s not even sorry.
Peter’s his, and anyone who even thinks of coming between them?
Dead fucking meat.
He moves to bite down, fully, and Peter keens, making this desperate, needy noise that damn near incinerates Bucky from the inside.
Voices. Faint, panicked, like gnats buzzing around his head. Someone’s yelling—maybe more than one someone. Bucky hears them, sure, like he hears the wind when he’s half asleep. It’s there, but who gives a shit? Just noise. Meaningless. Background static.
Something clatters to the floor. Could be plastic, metal, or could be the goddamn sky falling for all Bucky cares. His brain barely registers it, just somewhat clocking that Peter’s hand is moving, reaching for something as if it fucking matters. Again and again, accompanied by clacking sounds.
There’s a sliver of Bucky, the soldier part, the one that’s been kicking and screaming since the day he crawled out of that Hydra freezer, always paying attention, always surviving by the skin of his teeth, that’s raising hell. Throwing warnings at him, red flags going up all over the place.
“Don’t do this,” it shouts, “You’re gonna fuck everything up.”
Fuck that. The animal is stronger, and it’s so close to winning. It’s been starving, and now there’s a buffet. It knows exactly what it wants, what it needs, and what it’s going to take. Bucky’s vision tunnels, the world blurring at the edges as his fangs press against Peter’s skin, the taste of him on his tongue—sweet and perfect. Mine, mine, mine.
Bite. Mark. Claim. The urge is white-hot, burning through every rational thought faster than a flamethrower through paper, blotting out the rest of the nonsense.
His lips curl back, fangs scraping skin. Bucky can almost taste the coppery tang of blood that’s just a fraction of an inch away. He’s there, just a little more pressure, just a little deeper, and—
He’ll never be alone again. He’ll—
He’ll have everything he will ever need.
“Stop!” Tony. Louder, sharper than the rest.
For a split second, Bucky hesitates, just enough to stall him, to give him pause. The animal doesn’t care though, driving him forward. Keeps moving, keeps pressing. Peter is arching into him, offering more, begging without words. So why not do it? Why not bite down, right here, right now?
A repulsor goes off, a blast of heat and force slamming into Bucky’s side at point-blank range, and all that animal need and human want gets knocked the fuck out.