on the cusp of something mediocre.

"You gonna move, or am I carryin' you off this train?" Bucky's breath was warm against his ear, and Tony's spine did that mortifying thing where it wanted to curve backward into the Alpha's chest. His body had opinions lately. Loud ones.

"I'm savoring the air conditioning," Tony lied through his teeth, because the subway car was a suffocating metal coffin that reeked of Beta perspiration and someone's tragic egg salad lunch. His own scent was probably broadcasting his lies like a radio tower, all nervous-sweet anticipation.

Bucky's hand found the small of his back—just his pinky and ring finger touching bare skin where Tony's shirt had ridden up. The contact was nothing, barely there, but Tony's glands pulsed once, hard, flooding his mouth with copper. His knees went liquid.

He stumbled forward before his body could do something truly mortifying, like arch into that touch until Bucky had no choice but to catch him. Or worse—whimper. In public. Like some Victorian maiden with the vapors.

The platform was chaos. Families everywhere, kids with sticky fingers clutching wooden nickels, teenage couples pressed together despite the heat. A Beta woman's toddler careened into Tony's legs, leaving what appeared to be chocolate handprints on his trousers. Spectacular.

Tony's designation should have made him invisible here—male Omegas, if present, were ghosts in crowds. Neither fish nor fowl, evolutionary hiccups that nobody quite knew what to do with. But Bucky's presence changed the equation. The Alpha walked half a step behind him, close enough that his scent created a barrier, pine and gunpowder and something darker underneath. Mine, it said, without Bucky having to open his mouth. Claimed, even without a single tooth mark to show for it.

Tony's neck burned at the thought. The unmarked skin of his throat felt obscene suddenly, naked. He tugged at his collar.

"Where to first?" Bucky asked once they'd fought their way through the turnstiles. His hand landed on Tony's hip, steering him through the crowd with a casualness that made Tony's pulse skip. "Wanna hit the beach? Get some grub? Try our luck at the penny arcade?"

I want you to put your mouth on me until I forget my own name, Tony thought, then bit down hard on his tongue. The pain helped, a little. Grounded him.

"Food," he managed, voice only slightly strangled. "Definitely food. I'm wasting away. Look at me. Practically skeletal."

Bucky's laugh rumbled through the space between them, and Tony felt it in his sternum like a tuning fork. "You ate three eggs this morning. Steve's eggs. That he made for himself."

"He offered to share."

"You took his plate right outta his hands."

"He wasn't eating fast enough." Tony squinted against the sun, already feeling the heat painting itself across his cheekbones. Perfect. He'd look like a boiled lobster within the hour. Very attractive. "Time is money, Barnes. Besides, I'm a growing boy. Need to keep my strength up for all this... wholesome American entertainment. Very taxing on the constitution."

"That what we're calling it?" Bucky's thumb found the strip of skin above Tony's waistband again, pressing just hard enough to make Tony's step falter. "Guess I better keep you well-fed then."

They ended up at Nathan's, because where else would they go? The line snaked around the building, and Tony found himself pressed between a sweating Beta family of six and Bucky's solid warmth. Every time the line shuffled forward, Bucky's hand would ghost across his hip, his lower back, the nape of his neck. Unnecessary. Maddening.

Tony's hindbrain catalogued each touch with embarrassing eagerness: Alpha touching. Alpha claiming. Alpha wants us to smell like him.

"You're growling," Tony muttered.

"Am not," Bucky said, then immediately proved himself a liar as another Alpha—tall, broad, reeking of pomade and ego—tried to cut ahead in line. The sound that came out of Bucky's chest was subsonic, felt more than heard.

The other Alpha took one look at Bucky and decided the back of the line was actually preferable. Smart man.

"Very civilized," Tony observed. "What's next, beating your chest? Marking your territory on the lamppost?"

"Don't tempt me." Bucky's hand slid up to cup the back of Tony's neck, thumb pressing into the gland there just hard enough to make Tony's vision white out at the edges. "You smell like anxiety. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I always smell like this. It's my signature scent. Eau de Perpetual Panic."

"Tony."

"I'm fine. Just..." Tony's throat clicked as he swallowed. "There's a lot of people."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The crowd pressed in from all sides, too many scents mingling into a nauseating cocktail. His skin felt too tight, hypersensitive to every brush of a stranger's arm, every accidental jostle. His body couldn't decide if it wanted to flee or freeze.

Bucky made a considering noise, then shifted his position. Suddenly Tony was bracketed by the Alpha's body—Bucky's chest to his back, arms caging him in as he gripped the railing. Protected. Hidden.

The relief was immediate and mortifying. Tony's entire body went loose, tension bleeding out of his muscles like someone had pulled a plug. His scent shifted, going honey-sweet with gratitude before he could stop it.

"Better?" Bucky's voice was carefully neutral, but Tony could feel the pleased rumble in his chest.

Tony nodded, not trusting his voice. His biology was making executive decisions without his permission again. Safe, his hindbrain purred. Alpha keeping us safe.

"You ever been here before?" Bucky asked, chin nearly resting on Tony's head. This close, Tony could smell everything—the dockyard salt that never quite left Bucky's skin, the faint trace of Lucky Strikes, that underneath-scent that made Tony's mouth water like he was the one queuing for hot dogs.

"Once." The memory surfaced reluctantly, like something dredged up from the harbor. "Howard brought me. I was... ten, maybe? Eleven? Some business associate had a son who needed entertaining." Tony scratched at a mosquito bite on his forearm, feeling Bucky tense behind him.

"Kid threw up on the Thunderbolt," Tony continued. "All over my shoes. Sixty-dollar Oxfords, absolutely ruined. Howard made me walk around in them the rest of the day as a lesson in... honestly, I never figured out what the lesson was supposed to be. Humility? Don't stand too close to nauseous children? The world may never know."

Bucky's hand found his hip again, thumb pressing into the hollow just above his waistband. "Your father's a real piece of work."

"Yeah, well." Tony's throat felt tight, his glands pulsing with something that might have been distress if he let it. He swallowed it down. "At least I got to keep the shoes. Made excellent kindling."

They reached the counter before Bucky could respond. The Beta boy taking orders looked roughly twelve and deeply uninterested in anything beyond his next cigarette break.

"Two with everything," Bucky ordered. "Extra onions on one. And two Cokes."

"Extra onions?" Tony wrinkled his nose. "You trying to ward off vampires? Because I have to tell you, the crucifix is traditionally more effective."

"Trying to see if you'll still kiss me after."

The words landed like a fist to the solar plexus. Tony's face went nuclear, and the order boy's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. Behind them, someone coughed.

"That'll be thirty cents," the kid said, fighting a smirk.

Bucky paid while Tony concentrated on not spontaneously combusting. Or melting through the floorboards. Or whimpering. Again.

They found a spot along the railing facing the beach, and Tony bit into his hot dog with perhaps more aggression than the situation warranted. The bun never stood a chance.

"Good?" Bucky asked, watching him with that particular intensity that made Tony feel like he was being catalogued for future reference.

"Transcendent. Life-changing. I may weep." A blob of mustard escaped, landing on his shirt. "Oh, for fuck's—"

Bucky reached over with his napkin before Tony could finish the thought, dabbing at the stain. The gesture was thoughtless, automatic, the kind of thing Tony had seen him do for Steve a dozen times. But Bucky's knuckles brushed against Tony's chest, right over his rabbiting heart, and they both froze.

The beach sounds faded—the shrieking gulls, the crying children, the distant calliope music. All Tony could hear was his own blood rushing in his ears and Bucky's breath catching, just slightly. The Alpha's pupils dilated, nostrils flaring as he caught whatever Tony's scent was doing.

Which was probably embarrassing. Definitely embarrassing.

"Got it," Bucky said, voice rough like he'd been gargling gravel.

Tony nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He took another bite of hot dog and nearly choked when Bucky's thumb swept across the corner of his mouth.

"Mustard," Bucky explained, then very deliberately licked his thumb clean.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

"You're doing that on purpose," Tony accused once he'd managed to swallow without dying. His voice came out approximately two octaves higher than usual.

"Doing what?" All innocence, except for the way Bucky's pupils had blown black and his scent had gone dark with satisfaction.

"Being..." Tony gestured vaguely at all of Bucky, which was a mistake because it made him actually look at all of Bucky. The way his white undershirt clung to his chest with sweat. The way his forearms looked, tanned and strong where he'd rolled up his sleeves. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. "This. All of this. It's psychological warfare."

"Can't help being me, sweetheart."

The endearment slithered down Tony's spine like honey, pooling hot in his pelvis. His scent spiked, going sweet-desperate before he could stop it, and Bucky's nostrils flared again.

"Want to hit the beach after this?" Bucky asked, merciful enough to pretend he couldn't smell Tony's biological betrayal. "Cool off a little?"

The thought of Bucky in swimming trunks was enough to make Tony's higher brain functions flatline. "I don't... I didn't bring anything to swim in."

"Could rent some trunks from the bathhouse."

"Pass. I'll take my chances with sand in unmentionable places over rented swimwear. God knows what's living in those things." Tony finished his hot dog and sucked the grease off his fingers, pretending not to notice how Bucky's eyes tracked the movement like a predator watching prey. "Besides, I burn. Tragically. One minute in direct sunlight and I look like a lobster. A very angry, very uncomfortable lobster."

"Could rub some suntan oil on you," Bucky offered, and there was nothing innocent about it this time. His voice dropped half an octave, pure heat and promise.

Tony's next inhale got stuck somewhere around his sternum. His skin prickled, oversensitive, imagining Bucky's hands slick with oil and intention. "Is this your plan? Death by inappropriate public suggestions?"

"Nothing inappropriate about offering to protect your delicate skin." Bucky stepped closer, bracketing Tony against the railing. Not touching, but close enough that Tony could feel the heat radiating off him, could taste his scent on the back of his tongue. "Would hate for you to burn, baby."

Tony's knees went liquid, and he had to lock them to stay upright. His glands pulsed, releasing a fresh wave of want-need-please into the air between them.

"Beach," he managed, the word coming out strangled. "Let's... let's go to the beach before I do something inadvisable. Like climb you. Right here. In front of the hot dog stand."

Bucky's grin was pure predator. "Whatever you want, doll."

They rented an umbrella from a leathery old Omega who took one look at them—Tony's flushed face, Bucky's possessive hovering—and cackled knowingly. She made Tony fork over an extra nickel "for the prime location, sugar. You'll want the privacy."

Tony was going to die of mortification. His tombstone would read: Here lies Anthony Edward Stark. He died as he lived: broadcasting his hormones to every Omega in a five-mile radius.

The spot was tucked between two dunes, far enough from the main crowd that the screaming children were just background noise. Tony could still smell other people, but faintly, filtered through sand and salt air.

Tony stripped off his shoes and socks, rolling his pants up to his knees. The sand was almost too hot, making him hop from foot to foot like some kind of demented flamingo until Bucky laughed and steadied him with hands on his waist.

"Graceful," Bucky teased, thumbs stroking over Tony's hipbones.

"Shut up. Not all of us have... dock-hardened feet, or whatever."

They spread out the blanket the umbrella crone had thrown in ("For the lovebirds," she'd winked, making Tony contemplate justifiable homicide). Bucky sprawled out immediately, shameless, pulling his undershirt over his head in one smooth motion.

Tony forgot how to breathe.

He'd seen Bucky shirtless before—their weekend at the apartment had involved several states of undress, usually interrupted by Steve's terrible timing—but not like this. Not in daylight that caught on the sheen of sweat already gathering in the hollow of his throat. Not with all that skin on display, begging to be touched, tasted, marked.

Tony's mouth watered. His hands twitched with the effort of not reaching out.

"You gonna sit down or just stand there cataloguing my assets?" Bucky asked without opening his eyes.

"I'm not—I'm surveying. For optimal seating position."

"Uh-huh." Bucky patted the blanket beside him. "C'mere before you combust."

Tony folded himself down carefully, aiming for a respectable distance. Bucky made a dissatisfied noise and immediately closed the gap, hauling Tony against his side with an arm around his waist.

"Better," Bucky declared, nosing at Tony's temple.

Tony was going to die. He was going to die on a beach in Coney Island, overcome by the feeling of Bucky's bare skin against his clothed side. The Alpha was fever-hot, his scent concentrated where sweat gathered at his collarbone, behind his ear, the soft skin of his wrist where his pulse beat steady and sure.

"Relax," Bucky murmured, thumb stroking over Tony's shirt where it had ridden up. Skin on skin. "You're wound tighter than a watch spring. Can feel it in your shoulders."

"I am relaxed. This is me at peak relaxation. Any more relaxed and I'd be unconscious."

"Your scent says otherwise."

Tony went still, mortification crawling up his spine. "What does my scent say?"

Bucky turned his head, nose brushing Tony's temple. This close, Tony could see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, could count his eyelashes, could see his own flushed face reflected in blown pupils.

"Says you want something," Bucky said quietly, voice dropping to that register that made Tony's hindbrain roll over and show its belly. "Says you're thinking too hard about wanting it."

Tony's mouth went dry. His pulse thundered in his ears. "And if I am?"

"Then I'd tell you to stop thinking." Bucky's hand slid up to cup the back of Tony's neck, thumb pressing into that spot that made Tony's whole body go liquid. A broken sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. "I'd tell you that you can have whatever you want, baby. You just gotta ask."

The beach, the crowds, the whole world narrowed down to this: Bucky's hand on his neck, Bucky's mouth so close Tony could taste his exhale, Bucky's scent wrapping around him like something physical, possessive, claiming.

"Buck..." Tony's voice came out wrecked already, and they hadn't even done anything. His skin felt too tight, oversensitive, every nerve ending focused on the points where Bucky touched him.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"I—"

A beach ball smacked into the umbrella pole, spraying sand across their blanket. A pack of kids ran by, shrieking apologies without slowing down.

The moment shattered like glass.

Bucky laughed, but there was frustration in it. He dropped his hand to brush sand off the blanket, movements sharp. Tony concentrated on remembering how to breathe like a normal person and not like someone who'd just run a marathon. Or been seconds away from climbing into Bucky's lap in full view of every family in Brooklyn.

"Come on," Bucky said after a moment, standing and offering Tony a hand up. His scent was still dark, agitated. "Let's walk. Clear our heads."

Or make terrible decisions, Tony thought, but he took Bucky's hand anyway.

They left their shoes with their things and walked along the water's edge. The wet sand was cooler, soothing against Tony's overheated skin. Bucky had slung his shirt over his shoulder, apparently committed to Tony's death by pectoral exposure.

"Steve would love this," Tony said, desperate for conversation that didn't revolve around how badly he wanted to lick the salt off Bucky's collarbone. Or bite that tendon in his neck. Or find out what sounds the Alpha would make if Tony—"The ocean air. Probably be good for his lungs."

"Already planning to drag him out here next weekend," Bucky agreed. His hand found Tony's again, fingers interlacing. "Assuming I can pry him away from his crusade to personally fistfight Hitler."

"Bare fists would be an improvement. At least then he'd have weapons. Currently it's more 'angry chihuahua versus the Wehrmacht.'"

"Don't let him hear you say that. He's sensitive. And scrappy."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, dodging waves and tiny children with buckets. Tony found himself hyperaware of every point of contact—their joined hands, Bucky's thumb stroking over his knuckles, the way their shoulders brushed with each step.

A pretty blonde Omega, couldn't be older than twenty, turned to watch Bucky pass. Her scent went sweet and inviting, artificial like dime store perfume, and Tony's hindbrain snarled. Something hot and ugly twisted in his gut, flooding his mouth with copper.

Without thinking, Tony pressed closer to Bucky's side, his scent spiking territorial. Mine, it said, loud enough that the blonde's eyes widened and she took a step back.

Bucky's arm came around him immediately, tugging him close. "Easy, sweetheart."

"I'm fine," Tony bit out. His skin felt too hot, prickly with irrational anger.

"Tony." Bucky stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "You're growling."

"I am not—" Tony stopped. He was. A low, continuous rumble in his chest that he hadn't even noticed. "She was looking at you."

"Who was?"

"The blonde one. With the..." Tony made a vague gesture at his own chest. "The assets. The obvious assets. On display."

Bucky's eyebrows climbed. "I didn't notice."

"Sure you didn't."

"I didn't." Bucky's hands came up to frame Tony's face, firm enough that Tony couldn't look away. His thumbs stroked over Tony's cheekbones, and Tony's growl stuttered, died. "You know why?"

Tony shook his head mutely.

"Because I was watching you." Bucky's thumb caught on Tony's bottom lip. "Been watching you all day. Can't seem to stop, actually. Driving me crazy, the way you lick ice cream off your fingers. The way your nose scrunches when you laugh. The way you smell right now, all possessive and sweet. Like you want to climb me and bite me and make sure everyone knows I'm yours."

"I don't—" Tony's protest died as Bucky leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

"And I fucking love it," Bucky growled, and Tony's knees gave out.

Bucky caught him, of course. Laughing, hauling him upright, pressing a kiss to his temple that did nothing to help Tony's structural integrity.

"Come on, jellyfish. Let's get you out of the sun before you melt completely."

They made their way to the Wonder Wheel, Bucky's hand firm on the small of Tony's back. The line was mercifully short, and soon they were climbing into one of the swinging cars.

"Oh, I don't like this," Tony announced the moment the car started moving. His stomach swooped, and not in the pleasant way it did when Bucky touched him. "I've changed my mind. Let me off."

"Too late." Bucky pulled him away from the door, laughing. "Come here, you're fine."

"I'm not fine. We're in a death trap. A swinging death trap." The car rocked, and Tony's fingers dug into the bench. "Oh God. This is how I die. Not even heroically. Just... swinging."

"Hey." Bucky's voice dropped to that low, soothing register that made Tony's hindbrain purr. "Look at me."

Tony dragged his gaze away from the horrifying drop below. Bucky had positioned himself on the bench, legs spread, patting the space between them.

"Come here," he repeated, Alpha-voice threading through the words. Not a command, but close enough that Tony's body moved without his permission.

"That seems like it would make the weight distribution worse—"

"Tony. Trust me."

And damn it, Tony did. He carefully made his way over, letting Bucky arrange him so his back was pressed to Bucky's chest, Bucky's arms wrapped securely around his waist. The position put Bucky's mouth right by his ear, his scent glands inches from Tony's nose.

"Better?" Bucky asked, breath warm against Tony's neck.

Tony nodded, not trusting his voice. Because it was better. The fear was still there, but muted now under the overwhelming feeling of safe-protected-held. Bucky's scent enveloped him, and Tony's body responded without his permission, going pliant and trusting. Submit, his hindbrain suggested. Let Alpha take care of us.

"Look," Bucky said softly. "You can see everything from up here."

Tony forced himself to look out, and oh. Bucky was right. The entire beach spread below them, the ocean stretching endlessly blue. He could see the Parachute Jump, the Cyclone's wooden bones, thousands of people reduced to colorful specks.

"Beautiful," Bucky murmured, but when Tony turned his head, Bucky wasn't looking at the view.

The car swung again, and Tony pressed back instinctively. His ass ground against Bucky's lap, and they both froze. Tony could feel—

"Sorry," Tony gasped. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize." Bucky's voice had gone rough, strained. His arms tightened, and Tony felt more than heard the Alpha's sharp inhale. "Never apologize for wanting to be close to me."

They stayed like that for the rest of the ride, Tony melting degree by degree into Bucky's hold. By the time they reached the ground, Tony felt drunk on it—the safety, the warmth, the evidence of Bucky's arousal pressed against him.

"See?" Bucky said as they climbed out. His voice was carefully level, but his scent was pure Alpha arousal, dark and thick. "Survived and everything."

"Barely," Tony muttered. His legs felt like jelly. Other parts of him felt... interested. Very interested.

They wandered through the midway in a haze of sexual tension thick enough to cut. Bucky's hands never stopped moving—the small of Tony's back, his hip, his neck. Claiming touches that had Tony's skin hypersensitive and his scent broadcasting want to anyone with a functioning nose.

At the ring toss, Bucky caged Tony against the counter to "help him aim." His chest pressed to Tony's back, hands covering Tony's on the rings. Tony missed every shot.

"You're terrible at this," Bucky laughed, breath hot against Tony's ear.

"Wonder why," Tony managed. His voice came out embarrassingly breathy.

Bucky won him a hideous stuffed bear anyway ("For Steve," he said, grinning wickedly. "Tell him it's from his loving husband"). Tony retaliated by dragging him to the shooting gallery, where he proceeded to destroy the high score despite Bucky's deliberate attempts at distraction.

"How are you this good?" Bucky demanded, watching Tony nail another perfect round. His hand was on Tony's ass. Had been for the last three rounds.

"Mechanical aptitude," Tony said primly, trying to ignore the way Bucky's thumb was stroking over his back pocket. "Also, I may have taken apart one of these when I was fourteen. Howard had to pay for damages. And a new carnival."

"Of course you did." Bucky pressed closer, and Tony's next shot went wide. "Oops."

"You're a menace," Tony accused, turning in Bucky's arms. "A handsy, distracting menace."

"You love it," Bucky said, and kissed him right there in the middle of the midway.

It wasn't a polite kiss. It was claiming, filthy, Bucky's tongue in his mouth and his hands gripping Tony's hips hard enough to bruise. Tony made a sound that would have been embarrassing if he'd had any shame left, fingers fisting in Bucky's hair.

Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else told them to get a room.

Bucky pulled back just enough to speak against Tony's lips. "Cotton candy?"

"What?" Tony's brain was offline. All he could process was Bucky's mouth, Bucky's hands, Bucky's arousal pressed against his hip.

"I believe I promised you cotton candy. Pink. A whole bushel."

"Oh. Right. Yes. That."

Bucky grinned, pressing one more kiss to Tony's swollen mouth before leading him away. Tony followed in a daze, his lips tingling and his scent absolutely wrecked.

They found a vendor near the boardwalk, and Bucky made good on his promise, buying a cone of pink spun sugar bigger than Tony's head. They found a spot on the beach to watch the sunset, passing the cotton candy back and forth.

"This is excessive," Tony said, pulling off a piece. It dissolved on his tongue, pure sweetness.

"Nothing excessive about it." Bucky stole a piece, but instead of eating it himself, he held it up to Tony's mouth. "Open."

Tony's face flamed, but he opened. Bucky placed the candy on his tongue, thumb dragging over Tony's bottom lip.

"Good boy," Bucky murmured, and Tony almost choked.

"You can't just—" Tony sputtered. "You can't say things like that. In public. Where people can hear."

"Why not?" Bucky pulled off another piece of cotton candy, eating this one himself. "It's true. You are good. The best."

Tony hid his face in his hands. "I'm going to combust. They'll find my ashes in the wind and wonder what happened."

"'Here lies Tony Stark,'" Bucky intoned solemnly. "'He died of compliments.'"

"You're the worst." Tony peeked through his fingers. "The absolute worst."

"Yeah?" Bucky tugged Tony's hands away from his face. "That why you smell so happy?"

Tony couldn't deny it. He was happy. Stupidly, embarrassingly happy, in a way that had nothing to do with defying Howard or proving a point. He was happy because Bucky was looking at him like he hung the moon, because the sunset was painting the sky in impossible colors, because for once in his life he felt wanted. Desired. Chosen.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For today."

Bucky's expression softened. "You don't have to thank me for wanting to spend time with you."

"Still." Tony pulled off another piece of cotton candy, offering it to Bucky. "This was... nice."

"Just nice?" Bucky accepted the candy, but he caught Tony's wrist, pressing a kiss to his pulse point. "I must be doing something wrong if it's just nice."

Tony's pulse skittered under Bucky's lips. "Fishing for compliments is unbecoming, Barnes."

"Then give me something better than nice." Bucky's teeth scraped over the delicate skin of Tony's wrist, and Tony made an embarrassing sound. "Tell me what you really think."

The truth was dangerous. The truth was that Tony wanted to live in this day forever, suspended in the space between wanting and having. The truth was that every time Bucky touched him, looked at him, said his name, Tony felt claimed in a way that had nothing to do with teeth or formal bonds.

"This," Tony said finally. "Right now. You. This is... everything."

Bucky's expression did something complicated, fierce and soft at once. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They sat in silence as the sun disappeared into the ocean. The beach was emptying out, families packing up their umbrellas and heading home. Soon it would just be the teenagers and the couples looking for dark corners.

Tony knew they should go. Knew he had curfew, had classes tomorrow, had a hundred reasons to end this perfect day. But Bucky's hand was on his thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles, and Tony couldn't make himself move.

"We should head back," he said finally, reluctantly. "Steve's probably wondering where you are."

"Steve's probably already asleep." But Bucky stood, offering Tony a hand up. "One more stop?"

"Buck, I don't think I can handle any more rides. My stomach is still recovering from the Wheel of Death."

"Not a ride. Come on, trust me."

Tony followed him back to the midway, past the games and the freak show advertisements, to a photo booth tucked between two vendor stalls.

"Really?" Tony asked.

"What? I want documentation of your first real Coney Island trip." Bucky was already feeding coins into the slot. "Come on, squeeze in."

The booth was built for people significantly smaller than Bucky Barnes. Tony ended up in his lap, Bucky's arm around his waist to keep him from sliding off the tiny bench. The position put Tony's back against Bucky's chest again, Bucky's thighs bracketing his own.

"Smile," Bucky said as the first flash went off.

Tony smiled, probably looking dazed and debauched.

The second flash: Bucky pressed a kiss to Tony's temple, nose in his hair.

The third: Tony turned to protest and found Bucky's face inches from his own, eyes dark with want.

The fourth: Their mouths met, desperate and claiming.

They stumbled out of the booth, Tony's face burning and his mouth swollen. Bucky retrieved the photo strip, grinning at the results.

"Perfect," he declared.

"Let me see." Tony made a grab for it, but Bucky held it out of reach. "Buck!"

"Tell you what." Bucky pulled out his wallet, carefully tucking the photos inside. "You can have them when you finally agree to spend the night again."

Tony's mouth fell open. "That's blackmail. That's actual blackmail. You're a blackmailer."

"That's incentive." Bucky slung an arm around Tony's shoulders, steering him toward the subway. "Come on, princess. Let's get you home before you turn into a pumpkin. A very grumpy, very kissed pumpkin."

The train ride back was quieter, Tony drowsing against Bucky's shoulder as Brooklyn rushed by outside the windows. He was sunburned and exhausted and still had sand in uncomfortable places, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this content. This claimed.

"Hey," Bucky said softly as they reached Tony's stop. "You okay? You've been quiet."

Tony realized he'd been silent for too long, lost in the feeling of Bucky's fingers in his hair. "Yeah. Just... today was good."

"Good." Bucky pressed a kiss to his hair. "We can do it again. Whenever you want. Every day if you want."

They walked slowly from the station, neither of them eager for the day to end. The Institute loomed ahead, all its windows dark except for the entrance hall where Byron would inevitably be waiting with his clipboard and his judgment.

"I should go," Tony said when they reached the corner where they usually parted. "Before Byron sends out a search party. Or worse, calls Howard."

"Okay." But Bucky didn't let go of his hand. Instead, he tugged Tony into the shadows between two buildings, pressing him against the brick.

"Buck—"

"Just... give me a minute." Bucky's hands framed Tony's face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. "Been wanting to do this all day."

"We've been kissing all day," Tony pointed out breathlessly.

"Not like this." Bucky leaned in, and Tony's eyes fluttered shut. "Not without an audience."

The kiss was different from their others. Slower, deeper, Bucky's tongue mapping Tony's mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste. Tony's hands fisted in Bucky's shirt, pulling him closer, and Bucky made a low sound that vibrated through both their chests.

When Bucky's mouth moved to Tony's throat, Tony's head fell back against the brick.

"Don't," he gasped. "Don't leave marks. They'll—school will—"

"I know." Bucky's teeth scraped over Tony's pulse point, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make Tony whine. "Doesn't mean I don't want to. Want everyone to know you're mine."

"I am," Tony said without thinking. "Yours. You know that."

Bucky pulled back to look at him, eyes wide and dark. "Say it again."

"I'm yours," Tony repeated, flushing but not looking away. "Even without... without marks or any of it. I'm yours."

Bucky made a sound like he'd been punched. He kissed Tony again, desperate and claiming, hands tight in Tony's hair.

"Go," he said roughly when they broke apart. "Before I do something stupid like follow you through that window. Take you apart on that tiny bed while your roommate listens."

"I don't have a roommate anymore. You know that," Tony said, then immediately wanted to kick himself.

Bucky's eyes went predatory. "Remind me again."

"Go home, Barnes." Tony pushed at his chest, no force behind it. "Go home to your roommate who's probably wondering why you smell like you've been rolling around in Omega pheromones all day."

"Let him wonder." But Bucky stepped back, letting Tony escape. "Call me tomorrow?"

"If I can." Tony straightened his clothes, trying to look less like he'd been thoroughly debauched against a building. "Jarvis is coming by. He might let me use the phone."

"Good." Bucky caught his hand, pressing something into it. "For luck."

Tony looked down at the wooden nickel from the arcade, warm from Bucky's pocket.

"You're ridiculous," he said, but he was smiling.

"You love it," Bucky called as Tony walked away.

Tony didn't deny it.

He made it to his room without incident, collapsing on his narrow bed fully clothed. His lips were swollen, his skin tight with sunburn, and he could still taste cotton candy and Bucky. The wooden nickel was smooth under his fingers as he turned it over and over.

Tomorrow, he'd have to face reality again. Howard's expectations. Tiberius Stone's existence. The war. His future. All the reasons why this thing with Bucky was impossible, unsustainable, dangerous.

But tonight, he was just a boy who'd spent the day at Coney Island with someone who looked at him like he was worth looking at. Someone who touched him like he was precious. Someone who wanted him to stay.

Tony pressed the nickel to his lips and let himself have this one perfect thing.

Bucky watched Tony circle the small apartment like a cautious cat in unfamiliar territory. His large eyes tracked every detail, from the scuffed baseboards to the suspicious water stain on the ceiling that vaguely resembled Abraham Lincoln if you squinted. In the three hours they'd been apartment hunting, Tony's enthusiasm had waned with each new disappointment, his shoulders gradually curving inward, his steps growing heavier.

"The dishwasher's nice," Bucky offered, trying to inject some optimism into the stale air.

Tony nodded absently, tapping his knuckles against the counter in that distracted rhythm Bucky had come to recognize as his analytical mode. "It's... functional," he agreed without conviction.

The landlady beamed as if they'd just proclaimed it the Taj Mahal. "And the bedrooms are very spacious!" She bustled down the narrow hallway, floral skirt swishing around sensible shoes. "Come, come!"

Bucky caught Tony's eye and mouthed "very spacious" with exaggerated air quotes. The corner of Tony's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough that Bucky counted it as a victory.

"After you, Trouble," Bucky murmured, gesturing for Tony to go ahead.

Tony's footsteps dragged slightly as he followed the landlady, each step more reluctant than the last. Bucky recognized the signs: the stiffening shoulders, the tightening around those expressive eyes. Tony was retreating—not physically, but emotionally, building those invisible walls brick by careful brick.

"As you can see," the landlady continued, swinging open a door to reveal a room that could generously be described as a closet with ambitions, "plenty of space for a bed and desk!"

Tony stepped inside, his slim frame making the room look momentarily more spacious until Bucky joined him. Their shoulders brushed in the confined space, and Tony shifted automatically, creating that careful gap he always maintained. The movement was so subtle anyone else might have missed it, but Bucky had cataloged every one of Tony's unconscious boundaries, memorized the exact measurement of distance Tony needed to feel secure.

"It's..." Tony started, clearly searching for something positive to say.

"Tiny," Bucky finished for him. "Ma'am, I'm pretty sure my left shoe wouldn't fit in here, let alone a desk."

The landlady's smile never faltered. "Cozy," she corrected cheerfully. "Students these days appreciate minimalism."

"There's minimalism and then there's bein' able to high-five your roommate from your bed without gettin' up," Bucky drawled, his Brooklyn accent thickening with his exasperation.

That earned him a genuine snort from Tony, who quickly covered his mouth as if surprised by his own amusement.

"Well," the landlady sniffed, "the rent is very competitive for this neighborhood."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Competitive with what? County jail cells?"

"Buck," Tony murmured, but there was a glint of something like gratitude in his eyes.

Bucky shrugged unapologetically. This was the fourth apartment they'd viewed today, and each had been more depressing than the last—a parade of overpriced shoeboxes with mysterious stains and neighbors who sounded, based on the paper-thin walls, like they were either hosting nightly wrestling matches or extremely enthusiastic furniture rearrangement sessions.

The landlady's smile had turned decidedly frosty. "I have three other students interested in this unit," she said, clutching her clipboard like a shield. "It won't last long."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Bucky asked innocently.

Tony elbowed him, but not before Bucky caught the smile he was fighting to suppress. Bucky grabbed his arm, gave it a quick squeeze, then let go.

"We appreciate your time," Tony said diplomatically, in that carefully modulated voice he used when smoothing over Bucky's bluntness. "We'll, um, discuss it and let you know."

The landlady nodded curtly and led them back through the apartment, pointing out features with significantly less enthusiasm—a light switch that "sometimes works," a closet that "provides extra character," and a bathroom where the shower and toilet had apparently reached some sort of territorial agreement that left no room for actual humans.

Outside on the sidewalk, the spring afternoon greeted them with a gust of wind that ruffled Tony's already disheveled curls. Bucky fought the urge to reach out and smooth them, to bridge that unspoken boundary between them. Instead, he shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket and rocked back on his heels.

"Well, that was..."

"Terrible," Tony finished, the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. "Absolutely terrible."

"Catastrophic," Bucky agreed, falling into step beside Tony as they headed down the street. "I'm pretty sure I saw somethin' living behind the fridge. And not in a cute Stuart Little kinda way."

Tony's laugh was brief but genuine, a sound that still felt like a rare gift every time Bucky coaxed it out of him.

"You didn't have to be so blunt with her," Tony said, but there was no reproach in his voice—just that mixture of exasperation and fondness that Bucky had come to crave like air.

"Someone had to say it," Bucky shrugged. "That wasn't an apartment; it was a storage closet with delusions of grandeur."

Tony shook his head, but his posture had loosened slightly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "One more to see today, right?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, as if bracing himself for another disappointment.

"Yeah, over on Elm Street." Bucky pulled out his phone to check the address. "Hope it's not as much of a nightmare as the name suggests."

The pun landed, and Tony's eyes crinkled slightly. "That was terrible."

"You're smiling, though."

"I'm grimacing in pain."

"Potato, po-tah-to."

They walked in companionable silence for a block, weaving through the busy sidewalk traffic. Bucky noticed how Tony unconsciously stepped closer to him whenever a stranger passed too near, then resumed that careful distance once the perceived threat was gone. Like a gravitational dance—pull and retreat, draw and withdraw.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky asked finally, keeping his tone deliberately casual. "We can call it a day if you want. Hit the reset button tomorrow."

Tony's fingers were working at the frayed edge of his sleeve, a nervous tell that Bucky had learned to read like a weather vane. "No, I'm fine," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Just... apartment hunting is more exhausting than I expected."

Bucky nodded, not pushing. "Yeah, feels like we're on some kinda twisted reality show. 'How Much Will Desperate College Students Pay for a Glorified Cardboard Box?'"

Tony's mouth quirked upward. "The twist is that they all have mysterious stains."

"And neighbors who either play drums or practice martial arts at 2 AM."

"Sometimes both."

"Simultaneously."

Tony's shoulders relaxed another fraction, his steps aligning more naturally with Bucky's. The gap between them narrowed without either acknowledging it—a subtle shift, like continents drifting imperceptibly closer.

Bucky snuck a sideways glance at Tony's profile, catching the way the afternoon sun illuminated the fine structure of his face—the straight nose, the sweep of dark lashes, the slight furrow between his brows that never quite disappeared. His gaze lingered on the curve of Tony's jaw, the way it angled into the soft hollow of his throat where his pulse fluttered visibly when he was anxious.

God, he was beautiful. Sure, in the conventional, obvious way that could turn heads at parties, but also in a quiet, unassuming manner that revealed itself in layers. Like a complex equation that required patience to solve. The realization hit Bucky with renewed force every time he looked at Tony, a punch to the solar plexus that somehow never lost its impact.

"What is it?" Tony asked suddenly, catching Bucky's stare. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Just thinkin'," Bucky replied easily, looking away before Tony could read the truth in his eyes.

"About?"

"How much fun it's gonna be to watch you attempt DIY repairs when somethin' inevitably breaks in whatever death trap we end up rentin'."

Tony snorted. "Me? You're the one who needed a YouTube tutorial to change a light bulb last week."

"I didn't need the tutorial," Bucky protested. "I was just... double-checkin' my technique."

"Right," Tony deadpanned. "That's why you stood on a swivel chair and nearly concussed yourself on the ceiling fan."

"The chair was stable until you walked in and distracted me!"

"By existing? I literally just opened the door."

"Exactly. Very distractin'." Bucky bumped his shoulder playfully against Tony's, and for once, Tony didn't immediately reestablish the gap between them.

They turned onto Elm Street, the conversation shifting to safer topics—finals, Steve's latest disaster in the kitchen (involving pasta and what might have been an attempt at homemade pesto that more closely resembled radioactive sludge), and Tony's latest project for his engineering class. Bucky listened attentively, relishing the animation that crept into Tony's voice whenever he discussed his work, the subtle transformation from guarded to enthusiastic that still felt like a privilege to witness.

As they approached the address for the last apartment viewing, Bucky felt Tony's steps falter again. He glanced over to find Tony chewing at his bottom lip, that familiar furrow deepening between his brows.

"Hey," Bucky said gently, stopping on the sidewalk. "We don't have to do this today. Or at all, if you're changin' your mind about—"

"No," Tony interrupted, too quickly. He swallowed, his fingers working at the sleeve of his jacket. "No, it's not that. I just—" He broke off, struggling visibly with whatever he wanted to say.

Bucky waited patiently, giving Tony the space he needed to find his words, fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the tension from his expression.

"Are you sure about this?" Tony finally asked, his voice so quiet Bucky had to lean in slightly to hear him. "About... living together? With me?" The question hung between them, fragile and weighted.

Ah. There it was—the real issue that had been shadowing Tony's steps all day.

"Tony," Bucky began carefully, "If you don't want to—"

"It's not that," Tony cut in, eyes darting away. "It's just... I'm not exactly easy to live with. I keep weird hours. I talk to myself. I don't always sleep well, and... I get nightmares sometimes. I get so caught up in projects I forget to eat or sleep for days." His words tumbled out in a rush, as if he'd been rehearsing this speech. "And I'm... you know..." He gestured vaguely, a hand fluttering near the nape of his neck where his omega marking lay hidden beneath dark curls.

Bucky's chest tightened. "Tony, I don't care about—"

"You should," Tony insisted, finally meeting Bucky's gaze with unexpected intensity. "People will talk. They'll assume things. About us. About you." He swallowed hard. "You have a reputation, Buck. I don't want to mess that up."

The conviction in Tony's voice—the genuine concern—hit Bucky like a physical blow. He could barely process what he was hearing: Tony wasn't worried about himself; he was worried about Bucky's reputation. The absurdity of it would have been funny if it weren't so heartbreaking.

"Tony," Bucky said firmly, taking a step closer, deliberately narrowing the space between them. "First of all, my reputation could use a little messin' up. And second—" He held Tony's gaze steadily. "I don't give a damn what anyone thinks. I want to live with you because you're my friend. Because we get along. Because I like hangin' out with you. It's that simple."

Tony studied him with that penetrating gaze that always made Bucky feel simultaneously seen and exposed. "Is it, though?" he asked softly.

The question hung between them, layered with meanings neither was ready to articulate. Bucky's heart hammered against his ribs, a steady drumbeat of panic and possibility.

"Yeah," he said finally, forcing a casual shrug he didn't feel. "It is. Unless... you've got another reason why it shouldn't be?"

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes, before looking away. "No," he murmured. "No other reason."

The tension eased slightly, though something unspoken still lingered in the air between them—a question partially asked, partially answered, mostly avoided.

"Good," Bucky said, perhaps too brightly. "Then let's go check out this last place before we both die of old age on this sidewalk. Who knows, maybe this one will have actual walls instead of construction tarp."

Tony's lips curved into a small, genuine smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Walls would be nice," he agreed. "A functional bathroom would be even better."

"Whoa there, Stark," Bucky placed a hand over his heart in mock shock. "Let's not get greedy. Next you'll be askin' for floors that don't slant thirty degrees."

The joke landed, cracking through some of the lingering tension. Tony's shoulders relaxed incrementally as they approached the final apartment building of the day—a modest three-story brownstone that, from the outside at least, appeared to have all its structural components intact.

"This one almost looks... decent," Tony observed cautiously, as if afraid to jinx it.

Bucky nodded, equally skeptical after their day of disappointments. "Don't get your hopes up. Remember that place on Fourth that looked normal from the outside but had that weird shrine to Nicolas Cage in the hall closet?"

"I'm still not convinced that wasn't some elaborate prank you set up."

"I wish I were that creative," Bucky chuckled. "No one dedicates that kinda time to cuttin' out hundreds of magazine photos unless they're genuinely obsessed."

They climbed the steps to the building, Bucky automatically positioning himself slightly ahead of Tony in that protective stance he'd adopted without conscious thought. At the door, they were greeted not by another overly enthusiastic property manager, but by an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that bore the calluses of someone who did his own repairs.

"Barnes and Stark?" he asked briskly, extending a hand. "Everett Ross. I own the building."

They shook hands, and Bucky noticed how Tony's grip was quick and light, minimizing contact, while his own remained firm—the contrast between them outlined in even this small interaction.

"Third floor unit," Ross explained as he led them inside. "No elevator, I'm afraid, but the stairs keep you in shape." He climbed the steps with the easy confidence of someone who made this trek daily, pointing out features as they went. "Building's from the 1940s, but I've updated all the electrical. Plumbing's new as of last year. Heat's reliable, though it can get a bit warm in summer."

The stairwell was clean and well-lit, with none of the mysterious odors that had permeated the other buildings they'd toured. Bucky caught Tony's eye as they climbed, raising his eyebrows slightly in cautious optimism.

When Ross unlocked the door to the apartment, Bucky braced himself for another disappointment, but was met instead with a surprisingly pleasant space flooded with natural light from windows that actually opened. The living room was modest but functional, with worn hardwood floors that creaked welcomingly underfoot.

"Kitchen's through here," Ross continued, leading them through an archway. "Nothing fancy, but everything works. Fridge is newer, stove's older but reliable."

Bucky watched Tony's expression carefully, noting the subtle shift from guarded skepticism to cautious interest. His eyes darted around the space, cataloging details with that keen analytical gaze. He ran a finger along the countertop, tested the kitchen faucet, opened and closed a cabinet door.

"Two bedrooms," Ross continued, gesturing down a short hallway. "Bathroom's between them. Got a decent-sized closet in each room. Windows face east, so you get good morning light."

They toured the bedrooms—actually large enough to fit more than a twin bed—and the bathroom, which featured the miraculous combination of both a functional shower and enough floor space to turn around without contorting like a gymnast.

Throughout the tour, Bucky kept stealing glances at Tony, watching the gradual transformation in his demeanor. With each room that failed to reveal a deal-breaking flaw, his posture opened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing by increments.

When they'd seen the entire apartment, Ross left them alone to discuss, saying he'd be downstairs when they made a decision.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Bucky turned to Tony, trying to temper his own enthusiasm. "So... thoughts?"

Tony circled the living room slowly, his fingers trailing along the windowsill. "It's... nice," he admitted, the word carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested. "Really nice, actually."

"The bedrooms are actually big enough for human habitation," Bucky observed. "And I didn't see a single mysterious stain."

"The kitchen has counter space," Tony added, warming to the subject. "And cabinets that close properly."

"Bathroom doesn't look like a crime scene."

"Windows that aren't painted shut."

They circled each other in the empty living room, cataloging positives with growing animation, the caution of the day slowly dissolving into genuine excitement.

"So," Bucky said finally, coming to a stop near the center of the room. "Is this it, then? We found our not-so-terrible apartment?"

Something flickered across Tony's face—hesitation, disbelief, something deeper Bucky couldn't quite name. "You really want to do this?" he asked again, voice soft. "Live together?"

Bucky took a careful step forward, entering that invisible boundary Tony maintained, close enough now that he could see the flecks of amber in Tony's dark eyes. "Yeah, Trouble," he said, his voice steady despite the riot in his chest. "I really do."

Tony held his gaze for a long moment, searching for something—doubt, perhaps, or deception. Finding neither, his expression softened into something so vulnerable and hopeful that Bucky's heart clenched painfully in his chest.

"Okay," Tony said finally, the word barely above a whisper. "Let's do it."

The smile that broke across Bucky's face felt too big for his skin to contain. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tony nodded, his own smile tentative but genuine. "But I get first dibs on bedroom choice."

"What? No way," Bucky protested, relief and joy bubbling up in his chest. "I'm the one who found this place!"

"I'm the one who has to put up with your snoring," Tony countered, his smile growing more confident.

"I don't snore! Steve's a liar."

"I've literally heard you during movie nights. It's like someone chainsawing concrete."

"That's just... contemplative breathing."

Tony's laugh—spontaneous and unguarded—echoed in the empty apartment, filling the space with warmth that felt like promises. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his entire face transforming with genuine joy, and Bucky was struck again by how beautiful he was when he let his guard down, when the careful mask slipped to reveal the person underneath.

In that moment, standing in the dusty sunlight of what would soon be their shared home, Bucky knew with bone-deep certainty that he was in serious trouble. What had started as curiosity, then friendship, had evolved into something he hadn't been looking for—something deeper, more terrifying, more exhilarating than he was prepared to name.

But as Tony moved toward the window, animated now as he described where they could put a couch, how they could arrange the furniture, Bucky knew he wouldn't change a thing. Whatever was growing between them—this delicate, unnamed thing—was worth every risk.

"You're staring again," Tony observed, turning back to catch Bucky's gaze.

"Just thinkin'," Bucky replied, the same excuse he always used.

"About?"

Bucky grinned, shoving his complicated feelings back into their box for another day. "About how I'm definitely gettin' the bigger bedroom."

"In your dreams, Barnes," Tony shot back, already heading down the hall with determined strides.

"Hey, no fair!" Bucky called, chasing after him. "Bedroom selection requires a democratic process!"

Their laughter echoed through the apartment—their apartment—bright and hopeful as the spring sunlight streaming through the windows. And if Bucky's heart raced from more than just their playful competition, well, that was a problem for another day.

"I still think the blue one looked better," Steve said, leaning against the doorframe of Bucky's bedroom with his arms crossed.

Bucky glared at him from where he stood in front of his closet mirror, holding two nearly identical flannel shirts. "They're both blue, you fuckin' colorblind disaster."

"The one in your right hand is more... navy," Steve clarified, unhelpfully. "The left one brings out your eyes."

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered, tossing both shirts onto his already cluttered bed. "It's just dinner. With a roommate. To celebrate signing a lease. Not the goddamn prom."

Steve's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "Uh-huh. That's why you've changed shirts four times in twenty minutes."

Bucky flipped him off, turning back to his closet with a scowl. "Don't you have some puppies to save or old ladies to help cross the street? Your boy scout energy is cramping my style."

"My style is immaculate," Steve replied, unruffled. "And deflection doesn't work on me, Buck. I've known you too long."

Bucky groaned, flopping backward onto his bed, crushing both flannel shirts beneath him. "I hate it when you get all perceptive. What happened to the Steve Rogers who walked into a telephone pole because he was staring at Peggy Carter's legs?"

"He evolved, unfortunately for you," Steve said, pushing off the doorframe to enter the room fully. He picked up the navy flannel. "This one. And stop overthinking it. Tony's seen you in yesterday's clothes after all-night study sessions and that Mets sweatshirt you insist on keeping with all the old ketchup stains. If he's still willing to live with you after that disaster, a mismatched button-down isn't going to make or break tonight."

Bucky sat up, grabbing the offered shirt. "It's not... I just want tonight to be good, y'know? We signed the lease today. It's official. We're actually gonna be roommates."

There was a vulnerability in Bucky's voice that made Steve's expression soften. "I know," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And it will be good. You guys just need to keep doing what you've been doing. Talking. Hanging out. Being... whatever you are."

"Friends," Bucky supplied automatically, though the word felt insufficient, like trying to define a hurricane as 'windy.'

Steve's look was knowing but mercifully, he didn't push. "Right. Friends. Just be yourself, Buck. That's what got him to agree to live with you in the first place, God knows why."

Bucky snorted, punching Steve's shoulder lightly. "Thanks for the pep talk, Coach."

"Anytime," Steve replied, standing. "Now hurry up. You're already late, and I'm not covering for you again."

Bucky glanced at his phone, swearing when he saw the time. He scrambled up, shrugging into the navy flannel and hastily buttoning it. "Shit. Tony's probably already at the restaurant."

"Probably," Steve agreed, unhelpfully. He paused at the door, his expression growing more serious. "Hey, Buck?"

"What?" Bucky asked, distracted as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look artfully tousled rather than just messy.

"I'm happy for you," Steve said simply. "Tony seems good for you. Different, but good."

Something warm unfurled in Bucky's chest. He met Steve's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. "Thanks, Stevie."

Steve nodded, then lightened his tone. "Now go. Before your roommate-to-be thinks you've stood him up."

Bucky grinned, grabbing his wallet and keys. "Yes, sir. Captain, sir."

Steve's exasperated eye roll followed him out the door.

The restaurant wasn't fancy by any conventional standard—just a cozy Italian place a few blocks from campus that was known more for its generous portions than its ambiance. But it was a step up from their usual diner or basement movie nights, with actual tablecloths and soft lighting that bathed everything in a warm glow.

Tony was already there, sitting at a corner table, his fingers restlessly tapping the edge of his water glass. He wore a dark button-down shirt that Bucky had never seen before, his usual messy curls slightly tamed, as if he'd made an effort to comb them. The sight made Bucky's heart do a complicated little flip in his chest.

"Sorry I'm late," Bucky said, sliding into the seat across from Tony. "Steve was bein' a pain in the ass about my shirt."

Tony looked up, his tense expression relaxing into something warmer. "It's a nice shirt," he offered, then immediately looked like he regretted the words, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Bucky grinned, ridiculously pleased. "Thanks. You look... different." He winced at his own awkwardness. "Good different. Not sweatshirt different."

Jesus, Barnes, he thought. Real smooth.

But Tony just smiled, small and genuine. "I do own actual clothes," he said. "Occasionally."

"Well, color me impressed," Bucky replied, settling into the familiar rhythm of their banter. "And here I thought you just had a closet full of identical hoodies, like a cartoon character."

Tony's lips twitched. "That's my weekday wardrobe. This is my fancy going-out shirt."

"Special occasion?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the table, fingers resuming their rhythm against the glass. "We signed a lease today," he said quietly. "Seemed... significant."

The simple admission hit Bucky square in the chest, leaving him momentarily speechless. Tony had dressed up for this. For him. Because he thought it mattered.

Before Bucky could formulate a response that wouldn't expose the riot of emotions swirling inside him, the waiter appeared, saving him from potential embarrassment.

They ordered—Bucky going for the lasagna, Tony for linguine with clam sauce—and fell into a discussion about the apartment they'd finally settled on after viewing what felt like half the rental properties in the college town.

"I still can't believe the view," Tony said, tearing a piece of garlic bread into smaller pieces. "Actual trees. Not a parking lot or the back of another building."

"And no suspicious stains," Bucky added, grinning. "Though I'm still not convinced that shower drain isn't haunted."

Tony laughed, the sound warming Bucky from the inside out. "I'm an engineer, not an exorcist. But I'll see what I can do."

"My hero," Bucky said, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "Savin' me from the ghost of drain hair past."

They talked easily through dinner, discussing furniture needs (minimal, as Tony owned practically nothing and Bucky's possessions consisted largely of sports equipment and clothes), move-in logistics, and whether the kitchen was big enough for Bucky's ambitious but largely unsuccessful culinary experiments.

"I'm just sayin'," Bucky argued around a mouthful of lasagna, "my mac and cheese is legendary."

"Is that why Steve looked traumatized when you suggested cooking dinner tonight?" Tony asked, eyebrows raised.

Bucky scoffed. "Steve has no appreciation for culinary innovation."

"Adding Hot Cheetos to boxed mac and cheese isn't 'innovation,' Buck. It's a cry for help."

The casual use of his nickname—something Tony had only recently started doing—sent a pleasant shiver down Bucky's spine. "You wound me, Stark. And here I was, plannin' a Welcome Home feast for move-in day."

Tony's expression softened at the mention of "home," something fragile and hopeful flickering in his eyes. "I'd eat it," he said quietly. "Even with Hot Cheetos."

The simple declaration shouldn't have made Bucky's heart race, but it did. He cleared his throat, suddenly needing to shift the conversation to safer ground. "So, uh, Dugan's been beggin' to meet you. Him and the rest of the guys. They wanna know who's crazy enough to willingly share living space with me."

Tony tensed slightly, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Oh," he said, carefully neutral. "That's... nice of them."

Bucky recognized the hesitation immediately. "It's not a big deal," he assured quickly. "Just, y'know, if you wanted to. No pressure. They're actually decent guys, once you get past the first impression. And the second. Maybe the third."

That earned him a small smile. "I'm sure they are," Tony said, poking at his remaining pasta. "I'm just not great with... groups. New people."

"I remember," Bucky said softly, thinking back to their first meeting—Tony, panicked and cornered on a rooftop, eyes wild with fear. "We could start small. Just Dugan, maybe. Or just Steve properly, since you've kinda met him already."

Tony considered this, his brow furrowed slightly in that way that made Bucky want to reach across the table and smooth it with his thumb. "Maybe," he conceded finally. "Sometime. After we move in."

"After we move in," Bucky agreed, unable to keep the smile from his voice. It sounded like a promise, like a future. "No rush."

Their dessert—a shared tiramisu that Bucky had insisted on despite Tony's protests that he was full—arrived, and Bucky watched with amusement as Tony's resolve crumbled at the first bite.

"Told you," Bucky said smugly, taking his own forkful. "Worth saving room for."

Tony hummed in agreement, eyes closing briefly in appreciation. "Okay, you win this round, Barnes."

The sight of Tony's pleasure—unguarded and genuine—sent a wave of warmth through Bucky's body that had nothing to do with the wine they'd shared. Tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying all evening melted away, replaced by a profound sense of rightness.

This was what he wanted. Tony, relaxed and happy. Sharing food and conversation and small, quiet moments that felt significant in ways Bucky couldn't quite articulate.

By the time they finished, the restaurant had emptied considerably, the only other patrons an elderly couple by the window and a group of grad students celebrating what appeared to be the end of a grueling project.

"We should probably..." Tony gestured vaguely at the check their waiter had discreetly left at the edge of the table.

"I got it," Bucky said quickly, reaching for his wallet. "My treat. To celebrate."

Tony frowned. "You don't have to. We can split it."

"I want to," Bucky insisted, surprising himself with the conviction in his voice. "Please."

Something complicated passed over Tony's features—a flash of uncertainty, then resignation, then something softer. He nodded once, a short, jerky movement. "Thanks."

They left the restaurant together, stepping into the cool spring night. Stars were visible between patches of clouds, the campus relatively quiet on a Tuesday evening. Their breath formed small clouds that dissipated in the gentle breeze.

"I'll walk you back to your dorm," Bucky offered, falling into step beside Tony. Their shoulders brushed occasionally, a light touch that no longer seemed accidental.

"You don't have to," Tony started, but Bucky cut him off with a gentle nudge.

"I know. I want to."

Tony glanced at him, those dark eyes reflecting the streetlights, and nodded. "Okay."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the campus peaceful around them. Bucky found himself hyperaware of every point where their bodies almost touched—shoulders, hands, the occasional brush of their jackets. He resisted the overwhelming urge to reach out and take Tony's hand, to lace their fingers together as they crossed the main quad.

Not yet, he told himself firmly. Give it time.

"So," he said instead, "two more weeks till finals, then move-in day. You excited?"

Tony's smile was small but genuine. "Yeah," he admitted. "It'll be nice to have... somewhere permanent. For a while, at least."

The hesitation in Tony's voice, the careful qualification of "for a while," tugged at something in Bucky's chest. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was like to be Tony Stark—brilliant and lonely and always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"It's gonna be great," Bucky said with more confidence than he felt, bumping Tony's shoulder with his own. "You'll see. I'll only set the kitchen on fire like, twice a month, tops."

Tony's laugh was soft but real. "Reassuring."

They reached Tony's dorm building far too quickly for Bucky's liking. They paused at the entrance, facing each other in the pool of light from the security lamp. Tony looked up at him, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

"Thanks," Tony said finally. "For dinner. And... everything."

"Everything?" Bucky echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Tony gestured vaguely. "You know. The apartment. Taking a chance on... this. Me." His voice dropped on the last word, almost inaudible.

Something inside Bucky's chest cracked open at the vulnerability in Tony's voice. Before he could think too hard about it, he reached out, placing a hand on Tony's shoulder and squeezing gently.

"Not a chance, Stark," he said softly. "A sure thing."

Tony's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something warm and surprised crossing his features. For a breathless moment, Bucky thought—hoped—that Tony might step closer, might close the distance between them.

Instead, Tony ducked his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Right," he murmured. "Well. Goodnight, Buck."

"Night, Trouble," Bucky replied, reluctantly dropping his hand. "See you tomorrow? Library study session?"

Tony nodded, already backing toward the door. "Two o'clock. I'll bring coffee."

"You're a lifesaver," Bucky grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out again.

He watched as Tony swiped his ID and disappeared into the building, lingering on the sidewalk perhaps a moment too long after the door had closed behind him.

The night air felt suddenly colder without Tony beside him. Bucky turned toward his own building, a smile tugging at his lips despite the slight ache in his chest.

Two more weeks until finals. Three until move-in day. A whole summer of coming home to Tony's brilliant mind and quiet smiles and the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his projects.

Bucky quickened his pace, the future stretching before him like a promise.

The party swelled around Bucky like an unruly tide, bodies shifting and swaying to bass-heavy music that made the floorboards vibrate beneath his feet. Red cups littered every surface, casualties of celebration strewn across tabletops and windowsills. The air was thick with the scent of cheap liquor, cologne, and the particular brand of euphoria that came with the end of finals—a heady mixture of relief and reckless abandon that buzzed through the frat house like electricity.

Dugan had dubbed it the "We Survived Everything" party. Baseball season: over. Finals: conquered. Sophomore year: officially in the rearview mirror. The mood was infectious, a joyous chaos that swept through the crowded rooms and spilled into the backyard, where impromptu wrestling matches and drinking games had already claimed several victims.

Bucky was pressed against the wall near the staircase, a drink in one hand and a girl—Leila? Laura?—attached to his neck. Her perfume was sweet, almost cloying, and her body was warm and pliant against his. She laughed at something he'd mumbled, the sound vibrating against his collarbone where her lips had found purchase.

He should be into this. He was trying to be into this.

Two months ago, this exact scenario would have been the highlight of his night. Two months ago, he wouldn't have been cataloging the differences between her laugh and someone else's, wouldn't have been mentally elsewhere while a beautiful woman worked her way up his neck.

God, he hadn't gotten laid in weeks. His body recognized the opportunity, responded to the warmth of another person, the invitation in her touch. But his mind was elsewhere, distracted, divided.

"You're thinking too much," she murmured against his skin, nipping gently at his pulse point. "Let me help with that."

Bucky forced a grin, tipping his head back against the wall. "Just enjoyin' the moment," he lied, taking another swig of his drink. The alcohol buzzed pleasantly through his system, just enough to soften the edges without dulling his senses completely.

She hummed in approval, her hands sliding beneath the hem of his t-shirt, fingertips tracing the muscles of his abdomen. "You deserve it," she said, looking up at him through mascaraed lashes. "After that last game? The way you played? God, Barnes."

The mention of the game sent a twinge through Bucky's chest that had nothing to do with desire. The loss still stung—coming so close to advancing, only to watch their season end in the regional final. He'd played his heart out, batting .400 through the tournament with three home runs, but it hadn't been enough. The team had fought hard, clawed their way through the elimination bracket after a tough loss, only to fall just short of the Super Regionals.

Coach had told him he should be proud. The scouts had been impressed. But Bucky couldn't shake the hollow feeling that lingered beneath his ribs, the knowledge that they'd been so close—

Lips found a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear, and Bucky's eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment. He made an effort to be present, to sink into the sensation, his hands tightening slightly on the girl’s waist.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, derailing his thoughts.

"Ignore it," his companion whispered, rising onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against his. "Stay with me."

But Bucky's hand was already slipping between them, reaching for his phone. He already knew who it was, could feel it with a certainty that defied logic. Only one person texted him after midnight on a party night.

"Sorry," he murmured, turning slightly as he extracted his phone. "Just a second."

The screen lit up with Tony's name, and something in Bucky's chest loosened even as concern immediately flooded through him.

Tony (12:47 AM): Hey, are you awake?

Nothing alarming in the message itself, but Bucky had spent enough time with Tony over the past months to recognize the subtle signs. Tony never texted this late unless something was wrong. Never started with "Hey, are you awake?" unless he was trying to give Bucky an out, a chance to ignore him if he was busy.

As if Bucky ever would.

Tony (12:48 AM): Sorry, you're probably out. Don't worry about it. I'm fine.

The rapid succession of texts, the unnecessary reassurance—Bucky's internal alarm bells rang louder. Tony wasn't fine. Tony was very much not fine, even if he was trying to pretend otherwise.

"Everything okay?" The girl—Lisa, that was it—peered up at him, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth.

"Yeah, just—" Bucky hesitated, glancing between his phone and her expectant face. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but not enough to override the urgency building inside him. "Listen, I gotta take care of something. Rain check?"

Lisa's expression clouded, disappointment and annoyance flashing in her eyes before she smoothed it into something more neutral. "Seriously? Now?"

"I'm sorry," Bucky said, and he meant it, even as he was already formulating his escape. "It's important."

She stepped back, arms crossing over her chest. "Whatever," she said with a forced shrug. "Your loss, Barnes."

Bucky offered his most apologetic smile, already typing a response to Tony with one hand.

Bucky (12:49 AM): I'm awake. What's going on? You ok??

He slipped past Lisa, making his way through the crowded living room toward the front door. The music swelled around him, a remix of some pop song he couldn't name, bodies pressing against him from all sides as he navigated the sea of celebrating students. A hand caught his arm—Dugan, red-faced and grinning, a beer held aloft like a trophy.

"Where ya goin', slugger?" Dugan shouted over the music. "Party's just gettin' good! Barton’s about to do a keg stand that'll either make him a legend or kill him. My money's on both!"

Bucky shook his head, holding up his phone. "Gotta check on somethin'," he called back. "Rain check on Barton’s death by alcohol poisoning."

Dugan squinted at him, momentary confusion giving way to understanding as his gaze flicked to the phone. "Stark?" he asked, surprisingly perceptive for a man who had likely consumed his body weight in beer. When Bucky nodded, Dugan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go get your boy, Barnes. I'll pour one out for your abandoned hookup."

Bucky rolled his eyes but felt a surge of gratitude for his friend's easy acceptance. "Thanks, Dum Dum."

Outside, the night air felt shockingly cool after the heat of the packed house. Bucky checked his phone again as he jogged down the front steps.

Tony (12:51 AM): I'm fine. Just couldn't sleep. Working on some designs.

The deflection was so transparent that Bucky would have laughed if worry wasn't already churning in his gut. Tony didn't text at almost 1 AM because he "couldn't sleep." Not unless the insomnia was accompanied by something darker—nightmares, anxiety, the shadows that sometimes seemed to chase Tony even on his better days.

Bucky (12:52 AM): Where are you? Your dorm?

The response came almost immediately.

Tony (12:52 AM): No. Engineering lab. Lost track of time.

Bucky changed direction, heading across campus toward the engineering building without a second thought. The walk would help clear his head, burn off some of the alcohol. Besides, the night was pleasant, stars peeking through scattered clouds, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the massive oak trees that lined the main pathway.

Bucky (12:53 AM): Stay put. I'm coming to you.

Tony (12:53 AM): What? No, Buck, you're at a party. I'm really fine.

Bucky (12:54 AM): Too late. Already omw. Want me to bring food? Caffeine? Poorly made decisions?

There was a longer pause before Tony's reply, and Bucky could almost picture him—brow furrowed, chewing his lower lip as he tried to decide how to respond, whether to protest further.

Tony (12:56 AM): You don't have to.

Not a rejection, Bucky noted. Just another attempt to offer an out.

Bucky (12:56 AM): I know. Want to. Be there in 10.

He pocketed his phone, quickening his pace. The campus was quiet at this hour, most students either out celebrating or passed out after a grueling finals week. Only a few night owls and dedicated studiers remained, scattered across benches and lawns, faces illuminated by the blue glow of laptop screens.

Bucky's mind drifted as he walked, concern for Tony mingling with the faint buzz of alcohol still flowing through his system. What had happened? Tony had seemed fine earlier—they'd had lunch together before Bucky's team meeting, discussing move-in plans and arguing over whether Tony's robot prototypes constituted "reasonable decor" for a living room.

Something must have triggered him. A call from his dad, maybe? Tony's father remained a specter in Tony's life, rarely mentioned but always present in the way Tony tensed at certain topics, in the shadows that sometimes darkened his eyes.

Or maybe it was something else—the panic that occasionally seized Tony in crowded places, the nightmares he downplayed but that Bucky knew left him shaking and sleepless. Whatever it was, Bucky was determined to help, even if that just meant sitting with Tony in the lab, keeping him company while he worked through it.

The engineering building loomed ahead, most windows dark except for a few scattered lights on the third floor. The security guard—an older man named Stan who had long since grown accustomed to Tony's odd hours—nodded to Bucky as he approached.

"He's upstairs," Stan said without preamble. "Been there since dinnertime. Wouldn't come down even when I offered him half my sandwich." He scrutinized Bucky with surprising perception for a man pushing seventy. "You look like you've been celebrating."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, aware that he probably reeked of beer and carried traces of lipstick on his neck. "End of finals," he explained. "But I'm good. Sober enough."

Stan's weathered face creased in a knowing smile. "You're a good friend to that boy," he said, buzzed Bucky through. "Third floor, room 307. Like always."

Bucky nodded his thanks, making his way up the stairs. His heart rate picked up as he approached the lab, a mixture of concern and something warmer, more complicated. The door was ajar, spilling a sliver of fluorescent light into the darkened hallway.

He paused, listening. Quiet classical music drifted from inside—Bach, maybe, or Beethoven, Bucky couldn't tell. It was the music Tony played when he was trying to calm himself, to focus on work rather than whatever demons were nipping at his heels.

Bucky knocked softly on the doorframe before pushing the door wider. "Special delivery," he called, keeping his voice light. "One slightly buzzed baseball player, as requested."

Tony was hunched over a workbench in the far corner, surrounded by scattered components and holographic displays that cast his profile in an ethereal blue glow. He looked up, startled, dark circles pronounced beneath his eyes, hair a riot of unruly curls that suggested he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. He wore a henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms smudged with graphite and what looked like machine oil.

"Bucky," he said, surprise evident in his voice despite the text exchange. "You... actually came.”

The wonder in Tony's voice, as if Bucky's presence was something unexpected rather than inevitable, made something twist painfully in Bucky's chest. He crossed the room, dropping his phone on the workbench with a clatter.

"'Course I came," he said simply, as if there had never been any question. "What's up? Lab emergency? Robot uprising? You finally build that lightsaber you keep promisin' me?"

Tony's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing that exciting," he said, gesturing vaguely at the holographic displays where complex schematics rotated slowly. "Just working on some adjustments to the prosthetic interface design."

Bucky studied the displays with genuine interest. Tony's neural interface project had evolved over the semester, growing more sophisticated with each iteration. The current design was sleek, elegant in its complexity, yet Bucky could see the tension in Tony's shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that suggested this late-night work session had nothing to do with sudden inspiration.

"Looks incredible," Bucky said truthfully. "But you didn't text me at one in the mornin' to show off your design skills. What's really goin' on, Trouble?"

Tony's gaze dropped to the workbench, fingers fidgeting with a small screwdriver. "It's stupid," he muttered.

Bucky stepped closer, perching on the edge of the workbench. "Try me."

Tony remained silent for a long moment, the classical music filling the space between them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost fragile.

"I got a call from MIT today. About my research proposal."

Bucky's breath caught. Tony had submitted a proposal for summer research funding weeks ago, a project extension of his neural interface work. He'd downplayed its importance, but Bucky had seen the careful hope in his eyes, the way he'd checked his email obsessively while pretending not to.

"And?" Bucky prompted gently.

Tony's knuckles whitened around the screwdriver. "They... they're not funding it," he said, each word carefully controlled. "Said the approach wasn't 'viable' without more preliminary data."

"Fuck," Bucky breathed. "Tony, I'm so sorry."

Tony shrugged, a jerky movement that failed to convey the nonchalance he was clearly aiming for. "It's fine. I mean, it was a long shot. And I've still got the scholarship for fall, so it's not like I'm—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "It's not a big deal."

But it was, Bucky could see that clearly. This wasn't just about funding; it was about validation, about someone believing in Tony's work, in his vision. It was about proving his worth outside the shadow of Howard Stark and MIT and all the expectations that had been heaped on him since childhood.

"Did they give any specific feedback?" Bucky asked, keeping his voice gentle. "Anything you can address for a resubmission?"

Tony nodded jerkily. "Some. They want more preliminary testing, more proof that the neural mapping algorithm can handle variable input." His voice grew steadier as he slipped into technical explanations, finding comfort in the familiar territory. "I can do that, I just need more time, more resources. Maybe if I had access to better equipment, or if—"

He broke off suddenly, frustration and something darker flashing across his face. "Howard has a fully equipped private lab," he said, voice flat. "State of the art. I could have completed the preliminary work in a week there."

The unspoken hung heavily between them: But I can't go back.

Bucky reached out, covering Tony's hand with his own, stilling the restless movement of his fingers. "Hey," he said softly. "Look at me?"

Tony's eyes reluctantly met his, dark and troubled in the blue glow of the holograms.

"This is a setback, not the end," Bucky said firmly. "Your work is brilliant, Tony. One rejection doesn't change that."

Tony's laugh was hollow. "Easy for you to say. You've never failed at anything."

The words hit Bucky harder than he expected, a direct strike to a wound still fresh from the baseball season's end. "You kiddin' me?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "We just lost the biggest game of the season. Came this close—" he held up his thumb and forefinger, barely a hair's breadth apart, "—to makin' it to Super Regionals, and fell short. In front of scouts, fans, everyone. That's failure, Stark."

Tony blinked, regret immediately crossing his features. "Shit, Buck, I didn't mean—the game, I know how much that meant to you. I wasn't thinking."

Bucky shook his head, squeezing Tony's hand. "No, I'm not—that's not my point. I'm sayin' we all fail. It's part of the deal. You think I haven't struck out with the bases loaded? Dropped an easy fly ball? Made an ass of myself in front of scouts?" He leaned closer, holding Tony's gaze. "Failure doesn't define you. What you do next does."

Tony stared at him, something vulnerable and raw passing over his features. For a moment, Bucky thought he might pull away, retreat behind the walls he still occasionally erected when emotions ran too close to the surface.

Instead, Tony's shoulders slumped, the tension leaving him in a visible wave. "I don't know what to do next," he admitted quietly. "Without funding, I can't—"

"We'll figure it out," Bucky interrupted, the "we" slipping out naturally. "Together. Maybe there are other grants? Or equipment you can borrow? Hell, I bet Steve would let you use him as a test subject if you asked nicely. Guy's always lookin' for ways to 'contribute to science.'"

A faint, genuine smile finally curved Tony's lips. "Steve does have an admirable dedication to self-sacrifice," he conceded. "But I'm not sure even he would volunteer for experimental neural interface testing."

"You'd be surprised," Bucky grinned, relieved to see a glimmer of Tony's usual spark returning. "I once saw him eat a spoonful of wasabi on a dare. From a freshman. Guy has no sense of self-preservation."

Tony laughed, the sound soft but real. "Unlike you, who has... what was it? An 'iron will to party'?"

"Damn straight," Bucky confirmed, pleased that Tony remembered the phrase from their first meeting. "Speaking of which, aren't you supposed to be celebrating the end of finals too? Instead of, y'know, brooding in a darkened lab?"

Tony's expression turned wry. "This is my celebration," he said, gesturing at the scattered components. "Wild, I know."

Bucky studied him, noting the deep shadows beneath Tony's eyes, the slight tremble in his hands that spoke of too much coffee and too little sleep. An idea began to form in his mind.

"Come on," he said abruptly, standing and tugging gently at Tony's hand. "We're getting out of here."

Tony blinked up at him. "What? Where?"

"You'll see," Bucky said, already gathering Tony's scattered notebooks and shoving them into his backpack. "Trust me."

Tony hesitated, looking between Bucky and his work. "I should really finish these calculations—"

"They'll still be here tomorrow," Bucky said firmly. "Right now, you need a break. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor," Tony pointed out, but he was already standing, allowing Bucky to guide him away from the workbench.

"No, but I play one in my dreams," Bucky replied, waggling his eyebrows in a way that earned an eye roll from Tony. "Seriously, come on. One hour. If you're still miserable, I'll bring you back and you can brood to your heart's content."

Tony sighed, but there was a fondness in his exasperation. "Fine. One hour."

They left the lab together, Bucky's hand still wrapped around Tony's wrist, a point of contact that neither acknowledged but neither broke. The hallway was deserted, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor as they made their way to the stairwell.

"So," Tony said as they descended, "are you going to tell me where we're going, or is this a kidnapping situation?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," Bucky replied cryptically. "Besides, I made this up about thirty seconds ago, so I'm still workin' out the details."

Tony snorted. "Reassuring."

Stan looked up as they passed his desk, a knowing smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Heading out, boys? About time. Some people sleep, you know."

"Revolutionary concept, Stan," Tony replied, the easy banter suggesting this was a familiar exchange. "We'll look into it."

"See that you do," Stan called after them as they pushed through the doors into the night air.

Outside, the campus was bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps, the spring night warm and inviting. Bucky led Tony away from the engineering building, steering them toward the center of campus, where the main quad stretched out in a vast expanse of manicured grass.

"Bucky," Tony said after they'd walked in silence for a few minutes, "if you're taking me to that party, I should warn you that I'm not really in the mood for—"

"I'm not," Bucky assured him quickly. "Promise. No parties."

Tony nodded, visibly relieved. "Okay. Good."

They continued walking, the tension gradually easing from Tony's frame with each step away from the lab. Bucky found himself hyper-aware of their proximity, of the way Tony's arm occasionally brushed against his, of the faint scent of coffee and metal that seemed to cling to Tony's skin.

His neck still bore traces of Lisa's perfume, her lipstick probably smudged across his skin like evidence of a crime. Guilt tugged at him briefly, but it was fleeting, insubstantial compared to the certainty that he was exactly where he needed to be.

The main quad appeared ahead, illuminated by soft lights embedded in the walkways. During the day, it was a bustling hub of activity—students lounging on the grass, tossing frisbees, studying beneath the sprawling oak trees. Now, at nearly 1:30 AM, it was deserted, peaceful in a way that felt almost magical.

"Ta-da," Bucky announced, gesturing grandly. "Our destination."

Tony looked around, confusion evident in his furrowed brow. "The quad? This is your brilliant plan?"

"Just wait," Bucky said cryptically, leading Tony toward the center of the open space. When they reached a patch of grass unmarred by pathways, Bucky dropped Tony's backpack and promptly flopped onto his back, arms spread wide.

Tony stood over him, half-amused, half-bewildered. "What are you doing?"

"Stargazing," Bucky replied simply, patting the grass beside him. "Come on, Stark. Live dangerously."

"Lying on the ground is your idea of living dangerously?" Tony asked, but he was already lowering himself to sit beside Bucky, cross-legged on the cool grass.

"After the week we've had? Absolutely." Bucky tugged gently at Tony's sleeve. "Come on. Full effect requires horizontal positioning."

Tony hesitated, then slowly reclined until he was lying beside Bucky, their shoulders nearly touching. Above them, the night sky stretched out in a vast canvas of darkness pierced by countless stars, more visible here in the center of campus where the light pollution was minimal.

"Oh," Tony breathed, the single syllable carrying a wealth of wonder.

Bucky smiled, satisfied. "Yeah."

They lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes, gazing up at the stars. Bucky was acutely aware of Tony beside him—the rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, the faint smell of coffee and something mechanical that always seemed to cling to him.

"You know," Tony said finally, voice soft in the quiet night, "when I was a kid, my mom used to take me onto the roof of our house to look at the stars. She had this old astronomy book, and we'd try to find all the constellations." A pause, weighted with memory. "It was the only time Howard couldn't find us."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and significant. Bucky turned his head slightly, studying Tony's profile in the dim light. "She sounds great," he said softly. "Your mom."

Tony's smile was small but genuine. "She was," he agreed, still gazing skyward. "She would have liked you, I think. She always said I needed someone who could pull me out of my head sometimes."

The words sent a wave of warmth through Bucky's chest. "High praise," he murmured. "I'm honored."

Tony's hand rested on the grass between them, fingers absently plucking at blades of green. Without overthinking it, Bucky shifted his own hand until their pinky fingers touched, a whisper of contact that could be dismissed as accidental if necessary.

Tony didn't pull away. Instead, after a breathless moment, he relaxed, allowing the contact to remain.

"So," Bucky said, voice gentle in the night air, "about the research funding."

Tony tensed slightly beside him, but didn't retreat. "What about it?"

"I've been thinking," Bucky continued, choosing his words carefully. "What if you applied for private funding? Small tech companies, medical research foundations—places that might be interested in your work but aren't connected to Howard or MIT?"

Tony turned to look at him, surprise evident in his features. "I... hadn't considered that," he admitted. "I just assumed academic channels were the only option."

"The way I see it," Bucky said, encouraged, "your work has real-world applications, right? Helping people with mobility issues, nerve damage, all that. There's gotta be companies or foundations that would jump at the chance to fund that kind of research."

Tony's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Maybe," he conceded. "I'd need to do some research, find the right places to approach. And redesign my proposal for a non-academic audience."

"I could help," Bucky offered. "I mean, not with the technical stuff—that's all you. But I'm pretty good at talking to people, making things sound appealing. Baseball scholarships don't just hand themselves out, y'know."

A smile tugged at the corner of Tony's mouth. "Are you offering to be my hype man, Barnes?"

"If that's what it takes," Bucky grinned, relieved to see the spark returning to Tony's eyes. "I'll wear a t-shirt with your face on it and everything. 'Tony Stark: Neural Interface Genius.'"

Tony laughed, the sound bright and unexpected in the quiet night. "God, please don't."

"Too late, already ordered it," Bucky teased. "Got one for Steve too. And Dugan. We're gonna be a whole cheering section."

Tony's laughter faded into something softer, more contemplative. "You really think it could work? Finding alternate funding?"

"I do," Bucky said firmly. "Your work is amazing, Tony. Just because some stuffy committee at MIT doesn't see it doesn't mean others won't. You just gotta find the right audience."

Tony nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the stars above. "Maybe you're right," he murmured. Then, quieter: "Thanks, Buck. For... this. For coming to find me."

Bucky's chest tightened with an emotion he wasn't quite ready to name. "Anytime, Trouble," he said softly. "That's what—" He hesitated, the word 'friends' suddenly feeling inadequate, insufficient for what existed between them. "That's what I'm here for."

They lay in comfortable silence for a while longer, their pinky fingers still touching on the cool grass between them, a tiny point of contact that felt simultaneously insignificant and monumental. Above them, the stars continued their silent vigil, distant and constant.

Bucky found himself thinking about the girl at the party—Lisa, with her perfect smile and eager hands. He tried to summon regret for walking away, for choosing this quiet moment on the quad over whatever might have happened if he'd stayed.

He couldn't find any. Not with Tony beside him, looking up at the same stars, their fingers brushing in the darkness.

"Your hour's almost up," Bucky said eventually, reluctant to break the peaceful moment but aware of the late hour. "Wanna head back to the lab?"

Tony was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on the heavens. "No," he said finally, the word barely audible. "Not yet. Can we... stay a little longer?"

Relief and something warmer flooded through Bucky's chest. "Yeah," he said softly. "As long as you want."

Tony turned his head, dark eyes meeting Bucky's in the dim light. A smile—small but genuine—curved his lips. "Thanks for finding me," he said again, the words carrying a weight that went beyond their simple meaning.

Bucky smiled back, overwhelmed by the certainty that he would always find Tony, would always choose this over anything else. "Always will," he promised, the words slipping out before he could consider their implications.

Tony held his gaze for a moment longer, something vulnerable and hopeful flickering in his eyes. Then he looked back up at the stars, but not before his pinky finger curled more deliberately around Bucky's, the contact no longer accidental but intentional.

A silent acknowledgment. A beginning, perhaps.

Bucky tightened his finger in response, a gentle pressure that said more than words could. Above them, the stars continued their ancient dance, silent witnesses to the moment unfolding on the cool grass below.

The basement of the science building greeted Bucky with its familiar smell of old books and machine oil, a scent he'd grown oddly fond of these past three weeks. The fluorescent lights flickered once, twice, before settling into their steady hum. Basement dust danced through the stale air, caught in the beam of the ancient projector that Tony was currently hunched over, cursing under his breath.

Bucky sank into the worn love seat, springs protesting beneath him. The cushion still held the ghostly impression of their last movie night, a shallow depression that his body recognized like an old friend. He watched Tony's fingers move deftly inside the projector's guts—slender, capable hands that hesitated, adjusted, recalibrated with a surgeon's precision. A loose wire sparked, and Tony jerked back with a muttered "Shit!" before diving right back in.

"You're gonna electrocute yourself," Bucky called out, stretching his legs until his knees cracked. The sound echoed in the empty basement. "Then who's gonna explain to the janitor why there's a fried Stark on the floor?”

Tony didn't look up, just flipped Bucky off with one hand while the other continued its delicate work. "If I die, tell them to check Professor Stane's budget records. This thing should've been replaced during the Carter administration.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest. He'd brought snacks again—Red Vines stolen from the kitchen cupboard Dum Dum thought was his secret stash, and a bowl of popcorn he'd smuggled past Steve in his baseball hoodie. The buttery smell mingled with the basement's musty air, creating a strange but not unpleasant atmosphere that had become uniquely theirs.

Something clicked inside the projector, followed by a wheezing mechanical gasp. The lens flickered, sputtered, then projected a trembling blue rectangle onto the makeshift screen—a bedsheet Tony had somehow convinced the theater department to "loan" them.

"Ha!" Tony's triumphant grin flashed in the semi-darkness, a rare, unguarded expression that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. He stood, brushing dust from his knees, hands smudged with grease and God-knows-what from the projector's ancient innards. "Told you I could fix it.”

"Never doubted you for a second, Trouble." Bucky patted the space beside him on the couch, feeling that now-familiar flutter in his chest when Tony hesitated—just for a second—before crossing the room.

Tony dropped onto the opposite end of the love seat, close enough that Bucky could smell the faint traces of coffee and that particular mechanical scent that seemed to cling to him permanently, but far enough that the middle cushion remained vacant territory between them. 

Same as always. Bucky had come to recognize the exact measurements of this gap—the careful distance that Tony maintained, precise as any equation he might scribble in his notebooks.

The light from the projector caught the silver marking behind Tony's ear as he turned to fiddle with the remote, a fleeting gleam that vanished when he settled back against the cushions. 

Bucky pretended not to notice, the same way he always did. Some boundaries weren't meant to be acknowledged, not yet.

"So," Bucky nudged the bowl of popcorn toward the middle cushion, "what are we watching that's so important you had to perform surgery on that dinosaur?”

Tony's fingers tapped a restless pattern against the remote. "2001: A Space Odyssey." He glanced sideways at Bucky, those dark eyes evaluating, uncertain. "You said you'd never seen it.”

"I also said I'd never jump out of a perfectly good airplane, but that doesn't mean I'm itching to try it," Bucky replied, but his smile softened the words. Three weeks of these basement rendezvous had taught him to read between the lines of Tony's suggestions. This wasn't just any movie; this was something Tony cared about, something he wanted to share.

Tony's mouth quirked upward, just slightly. "It's not..." He paused, searching for words. "It's different. Not like other movies. It’s..."

"Important to you?" Bucky offered quietly.

A flush crept up Tony's neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his oversized MIT sweatshirt. "Yeah," he admitted, voice barely audible over the projector's whirring. "My mom loved it. Used to watch it with me when…"

He trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the dim air between them. Another piece of the puzzle that was Tony Stark, offered cautiously, like a valuable object placed briefly in Bucky's hands before being withdrawn again.

"Then I can't wait to see it," Bucky said simply, reaching for a Red Vine and handing one to Tony without comment.

Their fingers brushed during the exchange—a momentary point of contact that three weeks ago would have caused Tony to flinch. Tonight, he merely hesitated, then accepted the candy with a nod. Progress.

The film began, strange and disorienting from the first frame. Dawn of man sequences filled the basement with primitive grunts and the eerie, discordant music that seemed to crawl under Bucky's skin. He stole glances at Tony, fascinated by how the shifting light played across his features—highlighting the straight line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the fan of dark lashes against his cheeks when he blinked.

Twenty minutes in, and Bucky realized he'd been staring Tony more than the movie. He forced his attention back to the screen just as Tony glanced over, catching him in the act.

"You're not watching," Tony observed, hitting pause. The basement froze in blue-tinted stillness.

"Sure I am," Bucky lied, then winced at Tony's raised eyebrow. "Okay, I got distracted. It's... there's a lot of silence.”

"It's deliberate pacing," Tony said, but his lips twitched with what might have been amusement. He shifted, drawing one knee up onto the couch between them. "Kubrick is exploring the vastness of space through visual composition and sound design. The emptiness is part of the experience.”

As Tony spoke, his hands began to move, sketching invisible patterns in the air. It happened every time he discussed something that truly engaged him—his usual careful restraint would slip, just a little, revealing glimpses of someone less guarded, more animated. Someone Bucky was becoming increasingly desperate to know better.

"The film's virtually mathematical in its precision," Tony continued around a mouthful of popcorn, a new warmth entering his voice. "Every frame is composed with golden ratio proportions. The silences aren't empty—they're filled with anticipation, with possibility. Like space itself.”

Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It wasn't the movie that fascinated him—it was this transformation, the way Tony's whole being seemed to light up from within when his mind engaged with something that challenged it. The Tony who sat beside him now wasn't the wary, closed-off boy from their first meeting—he was brilliant, passionate, alive.

And absolutely fucking beautiful.

"I'll pay better attention," Bucky promised, swallowing hard. “Professor."

Tony rolled his eyes at the nickname, but the pleased flush crept higher on his cheeks as he hit play again. The film resumed its strange, methodical journey, the basement filling once more with otherworldly sounds.

During a particularly long sequence of spacecraft drifting through the void, Bucky reached for popcorn at the same moment Tony did. Their fingers collided in the buttery depths of the bowl, and for one breathless second, neither withdrew. Bucky felt the slight roughness of Tony's fingertips—calluses from hours of mechanical work—against his own. Then Tony pulled back, but without the sharp recoil of their earlier encounters. Just a slow, almost reluctant retreat.

"So," Bucky said, voice casual despite the lingering warmth on his fingers, "you hear back about that scholarship thing yet?”

Tony's shoulders tightened fractionally. "Not yet." He kept his eyes on the screen, but Bucky could see his right thumb working at a loose thread on his sleeve cuff—a nervous tell he'd noticed weeks ago. "Should know by next week.”

"You'll get it," Bucky said with firm certainty, licking salt from his lips. "They'd be idiots not to fund you. I mean, that neural interface thing you explained last week? That's next-level shit, Stark.”

Tony's eyes flickered to Bucky's face, surprise evident in his expression. "You remembered that?”

"'Course I did." Bucky shrugged, as if remembering the details of Tony's passionate thirty-minute explanation wasn't something he'd revisited nightly since then. "Hard to forget when someone casually mentions they might help people walk again someday.”

Tony ducked his head, but not before Bucky caught the genuine pleasure that flashed across his face. "It's not about being smart," he said quietly. "It's about politics.”

"Politics?" Bucky prompted, keeping his tone light. These moments when Tony opened up were delicate things, easily shattered by too much pressure.

"My father has... connections." Tony's voice flattened, the animation draining from it like water from a punctured container. "And enemies. People who might block the funding just because of the name attached to the application.”

Howard Stark. The name hovered unspoken between them, a specter that appeared periodically in their conversations—never directly invoked by Tony, but present nonetheless in the tension that crept into his voice, the shadows that darkened his eyes.

"Well," Bucky said, deliberately keeping his tone easy, "their loss if they don't fund the guy who's going to revolutionize mobility tech. Seriously, Tony—that concept design you showed me? That was fucking incredible.”

The praise landed like unexpected sunlight, warming Tony's features despite his obvious attempt to remain unmoved. "Thanks," he murmured, then added so quietly Bucky almost missed it: "It means a lot. That you think so.”

The simple admission hit Bucky square in the chest, a direct strike to something tender he hadn't known was exposed. He swallowed, caught off-guard by the intensity of his own reaction.

"You're staring again," Tony murmured, eyes fixed on the screen where astronauts floated in choreographed silence.

"Sorry," Bucky said, not sorry at all. "Just thinking.”

"A dangerous pastime.”

"For me, especially." Bucky grinned, nudging Tony's foot with his own, testing another small boundary. "Speaking of danger—you ever gonna tell me why you were running from that party the night we met? You looked like you'd seen a ghost.”

The question had been building for weeks, forming and reforming each time Bucky noticed the vigilance Tony maintained in public spaces—the way he'd scan rooms before entering, how he'd position himself with sight lines to exits, the subtle tension that never quite left his shoulders when they ventured beyond their basement sanctuary.

Tony went still beside him, the kind of stillness that spoke of muscles locked against the instinct to flee. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the pale skin.

"I—" Tony started, then stopped. His fingers crept unconsciously toward the nape of his neck, brushing over the spot where Bucky knew his omega marking lay hidden beneath dark curls. The gesture was so vulnerable, so unintentionally revealing, that Bucky immediately regretted asking.

"I don't really want to talk about that." Tony's voice was quiet but firm, a clear boundary drawn between them.

Bucky nodded quickly. "That's cool. No pressure." He nudged Tony's foot again, gentler this time, a wordless apology. "Just know I'm here if you ever do want to.”

Tony studied him for a long moment, dark eyes searching Bucky's face with an intensity that made his breath catch. Whatever Tony was looking for, he seemed to find it, because the rigid set of his shoulders eased slightly.

"Thanks," he said simply, but the word carried a weight that Bucky felt in his bones.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it hummed with unspoken questions. Bucky regretted pushing, disturbing the careful equilibrium they'd established. Tony's trust was a fragile, hard-won thing, not to be tested lightly.

"Sorry," Bucky said after a moment, deliberately lightening his tone. "Didn't mean to get all serious on you. Blame the movie. All this existential space stuff's got my brain going places.”

Tony's mouth curved upward, relief evident in the slight loosening of his posture. "Thinking? You? Alert the media.”

"Smartass," Bucky retorted, grinning. "I'll have you know I think all the time. Deep thoughts. Revolutionary stuff.”

"Like what?”

"Like..." Bucky tapped his chin dramatically. "Why hot dogs come in packs of ten but buns come in packs of eight. That's the real conspiracy the government's hiding.”

Tony's laugh was quiet but genuine, a sound that Bucky had come to crave like a physical hunger. It transformed his entire face—eyes crinkling at the corners, the careful mask slipping to reveal something younger, lighter beneath.

"Truly the philosopher of our time," Tony said, traces of that smile still lingering around his mouth.

"I do my best," Bucky replied with mock solemnity. He reached for more popcorn, deliberately allowing his fingers to brush Tony's again in the bowl. A test, a question without words. "For real, though. You doing okay? In general, I mean.”

Tony considered the question, head tilted slightly in that way he had when processing something complex. The blue light from the screen bathed his profile, highlighting the elegant lines of his face, the sweep of dark lashes against his cheek.

"Yeah," he said finally, and there was something like wonder in his voice. "I think I am. Better than... before.”

Bucky nodded, not pushing for clarification of "before." He'd gathered enough fragments over their weeks together to form a rough outline: college at fourteen, two degrees by seventeen, a father who viewed his son's brilliance as an extension of his own legacy. And something else—something darker that Tony guarded carefully, that had sent him fleeing to a rooftop that night three weeks ago.

"Well," Bucky said quietly, sincerity bleeding through despite his attempt at casualness, "I'm glad you're here now.”

Something shifted in Tony's expression—a softening around the eyes, a subtle relaxation of the ever-present vigilance. He nodded once, a small acknowledgment that meant more than words could express.

"Stevie thinks I'm losing my mind," Bucky found himself admitting, the confession slipping out unbidden.

Tony turned toward him, that curious, analytical gaze focusing fully on Bucky's face. "What do you mean?”

"Just..." Bucky shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under that attentive gaze. "You know. Hanging out down here watching weird space movies instead of being at parties. Not exactly my usual Friday night scene.”

"Oh." Tony's expression fell slightly, a shadow passing across his features. "You don't have to—“

"No," Bucky interrupted, mentally kicking himself. "That's not—I'm not complaining, Trouble. I like being here. That's kinda the point.”

Tony studied him with that penetrating gaze that made Bucky feel simultaneously seen and exposed. "You do?”

Bucky laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he admitted, the word carrying more weight than he'd intended. "More than I probably should.”

The confession hung between them, more revealing than Bucky had planned. Tony's eyes widened slightly, that now-familiar flush creeping up his neck, and for a moment, Bucky feared he'd pushed too far, said too much.

But then Tony smiled—a real smile, not the careful, measured ones he usually offered. "I like it too," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Having you here.”

Something warm unfurled in Bucky's chest, spreading through his veins like honey. He fought the nearly overwhelming urge to close the distance between them, to find out if Tony's dark curls felt as soft as they looked. Instead, he returned the smile, allowing the moment its natural weight.

"Good," he said simply. "'Cause I'm not going anywhere.”

Tony looked away first, but not before Bucky caught the pleased curve of his lips, the slight duck of his head that betrayed genuine happiness. They settled back into watching the film, the silence between them now comfortable, intimate.

The movie progressed through its strange, hypnotic sequences. At some point, without either of them acknowledging it, the carefully maintained gap between them on the couch had diminished. Not eliminated—they weren't touching—but Bucky could now feel the warmth radiating from Tony's side, could detect the faint scent that was uniquely his: coffee and metal and something clean, like fresh cotton.

If Bucky shifted his hand two inches to the right, their fingers would brush. He kept his hand where it was, respecting the invisible boundary. For now.

On screen, an astronaut floated through the elegant choreography of zero gravity, but Bucky found himself contemplating a different sort of gravitational pull—the inexorable force drawing him toward the boy beside him. As powerful and inevitable as the physics that kept planets in their orbits.

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Bucky Barnes was perfectly content to surrender to that pull, to let himself be caught in an orbit not of his making but of his choosing.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the frat house kitchen windows, turning the sticky countertop into a hazardous spotlight for the scattered remains of their "study session": three textbooks (one suspiciously stained with what might have been ketchup), a mountain of crumpled paper, and Steve's coffee mug containing a substance that had transcended the properties of liquid and might qualify as a new form of matter.

Bucky's calculus problem set lay abandoned as he hunched over his phone, thumbs dancing across the screen with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. His face had settled into what Steve had started calling his "Tony Expression"—a dopey half-smile that made him look concussed.

"Dude!" Dugan lobbed a wadded-up piece of paper at Bucky's head. It bounced off his temple and landed directly in Steve's coffee, where it sat on the surface like a life raft refusing to sink. "That's the third time I've asked you about question twelve."

Bucky didn't even look up. "Hmm?"

Steve and Dugan exchanged a look. Steve cleared his throat dramatically, then bellowed in his best drill sergeant voice: “BARNES, THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE.”

"That's nice," Bucky murmured, still typing.

Dugan snorted, then reached across the table and snatched Bucky's phone with the speed of a man who'd spent four years perfecting the art of stealing nachos off other people's plates.

"Hey!" Bucky lunged forward, knocking over his chair with a clatter. "Give it back, asshole!"

Dugan danced backward, holding the phone high above his head, his mustache twitching with delight. "Who's Tony and why are you sending him heart emojis?"

"I am not—" Bucky made another grab, but Dugan dodged, backing into the refrigerator with such force that several beer cans toppled from the top and rained down on him like a metallic waterfall. One caught him square on the forehead.

"Motherfu—" Dugan fumbled, the phone slipping from his grasp.

Bucky dove for it with the grace of an Olympic athlete, executing a perfect baseball slide across the linoleum that would have made their coach weep with pride. His shoulder collided with the base of the stove, dislodging a pan that had been precariously balanced on a burner. It clattered to the floor with a resounding crash, spraying what appeared to be three-day-old macaroni across the kitchen.

"And he sticks the landing!" Steve cheered, clapping slowly as Bucky emerged victorious, clutching his phone to his chest. "Ladies and gentlemen, this man has a 3.8 GPA."

"Had," Dugan corrected, rubbing his forehead where an impressive red welt was forming. "Before he decided wooing was more important than fluid dynamics."

Bucky clambered to his feet, slipping slightly on macaroni, and righted his chair with as much dignity as a man could muster while covered in pasta. "I wasn't sending heart emojis," he muttered, checking his phone for damage. "And fluid dynamics can suck my—"

"Who's Tony?" Dugan interrupted, picking a beer can off the floor and cracking it open. The foam erupted like a volcano, coating his hand and dripping onto his textbook. He didn't seem to notice or care. "And don't say 'just a friend' because I saw that text, Barnes. Friends don't send friends drawings of—was that a meteor hitting our house?"

Bucky sank back into his chair, wiping a noodle from his sleeve. "He's an engineering student. We hang out sometimes. It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal," Steve parroted, crossing his arms. "That's why you just performed an Olympic-level floor routine to get your phone back."

"And why you've been AWOL every Friday night," Dugan added, squinting suspiciously. "Wait, is this the reason you missed Rumlow's legendary keg stand last week? For some engineering nerd?"

"He's not a nerd," Bucky said reflexively, then registered his mistake when both his friends' eyebrows shot up simultaneously. "I mean—okay, he is a nerd, but he's a cool nerd. And yeah, that's where I've been. We watch movies in the basement of the science building."

"Movies," Dugan repeated flatly. "In a basement. On Friday nights." He clutched his chest dramatically. "Who are you and what have you done with Bucky Barnes? The real Bucky would never pass up beer pong for..." He shuddered visibly. "Intellectual stimulation."

"Maybe he's getting a different kind of stimulation," Steve suggested innocently, dodging the macaroni noodle that Bucky flicked at him.

"It's not like that," Bucky insisted, fighting the heat rising in his cheeks. "Tony's just... different."

"Different how?" Dugan pressed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, accidentally dipping his sleeve in what might have once been salsa. "Two arms, two legs, human as far as you know?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Different as in smart. Like, scary smart. MIT at fourteen, two degrees by seventeen, designing neural interfaces that could help paralyzed people walk again."

Dugan's perpetual smirk faltered. "Shit, really? That's... damn."

"Yeah," Bucky said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. "He's brilliant. And funny, once you get past the shy thing. And he doesn't take any of my bullshit."

"A rare and valuable quality," Dugan observed dryly. "So how'd you meet this paragon of virtue who's apparently immune to the Barnes charm?"

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. "Remember that party last month? When I dragged Steve up to the roof?"

“And comandeered my best whiskey," Dugan nodded. "Yeah, what about it?"

"He kind of... burst up there while we were hanging out. Having a panic attack or something. Looked terrified."

"And Barnes here played knight in shining armor," Steve explained to Dugan. "All 'breathe with me' and 'you're safe now' and other lines I'm pretty sure he stole from a Lifetime movie."

"It worked, didn't it?" Bucky muttered defensively.

Dugan's eyes widened with sudden recognition. "Wait, was he that little guy with the big eyes? Dark hair? I think I saw him bolting through the living room that night. Knocked over Thompson's beer tower. Thought Thompson was gonna have an aneurysm."

Bucky nodded, something protective flaring in his chest at the memory. "Yeah, that was him. Something spooked him bad. He still won't tell me what it was."

"Mysterious," Dugan waggled his eyebrows. "I like it. So you've been, what? Nursing him back to emotional health with movie marathons and Red Vines? Don’t think I didn’t notice, snack thief.”

"I've just been hanging out with him," Bucky said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "He's cool. We talk about stuff. He's showing me classic sci-fi movies. No big deal."

"No big deal," Steve repeated, exchanging a look with Dugan. "That's why you've got your phone in a death grip right now and why you haven't hit on a single sorority sister in three weeks. Because it's no big deal."

Bucky's phone buzzed, and he jumped so violently he nearly fell out of his chair again. Both his friends burst into laughter as he fumbled to check the message, hot embarrassment crawling up his neck.

"Oh, he's got it bad," Dugan cackled, slapping the table so hard the macaroni bits bounced. "Look at him, he's blushing. The mighty James Barnes, blushing like a damn schoolgirl.”

"Fuck off," Bucky muttered, but there was no heat in it as he read Tony's message: Just blew up a capacitor. Lab smells like burning hair. Think my eyebrows survived but my dignity didn't.

Despite himself, Bucky grinned, typing back quickly: Pics or it didn't happen. Need to see if your eyebrows match your haircut now.

"And there's that dopey smile again," Steve observed clinically. "I haven't seen that look since Sarah Peterson agreed to go to junior prom with you and you walked into that telephone pole."

"I didn't walk into—" Bucky started automatically, then cut himself off. "Whatever. Can we just study? Finals are next week and I'm not trying to fail calculus."

"Sure," Dugan nodded sagely. "Let's study. Right after you tell us why you've been staring at apartment listings all week."

Bucky froze, cursing inwardly. Of course Dugan had seen the browser tabs on his laptop. The man was nosy as hell and had no concept of privacy. "I'm looking for a place for next semester," he said carefully. "Like everyone else."

"Uh-huh," Dugan nodded, clearly not buying it. "And those two-bedroom places you keep bookmarking? Those for you and Steve?"

Steve snorted. "Not a chance. Last time we shared a bathroom, he used my toothbrush to clean his cleats."

"That was one time," Bucky protested. "And I bought you a new one!"

"After I'd been using the contaminated one for a week!"

Dugan's eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. "Wait a minute. You're not thinking of—" He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Barnes, are you planning to ask Tony to move in with you?"

The kitchen fell silent except for the ancient refrigerator's death rattle and the slow drip of the leaky faucet. Even the pasta on the floor seemed to hold its breath.

"His roommate's moving out," Bucky finally admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "And he doesn't have anywhere lined up. And we're both looking, so I thought... maybe..."

"Holy shit," Dugan breathed, his expression torn between horror and delight. "You're U-Hauling after three weeks? With a guy you watch movies with in a campus basement? What's next, joint bank accounts? A golden retriever? Matching sweaters at Christmas?"

"It's not like that," Bucky insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. "It's practical, is all. We both need places. Rent's cheaper with two."

"Practical," Steve repeated, nodding seriously. "Right. Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you light up like a Christmas tree every time your phone dings."

"Or that you've been talking about this guy nonstop for weeks," Dugan added helpfully.

"I have not—" Bucky started, then caught Steve's raised eyebrow. "Okay, maybe I've mentioned him once or twice—"

"Seventeen times yesterday alone," Steve supplied. "I counted."

Bucky dropped his head to the table with a thud, narrowly missing a stray macaroni noodle. "I hate both of you."

"No, you don't," Dugan said cheerfully, reaching over to pat Bucky's head with his beer-soaked hand. "You love us. Almost as much as you love Toooooony."

Bucky swatted his hand away, straightening up with a scowl. "I don't love— He's just— Look, can you assholes be serious for two seconds?"

Dugan and Steve exchanged glances, then schooled their features into exaggerated expressions of solemnity.

"Of course, Barnes," Dugan said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "We're listening with the utmost seriousness to your plan to shack up with someone you've known for less time than my last hangover lasted."

Bucky groaned. "When you put it like that—"

"What Mustache Pete here is trying to say," Steve interrupted, shooting Dugan a look, "is that maybe you should think this through. Living together is a big step, even for people who've been dating for months. And you and Tony aren't even..."

"We're friends," Bucky said firmly. "Good friends."

"Friends who you want to be more than friends with," Steve translated.

Bucky didn't immediately deny it, which was answer enough.

His phone buzzed again, and three pairs of eyes snapped to it. Slowly, like a man approaching a wild animal, Bucky picked it up.

Tony had sent a selfie. His hair was standing on end in wild curls, face smudged with what looked like soot, and he was giving the camera a deadpan stare. One eyebrow was definitely singed. The caption read: Radical discovery is going great, why do you ask?

Before Bucky could stop himself, a soft, fond laugh escaped him.

"Oh, he is so far gone," Dugan stage-whispered to Steve, who nodded gravely.

"Look," Bucky said, setting his phone down carefully. "I know it sounds crazy. I know three weeks isn't a long time. But he's... there's something about him, okay? He's been through some shit. He's skittish, doesn't trust easy. But he's starting to trust me, and—" He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the right words. "I just want him to have somewhere he feels safe. Somewhere he belongs."

The naked honesty in Bucky's voice sucked all the teasing energy out of the room. Dugan and Steve exchanged surprised glances.

"Damn, Barnes," Dugan said finally, looking genuinely impressed. "You really like this kid."

It wasn't a question. Bucky shrugged, uncomfortable with how exposed he suddenly felt.

"Well," Steve said after a moment, "for what it's worth, I think you should ask him."

"Really?" Bucky looked up, surprised.

"Yeah," Steve nodded. "But maybe let him know what he's getting into first? Like how you sleepwalk into other people's rooms at 3 AM to announce that dolphins might be aliens?"

"That happened, like, twice—“

"Or how you sing Disney songs in the shower," Dugan added. "Loudly. Off-key. With choreography that makes the bathroom floor into a slip 'n slide."

"Or how you—"

"Okay, I get it," Bucky interrupted, throwing his hands up. "I'm a nightmare roommate. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"We didn't say that," Steve corrected, grinning. "You're a nightmare roommate with a heart of gold. There's a difference."

"So when do we get to meet him?" Dugan asked, leaning back in his chair precariously. "This Tony who's managed to domesticate the wild Bucky Barnes?"

The thought of Tony in the same room as Dugan made Bucky simultaneously amused and terrified. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I haven't even asked him yet. And I don't want you yahoos scarin’ him off."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Dugan demanded, gesturing expansively and nearly toppling backward. He caught himself on the counter at the last second, sending another pan crashing to the floor. This one, thankfully, was empty. "Text him now!"

"I'm not going to ask him to move in with me via text," Bucky said, horrified at the very thought. "Jesus, Dugan, I'm not completely hopeless."

"Could've fooled me," Dugan muttered, righting himself with as much dignity as a six-foot-two man with a handlebar mustache and beer-soaked shirt could muster.

"So when are you gonna ask him?" Steve pressed.

Bucky's phone buzzed again, and all three of them looked at it like it might explode. Another message from Tony: Lab closing early. Professor says something about 'fire hazard' and 'university insurance.' Wanna grab food instead of movies? If you're free. No pressure.

Something warm unfurled in Bucky's chest as he read the message twice, three times. He typed back without hesitation: Definitely. Meet you at that diner by the science building in 20?

The three dots appeared immediately, then: Perfect. Might still smell like burning science though.

Bucky couldn't stop his smile as he replied: Wear it like cologne. See you soon, Trouble.

He looked up to find both his friends watching him with matching expressions of fond exasperation.

"Tonight," Bucky decided, pocketing his phone and standing up, narrowly avoiding slipping on the macaroni casualties. "I'm gonna ask him tonight."

"Godspeed," Dugan said solemnly, then ruined it by adding, "Don't forget to mention your snoring. Like a chainsaw murdering a foghorn."

"I don't—" Bucky started to protest, then caught Steve's knowing look. "Okay, fine. I'll give him full disclosure."

"And when he says yes anyway," Steve said, his tone making it clear he thought this was inevitable, "bring him around here sometime. We promise to be on our best behavior."

"Your best behavior is still pretty terrible," Bucky pointed out, but he was smiling. "But yeah, if he says yes... maybe."

"When," Steve corrected. "Not if."

Bucky grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, trying to quell the riot of butterflies in his stomach. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"You better!" Dugan called after him as he headed for the door. "And Barnes?"

Bucky paused, looking back.

Dugan's mustache twitched with a rare serious smile. "For what it's worth, anyone who can make you this stupid happy is alright in my book."

"Thanks, Dum Dum," Bucky said, oddly touched. "I think?”

As he made his way out of the kitchen—carefully stepping over the pasta graveyard—Bucky felt a strange mix of terror and exhilaration coursing through him. Three weeks wasn't long. It was, objectively, a ridiculous amount of time to decide you wanted to live with someone.

But as his phone buzzed with another message—Tony asking if he should bring his notebook to show Bucky his latest designs—Bucky couldn't bring himself to care about being rational. Not when the alternative was going another day without seeing that rare, genuine smile that transformed Tony's entire face.

Hey, Trouble. Wanna split rent next semester?

Not quite as romantic as Dugan implied. Not nearly as casual as Bucky pretended. Somewhere in between, in that strange, unnamed territory that seemed to define everything about his relationship with Tony Stark.

“Do you intend to knock? Or are we simply admiring craftsmanship this evening?”

Tony scowls, shooting Jarvis a glare. “I—I’m just—Give me a second.”

“You’ve had several.”

“Jesus, J, let me have a moment, will you?”

Jarvis folds his hands neatly behind his back, ever the picture of composed patience. “Certainly. Would you like me to clear the rest of your evening for this, or should I reschedule your self-doubt for a more convenient time?”

Tony exhales sharply, dragging both hands through his hair. “God, you’re pushy.”

“And yet,” Jarvis says, infuriatingly calm, “here we are.”

Tony turns back to the door, pulse erratic, stomach a roiling mess of nerves. It’s just a door. A simple, scuffed, brown apartment door.

And yet, it somehow feels like he’s standing at the edge of a battlefield, waiting for the first shot to be fired.

It’s been thirteen days.

Thirteen days of pacing sterile hallways with an ID badge slapped on his chest like some kind of war criminal on probation. Thirteen days of conversations that only ever seemed to involve classified files, military jargon, or someone shoving yet another clipboard in his face. Thirteen days of cafeteria slop he wouldn’t feed to a dog.

Thirteen days since he’s seen Bucky Barnes.

When he’d finally been granted release, it had been Jarvis waiting for him, parked at some godforsaken SSR checkpoint in the middle of nowhere. Jarvis, who had stood beside the open car door, looking uncharacteristically tense, hands clasped so tightly they turned pale. Jarvis, who never pried, never pushed, but who had exhaled, just once, when Tony slid into the passenger seat; like the weight of an entire world had just lifted from his shoulders.

The drive back to Brooklyn had been quiet, the Packard cutting through rain-slicked streets as Tony fought to hold himself together. Jarvis had kept glancing at him, concern written into the stiff set of his shoulders, the faint crease between his brows. When they’d pulled up to the brownstone, Jarvis had offered to walk him up—something he’d never done before.

Tony hadn’t said no.

And now, here they were.

The silence stretches too long. Jarvis sighs, and then, with the measured efficiency of a man who has spent over a decade wrangling a Stark, he raises his hand—

And knocks.

Tony’s stomach plummets. He whips around on his heel and shoots his butler a frenzied look. “What the fuck, Jarvis?”

“You were taking too long.”

“Becuase I was building up to it!”

“Yes, at an absolutely glacial pace.” Jarvis straightens an invisible crease in his sleeve. “If you had your way, we’d be standing here until the next war.”

Tony’s retort dies in his throat as he hears movement inside.

The sound of shuffling footsteps. A dull thud—like something bumping into a piece of furniture. Then, a sharp curse, followed by hurried, uneven strides approaching the door.

Tony stops breathing.

The lock clicks. The door lurches open.

And then—

The world doesn’t tilt so much as it lurches—sharp, disorienting, like stepping onto solid ground only to find it’s turned to water beneath his feet.

Not in some grand, sweeping way. Not in a poetic, tragic, cinematic burst of fate.

No, it’s worse.

Because it’s quiet. Devastating in its simplicity.

The man in front of him looks… ruined.

Not just tired. Not just unkempt, but gutted, carved out, frayed down to something raw and aching.

His hair is a mess, flattened in some places, sticking up wildly in others, like he’s been shoving his hands through it over and over again. His undershirt—thin, soft with wear—is wrinkled beneath his open suspenders, his button-up shoved to his elbows, creased and disheveled like he’d rolled them up hours ago and never thought to fix them. His trousers sit low on his hips, a little looser than usual, like he’d forgotten to wear a belt, and his bare feet barely make a sound against the scuffed wooden floor.

But it’s his face that hits Tony the hardest.

The dark smudges under his eyes, deep and bruised-looking, like he hasn’t truly slept since Tony left. The tension in his jaw, the way his lips press together like he’s been holding something back, like he’s used to holding down on words too sharp to say aloud. But Tony knows him too well. He sees it in the flicker of his fingers at his sides, the almost imperceptible twitch of his shoulders, the way his breath stutters on the exhale.

And then—

His eyes widen.

His lips part, but no sound comes out. His breath catches, just for a moment, his entire body going taut with something unreadable as his gaze rakes over Tony’s face, scanning him like he doesn’t trust what he’s seeing. Like Tony might disappear if he blinks too long.

For half a heartbeat, he just stares.

Tony stares back.

And for a long, silent second, the world shrinks down to nothing but the space between them.

Then the scent hits.

Tony staggers.

The force of it is immediate, brutal, knocking into him like a sledgehammer to the ribs. It’s Bucky, Bucky, thick and warm and overwhelming—cedarwood and musk and something darker, richer, something that has always made Tony feel safe, wanted, home.

His body reacts before his mind catches up, his knees threatening to give out as heat floods through him, a desperate, aching instinct roaring to the surface.

His scent glands pulse like a heartbeat. His breath shudders out in a ragged, ruined sound.

Bucky moves.

One second, there’s space between them. The next, Tony is being pulled in, hit with the full force of Bucky’s body, hands gripping his shirt like he needs proof, like he needs to feel flesh and bone beneath his fingers to believe it’s real. The impact steals Tony’s breath, knocks it straight out of his lungs as Bucky clutches at him, arms coiling around his back, pressing their bodies together with something close to desperation.

Tony makes a sound—raw, unsteady, ripped from the very core of him—and fists his hands into Bucky’s shirt, white-knuckled, clutching back like letting go isn’t an option.

Bucky trembles.

“Jesus Christ.”

The Alpha's voice is wrecked, furious, breath hot against Tony’s temple. His whole body vibrates, his chest heaving with ragged, unsteady breaths. “Where the hell have you been?”

Tony can’t answer. Can’t find the words, can’t find anything but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky—his scent, his heat, the way his body wraps around Tony like he belongs there.

Bucky buries his face in the crook of Tony’s neck, breath shaky, arms like iron bands locking him in place. His hands won’t stop moving, won’t stop touching—searching, roaming, pressing into Tony’s ribs, his back, his shoulders, mapping out every inch like he’s afraid something will be missing.

“Fuck—” The curse is barely a breath, vibrating against Tony’s pulse. “You—Goddammit, Tony, you just—” His voice cracks, just for a second, and Tony feels it like a knife between his ribs.

Tony sags, lets himself fold into Bucky’s grip, every bit of tension bleeding out of him as he breathes in deep, lets the scent of his Alpha flood his senses, soothe the raw, aching wound in his chest. It’s overwhelming. It’s grounding.

Bucky exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against Tony’s, the grip in his hair tightening like he needs something solid to hold onto.

His voice, when he speaks again, is rough at the edges, frayed like a rope about to snap.

“Never—” Bucky swallows hard, fingers curling tight against Tony’s nape. “Never do that to me again.”

It’s not a plea. It’s an order.

Tony shivers, his breath catching, his whole body humming with the force of Alpha, Alpha, Alpha.

Bucky pulls back just enough to look at him, his pupils blown wide, gaze raking over Tony’s face like he’s committing it to memory. His fingers tighten in Tony’s shirt, knuckles going white.

"Two weeks."

Bucky's voice is wrecked, sandpaper-rough, something strained and shaking at the edges. His grip on Tony’s waist is iron-tight, fingers flexing like he’s afraid Tony’s going to vanish right out of his hands.

"Two fucking weeks," he rasps, and there’s something layered under the anger, something raw and exposed and running bone-deep. "And all I got was—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, fingers fisting tighter in Tony’s shirt. "One letter. One." A sharp exhale, ragged, too fast. "No phone call. No address. Just—just words on a goddamn page."

Tony presses closer, the weight of Bucky’s body keeping him upright. His heart’s hammering hard enough to crack his ribs.

Bucky shakes his head, voice quieter now, like he’s still trying to decide whether he’s angry or just aching. "I didn’t know where you were, Tony." His hands shift, grip twitching against Tony’s waist. "Didn’t know if you were safe. If you were—" He stops, drags in a breath through his nose, exhales like it burns on the way out. His chest rises and falls too fast, too uneven.

Tony’s lungs seize. He’s talking before he even realizes it, words stumbling over each other in their rush to get out.

"I wanted to—" The admission bursts out of him, too quick, too frantic. "Bucky, I swear, I—" His breath stutters, voice cracking wide open, but he pushes forward anyway. "I couldn’t. I couldn’t. They wouldn’t let me, I didn’t even know where I was, technically, I—"

His hands are shaking. He clenches them tighter in Bucky’s undershirt, holding on for dear life.

"I promise you, Buck, I—I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell you everything, I just—" His voice caves, shaky and weak and desperate, too desperate. "I couldn’t."

Bucky’s whole body is locked up, vibrating with something that’s not quite rage, not quite relief. He makes a low, fractured sound in the back of his throat, then suddenly—

Tony’s breath is stolen.

Bucky hauls him in, arms coiling tighter, his scent spiking with something thick, something weighty, something that slams into Tony’s nervous system like a freefall.

"Jesus, Tony," Bucky mutters, voice rasping against his neck, breath hot and unsteady. "I—" The words falter, break apart. His fingers dig into Tony’s waist like he’s trying to hold both of them together. His whole frame is trembling, broad chest pressed against Tony’s, muscles wound up so tight they might snap.

Then, barely a breath, barely a whisper—

"God, honey, you don’t even smell like you."

Tony doesn’t register it at first. His brain is full of white noise, his body full of Bucky, warmth and weight and sheer presence sinking into his bones.

Then Bucky makes a noise.

It’s quiet. A low, wounded thing.

Tony's stomach lurches.

Bucky pulls back, just enough to look at him, hands sliding over Tony’s collar, pressing into the pulse at his throat, his wrists, his jaw—searching. Searching for something that isn’t there.

"You don’t—" Bucky swallows hard, eyes flickering dark, stormy, sharp-edged and hollow all at once. His voice scrapes raw as he breathes, "They scrubbed me off you."

Tony’s breath stops dead in his throat.

The SSR. The bunker. Cold metal tables and clipped military efficiency. Antiseptic and starch and nothing else. No scent-marking. No warmth. No him.

He hadn’t even noticed.

Bucky had.

Bucky, who always buried his face in Tony’s neck when he came home, who always wrinkled his nose when Tony smelled too much like stale Institute hallways, who had once—just once—dragged his mouth over Tony’s mating gland and murmured mine like it meant something.

Tony tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat feels swollen shut, lungs strangled by something cold, something tight.

Bucky looks gutted.

"You smell like—like nothing," Bucky says, almost disbelieving, like it’s a physical impossibility. His fingers curl into Tony’s lapels, tugging him in, like sheer force of will might bring it back. "I don’t—God, I don’t like it, doll, I don’t—I can’t—" He breaks off, breath catching on something ugly.

And then he’s pressing in, pushing his face against Tony’s throat, drenching him in scent, like he can overwrite it, fix it, pull Tony back from whatever sterile void they dumped him in.

Tony shudders, his whole body locking up. His fingers dig into Bucky’s back, holding on, clutching tight. His voice comes out shaky, hoarse, barely above a whisper—

"‘M still yours."

Bucky makes another wrecked sound, part growl, part plea.

"Still yours, Buck. I swear it."

Bucky breaks.

His hands are frantic, desperate, dragging Tony closer, his lips pressing hot, fast kisses to his temple, his cheek, his jaw—anywhere he can reach. "Yeah, honey," he breathes between kisses, "yeah, you are. Mine."

Tony nods, shaking apart, curling into Bucky’s warmth like he can fuse them back together.

Bucky exhales, shaky, uneven, one hand sinking into Tony’s hair, the other still holding onto his waist like a lifeline. His scent floods the air—heavy, grounding, his.

They could stay like this forever. Wrapped around each other, fixing it. Undoing the space, undoing the ache, undoing whatever the SSR tried to take.

But then—

A quiet cough.

Tony stiffens, brain snapping back to reality in a painful whiplash as his head jerks up—

And there’s Jarvis. Standing a polite distance away, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression perfectly neutral save for the faintest flicker of long-suffering patience.

"Perhaps I should come in and make some coffee," Jarvis suggests dryly.

Bucky doesn’t react. Doesn’t even twitch. Just holds Tony tighter, nose still buried against his skin, like he’s pretending Jarvis doesn’t exist.

Tony, for his part, is actively considering melting through the floorboards.

But Bucky Barnes is still his mother’s son.

Which means Tony barely has time to register what’s happening before Bucky lifts his head just slightly, nodding once—respectful, quiet.

"Mister Jarvis."

Jarvis’s expression doesn’t flicker. Not a smirk, not a twitch, nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, quick and subtle, before he steps forward with smooth, effortless grace.

"Mister Barnes," he returns, just as composed. "A pleasure, at last."

Tony actually stops breathing.

Bucky doesn’t let go. But his grip changes—less frantic, more assured, like his body has finally decided Tony is here, and real. His head tilts slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. No challenge, no hesitation—just understanding. A long moment stretches out between them, quiet and unspoken.

Then, finally—Bucky exhales.

"Yeah," he says, steadier now, something looser in his shoulders. "Yeah, I think it is."

Jarvis doesn’t react right away. Just looks at Bucky, measuring, assessing.

Then, so quick Tony almost misses it, the barest flicker of something.

Approval, maybe.

Then—gone.

Jarvis clears his throat. "Shall I assume three cups?" he asks, already turning toward the kitchen, perfectly unfazed.

Bucky’s voice is still gravelly, still thick with something raw, but he answers without hesitation.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, please, that’d be great. Maybe four. Come on in.”

Jarvis steps inside with a measured grace, shutting the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click that somehow feels like the final turn of a lock. The room shifts, smaller now, the heavy press of Bucky’s scent sinking into the space between them, curling around Tony’s skin like something with teeth.

Bucky’s attention snaps back to him instantly, like it never left. His hands resume their path, mapping him out, tracing over sharp cheekbones, brushing against the dark hollows under Tony’s eyes, pausing at the almost-healed cut on his lip. His frown deepens, something hard and lethal flickering in the space behind his eyes.

“I was going outta my mind,” he murmurs, voice tight, gravel-rough. His fingers drift lower, skimming Tony’s jaw, his temple. “Had no idea where you were. No one knew a damn thing. Couldn’t find a trace of you—not with your family, not with Stone. Nothin’, doll. Just—” He exhales sharply, like the words are too bitter to sit on his tongue. “Dead ends.”

Tony sways closer, grip tightening around the straps of Bucky’s suspenders, holding on like maybe, just maybe, if he clings hard enough, he can shove an apology into Bucky’s skin and make it stick. His own voice is quiet when it comes, strained and unsteady. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “God, Buck, I’m so sorry.”

Bucky doesn’t let him pull back. If anything, he holds on tighter, his hands dragging over Tony’s skin like he’s still searching, like he’s cataloging every inch of him to make sure none of it’s missing. His palms frame Tony’s face, his thumb sweeping over the soft skin beneath his eyes, pressing against exhaustion like he can erase it.

“Where the hell were you?” he asks, voice dropping lower, rougher. “What happened?”

Tony’s throat tightens. He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come.

Because he can’t tell Bucky.

Not about SSR, not about Project Rebirth, not about Erskine or the chamber or the ice-cold weight of secrecy pressing into his ribs. Not about the way they locked him away in a concrete tomb while the world kept turning without him.

He signed the NDAs. He swore the silence.

But he can give Bucky this.

“I wasn’t with Tiberius,” he manages, meeting Bucky’s gaze even as his stomach churns with the half-truths he can’t untangle. “I swear, Buck. I wasn’t.”

Bucky exhales, sharp and rough, like he’s trying to shove the weight of the last two weeks out of his lungs. His fingers press a little harder, thumb sliding to the hinge of Tony’s jaw. His eyes flash, something unreadable simmering just beneath the surface.

“You sure?” he asks, voice quiet but edged with something razor-sharp. “You can—You can tell me.”

Tony nods, grip tightening around Bucky’s wrist, grounding himself in the heat of his skin. “Swear it.”

A beat. A long inhale.

Something shifts in Bucky’s shoulders—not much, but enough.

Tony licks his lips, pulse hammering under the weight of Bucky’s grip. “The contract’s void,” he whispers. “I’m not—he doesn’t own me anymore.”

Bucky’s expression darkens. His fingers flex like he wants to dig deeper, carve out every last answer Tony isn’t giving. Like he’s not content to let this mystery sit, to let it live in the quiet between them.

But whatever he sees in Tony’s face must be enough—because he doesn’t push.

Instead, he lets out a quiet sound, something deep and rough, curling his fingers around the back of Tony’s neck, his thumb dragging over his scent gland in slow, grounding strokes. His breath shudders out, long and uneven, like the last two weeks are finally catching up to him all at once.

“Good,” Bucky murmurs.

Then, with a quiet fierceness that settles deep in Tony’s ribs:

“You were never his.”

The coffee is scalding, strong, and mercifully grounding. Tony wraps his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his fingers as steam curls lazily into the air. The kitchen feels smaller than it should, crowded with the weight of too many bodies, the rich caffeinated scent cutting through the dense, lingering haze of Bucky’s pheromones hanging thick in the room.

Across the table, Steve squints between Bucky—who still hasn’t stopped touching Tony, one hand curled loosely over the back of his chair, thumb skimming slow, lazy strokes against his shoulder—and Jarvis, the very picture of unshaken dignity, sipping his coffee like this is just another Tuesday.

“You—” Steve starts, voice still rough with sleep. He blinks hard. “You have a butler.”

Tony takes a slow, pointed sip. “Incredible observation skills, Rogers.”

It had taken a considerable amount of effort to drag Steve out of bed. Bucky had muttered something along the lines of “dumb lug could sleep through an air raid” before stomping off to the bedroom, vanishing for all of ten seconds before a sharp thud and an indignant yelp signaled that Steve had been forcibly extracted from unconsciousness.

By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, his hair was an absolute disaster, his undershirt twisted like he’d fought a battle in his sleep and lost, and his face was wearing the kind of deep confusion only half-conscious men could muster. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, blinking slow, trying to process—

Then he saw Tony.

And Steve—Steve just froze.

Mid-step, mid-breath, mid-blink. Muscles locking up, jaw going slack, blue eyes widening as he took Tony in. His mouth opened like maybe he had words, but then his gaze dropped lower, scanning, flicking over every inch of him like he wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing him or if he was still dreaming.

Tony barely had time to process before Steve crossed the room in two quick strides and yanked him into a hug so tight it drove the air from his lungs.

His whole body locked up, instincts screaming at the abruptness, at the sheer force of being grabbed, of being enveloped—but Steve was Steve, scrawy limbs and all.

And Steve smelled like home—like linen and soap, like warm Brooklyn summers, like graphite and ink.

Tony exhaled, slow and unsteady, and let himself sink into it.

For just a second, he let Steve hold him, let himself be wrapped up in something solid, something steady. Let the weight of another trusted Alpha’s touch press down, soothing the frayed edges of his instincts.

Steve pulled back just enough to search his face, hands gripping his arms like he needed proof Tony was real. “Where the hell did you go?” he demanded, voice sharp, laced with too much—too much worry, too much frustration, too much everything Steve wasn’t saying.

Tony, because he was Tony, flashed a shit-eating grin. “Summer camp.”

Steve scowled. “You’re an ass.”

Now, with a cup of coffee in hand and Steve looking marginally more awake, he was back to staring at Jarvis with the furrowed expression of someone struggling to process a deeply inconvenient reality. “No, seriously,” Steve says, dragging a hand through his hair. “You meant an actual butler? This whole time? Like—a real, breathing, limo-drivin' butler?”

Jarvis, to his credit, doesn’t even blink. He sets his cup down neatly, regarding Steve with the same mild patience he usually reserves for tax collectors and door-to-door salesmen. “Unless there has been some significant change to my employment status of which I am unaware—yes.”

Steve gapes at him. Then back at Tony. “Jesus. All this time, I thought you were jokin’.”

“I was,” Tony says, shifting in his chair. “But I had to keep up appearances. Put out a classified ad—‘Middle-aged Brit needed: must be balding and own at least three waistcoats. Bonus points for proficiency in disappointed sighs.’”

Jarvis takes another sip of coffee. “And yet, despite my exceptional qualifications, you insist on testing my patience daily.”

Tony gestures vaguely. “See? Best investment I ever made.”

Bucky makes a low, tired noise, something close to a laugh, but his hand never leaves Tony. Broad and warm, it remains at the nape of his neck, tracing slow, absent circles, his thumb occasionally wandering to brush against Tony’s scent gland. It’s subtle but deliberate—reassuring, anchoring, possessive in a way Tony doesn’t know how to process.

He should pull away.

Should crack a joke, should roll his eyes, should act like his whole body isn’t going liquid under the weight of Bucky’s touch, isn’t leaning into the slow, grounding press like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

He should.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, shaking his head, letting his shoulders relax under the weight of it. “Anyway,” he says, flicking a look at Steve. “Glad to see you managed to drag yourself out of hibernation.”

Steve grumbles something about "someone kicking up enough scent to wake half the Alphas in the damn borough,” but Tony isn’t listening anymore.

Because Bucky leans in.

Just slightly, just enough for the heat of him to flare against the side of Tony’s temple, just enough that the air shifts thick with something electric, something that makes Tony’s blood run slow and heavy. The hand at his nape doesn’t move, but Bucky inhales, close and quiet, scent flaring rich and deep as he presses the barest fraction closer.

Scenting.

Marking.

Tony feels it everywhere.

His pulse jumps, his breath hitches, his skin prickles like every nerve in his body has just gone on high alert.

Too much. Too fast.

His instincts don’t care.

His body soaks it in, curled into the warmth of an Alpha’s presence, into the wordless claiming Bucky is offering in slow, careful increments.

And Bucky—Bucky knows.

Of course, he does.

He can smell it. Can feel the way Tony’s breath has gone shallow, the way his fingers curl tighter around the ceramic of his cup, the way his scent softens, hazed into something instinctively receptive.

For half a second, Bucky’s grip flexes like he wants to push, like his own instincts are telling him to take, to hold, to keep.

Tony sucks in a sharp breath.

He tries to focus, tries to ground himself. He has an audience. Steve is still watching, brows knit together, sharp blue gaze flicking between the two of them, reading too much, catching on too fast. Even Jarvis, ever composed, pauses mid-sip, expression unreadable as his eyes flicker briefly between them.

Tony licks his lips, clears his throat, forces himself to speak. “Right, well,” he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. He waves a hand vaguely. “Look, I can't give you guys any classified details, unfortunately. Signed, like, forty-five NDAs. So let’s just say I was on a thrilling War Department-sponsored getaway. Real five-star experience—concrete beds, round-the-clock babysitting, food that tasted like wet newspaper. Real top-tier operation.”

Bucky makes a low, unimpressed noise, and his thumb strokes another slow line against Tony’s scent gland, pressing just enough to make Tony shudder.

“Tony,” Bucky says disapprovingly.

Tony exhales sharply, forcing a grin. “That’s the best you’re getting. You want details, you can file a request with the U.S. government. I’m sure they’ll get back to you in—oh, never.”

Steve looks vaguely green. “You were locked up?”

Tony shrugs one shoulder, feeling loose, untethered. “They called it a security measure. I call it a colossal waste of taxpayer money.” His fingers tighten around the mug as his breath hitches, heat pooling behind his ribs, creeping up the back of his throat. “Point is, I’m here now, so—”

A slow, woozy sensation washes over Tony, dragging him deeper into the thick, smothering heat of it—his blood humming, his skin flushed, his head full of cotton. He grips the edge of the table, fingers pressing into the wood like it might anchor him, like it might stop the slow unraveling inside him.

Across from him, Steve flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just the faintest hitch in his breath, the way his hands flex on his mug, the crease between his brows pulling tighter. His gaze flicks to Bucky, then back to Tony, his posture shifting from confusion to something steadier, something careful.

"Hey," Steve says, voice dropping into something quiet, something measured. His scent stays forcibly neutral, locked down tight, but Tony can tell—he's holding it back on purpose. "You okay?"

Tony tries to nod, tries to play it off, but his movements are slow, delayed, like his brain and body are working on separate frequencies. His breath stutters. He feels hot, too hot, his skin buzzing with something restless and heavy. Somewhere to his right, a chair scrapes against the floor, the soft clink of a coffee cup being set down—Jarvis, moving with the same effortless grace he always does—but Tony barely registers it.

Because Bucky is touching him.

Still. Always.

His hand stays warm and steady at the back of Tony’s neck, thumb pressing slow, absent circles against his scent gland. And when he leans in, his scent flaring low and steady, Tony feels it everywhere—pressing into his ribs, curling into his lungs, settling deep beneath his skin like something meant to stay.

Bucky knows.

Tony can feel it in the shift of his body, in the way his hand flexes at his nape, just slightly, like he's making sure Tony stays exactly where he is. "Hey," Bucky murmurs, voice soft but firm. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Tony blinks up at him, sluggish and heavy-limbed, breath coming too short, too uneven.

Bucky’s expression has changed—still tight with frustration, still sharp around the edges, but softened now, concern threading through the hard lines of his face. “You’re dropping,” he says, low and certain, like it’s just a fact, like it’s something he’s already decided how to fix. “Breathe for me.”

Tony shudders. The command in Bucky’s voice—deep, even, grounding—sets something off in him, instinct curling tight in his stomach, winding low in his ribs. His breath catches, then stumbles out of him all at once, hitching in his chest. His scent shifts, thickening in the air, curling warmer, softer.

Beside him, Jarvis clears his throat, the sound pointed but not unkind. “I believe that’s my cue,” he says smoothly, already rising to his feet.

Tony blinks, tries to gather his scattered thoughts, tries to regain some sense of composure. He pushes up like he’s going to stand, his limbs still syrup-heavy. “I’ll walk you out.”

Jarvis doesn’t even dignify that with a response. He just exhales through his nose, then levels Tony with a look so profoundly unimpressed that Tony has to fight the ridiculous instinct to bare his teeth like a petulant child.

“I sincerely doubt that,” Jarvis says dryly, reaching for his waistcoat where he draped it earlier.

Tony scowls. “I can—”

“You cannot,” Jarvis cuts in, patient as ever, but leaving no room for argument. He straightens his lapels, sharp eyes flicking once to Bucky’s hand at the back of Tony’s neck before returning to his face. “You will sit here, finish your coffee, and try not to fall over while I make my exit.”

"Bossy," Tony mutters, but he doesn’t move. Mostly because—yeah, okay, Jarvis might have a point. His balance is shot, his biology strung out and pliant under the sheer weight of Bucky’s presence, and the thought of actually getting up, actually stepping away from the heat curling warm and steady around him, seems about as possible as sprouting wings and flying out the window.

But something about saying goodbye now, after all this, after everything, makes his chest go tight.

Jarvis must see it, because he softens, just a fraction. As he pulls on his coat, he says, casual as anything, “Do try and ring me, Anthony.”

Tony nods once, sharp and quick, not trusting himself to speak.

Because it’s always like this with Jarvis—always a little too much, always a little overwhelming. His brain gets scrambled, his throat gets tight, his instincts get tangled up in all the things he’s never been able to say out loud.

Jarvis, who’s been there for every scraped knee, every sleepless night, every wreck Tony’s ever made of himself. Jarvis, who is the reason Tony is still here. Still standing.

Or, well. Sitting.

Jarvis buttons his coat with quiet efficiency, then glances toward Steve. “Mister Rogers.”

Steve, who has been silent this whole time, jerks like he’s just remembered he exists. “Uh—yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, hands tightening around his mug. “See you ‘round, Mister Jarvis. Sir.”

Jarvis dips his head once, then looks to Bucky. The pause is brief, but weighted, something quiet and assessing passing between them.

Bucky meets the look without flinching. Holds it. And whatever Jarvis sees there must be enough, because he nods, just once, in something that might be acknowledgment.

“Good night, Mister Barnes,” Jarvis says.

Bucky inclines his head, his grip on Tony never wavering. “Sir.”

And then he’s gone, the door swinging open just long enough for a cool gust of Brooklyn night to sweep in and steal some of Tony’s warmth before it clicks shut behind him.

The room falls into silence.

Tony stays slumped against the table, breathing slow, trying to pull himself back together while his body keeps trying to melt under the weight of Bucky’s presence. He knows he needs to get a grip, knows he’s already toeing the edge of something his body might not be able to handle, but it’s fucking impossible to think when Bucky is right there, all scent and heat and solid, unmoving certainty pressing in on him from every angle.

And then there’s Steve.

Still sitting, still holding his coffee, still looking way too much like a man caught in the middle of something he wasn’t prepared to witness. His scent is locked down, his expression carefully neutral, but Tony catches it—the way his fingers tighten just slightly around the ceramic, the barely-there twitch in his jaw.

Guilt stabs through him, sharp and sudden, even as his body betrays him, curling deeper into the quiet, grounding weight of Bucky’s touch.

Bucky, for his part, doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts closer, his grip firm, his scent pressing heavier, thicker, more deliberate. The shift is small, subtle, but Tony feels it like a brand against his skin.

“You should go back to bed.”

The words drop like a stone, short and clipped, not quite a command but carrying enough weight to make Steve go still. Tony glances at Bucky, catching the way his grip tightens—just slightly—on the back of Tony’s chair.

Steve exhales sharply through his nose. “You serious?” He gestures vaguely in Bucky’s direction. “You just dragged me outta bed, Buck. Literally. My ass hit the floor.”

“And now I’m tellin’ you to go back.” Bucky’s voice is even, too even, but there’s an unmistakable shift beneath it, something in his scent cooling at the edges.

Tony knows the room is still thick with it—his own scent, his pheromones still lingering, still saturating the air. Knows, too, that Steve’s Alpha biology is reacting the only way it knows how. There’s no intent behind it, no challenge, no claim.

But Tony’s Alpha clearly isn’t interested in nuance.

Steve squares his shoulders, gaze narrowing just slightly, a flicker of frustration behind his sharp blue eyes. “Buck—”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice drops low. Warning. “Bed.”

Steve’s jaw ticks, but after a beat, he exhales hard, tipping his head back like he’s asking the ceiling for patience. “Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Great to have you back, Tony. Can’t say I missed this part, though.”

Tony grimaces.

Bucky doesn’t so much as blink.

There’s a beat of silence before Steve rolls his eyes, grabbing his coffee cup and downing what’s left of it in one go before setting it down a little too hard on the table. “Fine. Whatever. Try not to do anythin’ nasty while I’m still awake, I swear to God,” he mutters, already turning on his heel and trudging toward the bedroom.

Bucky huffs, shaking his head as Steve disappears down the hall. “Punk.”

Tony, still blinking slow and heavy, lets his head loll lazily to the side. “You know,” he murmurs, voice syrup-thick, “for someone who just forced an Omega to drop his scent all over your kitchen, you’re a real possessive bastard about it.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks down, sharp and steady, pupils just a little too dark. “You’re askin’ for trouble, sweetheart.”

Tony hums, fingers finding Bucky’s wrist where it rests against his chair, pressing just slightly into the scent gland there, his touch featherlight, teasing. “Yeah? What kinda trouble?”

Bucky exhales, slow and measured, before lifting a hand and tucking a loose curl behind Tony’s ear. His fingers trail down, dragging over the bare skin of Tony’s throat, pressing into the quick, unsteady pulse beneath his jaw.

Tony’s breath stutters.

Bucky leans in, his breath warm at Tony’s temple, voice low and rough. “The kind you can’t handle right now, baby.”

His thumb strokes over the gland at Tony’s neck, slow and deliberate, before he pulls back just enough to haul Tony up, guiding him out of the chair like he weighs nothing. “C’mon. Bed.”

Tony whines—soft, instinctual, helpless—when Bucky moves away, his body resisting the loss of heat, of touch, of Bucky. His mind knows they need to move, knows his body is all but useless, barely able to hold itself upright without Bucky propping him up. But that knowledge doesn’t stop the noise that escapes his throat—high and desperate, the kind of sound he’d never let slip if he were thinking clearly.

Bucky freezes.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing, the low hum of the radiator rattling against the wall. Then, slow and deliberate, Bucky shifts.

But instead of pulling away, he steps into Tony’s space, hands sliding around his waist, solid and sure. Tony barely has time to process before he’s being lifted, settled into Bucky’s lap, back into the chair, their bodies fitting together in a way that makes something deep in Tony’s chest go soft, go quiet. He clutches at Bucky’s shoulders as the world tilts.

And then—oh.

Bucky ducks down, breath hot against the crook of Tony’s neck, lips grazing the throbbing, aching pulse point just beneath his jaw. His scent is thick in the air, saturating every inch of space between them, every inch of Tony, seeping into his skin, his lungs, his bones. Tony feels it like a drug, like a fever breaking all at once, like a rope pulling taut between them, dragging him closer, closer, closer.

Bucky growls—a deep, low vibration that rolls through his chest and into Tony’s. “Goddamn knew you weren’t doin’ good,” he mutters against Tony’s skin, voice half a rasp, half a snarl. His fingers flex at Tony’s hips, possessive, grounding. “Knew somethin’ was wrong. You smell—” He inhales deeply. “You smell like you’ve been starvin’ for it, baby.”

Tony doesn’t get the chance to answer. Bucky latches onto his mating gland—his burning, aching, too-long-untouched mating gland—and sucks.

Tony breaks.

A high, sharp noise escapes him, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His entire body locks up, nerves firing, pleasure lancing down his spine so fast and hot it’s blinding.

Bucky devours the spot, mouth hot and wet, tongue soothing over tender, fevered skin before sinking his teeth in again—not enough to break skin, not yet, but hard enough to leave something dark, something that’ll linger for days. A mark. A brand. As close to a bond as he can get without taking Tony right here, right now, in the middle of the apartment kitchen.

And Tony—Tony can’t breathe, can’t think. The sensation is overwhelming, the raw nerve endings in his neck lighting up like electricity, sending wave after wave of heat and relief and completion rolling through him. It’s instinct, it’s biology, it’s everything he’s been denied for nearly two weeks finally slamming back into place all at once.

It’s too much.

It’s perfect.

His vision whites out at the edges. His pulse slams against his ribs, his stomach tenses, his thighs tremble. His body seizes under the weight of sensation, his back arching, his fingers clawing into Bucky’s shirt, his breath shattering in his chest—

And then he comes.

Untouched. Effortless. Helpless.

The orgasm crashes over him like a tidal wave, wracking his body with shuddering, helpless convulsions, his hips jerking forward into nothing, chasing friction that isn’t even needed. His muscles seize, his entire world narrowing to the hot, wet press of Bucky’s mouth still sucking bruises into his skin, to the fingers gripping him so tight, holding him together while he shatters.

His body is still shaking, still riding the aftershocks, when Bucky suddenly stills.

The shift in tension snaps Tony back just enough for awareness to creep in, for the high of his orgasm to melt into something hot and sticky between his legs. His breath stutters, his muscles tremble in the aftermath, and—

Oh. Oh.

The realization barely has time to settle before Bucky growls.

The sound is low, raw, rattling deep in his chest. Possessive in a way that has something inside Tony going soft and pliant. The hands on his hips tighten, fingers pressing in firm as Bucky noses along his jaw, inhaling deep, tongue flicking out to soothe the bruises already blooming on his skin. His own breath is ragged, coming in sharp, uneven pants, his body taut with restraint beneath Tony’s.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Bucky lifts his head.

Tony forces himself to meet his gaze—and nearly forgets how to breathe.

Bucky looks fractured. Absolutely feral. His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing up the grey, his jaw locked so tight it ticks, his nostrils flaring as he scents the aftermath, as he processes what just happened.

Tony doesn’t even get a second to prepare before Bucky’s grip tightens, fingers digging in, voice thick with heat when he exhales, “Jesus Christ.”

His stomach flips, shame and thrill tangling into something electric.

Then—quieter, like he can’t quite believe it: “Did you just come from me scenting you?”

Tony swallows hard, throat tight, body still trembling in Bucky’s lap. His cheeks burn, the weight of it all crashing into him at once. He tries to think, to find words, to string together something remotely coherent, but he’s still dizzy, still stunned, still—

Bucky moves.

His hand cradles the back of Tony’s head, fingers threading into his curls, thumb sweeping over his temple in slow, steady strokes, grounding.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with something close to awe. “Didn’t even touch you.”

Tony hums, eyes slipping shut for a beat before he forces them back open. His tongue feels thick, heavy, but he manages a slow, slurred, “Alpha.”

Bucky’s breath catches.

His grip tightens, just for a second, his entire body going rigid like Tony’s just grabbed him by the throat. His scent spikes, something raw and instinctual flashing across his face before he reels himself back in, his breathing hard and unsteady.

Tony feels weightless, drunk on it, tilting his head into Bucky’s palm with a quiet, pleased noise, his entire body thrumming.

Bucky exhales, rubbing slow, broad circles into Tony’s back. “Yeah, I know, baby,” he soothes, nosing against Tony’s temple. “You’re all messed up, huh? Poor thing.” His mouth presses warm against Tony’s hairline, then lower, trailing soft, absent kisses along the shell of his ear, the hinge of his jaw. “Did so good for me.”

Tony sags, boneless in Bucky’s lap, warmth seeping through every inch of him like he’s been drugged. And maybe he has, in a way. The pheromone onslaught, the relief, the sheer chemical rush of being back in Bucky’s space after so long—his entire body is responding like a starved animal finally being fed.

Bucky hums, pressing one last kiss to the fluttering pulse at his throat before shifting beneath him. “C’mon, killer,” he says, moving to stand, lifting Tony like he’s weightless. “Let’s get you to bed before you pass out on me.”

Tony grumbles, nuzzling into Bucky’s shoulder, weakly clutching at his shirt, but Bucky just huffs a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, tone warm, amused, as he starts toward the hallway. “Trust me, I’d keep you like this all night if I could, but we gotta get you outta these clothes before Stevie kills us both.”

Tony blinks, trying to focus through the fog. “Stevie?” he mumbles, voice rough, slow.

Bucky grins, pushing open his bedroom door. “Yeah, genius,” he says, kicking it shut behind them. “You know he’s gonna have my ass when he smells what you just did all over our kitchen chair.”

Tony groans, muffled against Bucky’s neck, too wrecked to care. “He’ll live,” he mutters, half-slurred.

Bucky chuckles, the sound deep and indulgent, and shifts his grip higher, settling his arms more securely beneath Tony’s thighs. “C’mon, gorgeous,” he murmurs, nosing against Tony’s temple. “Let me put you to bed.”

The room is dim, the only light coming from the cracked glow of a bedside lamp. It’s small, slightly cramped, but familiar—cedar dust, warmth, something distinctly Bucky clinging to the air. An anchor. A tether. Tony blinks at the shadows along the walls, the rumpled sheets on the narrow mattress, the battered dresser with a single framed photograph resting on top—two young boys in school uniforms, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning wide.

Bucky crosses to the bed in a few steps, lowering Tony down onto the sheets. Tony’s breath shudders at the loss of contact, but Bucky keeps a hand on him, palm steady over his shoulder.

“You with me?” Bucky asks, voice quiet as he brushes a thumb over Tony’s cheekbone. It’s soft, a little rough, but there’s something else there, something careful in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache.

Tony tries to nod, but the movement is clumsy. “Yeah,” he manages, blinking slow. “Just—” He exhales, sinking deeper into the mattress. “Just a little… floaty.” He lifts a hand, waving vaguely.

Bucky smiles—small, tired, something warm in it. “I bet.” He kneels by the bed, fingers deft as he tugs at the laces of Tony’s boots, one hand steady on his knee, keeping him still. “Gonna let me take care of you?”

Tony would normally crack a joke—about domestic Alphas or personal valets, maybe—but he’s too wiped out, the tension of the last two weeks leaving him feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. So he just murmurs a faint, half-hearted, “Yeah, okay,” and lets his eyes fall shut.

Bucky’s hands move with practiced ease, untying Tony’s boots, peeling off his socks. The faint thud as they hit the floor barely registers, his focus narrowing to the slow, methodical way Bucky tugs at the waistband of his slacks, careful, deliberate, like he’s handling something fragile.

Like he’s still trying to convince himself Tony’s really here.

When the last of his clothes are gone—save for the undershirt clinging to his skin and a clean pair of Bucky’s boxers—Tony feels warm hands slide up beneath the fabric. Rough fingers pressing into his ribs, his stomach, checking, mapping, searching for damage.

The touch isn’t intrusive. It’s instinct. A confirmation.

Tony doesn’t mean to make a sound, but something slips out anyway—a quiet, needy thing that he’d be embarrassed about if his body wasn’t still humming from the comedown. Bucky’s hands stutter just slightly, his gaze flicking up, jaw tight.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, voice low, like he’s bracing himself for an answer he won’t like.

Tony swallows, shakes his head against the pillow. “No,” he breathes, forcing himself to form actual words. “It’s—good. You’re—great.”

It’s quiet. Honest. Not one of his usual throwaway lines, not something deflective or flippant, and the tension in Bucky’s shoulders eases just a fraction. He bows his head for a beat, collecting himself, then shifts up the bed so he can maneuver behind Tony, propping him up against his chest. The scent of him—woodsmoke, cedar, the faint tang of metal—washes over Tony in a wave, making his stomach flutter.

They settle back against the pillows, the mattress creaking under their combined weight. Outside, a car horn blares, muffled by the walls, and somewhere above them, the tenant in 5B stomps around like an elephant on parade. It’s so normal—so achingly normal—that Tony almost laughs.

Instead, he just burrows deeper into the warmth at his back, turning his face into the hollow of Bucky’s throat and breathing him in, chasing something solid in the haze of exhaustion.

Bucky’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading into his curls, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles behind his ear.

They stay like that for a long moment, just breathing. Letting the quiet wrap around them.

Then, eventually—soft, careful: “Did they—” Bucky hesitates, the words catching. “Did they hurt you? Wherever you were?”

Tony’s chest goes tight at the raw edge in his voice. At the way Bucky is holding onto him like he’s afraid to let go.

“No,” he says. Then—quieter, drier: “Not… not like that.”

A pause.

Howard’s backhand flashes through his mind, sharp and impersonal, just a punctuation mark in a lifetime of corrections. His mouth twists.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, at least.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. For a moment, he’s silent, gaze skittering over Tony’s face. Tony wonders if he can detect the ghost of Tony’s bruised cheekbone, the scab of his split lip, both thankfully healed ten days later.

Then, quietly, “You scared the hell outta me.”

Tony exhales, chest heavy, heart aching at the hurt carved into Bucky’s features. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough, guilt pressing in. “I didn’t mean—God, Buck, I never wanted—”

“Shh.”

Bucky cups his cheek, warm and steady, his thumb sweeping just under the shadow of exhaustion beneath Tony’s eye. “I know,” he murmurs, brushing away something invisible. “Not your fault.”

Tony just closes his eyes, leans into the warmth. Lets himself be held.

The radiator hums softly, filling the quiet between them. Somewhere down the hall, water pipes groan to life.

Then Bucky exhales, slow and shaking. “I tried lookin’ for you,” he admits, the words spilling out, raw and unfiltered. “Everywhere. Soon as you disappeared—Christ, Tony, I couldn’t sleep. Spent two weeks knocking on doors, askin’ around, turning over every damn rock.” His hand curls against Tony’s back, holding tight. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

Tony doesn’t breathe.

“I couldn’t even get within ten blocks of your family’s place in Manhattan,” Bucky continues, his voice tight. “Guards turned people away on sight. Tried callin’ Jarvis’s main line—tried callin’ the damn Institute, even. Nobody would tell me shit.”

Tony swallows against the lump forming in his throat. His stomach twists, shame curling around his ribs.

“And Stone,” Bucky mutters, something sharp in the way he says the name. “Went sniffin’ around Tiberius Stone, thinkin’ maybe that contract pulled you in. But it was like askin’ after a ghost. No address. No business records. No paper trail. Some people swore up and down they’d never even heard of him. Others clammed up the second I said his name.”

Tony grimaces.

Yeah. That tracks.

Bucky’s grip tightens, like he’s physically holding himself back. “Figured either he went underground or your old man pulled strings, but I—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Tony’s chest aches. He shifts, pressing in closer. “Buck…”

“You know that letter I sent you?” Bucky asks, voice quieter now, like he’s reluctant to say it. “The one after you wrote me?”

Tony nods.

“I rewrote it six times.” Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, humorless. “Didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. If I should’ve said anything at all. If they’d hurt you for it. Just—” He drags a hand down his face, frustration bleeding through. “I couldn’t sit here twiddlin’ my thumbs while you were gone. Thought maybe if you saw how bad I needed to hear from you, you’d…” He trails off, swallows hard. “Well, guess they never even let you see those, huh?”

Tony’s throat is tight. He can barely get the words out.

“They gave it to me,” he murmurs. “Your letter. I—I still have it.”

Bucky stills. His breath catches, barely audible.

Then, in one fluid movement, he’s pulling Tony closer, cupping the back of his head, pressing him in tight.

“I thought…” Bucky exhales sharply. “I thought maybe that bastard had you. Or your father pulled some backroom deal to keep you under lock and key ‘til that contract was binding. I wasn’t even sure if you were still in New York.” His voice goes thick, rough. “They put your bonding announcement in the papers, did you know that? I showed it to anyone who’d look, demanding to know where you were. But all I got were shrugs. Blank stares.”

Tony wets his lips, pressing closer, letting himself be held. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words useless, but all he has. “I knew… I knew I’d come back. Just had to figure some things out first.”

Secure his freedom. Legally emancipate himself. Reverse engineer a technological meltdown.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Bucky’s fingertips stroke idly at the space below Tony’s collar, hooking under the edge of his undershirt. “I’d have torn the whole city apart, if I’d had any idea where to start.”

“Sounds like you already tore apart half the furniture in Brooklyn,” Tony says, lips tugging into something that isn’t quite a grin.

Bucky doesn’t deny it. Instead, he exhales, the sound heavy, like the last two weeks are pressing down on his chest. “Damn near lost my mind without you,” he admits, voice rough, worn through. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t—” He stops, breath quivering in a way that betrays how close he came to breaking. Then he laughs—humorless, quiet—shaking his head. “Me and Steve… we were crawling the walls, snappin’ at each other, almost threw punches a couple times. Stress’ll do that, I guess.” His fingers curl more firmly around Tony’s waist, like he needs the contact to stay steady. “If Jarvis hadn’t shown up when he did, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Tony tucks closer, heartbeat thrumming unsteadily. The knowledge that Bucky was here, worrying, helpless—it digs a ragged edge into his heart. “Buck,” he whispers, covering Bucky’s free hand where it rests against his hip. “I’m really sorry.”

Bucky just shakes his head and presses a soft kiss to the slope of Tony’s shoulder. “None of that,” he mutters, voice cracking once, betraying the raw undercurrent of relief and fear. “You’re back, that’s what matters.”

Tony nods, throat tight, cheek brushing Bucky’s skin. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and bone-deep tired but resolute. “I’m home.”

They lapse into silence, the hush of the night pressing in, the distant hum of the city beneath them. Bucky’s fingers drift in slow, steady movements through Tony’s hair, his other arm a solid band around Tony’s waist, and Tony can feel the exhaustion trying to pull him under.

But something else lingers beneath it, something deeper, something hotter.

His skin feels tight, humming with something electric. He’s finally where he belongs—pressed against Bucky, in Bucky’s bed, wrapped in Bucky’s scent. But instead of lulling him into easy sleep, the combination of it all is making his blood run too thick, his breath too shallow, his body thrumming on some biological frequency he can’t shut off.

Bucky is wrapped around him like a furnace, his scent thick, enveloping, everything. Tony can barely think through it, through the sheer weight of Bucky, of being here, in his space, in his bed, where everything smells like him. Every inhale drags in cedar and smoke, sweat and musk, something uniquely Bucky, something that makes Tony’s instincts flare up with mindless, desperate want.

He should be calming down, coming down from the high of the reunion, settling into sleep—but he can’t. Because his body knows. Knows what’s pressed up against him, knows what Bucky’s doing, or rather, what he’s not doing.

Bucky’s hard.

And he’s ignoring it.

Tony doesn’t understand how he can. Not when the scent of arousal is seeping into the sheets, not when his cock is thick and hot against the small of Tony’s back, not when Tony’s still soaked himself, slick already dripping down the insides of his thighs just from being near him.

He lets out a soft, helpless whimper and pushes back, pressing his ass into Bucky’s lap, grinding against the heat of him in slow, frictionless rolls.

Bucky growls—low, warning, but also claiming, reverberating through Tony’s spine. His grip tightens, arm clamping around Tony’s waist, breath rasping against the back of Tony’s neck.

“Tony,” Bucky warns, voice dropping even deeper. “Don’t.”

Tony does it again.

He rolls his hips again, dragging himself against the thick, aching heat of Bucky’s cock, moaning softly at the feeling, the size of it, how perfect it feels slotted right up against him.

Bucky snarls, restraint fraying, hips jerking in response. Enough for Tony to feel that sharp twitch of his cock against fabric slicked in Tony’s own scent.

“Fuck—Tony—”

Tony whines, twisting, grabbing at Bucky’s wrist where it’s clenched around him, trying to force some kind of motion, some kind of touch. “Please,” he mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow, eyes fluttering. “Buck, please—”

Bucky curses under his breath. “Jesus,” he chokes out. His hand moves, sliding down, pushing past the waistband of Tony’s boxers—Bucky’s boxers—yanking the fabric down his thighs. “Alright, gorgeous. Alright. I got you.”

Tony whines when the cool air hits him, his thighs clenching, instinct making him try to close them up again—but Bucky doesn’t let him. Bucky’s hand is right there, smoothing over his hip, guiding him, spreading him open just enough. Just enough—

Tony barely has time to whimper before Bucky is pushing his thighs apart, spreading him open just enough, just—just—

And then Bucky’s cock is sliding between them, thick and hot and perfect, pressing snug against the soaked, dripping heat of Tony’s inner thighs.

Tony shudders, his back arching, his hands clutching at the sheets.

“Oh,” he gasps, his whole body tensing, overwhelmed by the sheer size of Bucky, by how easy it is for him to settle right there, to press himself into the slick mess between Tony’s legs. “Oh, fuck—”

Bucky groans behind him, low and rough, pressing his forehead to the back of Tony’s neck. “Christ, Tony, you’re so—” He swallows thickly, his hands flexing against Tony’s hips, holding him there. “You’re a mess, baby.”

Tony whimpers, shaking under him. “You—” His voice is wrecked, shredded. “You smell so fucking good, Buck, I—I need—”

“I know,” Bucky growls, voice rough and frayed. He shifts, pushing closer, his cock sliding between Tony’s slick thighs, drenched in the smell of him, the heat of him, them. “Jesus, honey, you’re drivin’ me crazy.”

Tony sobs, twisting beneath Bucky’s weight, trying to push back, to get closer, but Bucky just holds him in place. One arm hooks tight around Tony’s waist, fusing them chest-to-back, while the other slides up, his palm settling over Tony’s bruised, too-sensitive mating gland, holding him right where he wants him.

Tony keens at the contact, his entire body shaking, his slick making a filthy, wet sound as Bucky starts moving, slow and steady, dragging his cock between Tony’s thighs, grinding himself into the heat of him.

“Fuck—” Bucky groans, his grip tightening, his voice cracking at the edges. “That’s it, sweet thing. Just—just let me—”

Tony wails, thighs tensing, body arching. Bucky’s cock rubs perfect along the slick stretch of skin, against the spot where Tony needs him most. It’s too intense, too good, not enough.

Bucky shudders—his breath catches, hips jerking just enough to make Tony sob.

“Feel that?” he rasps, voice gravelly, unsteady. His lips brush Tony’s ear, his breath coming in ragged stutters. “See how good you’re makin’ me feel, doll?”

Tony nods, frantic, gasping, his mind gone fuzzy, drowning in all that heat.

Bucky’s hand strokes over his stomach, keeping him close, locking Tony against him. “You’re doin’ so good for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to the nape of Tony’s neck—gentle and possessive all at once. “So good.”

Tony shakes, his breath hitching, his eyes rolling back. The sound of it, the smell of it, the heat of Bucky’s cock between his thighs—it’s too much and not enough, a vicious tease of friction and desperation all rolled into one.

Bucky groans, hips stuttering, grip going tighter. “Fuck, Tony,” he breathes, voice barely there, shaking on the edges. “I’m gonna—I can’t—”

And then—oh—

Bucky comes, thick and hot, splattering across Tony’s thighs. His scent flares, devouring the rest of the air in the room, his whole body seizing against Tony’s back as he rides out every tremor. His hand still covers Tony’s mating gland, pressing down, holding him in place while the charge in the air crackles and swirls, tangling with Tony’s own needy arousal.

He doesn’t even pause to recover.

Instead, Bucky’s hand trails down, moving slow and sure across Tony’s abdomen, over the tense muscles fluttering beneath sweat-damp skin. Lower—

Tony gasps, tensing up as Bucky’s fingers graze the slick mess pooled between his thighs, teasing, testing, just shy of pressing in. He whimpers, body jerking, but Bucky just hushes him, voice somewhere between soothing and something else, something molten.

“Shh, baby,” Bucky murmurs, tone warm, rough, still riding that wave of satisfaction with an undercurrent of something more. He leans in, mouth at Tony’s temple, lips brushing sweat-soaked curls. “I got you. Just relax.”

Relax.

As if Tony can, with every nerve in his body screaming for more, with his own skin crackling like it’s alive, with that aching need for Bucky eating him from the inside out.

But Bucky doesn’t leave him dangling in desperation.

His hand goes lower, fingers slipping through the wet heat slicking Tony’s thighs, pressing in just enough to have Tony’s breath catching, his thighs quivering, his teeth biting down on his lip until he tastes salt.

“Christ, Tony,” Bucky groans, his mouth brushing hot against Tony’s neck, his fingers exploring, teasing. “You’re soaked.”

Tony chokes out a whine, back arching, body thrumming, but Bucky just hushes him again, dropping a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. This time, it’s not enough to do anything but ramp him up, the touch maddening.

“Always so good for me,” Bucky says, voice going all syrupy, each word a gentle push sending goosebumps racing down Tony’s spine. “Always so sweet, so easy to touch.”

Tony sobs, his body locking up. “B-Bucky—” he gasps, voice cracking on a whimper. “Please—”

Bucky hums, indulgent, like he likes this, likes the way Tony begs, the way he unravels. He presses in a little deeper, dragging those fingers through the mess Tony’s made, spreading it around. Leaving his mark, staking his claim.

And finally—finally—he wraps a hand around Tony’s cock.

Tony whimpers, a high, desperate sound, his whole body jerking, pleasure blasting through him so suddenly it makes spots dance in his vision. He can’t stop his hips from rolling forward, chasing that touch.

“There we go,” Bucky croons, pleased, pressing a kiss to the back of Tony’s neck, the motion matched by a steady, deliberate stroke of his fist around Tony’s length. Slick and warm, firm and perfect. “That’s it, sweet boy. Let me make you feel good.”

Tony gasps, thighs clenching, breath splintering into sharp little sobs. It’s instant, immediate, no build. He was so close already, so strung out, that Bucky’s simple stroke is all it takes to shove him right to the brink.

Bucky keeps him there, stroking him through it, one arm still hooked around his mating gland, holding Tony tight in place, like there’s anywhere else he’d want to be.

“You look so pretty like this,” Bucky murmurs against his temple, voice going soft, affectionate in a way that makes Tony’s pulse pound harder. “All warm and messy in my arms. Mine.”

Tony sobs, pleasure spiking, electric and unbearable, his whole frame trembling under the onslaught.

“I know, baby,” Bucky breathes, words whispering along Tony’s neck as he trails kisses over his collarbone, over his shoulder, leaving him shaky and undone. “I know, it’s a lot. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

Tony’s hands claw at the sheets, breath hitching again as the coil in his belly tightens too fast, too sudden, too much.

Bucky knows. Of course he does.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice threaded with want, with command, with promise. “Come for me, baby. Let me have it.”

And for the second time that night, Tony breaks.

His orgasm slams into him like a freight train, ripping his breath out, shattering the last of his resistance. He spasms in Bucky’s arms, gasping, sobbing, moaning Bucky’s name as pleasure rips through him, coating Bucky’s fist and his own stomach, leaving him shaking and raw, head spinning.

Bucky hums, pleased, mouth on Tony’s throat, murmuring soft, sweet words as he strokes him through it, as he brings him down, grounding him, keeping him safe.

“That’s my boy,” Bucky says, voice going warm and something darker, pressing a lingering kiss to Tony’s jaw. “Always so good for me.”

Tony trembles in his arms, boneless and dazed, breath coming in stuttered pants. Finally, his instincts settle, hunger sated by Bucky’s touch, by Bucky’s presence, by the thick, possessive scent saturating the air between them.

Bucky doesn’t let him stay covered in the mess for long. Even in the hazy drift of post-orgasm, Tony registers the gentle way Bucky shifts, reaching over to the nightstand, returning with a cloth. The soft, dry sweep brushes over his stomach, then his thighs, wiping away the sticky evidence of what they just shared.

Tony hums, voice a low, vaguely protesting murmur. He should help. He should say something. But Bucky just hushes him again, dropping a kiss into Tony’s damp curls.

“I got you, love,” he murmurs. “Just rest.”

Tony sinks into the sensation, boneless and pliant under Bucky’s careful touch. He lingers longer than strictly necessary, wiping Tony down as if he can’t stand to break the connection, as if he needs to reassure himself—again and again—that Tony is here, safe, his.

Only when he’s finished does Bucky toss the cloth aside and drag the blanket over them both, tucking it around Tony’s body like he’s protecting something precious. Then, without so much as a pause, he hauls Tony in against his chest, arms wound tight around his waist, face nuzzling into the crook of Tony’s neck, breath warm and slow across his skin.

Tony exhales, letting out the last of whatever tension remains, his body humming with the sweet, sleepy weight of Bucky wrapped around him. He’s warm, he’s safe, he’s—

Drifting.

Right on the edge of unconsciousness, right on the cusp of sleep, except… not quite.

It takes him a few attempts, fluttering in and out of awareness, to notice something is off. It’s there in the tense line of Bucky’s shoulders, in the way his arms loop around Tony’s waist like a vice—too tight, too fierce, something barely contained humming beneath his skin.

At first, Tony chalks it up to leftover anxiety, the kind that won’t let you go even when you finally get everything you want. He knows that particular brand of restless too well: the remnants of worry, fear, relief, all braided together so tightly it’s impossible to tease them apart. Tony feels it, too, that weird echo in his bones telling him he’s still on the brink of something, that he can’t quite unclench his teeth.

But then Bucky twitches.

Not a casual, shift-in-place kind of movement. There’s an abrupt tension in his fingers where they press into Tony’s hip, a small, shuddering gasp against Tony’s neck. Like something inside him is winding too tight, like he can’t settle.

Tony forces his eyes open, lids heavy and uncooperative. He manages to press back, lifting his head a fraction, still numb with post-orgasm exhaustion. “Bucky?” he mumbles, voice rough, groggy. “What’re you—?”

Bucky shudders.

It’s a full-body thing, barely contained, like he’s fighting not to shake apart. His breath grows harsher, his chest expanding in slow, deliberate inhales, like he’s actively wrestling for control.

Tony frowns, blinking slow. “Y’okay?”

No immediate response. Just a tense flex of the hand at Tony’s hip, fingers curling in like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His jaw tightens, and when he finally exhales, it’s too measured, too deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters, voice lower than normal, frayed at the edges. “Just—” He cuts himself off, shifting on the mattress in a way that says he’s not okay, that he’s anything but settled. “I dunno. Can’t get comfortable.”

Tony hums, trying for something soothing, letting himself lean back into Bucky’s warmth. The weight of Bucky’s scent washes over him, heavy and enveloping. It should lull them both into a calmer headspace.

Except Bucky doesn’t calm.

He’s still rigid, still almost coiled like he’s ready to spring.

Tony lets his eyes slide shut again, pushing a slow breath out, intending to chase sleep. But the tension brimming off Bucky stays there, tapping at Tony’s subconscious, refusing to let him drift completely.

Another shift.

Another quiet flutter of Bucky’s fingers at Tony’s waist.

Another deep, controlled inhale, like he’s trying to center himself on Tony’s scent and failing.

Tony’s brow creases, his thoughts sluggish, snagging on the question of why Bucky can’t seem to relax. He shifts slightly, pressing back into the heat of Bucky’s body, letting out a sleepy noise. “You’re fidgetin’,” he murmurs. “Not tired?”

Bucky’s laugh comes out hollow. “Yeah, doll. I’m tired,” he says.

But he doesn’t sound tired.

Tony should probably push, should ask what’s wrong, but he’s drained, his instincts are purring, content for the moment, finally sated after too many weeks of starved desperation. And Bucky isn’t moving, isn’t bolting out of bed, isn’t leaving, so… Tony lets it slide.

For now.

He hums again, letting his body go fully slack, his breath evening out, his consciousness slipping down, down, down.

Bucky’s arms tighten around him, just slightly.

Tony swallows. The dryness in his mouth tastes like old pennies, something metallic and sour.

This part is always the worst—standing here, waiting for Howard to say the first word, never quite sure if it’ll be a yell or a whisper or something in between. The quiet is worse, somehow.

His father turns, gaze tracing over Tony with a kind of predatory calm. His shoulders stay perfectly level, not a single muscle twitching. It strikes Tony as unnatural, sometimes, the way a Beta’s rage can stay so contained.

Bucky could be a whole room away and Tony would still know the exact moment his temper started to fray, the second something in the Alpha’s demeanor twisted into irritation, or concern, or quiet, watchful protectiveness. Steve, for all his restraint, has never been much different—he leaks frustration and fierce, stubborn will like an open wound, his scent spiking whenever he’s gearing up for a fight.

Because Alphas, like Omegas, announce their emotions. Their grief. Their worry. Even when they think they’re hiding it. It rolls off of them in waves, unavoidable, like thunder before a storm.

Howard doesn’t.

His anger has never flared—it lurks. It doesn’t spill into the air the way Bucky’s does, thick with warning and heat and weight. It slithers under the surface, quiet, restrained in a way Tony has never been able to predict or prepare for.

It’s always kind of reminded him of a sealed pressure valve, waiting to blow.

Tony forces a breath. “So, um. Surprise?”

Howard doesn’t respond right away—only lets out a slow exhale, like he’s testing the weight of each molecule around them. Then, finally, he steps forward.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he says, tone clipped. “You’ve done quite enough posturing in front of the Reserve. I won’t have you do any more damage.”

Tony’s pulse batters inside his chest. “Wait a second. This isn’t about me—”

“It’s about your misplaced belief that you hold the upper hand,” Howard interrupts, smooth. Practiced. “You’re claiming to be indispensable. Demanding emancipation. Bargaining with Erskine like it’s your birthright.” He pauses. “But let me remind you who’s kept this entire operation running. Who has the resources, the factories, the staff to build it. If I pull out, you’re left with empty pockets.”

Tony’s stomach clenches at the threat. “You really think you can walk away from a war project like this? The potential PR alone—my God, you’d never risk it. The scandal would blow up in your face. Stark Industries refusing to support the war effort because you’re, what, offended by the presence of your son? The person who was once your heir?”

The words taste bitter, but he keeps going, forging each syllable like hammer strikes. “You’d lose everything you’ve been chasing—government contracts, endorsements. Public favor. They’d chew you up and spit you out.”

Howard’s lip twitches. Not exactly a smile, not a snarl. Something in between, a ghost at the corners of his mouth. “And you’re willing to bet your entire future on that, are you? Seems like a pretty steep gamble just to wriggle out of some bonding contract. You know what? You’re lucky that someone like Stone even agreed to mate you in the first place.”

Tony blinks, then lets out a ragged breath. It saws at his lungs, choppy and staggered. “Believe it or not, Dad, I wasn’t particularly thrilled at the prospect of legally and biologically hinging myself to the unhinged rapist who wants to usurp your company.”

“Stone is loyal,” Howard snaps.

“He’s playing you right under your nose.” Tony’s voice feels hoarse, but he doesn’t look away. “And you’re too arrogant or too drunk off his relentless, second-rate ass-kissing to pick up on the signs.”

For a moment they both just stand there, the overhead light buzzing like it might cut out any second. Tony tries to remember how to breathe in a regular pattern—inhale, exhale, keep the panic from flaring.

It doesn’t come naturally. It never has. Because years of gut instinct have him bracing to expect a slap across the face, a shove into the wall. An ancient reflex he can’t quite kill.

Howard’s jaw flexes. “Look, son, you have no leg to stand on. In the eyes of the law, you’re still my property. An Omega child under my guardianship who thinks a few fancy equations make him indispensable. I’ve seen your notes, heard the committee swoon over them. But let me tell you something: brilliance doesn’t give you power. Resources and connections do. And I’ll remind you, Tony, that only one man in this room has plenty of both.”

Every conversation with Howard has always felt like a boot pressing down hard on Tony’s windpipe. His body reacts before his mind can catch up—muscles locking, throat tightening, the instinct to yield rising in him like a tide.

His biology knows what to do. Knows what’s expected. Knows that when a person in a position of power stands over him like this—voice cold, unyielding, like a verdict—it’s supposed to bend.

For years, he had. Not because Howard was an Alpha—he wasn’t and never would be—but because power never had to be biological to be absolute. Because conditioning was stronger than instinct, and Howard had spent a lifetime training him to fold at the first sign of pressure.

Tony can feel it clawing at him now, the ingrained, gut-deep response to lower his gaze, bare his throat, submit. To show deference.

Deference to a man who has never deserved it, who would take his compliance and turn it into another steel link in the chain binding him down.

His muscles twitch with the urge to drop—to make himself smaller, to shrink the way he’s always been taught to when Howard gets like this.

Instead, he locks his knees and forces himself to stay standing. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He keeps his tone even, though it feels like forcing shards of glass through his throat.

“You really think,” he says quietly, “that I don’t know how the world works by now?”

Howard’s gaze sharpens.

“You think I don’t know what power is?” Tony continues, jaw tight. “That I don’t know exactly how many strings you had to pull just to try and keep me under your thumb?” He lets out a short, humorless breath. “I know what leverage looks like, Dad. And I know how badly it burns when you realize you don’t have it anymore. Because sure. I mean, this is all interesting in theory, but the SSR sure looked a lot more fascinated in my meltdown fix than the depths of your pockets, or the capabilities of your entire second-rate engineering team.”

He can hear the dryness in his own voice, feel the words drag. God, he’s tired. Tired of pretending he isn’t scared. Tired of dealing with paternal sabotage like it’s some unavoidable law of physics. “You want to bail? Fine. Go ahead. But I’ll make sure everyone here knows it’s because you couldn’t handle your Omega son outqualifying you.”

A flicker of pure, seething anger flashes in Howard’s eyes. But he doesn’t lash out, just inhales slowly, as though forcing composure into every breath. “You’re gambling with forces you can’t control,” he snaps, each syllable methodical. “You’re used to scribbling out solutions in your notebooks, manipulating data from textbooks you steal from my library. You think I don’t know about that, by the way? The War Department won’t coddle you once they’ve got what they need. And once they’re done, I’ll make damned sure Tiberius reclaims every right he has to you.”

Tony’s gut twists, a sickening churn that he forces down like it’s nothing. His face slips into the familiar blankness, the mask he’s spent years perfecting.

“I’m with you… If that means we take the risk—look into the bond, or… or figure out another way, I’m in.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”

Tony’s mouth tastes like acid, each word scraping against the dryness in his throat. But he holds Howard’s gaze. “Tiberius can go fuck himself. And you can take that bullshit contract and shove it—hell, set it on fire while you’re at it, see if I care. If I’m already bonded, it’s void. You won’t have a legal claim. Not you, not Stone, not whatever leech comes sniffing around next, hoping to sweet-talk you into selling off what’s left of your company.”

The words land with the force of a detonation.

Howard’s eyes narrow, surprise sparking for just a second before that frozen anger sets in again.

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

Something shifts in his father’s expression, then—doubt, or maybe shock. For a moment, he just stares, as though Tony’s grown a second head. The moment drags, tension pressing in from all sides.

Then Howard exhales, a slow, controlled breath through his nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Howard says at last, voice low and cold. “You have no one. You have nothing. You might think Erskine’s your protector, but once you’re no longer useful—”

“Maybe I don’t have to rely on the SSR,” Tony cuts in, pulse thudding so hard it almost hurts. His voice is frantic, thready. His panic feels like a tangible, visceral thing, and despite his best efforts, it spikes the air. “Maybe there’s… someone else. Another Alpha. So don’t bother trying to lock me to Tiberius. I’ll—”

He doesn’t see the blow coming. One second, he’s talking—spitting out the words in a rush, hardly even aware he’s doing it. The next, Howard’s hand lashes out in a violent, uncoiled arc, the sharp crack of his knuckles slicing through the air before Tony even registers the movement.

The backhand lands hard, jarring, a brutal collision of bone against flesh.

Pain detonates across Tony’s cheekbone like an explosive, snapping his head sideways with the force of it. A blinding burst of white floods his vision, and for a second, everything inside him lurches—his breath, his balance, his ability to even comprehend what just happened. His ears ring, sharp and shrill, drowning out everything but the high-pitched whine of his own nervous system scrambling to catch up.

The sting spreads in a violent bloom, radiating from the point of impact like fire licking under his skin. His jaw throbs, a deep, aching pulse that crawls up into his temple, down the hinge of his neck. His lip stings, swelling fast—maybe split, maybe not. His mouth fills with the thick, bitter taste of copper.

For a moment, Tony just stands there, stunned, his body locked in the kind of rigid stillness that only comes from shock. The whole room blurs at the edges, nausea creeping in at the base of his throat.

Howard, still rigid with fury, breathes hard through his nose. His hand is frozen midair, fingers curled slightly, like even he hadn’t expected to do it. Like the sheer force of his own anger had startled him.

Then his fingers flex, and the tension in his arm unwinds with a slow, deliberate shake. He exhales, the sound barely more than a tremor, but whatever moment of hesitation lingers is gone as quickly as it came.

Tony staggers back a step, one hand flying to his cheek, pressing against the bruising heat searing under his skin. The world tilts slightly—just a fraction, but enough to make him feel unsteady, his balance thrown.

His breath comes short and tight, lungs seizing around the phantom imprint of Howard’s hand. His pulse hammers against his ribs, sharp and erratic, but he forces himself to breathe through it, to tamp down the instinctive nausea curling in his stomach.

For a single, suspended moment, neither of them speak.

Then Howard’s arm falls stiffly to his side, and he inhales again—slow, controlled.

Any trace of regret vanishes beneath the steel of his fury.

His father drags in a breath, glare slicing through Tony like a scalpel. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Deadly. “Who?”

Tony feels his pulse trip over itself.  A quiet voice in Tony’s head warns him to stay calm, to say nothing. So he doesn’t move, pressing his lips together to keep the details locked tight.

Howard’s gaze flicks over Tony’s reddening cheek, then dips down Tony’s tense form as if scanning for weakness. His own face is eerily composed, but behind it, Tony can smell the rage seething, held only by a thread. “Don’t even think about lying to me. I want a name, Tony. What kind of Alpha do you think is going to mate you?" he sneers. "Some gutter-feeding, low-class knothead looking for a warm body to leash up now that his first bond’s already rotted out?”

Tony’s stomach twists. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting hard into his palms. He suppresses his whimper.

“Well?” he sneers when Tony doesn’t answer. “You cry about Stone being a ‘rapist’ and a ‘monster,’ but tell me, how exactly are you any different? You’re just another desperate little Omega spreading your legs for the first Alpha who sniffs in your direction. You have no pedigree, no discipline, and certainly no purity worth bartering for,” he continues, his disgust coiling between them like a living thing. “I had at least hoped you’d have the decency to keep your legs shut until the contract was finalized. But, well—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Guess I gave you too much credit.”

A tremor runs through Tony’s body. He’s so close to snapping back— to spitting in Howard’s face, telling him exactly what he thinks. But the sting of the blow, radiating down his jaw in a sharp, pulsing heat, makes him hesitate. He steels himself instead, shutting down every flicker of emotion that tries to claw its way out.

He lifts his chin, slowly, refusing to break eye contact. “I’m not telling you anything,” Tony manages. His voice wobbles on the last syllable, but he keeps it as steady as he can. His lip throbs where it split, the coppery tang of blood thick on his tongue. “And you can’t make me.”

Howard’s fury crackles, radiating off him in waves. For an instant, Tony’s sure he’s about to be struck again—he can see the shift in Howard’s weight, the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his gaze snaps up as if calculating an angle. Tony braces, breath locked in his chest. If Howard swings again, he’ll taste blood and dust and everything he’s choked on for years.

The blow never lands.

The door to the conference room creaks open, its hinges protesting under the weight of the silence between them. Tony doesn’t move—his body too locked in the expectation of pain. But Howard startles, his head snapping toward the doorway, his arm still half-raised in the air.

And standing there, poised in the threshold like she’s been here all along, is Agent Carter.

She doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just steps inside, her expression perfectly composed, betraying nothing. Cool eyes scan the room in a single sweep—Howard’s tense posture, the angle of his body turned toward Tony, the way Tony has instinctively curled inward, one hand still cupped over the blooming red mark on his cheek.

Tony barely knows her. They’ve never really spoken—just exchanged the occasional glance in the dining room of his family’s estate, a few passing nods of recognition. She’s an anomaly to him, another Omega, yet not like any he’s ever met before.

She’s striking in a way that most people aren’t—sharp, deliberate. Not beautiful in the delicate, wilting way Omegas are often expected to be, but in the way of something carefully, powerfully composed. Dark, polished curls frame her face, pinned just-so at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place despite the long hours she must work. The deep navy of her uniform contrasts against her fair skin, the crisp lines of her pressed blouse immaculate. She’s poised, unruffled, the very picture of confidence.

But it’s not just the way she looks that unsettles Tony—it’s the way she scents.

Even as harried and exhausted as he is, Tony can pick up on it. Her scent isn’t soft or cloying, not the delicate, faint florals of bonded Omegas who are carefully tempered to suit their Alphas.

No, Carter’s scent is cool, clean, with a sharper undercurrent—something that reminds Tony of fresh linen pressed crisp, of the faintest trace of bergamot, of something precise and disciplined. It’s controlled, carefully restrained, not the sweet, inviting pull of an Omega softened for an Alpha’s comfort, but something steadier, more deliberate. It doesn’t cling or spill into the room like an unspoken plea—it stays close, honed and measured, a quiet warning rather than an invitation.

A scent wielded not as a lure, but as a boundary.

She’s the only other Omega he’s ever seen on SSR premises, moving through its halls like she belongs, like she’s never once questioned her place.

Like no one else does, either.

And she sure as hell isn’t flinching at Howard Stark.

"Mr. Stark," she says smoothly. "Colonel Phillips is looking for you. Something about a last-minute adjustment to the energy displacement model.”

A pause. Not long, but long enough.

"You’ll want to be quick about it," she adds, voice even. "He seemed rather… impatient.”

Howard hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second, but Tony sees it—sees the flicker of uncertainty in the way his fingers twitch, sees the slight hitch in his breath as he recalculates. A man used to dominance, to control, to rooms that move around him, not the other way around.

But Agent Carter doesn’t yield.

She stands there, waiting. Watching.

Howard exhales sharply, lowering his arm. "Of course he does," he mutters. His voice is clipped, but there’s an edge of something else there. A barely veiled frustration that he’s been interrupted. That he can’t finish what he started.

He doesn’t look at Tony again. Just straightens his cuffs with sharp, practiced efficiency, rolling his shoulders back like shaking off an unpleasant conversation. Then he brushes past her, striding out into the hall without another word.

Agent Carter doesn’t move until the door hisses shut behind him.

And then—only then—does she turn her gaze back to Tony.

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. She just looks at him, eyes unreadable, cool and assessing. Tony shifts, suddenly aware of the way his body is still half-curled inward, how his fingers are trembling slightly where they press against his cheek.

He swallows. Forces his hand to drop.

Carter doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t acknowledge the mark at all, doesn’t acknowledge the overpowering scent of his distress. But she doesn’t ignore it, either. She simply steps into the room fully, the door clicking shut behind her with an air of finality.

“Are you all right?” She asks.

Tony doesn’t answer. Not because he can’t, but mostly because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

She reaches into the pocket of her pressed blazer, retrieves a neatly folded handkerchief, and holds it out between two fingers.

Tony stares at it for a second, brain sluggish, like he’s forgotten how social interaction works. Then it clicks.

Ah. For the blood.

He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth first, just to be stubborn, but the coppery taste lingers, thick and unpleasant. Eventually, he takes the handkerchief from her, begrudgingly, dabbing at his split lip with slow, careful pressure.

"Swell," he mumbles around the sting. “Thanks.”

Carter doesn’t respond, doesn’t move to sit, just watches him, composed and unreadable. He’s not sure what she expects. An explanation? An argument? An embarrassing display of Omega vulnerability?

She’ll be waiting a long time.

The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the overhead fluorescents. Tony keeps his head tilted down, dabbing carefully, but he can still feel her gaze on him, steady and unflinching.

He resists the urge to fidget under it.

"You don’t like me very much, do you?" he says eventually, voice dry, muffled slightly by the fabric pressed to his mouth.

That earns him a faint arch of her brow, but little else. "I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion," she replies, voice as measured as ever.

Tony lets out a short, humorless breath. "Yeah, well. That hasn’t ever stopped anyone else.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the bitter lilt in his tone. Just tips her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the door Howard had stormed out of. “He’s never going to let you go through with this willingly," she says.

It’s not a question. Not even a warning. Just a fact.

Tony presses the handkerchief harder against his lip, wincing slightly at the sting. "Yeah," he mutters. “Figured that one out on my own, thanks.”

Another pause. Then, finally, Carter moves, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate purpose. She doesn’t sit, but she does place her hands flat against the edge of the table, leaning just slightly into Tony’s space.

“What he wants is irrelevant,” she says, voice quiet but firm. “Not if you want something else more.”

Tony lifts his gaze to her, studying the way she says it. The surety in her posture, the way there’s not a single flicker of doubt in her expression. She says it like she believes it, completely, and Tony wonders what it must be like to move through the world like that. To be an Omega and still hold your own like it’s your right, like it’s not something you have to fight for tooth and nail every damn day.

He swallows, looking away first.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

Carter exhales through her nose. “It never is.”

For a moment, Tony just stares at the table between them. He’s exhausted, every nerve in his body still frayed from the confrontation, from the unrelenting pressure that’s been closing in from all sides.

Tony exhales sharply, tilting his head back against the chair with an edge of frustration that’s been simmering beneath his skin for weeks now. Maybe longer.

Maybe his entire life.

He can feel Agent Carter’s eyes on him still, steady and unblinking, and it makes him prickle with something akin to—bitterness, maybe. Unfair, really; she’s done nothing but help. But he can’t shake the notion that somehow she’s managed to bend this whole damn organization to her will, while he has to fight just to be allowed in a briefing room.

“It must be nice,” Tony says at last, voice coming out sharper than he intends. “Having half the U.S. Army and every high-ranking Alpha government bigwig hanging on your every word. Meanwhile, I can’t walk down the hallway without people staring at my throat or my… whatever. I can’t walk into a single meeting without someone questioning my emotional stability or my competence because, oh dear, I’m an Omega, and might cry if the big, scary men in ugly polyester uniforms raise their voices.”

He regrets it the instant it leaves his mouth.

He pinches his eyes shut and sighs. “Sorry. God, ignore me. I’m an asshole. I’m just—” His lip throbs, stinging each time he speaks. “I’m not in the greatest mood.”

Carter doesn’t even blink. “Apology accepted,” she says mildly.

“I just… I have to ask. How the hell do you do it?”

Carter doesn’t so much as blink. “Do what?”

Tony gestures vaguely in her direction. “This. All of this.” His hand sweeps toward her, toward the closed door, toward the space where Howard had stood just minutes ago, seconds away from putting another mark on Tony’s face. “The whole walking-around-the-secret-government-bunker-like-you-own-the-place thing. And the commanding-the-attention-of-a-bunch-of-insecure-Alphas-without-them-making-vague-threats-about-trying-to-bite-you thing. The part where you’re—clearly—the most intelligent person in the room, by the way, and somehow, no one’s questioning it.”

Because how? How does she move through the very same halls Tony does and never once seem to be drowning in it?

Because he still can’t step foot in a briefing room without someone questioning his competence, his fucking biology—like being an Omega automatically makes him a liability.

Carter watches him for a long moment, face giving away nothing. Then, in that same infuriatingly even voice, she says, “I don’t ask permission.”

Tony huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, see, I also don’t ask permission, and yet, somehow, that’s never stopped anyone from trying to drag me around by the scruff of my neck.”

Carter’s lips twitch, just slightly. “I never said it was fair.”

“No kidding,” Tony mutters, dabbing at his lip again. The damn thing won’t stop bleeding. He sighs, mostly to himself, shifting the cloth away and grimacing at the fresh smear of red. “This is great. Can’t wait to go home with another unexplainable injury; my Alpha’s gonna commit manslaughter.”

He’s not even thinking when he says it, the words slipping out on exasperated autopilot. Just another offhand complaint, another small grievance on an ever-growing list. It takes a second for him to realize what he’s just admitted, but by then, Carter’s already arching an eyebrow.

“I thought you were trying to get out of your bonding contract with your Alpha,” she says mildly.

For a heartbeat, Tony just stares, the question rattling around in his head. Then he snorts a humorless laugh, pressing the handkerchief back to his mouth to staunch the new trickle of blood.

“Right. Not… ugh. Not that Alpha.” He drops his gaze, exhaustion weighing on every word. “I meant my Alpha. I have one. A… different one. Not the Count Zaroff-wannabe my father’s trying to legally bind me to.”

Carter's expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a shift—something in the way her focus sharpens, like the fine-tuning of a radio dial. She takes in the words, dissects them, files them away into whatever neat, orderly categories she keeps in her head. And for the first time in this entire conversation, Tony gets the distinct impression that she’s actually interested.

"Hm," is all she says.

Tony lets out a short, incredulous laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth again. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate your nonchalance. That grand reveal just got me smacked in the mouth, by the way.”

Carter tilts her head, still watching him like she’s figuring something out. “I was under the impression that every action you’ve taken in the last few months was about securing your freedom.”

“Yeah, and?” Tony shrugs, huffing out a breath. “That doesn’t change anything.”

"Doesn’t it?" she muses. "Because I was under the impression that you were fighting to be free. But you’re not, are you?"

Tony stiffens, bristling. “I’m fighting not to be sold off like a damn prize horse, which, call me crazy, seems like a pretty reasonable goal.”

Carter makes another contemplative noise, and it’s just the slightest bit infuriating. Like she knows exactly what he’s not saying but is waiting for him to figure it out on his own.

Tony groans, tilting his head back, pressing his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Okay, fine. Enlighten me, your majesty.”

She doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t so much as crack a smirk at his sarcasm. “You’re not trying to be free,” she says plainly. “You’re trying to be with someone else.”

Tony freezes.

“Technically,” he says breezily, “I am fighting to be free so that I can choose to be with someone else. Which, by the way, is completely different.” God forbid one more person in this damn facility tries to strip him of his autonomy.

Carter doesn’t look convinced.

“That’s a very delicate distinction,” she says mildly. “But at the end of the day, it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? You’re not looking for freedom in the broad sense. You’re looking for a way out of one legally-binding prison and into a completely distinct, emotional obligation.”

Tony scoffs, crossing his arms, then immediately uncrosses them because his ribs still hold a phantom ache from the last time he mouthed off at the wrong moment. “Okay, let’s all just pick apart my brain today, huh? First my dad, now you. You wanna call in a psychiatrist? Maybe get me on a couch, talk about my ‘deep-seated abandonment issues’? Maybe draw some ink blots and ask me what I see?”

Carter remains unmoved. “I don’t need ink blots to see the obvious.”

Tony throws his hands up. “Fantastic! Feel free to share with the class.”

She meets his gaze head-on. “You are not a man who is trying to exist in the world on your own. You’ve already made your choice, Stark. Whether or not you want to admit it.”

The words land like a punch to the gut, though Carter delivers them with all the precision of a scalpel. No unnecessary force, no gloating, just cold, clinical accuracy.

Tony feels a pit open in his stomach.

Because she’s right. Of course, she’s right. He’s already made his choice. He made it the moment he whispered “Yours” into the telephone, the moment he let himself believe there was another way out of this hell that didn’t involve sacrificing himself to it.

He rubs a hand down his face. “God, you’re annoying perceptive.”

Carter’s lips twitch just slightly. “So I’ve been told.”

Tony exhales sharply, his breath shaky, his ribs aching from the tension coiled tight in his body. He can’t decide if he’s angry or just tired. Probably both. Maybe mostly at himself.

Because it doesn’t matter how she says it or how carefully she avoids outright accusing him—Carter is right. He’s not fighting for some grand, noble idea of freedom. He’s fighting for one person.

And that person isn’t himself.

Tony swallows around the knot in his throat. His voice comes out rougher than he means when he says, “You must think I’m pretty pathetic, huh?”

Carter blinks at him, the barest flicker of surprise crossing her features before she smooths it away. “I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to.” Tony lets out a short, humorless laugh, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. “You’re a real modern woman, Carter. Progressive. Independent. You don’t take shit from anyone, and you sure as hell don’t let anyone claim you. And then here I am, fighting tooth and nail to get out of one contract, just to try and throw myself headfirst into another bond.” He lets his eyes slide toward her, jaw tight. “Bet y’think that’s pretty pitiful.”

Carter doesn’t look away, doesn’t shift, doesn’t so much as blink. “I think you’re misunderstanding me entirely.”

Tony huffs, shaking his head. He’s so tired. Sore. “Right. Sure. Whatever you say.”

Carter exhales through her nose, slow and measured, like she’s deciding whether or not this conversation is worth having. But in the end, she doesn’t let it go. “I don’t think you’re weak for choosing someone,” she says plainly. “I think you’re human.”

Tony glances at her sharply, caught off guard by the sheer lack of judgment in her voice.

She continues, steady and unfazed. “I think it’s easy for people like us to pretend we have no attachments. That we can carve our way through the world on our own. That we don’t need anyone.” A pause, brief but weighted. “It’s easy to believe that. But it’s not true.”

Tony stares at her, waiting for the inevitable ‘but.’ Waiting for the part where she tells him he’s being foolish, reckless, naive.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, she just gives him a long, searching look, like she’s weighing something in her mind. Then, finally, she says, “And I think you’ve risked far too much to be accused of cowardice now.”

Tony’s throat tightens. He looks away first.

The handkerchief in his grip is stained red now, streaked with the evidence of his father’s temper, of his own failure to hold his tongue. He folds it over in his fingers, covering the worst of it.

“I didn’t do this for the war,” he says suddenly. The words leave him before he can stop them. He stares down at the cloth in his hands, watching the way his fingers curl into the fabric, gripping it too tight. “I mean—” He swallows, forcing himself to breathe past the lump forming in his throat. “I never thought twice about winning this thing until him. Until… my Alpha. I don’t give a damn about the cause, Agent. I just want to keep him out of it. I want to keep him alive.”

He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I mean, God, can you imagine? I threw myself into designing the SSR’s golden goose because I figured if I made the war end faster, maybe he wouldn’t die in it. If I put my brain to good use, maybe he wouldn’t be one of the bodies they ship home in a nondescript coffin.” His breath shudders. “Maybe he’d actually make it back to me.”

Tony exhales sharply, shaking his head at himself. “I should want to help for the right reasons. I should be doing this for the people out there getting slaughtered. For the soldiers who don’t have a choice. Like… I’ve got this friend, right? He’s not even over there. They won’t take him. Too small, too sick, too everything. But he keeps trying, keeps enlisting under fake names—don’t tell anyone I said that—because he believes in it. In the cause. In what’s right.”

He swallows, throat tight. "I don’t." The confession comes quiet, barely more than a breath. “I never have. I just—” He shakes his head. "I want this war over before it can take him away from me."

There. He’s said it. He waits for the judgment.

Carter doesn’t give it to him.

Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes locked onto his, sharp and unreadable. “And what, exactly, is wrong with fighting for the people you love?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

She exhales through her nose, slow and deliberate. “Do you think war is won by selflessness, Stark? That everyone out there, every soldier, every scientist, every strategist fighting to end this war is doing it out of some moral obligation?” She shakes her head. “People don’t fight for causes. They fight for their families. Their lovers. Their friends. They fight to protect the people they care about.”

Tony swallows.

Carter’s expression is unreadable, but her voice is firm. “You think your friend fights to enlist because he believes in war? In violence?” she asks. “Or do you think he fights because he believes in something worth protecting?”

Tony stares at her, lips parted, but no words come out.

Carter straightens, smoothing a hand down her sleeve. “You’re not selfish, Stark. You’re human. And if your work ends this war faster, if it saves lives—even if the only life you’re thinking about is his—then that’s more than enough.”

Tony’s throat feels tight, his breath shallow as he presses his lips together and stares down at his hands. The handkerchief between his fingers is stiff with drying blood, its fabric crumpled where he’s been gripping it too hard. He swallows against the knot in his throat, lets Carter’s words settle in the spaces between the bruises, the ache of his ribs, the raw sting of his split lip.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Look,” he starts, voice hoarse. He doesn’t lift his gaze to her, not yet. “I’m not running from one contract just to jump into another because I’m incapable of standing on my own two feet. That’s not—” He hesitates, frustrated by the way the words tangle, by how impossible it is to explain something so visceral. “It’s not that I need an Alpha. I don’t. I know how to be on my own. Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice.”

He exhales sharply, staring at his hands. “But I’ve spent my whole life being told what to do. Where to go, who to speak to, what I’m allowed to study—did they have Omega boarding schools in England? God, I hope not. Absolutely useless. Worst experience of my life. Anyway, as if that wasn’t enough, then Dad decides my bond for me, ties my future to his skeevy business associate who’s useless to do anything except make vague threats pertaining to fantasies he pictures with my mouth.”

Carter doesn’t interrupt. She just waits, silent and watchful.

Tony swallows again, voice dropping lower. “But B—my Alpha… He’s different. He’s the first thing I’ve ever really chosen for myself. The first decision I made that wasn’t dictated by someone else’s plan.” A flicker of a smile ghosts across his face, there and gone in a breath. “He gave me a choice, you know? Didn’t look at me like some prize, or a burden, or a little tool to be bartered for political favors. He just… he sees me as me.”

The silence in the room feels heavier somehow, charged with the quiet hum of overhead lights and all the unspoken words hovering in the space between them.

Tony forces a small laugh that comes out more like a wheeze. “And for some insane reason, he chose me back. Don’t ask me why—haven’t figured that out for myself. Maybe he’s got terrible taste. Hell, maybe he doesn’t know any better yet.”

Carter’s gaze never wavers, but Tony can’t bring himself to meet it. “And I don’t know if it’ll last,” he admits. “If I get out of… all this, if I’m not bound to Stone or forced into another sham contract, I don’t even know if he’ll still—” He trails off, swallowing. “Sometimes I think I’m just waiting to wake up and find out he’s realized how much of a mess I am. That I’m not worth it.”

He finally dares to glance up. Carter’s expression remains unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze—assessing, measured, like she’s weighing his words rather than offering him comfort.

“And yet you’re fighting anyway,” she says, tone calm, matter-of-fact. “Because that possibility—that choice you made—is worth it to you.”

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “He’s… worth it.”

A beat passes. Carter inclines her head slowly, the faintest hint of an approving tilt to her mouth. “Then I’d say you’re braver than you give yourself credit for,” she says. “Bond or no bond.”

Tony can’t help the tiny laugh that pushes past his lips. “Brave. Right,” he says, voice edged with lingering self-deprecation. “I feel real brave with my father’s fingerprints swelling into my face.”

Carter regards him levelly. “Bravery isn’t about never getting hurt, Stark. It’s about refusing to stay hurt.” She lets those words hang for a moment, then smooths a hand over her sleeve, as though tidying some invisible wrinkle. “Remember that.”

Tony nods, quiet, not sure what else to say. There’s a warmth curling in his chest—a hesitant spark that might be hope. Or gratitude. Or both.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Carter straightens, gaze shifting toward the door. “We’ve been gone long enough. Colonel Phillips will start asking questions if we linger.” A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “Let’s keep your secrets your own, shall we?”

Tony nods, pushing himself up from the chair. He’s sore, exhausted, and his face feels like it’s been dragged over sandpaper, but at least this conversation is over—he’s never been any good at these soul-searching, feelings-laden exchanges.

“Agent Carter,” he says quietly, just before she can open the door.

She turns, one brow arched in inquiry.

He wets his cracked lips, doesn’t know quite how to phrase it, so he just says, “Thanks.”

And then he waves his bloodied handkerchief for emphasis.

Carter’s expression doesn’t change much, but there’s the barest hint of something softer in her eyes. A flicker of acknowledgment, maybe. She tilts her head, regarding him for a moment.

Then, with the kind of effortless poise that Tony envies, she says, “Call me Peggy.”

Something about that catches him off guard—knocks him off balance just a little, but in a way that isn’t unpleasant. He exhales a small, surprised huff of laughter. “Call me Tony,” he returns, his lips quirking in what might actually be a semblance of a genuine smile.

Peggy Carter holds his gaze for a beat longer, then, without another word, turns and opens the door, stepping smoothly into the corridor.

Tony follows.

***

A week crawls by.

Tony loses himself in the hum of the labs, in half-finished sketches, in the sterile glow of overhead fluorescents. It’s easier to bury his anxiety in the Rebirth Chamber’s schematics than to stare at the gray walls of his makeshift quarters, counting the minutes he’s been cut off from everyone who matters. He’s sleeping worse—nights of fitful dozing on the rickety cot, jerking awake from fragmented dreams of Bucky’s voice calling for him through a haze of radio static.

He’s halfway through re-checking the newest coil alignment calculations when the same guard from before—Bentley? Ballentine?—clears his throat at the lab door.

“Mr. Stark,” the guard says with an odd note in his voice, “communications desk asked me to bring this to you.”

He holds out a single envelope. Plain, unadorned. Tony’s name is scrawled in familiar handwriting across the front.

Time drops out from under him.

The lab noise around him fades: the low whir of machines, the clatter of engineering tools, Reynolds’s distant conversation with a technician. Tony can only stare at the envelope in the guard’s hand.

It takes a moment before his fingers remember how to move. He grabs it, trying to pretend his pulse isn’t hammering in his throat. “Th—thank you,” he manages, voice rasping.

The guard nods curtly. “I’ll, uh, give you a moment.”

Tony nods, not really paying attention as the man steps away. The envelope feels impossibly heavy in his grip, like it weighs more than the entire Rebirth Chamber. Like it might sink him through the polished linoleum if he doesn’t open it soon.

He wants to tear it open here and now, but his nerves flutter, chest constricting with a sudden spike of fear. What if Bucky’s furious? What if he’s written Tony off, if he’s decided he can’t be bothered with an Omega too mired in secrets and chaos?

Tony swallows hard. Carefully, he tucks the letter into the folder of half-sketched design notes, ignoring the curious glance from a passing engineer. “I’m going to—uh—take a short break,” he mumbles to no one in particular. Then, before Reynolds or any other engineer can question him, Tony slips out of the lab and down the corridor, making for the nearest empty storeroom.

The SSR complex is a maze, but he’s memorized enough of it to find a sliver of privacy.

Eventually, he locates a supply closet, partially open, housing shelves of metal parts and rolled blueprints. Tony ducks inside, flicks on the single overhead bulb, and slides the door shut behind him.

Breathing hard, he fishes the envelope from his folder. The handwriting on the front—it’s definitely Bucky’s. Tony’s eyes burn at the sight of each looped letter, the smudge of ink where Bucky’s pen likely paused.

He’s both starved for this and viscerally terrified.

God, just open it.

His throat is dry. With trembling fingers, he slides one nail under the flap, breaking the seal. Inside is a single sheet of paper, folded into thirds. He takes a shaky breath and unfolds it.

He almost can’t read at first, eyes blurring with panic. Then the words come into focus—short, sparse, too few:

T—

I got your letter. I’m glad you’re okay.

Steve’s fine. (Even if I did have to bail him out of another fight—next time, I’m charging interest.)

I don’t know what’s happening over there. I don’t know if it’s Tiberius. But if you think for one second that I’m just going to sit tight and wait for news while you’re tangled up in some goddamn contract you don’t want, you’re out of your mind.

Whatever mess you’re dealing with, you’re not dealing with it alone. I don’t care what it takes, or how long—I’ll find a way.

Just come home to me.

—B

That last line sears into Tony like a hot brand.

His eyes sting. Slowly, he sinks onto a nearby crate, letter clutched tight in his hands, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He grips the letter like a lifeline, his pulse roaring in his ears. Come home to me. He reads the words over and over, tracing the ink with his eyes until they blur, until he has to blink rapidly to keep from breaking.

His fingers clench tighter. He bites his lip so hard it splits anew. He wants to go home. God, he wants to go home.

But he can’t—not yet. He doesn’t even know how much longer he’ll be here. Two weeks? A month? As long as it takes for Phillips and Brandt to sign off on his legal emancipation, for Erskine to declare the chamber temporarily viable, for them to finally unchain him from this cold, fluorescent prison.

But Bucky’s waiting for him. Bucky’s looking for him.

Bucky doesn’t know he’s safe.

A low sound escapes Tony’s throat, barely more than a breath. He presses the letter against his chest, curling over it like it might somehow anchor him.

He re-reads it over and over, letting each sentence burrow into the hollow ache in his chest. Bucky’s words are sparse, but the fierce protectiveness bleeds through. Bucky’s no poet either, but that final line—

Just come home to me.

But he can’t. Not yet.

Quietly, Tony folds Bucky’s letter, fingers lingering on the words. He can’t answer—he already used up his one precious missive. The idea of Bucky pacing the apartment, waiting for a response that won’t come, makes Tony’s stomach twist. I’m sorry, Tony thinks, cramming the letter into his pocket like a lifeline. Just a little longer.

Swallowing thickly, Tony forces himself upright. He can’t break down here. Not now. There’s still too much to do—calculations, design checks, binding legalities—and no one else is going to secure his freedom for him.

He straightens his shoulders, tucks the letter securely into his pocket, and heads back into the corridor. Another day, another test, another step toward the life he wants.

Because eventually, he’ll be able to slip out of this place for good. And when he does, he’ll go straight to Bucky, slip his arms around that stubborn, reckless Alpha, and maybe this time, he’ll even say the words he’s never said out loud.

Tony’s halfway to the lab when he spots Dr. Erskine, emerging from a side office with a stack of notes clutched in one hand. The older man looks tired—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders drooping under the weight of too many secrets. But at the sight of Tony, he manages a small, weary smile.

“Ah, Tony,” Erskine says softly, adjusting his glasses. “I was hoping to find you. I have a question about the latest meltdown logs—”

“Doc,” Tony interrupts, voice rough. He doesn’t mean to be abrupt, but the turmoil inside him is threatening to boil over. He glances around, making sure no one’s loitering within earshot. The corridor is mostly empty, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. “Can we… talk somewhere? Privately?”

Erskine’s brow wrinkles in mild concern. “Of course.” He gestures toward a nearby alcove—a small storage nook they sometimes use for impromptu meetings when the rest of the lab is too crowded. “Shall we?”

Tony nods, following him in. It’s not the grandest space—just a cramped corner with a battered metal table and a couple of stools—but it’s private enough. Erskine sets his notes down, then perches on one of the stools, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Tony with kind patience.

Tony stands for a moment, arms folded tight across his chest. He takes a steadying breath, heart thudding. The question that’s been gnawing at him for days is right on the tip of his tongue, but saying it feels like a risk he can’t afford. What if Erskine says no?

But… he has to ask. Because if there’s one man in the SSR who might have the leverage—and the empathy—to help, it’s the quirky German in front of him.

“Doc,” Tony begins, voice hoarse. “I know you— you’ve pulled off a lotta strings already. The legal manipulations, the hush-hush contract amendments, my bonding contract being sidelined…” He trails off, mouth dry.

Erskine watches him with a gentle curiosity. “Yes?”

Tony presses his lips together. “This war,” he says heavily. “It’s… it’s going to keep going. Right? Even if we’re somehow successful in creating a magical team of biologically enhanced soldiers, or whatever, it’s not like all this just ends tomorrow.”

Erskine sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sadly, no. Even with this chamber—assuming we are successful—it will not end the war overnight. There are many battles yet to come.”

Tony nods, looking down, knuckles white as he grips the back of the spare stool. “Right. And… and that means more drafts, more call-ups, more men shipped off to fight. My—” His voice catches; he swallows. “My Alpha might… get caught up in that. He will. He’s eligible. He’s not the type to run, either.”

Erskine’s expression shifts into one of understanding. "Ah, I see.”

Tony rubs the heel of his palm against his temple, feeling a headache lurking. “You’ve got so many connections. You made the War Department jump through hoops to get me emancipated—thank you, for that, by the way, seriously—you’re basically bending entire military protocols to give me a shot at finishing this meltdown fix.” He bites his lip, summoning the courage to ask. “So, maybe… maybe you could help me with this, too? Could you keep him from being drafted?”

He doesn’t say Bucky’s name—he never has, not to Erskine, not to anyone here—but he can’t hide the desperation in his voice. “I mean, if the SSR can overrule state guardianship laws, can’t you do something about a local draft board? Delay his deployment, or… or relocate him, or give him some exemption? He’s not—I can’t—”

He breaks off, heart hammering in his chest. Don’t beg, some prideful part of him warns.

For a long moment, Erskine just looks at him, brow creased in sympathy.

“Tony,” he says at last, quietly. “I wish I could say yes. That I could move a few chess pieces around and keep your Alpha safe from this war.”

Tony’s stomach twists with dread. “But…?”

Erskine sighs. “But it’s not so simple. Project Rebirth— this is a research division, primarily, under the Strategic Scientific Reserve umbrella. We do not have broad authority over the general conscription process. We have some influence—enough to secure you an emancipation, because that was tied directly to our project’s secrecy and our immediate need for your specialized skill. It was a national security matter.” He taps his fingertips together, expression pensive. “Delaying or denying a draft notice for an Alpha soldier is… a far bigger matter. It would raise red flags at the War Department. People would ask questions we can’t answer.”

“But you can push the War Department around for me,” Tony insists, voice cracking. “Why not for— for him?”

Erskine shakes his head gently. “We only pushed them because losing you to your Alpha contract, in this case, would have meant losing our chamber progress. And that, in their eyes, was catastrophic enough to justify rewriting certain rules.” He gives Tony a sad, apologetic look. “I do not have unlimited power, my boy. Nor do I have the authority to reorder draft protocols for personal reasons—especially not without revealing certain SSR confidences that must remain secret.”

Tony stands there, reeling. His fingers clench the stool’s metal edge so hard it digs into his palms. His ribs feel like they’re closing in on his lungs. “But… we found those loopholes for me. We rewrote entire sections of federal guardianship code. You’re telling me that we can’t just—”

Erskine sets his notes down, folding his hands atop them. The small lines around his eyes deepen in sympathetic regret. “We did not rewrite the code for you, Tony—only for the project. The War Department didn’t care about you because they admired your independence.” He sighs, adjusting his glasses. “They only cared that losing you meant losing a vital piece of technological construction. That was sufficient leverage for me to plead your case. It was essential to national security, so they indulged my demands.”

Tony’s jaw works soundlessly for a moment, like a fish out of water. “Right,” he manages. “And… my Alpha wouldn’t matter to them.”

Erskine’s shoulders sag at Tony’s weary tone. “I’m truly sorry,” he says softly. “But in their eyes, I’ll remind you, your Alpha simply does not exist. Not legally. And even if he did, he would not be an asset to this project. Therefore, he’s just another potential draftee under the War Department’s purview.”

Tony presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, breathing through the dizzy tangle of frustration and despair. “What if—” He breaks off, licking his lips. “What if I… if we bonded, actually. Like, fully bonded.” The last words come out in a low rush, voice trembling with a desperation he can’t fully conceal. “I mean, there’s no worry of someone else claiming me if I’m already bonded, right? Couldn’t it be the same principle? The SSR wants me, needs me, so they—”

Erskine raises a calming hand. “Ah, Tony. I fear it doesn’t work like that. The special clauses we invoked to nullify your father’s arrangement hinged on your essential role, plus the unique vulnerability of an unbonded Omega engineer in a top-secret project. The War Department was… let’s say, uniquely motivated to ensure you remained unclaimed by a hostile contract. But your Alpha—whoever he is—would remain a separate entity under the standard military system. He’d have no immunity from the draft. Bond or no bond.”

The words strike Tony’s heart like a physical blow. He stares at the floor, knuckles going white where they grip the edge of a dingy metal shelf. “So… there’s nothing we can do?”

Erskine’s voice softens. “Nothing within the SSR’s scope. Not without drawing the exact kind of scrutiny we’ve fought to avoid. If I tried to keep an unknown Alpha off the front lines, the War Department would demand to know why. And unless you wish to reveal his name, or the nature of your arrangement, it would unravel everything.”

Tony forces down a wave of nausea.

It’s all so fucking unfair.

They’ve manipulated half a dozen obscure laws to free him from Tiberius’s claws, but they can’t—or won’t—save Bucky from the same war they’re all trying to end.

He inhales sharply, voice tight. “So that’s it.”

Erskine’s gaze flicks over Tony’s tense posture. “I wish I had better news, Tony,” he says sincerely. “But your Alpha is not part of this project. The SSR has no reason—or authority—to interfere with his deployment, short of enlisting him into our ranks. Which, from the sound of it, would be precisely the opposite of what you want.”

Tony huffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Fuck. Definitely not that.”

For a long moment, neither speaks. Tony’s throat bobs as he swallows, mind churning.

He’s going to go… he’ll be drafted, shipped overseas to God knows where…

Erskine clears his throat, softening his tone further. “There’s something else you should consider. If you and this Alpha were to… consummate a bond before he ships out, I’m afraid that would compound your difficulties, not lessen them.”

Tony frowns, looking up in confusion. “Compound how? I mean, Tiberius would be locked out, right? That’s… good?”

A shadow crosses Erskine’s face, something grave. “Yes, Stone could never claim you then. Legally or biologically. But, Tony, once you truly bond—once the physical and chemical link is established—your system will respond quite drastically if your Alpha is absent for long periods. Especially if he’s stationed overseas, with no prospect of returning during your heats.”

Tony opens his mouth, but no words come out.

At the Institute, he had heard whisperings of plenty of previous female classmates forced to endure separation from their Alphas who had been sent off to war, but they had specialized suppressants, courtesy of the government’s interest in preserving a stable breeding population.

Tony knows from gossip and rumor that female Omegas might still struggle, but the meds help dull the cycle, stave off the worst.

Except… those don’t exist for him.

Erskine seems to read his thoughts on his face. “Male Omegas,” he says gently, “are an unfortunately small demographic. The government invests in female suppressants for the sake of fertility control, but they’ve never bothered to develop a counterpart for your physiology in any widespread capacity. I’ve heard rumors of experimental formulas, but nothing… safe or accessible. And certainly not in time for your next heat.”

A hollow dread creeps into Tony’s chest, mixing with old shame. “So what… I just suffer every heat without him? And hope it doesn’t wreck me?”

Erskine meets Tony’s gaze, compassion etched into the lines of his face. “Bonded separation is far harsher on the body than an unbonded heat, especially if it’s your first bond. The withdrawal symptoms can be quite severe if your Alpha can’t return to you or send some measure of relief. I’ve seen it—” He cuts himself off, brow furrowing as though recalling something painful. Then he finishes softly, “It can be dangerous.”

Tony’s throat tightens. He thinks of the nights he’s already spent trembling and feverish, alone in a dorm room or holed up in his childhood bedroom, riding out a miserable heat with no biological alleviation.

The idea that a bonded separation could be worse…

Tony has to laugh, though it comes out more like a strangled sob. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “So, let me get this straight—I spend days here clawing my way out of being forcibly bonded to some sadistic bastard, just for you to tell me that if I do bond—willingly, in theory—it might actually, what. Kill me?”

Erskine doesn’t smile, doesn’t so much as flinch at Tony’s forced levity. “Tony,” he says, voice low and gentle, “I know this isn’t the answer you want to hear. And I am… deeply sorry. But if your Alpha is being deployed, I just urge you to consider the ramifications.” He pauses, watching Tony closely. “If your attachment is strong now, it will be tenfold once the bond is complete. And without him present to support you through your cycles, it will not simply be painful—it will be debilitating. Potentially even—”

“Dangerous,” Tony finishes flatly, not looking at him. “Yeah, yeah, I caught that part.” His fingers tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles aching from the strain.

The air between them is heavy, thick with the weight of all the unchangeable things. Tony presses his lips together, swallowing the rising sting in his throat.

This is what you fought for, some voice in his head mocks. You wanted to be free. You wanted independence.

But he doesn’t want it. Not indefinitely. Not like this. Not when it means standing by and watching Bucky—his Alpha—get shipped off to hell without so much as a tether to pull him home.

Tony hesitates, mouth suddenly dry. It feels naive—and slightly grotesque—to even say it out loud, but the question’s been gnawing at him for weeks.

Since the godforsaken gala.

“If… if we bond anyway—not saying we will, by the way, this is purely theoretical—and, God forbid, he—” Tony’s voice cracks. “If h-he—dies in the war… would my mark… would it, you know, turn black? Rot?”

Erskine, for once, looks genuinely taken aback by one of Tony’s questions, as if the Omega finally managed to lob a genuine curveball in his direction. “Rot?” he echoes, confusion etched across his usually calm features. “Tony, why would you think—?”

Tony presses his lips together, heart pounding. “Look. I— I’m not exactly well-read on, you know, Alpha biology. Or… or any bond mechanics. I went to a shitty boarding school that force-fed us sterilized propaganda. Lots of questionable textbooks. But I’ve—the Alpha my dad tried bonding me to, Tiberius Stone; he has a wrist bite, and… it’s black. Twisted. Like it’s rotted away.” He drags a shaky breath. “I always assumed it was because he… his first mate died. I mean, that’s what everyone says. There are… rumors. That he, y’know. Killed her. Severed their bond, left it to rot. But then—” He forces himself to hold Erskine’s gaze. “They also say, theoretically, that death doesn’t fully sever a bond. Which is why second bonds for Alphas aren’t as strong.”

Which is why they usually save second Alpha bonds for infertile, second-class male Omegas.

As Tony speaks, Erskine’s expression twists—first with confusion, then dawning realization, before finally settling into something heavier, something wary and deeply apprehensive.

“Black scarring on an Alpha’s bond mark—indicates an intentional sever.” He sighs heavily, clearly troubled. “Tony, if your Alpha were to die in the line of duty, or from any cause not of his own choosing, your bond would… linger. It wouldn’t rot. The scar wouldn’t twist black. That sort of decay only occurs when a mate forcibly and willingly drives the bond to destruction—most often, by one partner ending their own life to break the tie.”

The words settle like lead in Tony’s gut. He can feel them sinking, twisting, pressing against something deep and fundamental inside him, something he’s not sure he has the stomach to face.

Because… oh.

Tiberius didn’t kill his first mate.

He drove her to kill herself.

Tony’s head swims.

Because he knows this, deep down—that severing a bond isn’t something you do. It isn’t a choice, some mistake, an unfortunate accident.

It’s never been some inconvenience a person can just opt out of when it no longer serves them.

It’s—

It’s unheard of.

It’s an abomination.

Even thinking about it feels like trespassing onto cursed ground, like uttering something so forbidden that the universe itself should recoil.

There’s a reason people don’t talk about it. A reason no one even wants to talk about it.

Because a bond is more than a contract, more than a name scrawled on some outdated marriage document. It’s biological. It’s written into the blood, carved into the marrow of a person’s being. To take a mate is to entwine two bodies, two minds, two entire selves so thoroughly that their scents change, their chemistry shifts, their very instincts rearrange themselves around each other.

It’s why bonded pairs don’t survive the loss of their mate.

Not really. Not truly.

The bond itself never fully disappears—it dwells, in fragments, until there is no mated partner left to sustain it.

Tony swallows hard, stomach twisting and coiling. He thinks of Tiberius, of the scar on his wrist—blackened, twisted, something unnatural in a world where everything about mating bonds is meant to be absolute. Permanent.

He had always figured Tiberius had killed her. It wasn’t exactly a leap in logic.

Because of course he had.

It wasn’t a question of if, really—just a matter of when and how.

Of whether it had been quick or if Tiberius had drawn it out just to watch her squirm. Whether it had been a moment of temper, or something calculated, something drawn up like a business plan, signed and sealed with all the precision of a man who had never once made a decision without thinking about how it would benefit him.

Tony had assumed it with the same certainty he assumed the sky was blue, that gravity pulled downward.

Of course Tiberius fucking Stone had killed his first mate.

It hadn’t even mattered to Tony, really—not in the way it probably should have. Not in the way a normal, stable, grounded person would have reacted to that knowledge.

Because the second he had met Tiberius, the second he had looked into those cold, calculating eyes, Tony had known. He had recognized the kind of man he was dealing with.

But this—this is something else.

Because it means she chose it.

It means she had to wake up every day in that bond, trapped with a man like that, and realize—again and again and again—that there was only one way out.

This means she looked at death and saw something softer than the alternative.

The bile rises in Tony’s throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, throat tight, barely even aware that he’s said it out loud.

Erskine exhales, slow and measured. “It is a terrible thing, yes.”

Tony shakes his head, laughter bubbling up in his chest in a way that doesn’t feel remotely sane. “Shit,” he breathes again. “Oh, well, that’s fucking fantastic. Poetic, even,” he says, voice scraping raw. “Good to know the universe has a built-in failsafe for getting rid of shitty Alphas.”

Erskine’s gaze remains steady. “It’s quite barbaric.”

Tony huffs out another breathless, half-mad chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, silver lining with voiding this contract, I guess—at least I don’t have to send him an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ letter.” He drops his hand, mouth quirking in something that barely resembles a smile. “Talk about dodging a bullet. Though, gotta say—kinda makes me wonder how he planned to get me there.”

Erskine’s brow furrows. “Pardon?”

Tony gestures vaguely, his fingers twitching with restless energy. “You know. To that point. The point where checking out starts to seem like the only viable option.” His voice is distant, detached, like he’s discussing someone else’s tragic fate instead of narrowly avoiding it himself. “I mean, let’s be real—our grand romance was dead on arrival. So what d’you figure his approach would’ve been? Slow suffocation? Mind games? Isolation?” He tilts his head, expression going thoughtful. “Ooh—maybe just sheer, unrelenting boredom. The man loves the sound of his own voice—could’ve droned me straight into an early grave. Probably figured I’d off myself just to escape another monologue.”

Erskine doesn’t react, but something in his expression tightens.

Tony shrugs, a careless thing, like his insides aren’t crawling with something thick and ugly. “Real shame, huh? Guess we’ll never know.”

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Erskine sighs, long and weary. “Tony.”

That’s it. Just his name.

Because Tony won’t let himself think about what it means—what it really, truly means—that his father had every intention of handing him over to a man who had done this before.

That Howard had known, or at the very least, hadn’t cared. That this was very close to being his future.

Because if he does think about it too hard, if he lets himself actually sit with the horror of it—

Well.

He might not stop screaming.

Erskine exhales, watching him for a moment longer before leaning back slightly. “Come,” he says gently, standing from his chair. “We should return to the lab.”

Tony nods again, but he doesn’t move right away. He takes one more deep breath, pressing a hand over the spot where his own mating gland lies, untouched, unmarked.

Because despite everything Erskine has just laid out—despite the horrors that hover like a miasma around Tiberius Stone—Tony’s fingers linger over the side of his neck. At the base of his throat, where his mating gland rests, still unbitten.

It’s warm. Throbbing.

He can practically feel the rush of his pulse under his skin, like a low-level fever he can’t shake. He doesn’t need Erskine to tell him what it means. He knows this ache, the restless burn that’s been gnawing at him for days, ever since Bucky had kissed him goodnight against the frame of his dorm room door—casual, fleeting, the kind of kiss exchanged a hundred times before without ceremony, without second thought.

Ever since Bucky’s hand had curled at the nape of Tony’s neck, warm and steady, a gentle press of his thumb against the edge of his jaw like he always did, like it was instinct. Ever since Bucky had murmured something soft—sleep tight, sweetheart—before pulling away, the ghost of his breath still warm against Tony’s skin.

Ever since that moment—so unremarkable in its simplicity, so devastating in hindsight—before either of them realized that it wouldn’t just be a weekend apart. That it wouldn’t just be another weekend of separate schedules, of late-night phone calls and rescheduled plans.

Before they knew that it would be the last time.

Before everything fell apart.

And now Tony can feel the absence of that kiss like a missing limb. The restless twinge that’s been gnawing at him for days, ever since he woke up in the SSR with no contact, no scent, no anchor.

Bucky had called it bonding sickness, once. Back when they had first met and they were trying to put words to the physical connection that felt stronger than a name—it feels like a lifetime ago.

But Tony still feels it. The phantom ache that spreads whenever they have to spend a night apart.

Tony, missing an Alpha he can’t even touch, heat swirling under his skin as if he were in a heat cycle, but he isn’t.

He’s just… missing.

He presses his palm more firmly over the gland as though he can quell the steady pulse. It hurts, but in a dull, muffled sort of way—like an echo of a wound that hasn’t happened yet.

Tony forces a tight swallow. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about how Bucky’s the only reason he dared fight off Tiberius at all, the only reason he’s able to stay upright when every cell in his body screams for rest, for relief, for that smell of cedar and smoke and snowfall and warmth.

He exhales sharply and forces his feet to move, falling into step behind Erskine.

They walk in silence through the corridors, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the muted hum of the SSR complex pressing in from all sides.

And still, under it all, under the hum of machines and the distant murmur of voices—Tony feels the pull.

Like something tethered to him just out of reach.

Something calling him home.

A couple of days drift by after Tony’s tense conversation with Erskine, melting into a blur of lab work, restless nights, and silent meals under the hum of flickering lights. He’s lost count of how many times he’s run the meltdown calculations in his head, how many times he’s woken up from half-formed dreams about Tiberius and Bucky and unbreakable bonds.

He’s reviewing yet another coil alignment schematic—barely seeing the lines on the page—when a different stiff-backed guard appears in the lab doorway. “Mr. Stark,” the man says, tone clipped. “Colonel Phillips has requested your presence. Immediately.”

Tony’s pen stills over the blueprint. Finally.

He follows in silence, letting the guard lead him through the twisting corridors. Thirteen days he’s been trapped in this bunker, waiting for the War Department to hammer out the last details of his emancipation, waiting for someone—anyone—to grant him a sliver of normalcy.

The guard stops at a heavy steel door and raps twice. When it swings open, Tony steps inside, pulse skittering.

The room is cramped, no windows, the overhead light casting everything in a harsh, clinical glow. Colonel Phillips stands behind a metal desk, hands braced on either side of a thick stack of papers. Next to him, Senator Brandt waits with folded arms and an impatient line to his mouth. A handful of SSR brass linger at the edges: a couple of faceless staffers, an officer whose name Tony perpetually forgets, and, off to the side, Dr. Erskine—looking tired but faintly relieved.

Tony’s gaze flickers around, half expecting Howard to be there too, lurking with that quiet, coiled anger. But his father is conspicuously absent.

“Stark,” Phillips growls, beckoning Tony forward. “Sit.” He points to a metal chair across from the desk, next to a mountainous stack of documents that look so classified, they might combust at any second.

Tony swallows, nerves twisting.“You know, Colonel, you really have a way of making a guy feel welcome. Ever thought about a career in hospitality?”

Senator Brandt lifts an officious brow. “Stark, we’ve expended a great deal of effort ensuring your… unique circumstances were properly addressed. This—” He gestures at the formidable stack of papers. “—is the outcome.”

Tony eyes the mass of documents. “You’d think you’d at least supply a decent fountain pen,” he mutters. “Or a lawyer.”

Phillips’s mouth tightens. “Just sign, Stark.”

Tony huffs, settling onto the chair. Fine. He flicks open the first sheaf of papers, skimming the headings: Strategic Scientific Reserve—Project Rebirth—Confidential Terms and Nondisclosure. Next: Omega Emancipation Contract—Anthony Edward Stark. Another: Bond Nullification Agreement—Stark / Stone.

It’s all so formal, so heavily notated with legal jargon, cross-references, stamps, and disclaimers. He feels like he’s reading a small country’s constitution.

He glances up, about to crack another wise remark, but stops short at Phillips’s stern glare. “Shut up and sign, Stark,” the Colonel repeats, more slowly. “We don’t have all day.”

Tony bites back a retort—no sense picking a fight now—and flips through the pages. The first sections revolve around the standard hush-hush clauses: how he can’t breathe a word about Project Rebirth to anyone outside SSR approval, what he’s responsible for if there’s a security leak, the standard threats about espionage charges that would land him in federal prison for life.

Joy.

He scribbles his signature (still shaky from exhaustion) where indicated, ignoring Brandt’s impatient tapping. Next come the official forms that sever Howard’s guardianship: disclaimers referencing obscure wartime statutes, half a dozen references to Tony’s “unique strategic importance.”

Tony’s chest tightens with something akin to satisfaction as he scrawls his name across the lines that declare I am no longer property of Howard Stark. The SSR official on the side steps in to notarize each signature with brisk efficiency.

And then Tony turns the page and sees Contract for Nullification of Omega Bond, Tiberius Stone / Anthony Stark.

He stills, pulse picking up. The words blur for a second: Void ab initio… invalidated under special circumstances… rendered non-binding.

There’s a signature line for Tony Stark, a signature line for Tiberius Stone, and another for Howard Stark.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, is this gonna be an issue?” He taps the names with his pen, glancing around. “I assume Stone’s exactly doing handsprings over our breakup.”

Senator Brandt clears his throat. “We, ah, reached out to Mr. Stone through official channels—without divulging anything sensitive about your position here, of course. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve become indispensable to the war effort, and thus, your contract with him has been deemed a liability.”

Phillips grunts in confirmation. “We might’ve implied you’re under indefinite protective custody. He can’t forcibly claim you if the War Department itself says you’re not available.” The Colonel’s lip curls in something like disdain. “I doubt he’s pleased, but he’s not stupid. He doesn’t want to cross the U.S. Army.”

Tony snorts softly. He can imagine Tiberius’s reaction—rage tempered only by self-preservation. “I take it he didn’t take the news well.”

Brandt’s mouth twists. “If the vitriolic telegram he sent is any indication, no. He did not.”

A hollow satisfaction blooms in Tony’s chest. Good. The bastard deserves to choke on every ounce of frustration.

Still, the lines requiring Tiberius’s signature stand out like black stains on the page. Tony wonders if Tiberius will sign them voluntarily, or if he’ll stall. But from the look on Phillips’s face, the War Department has ways of making him cooperate—likely involving threats of espionage or sabotage charges.

“Right,” Tony mutters, leaning forward to scrawl his signature in the designated spot. His breath catches as the pen scratches across paper, effectively severing the final tie that bound him to Tiberius Stone.

He sets the pen down, half-expecting something—a rush of triumph, a wave of relief.

But mostly, he just feels tired.

Brandt snatches the pages back, scanning them with a pinched expression. Another official (some SSR adjutant, presumably) steps up to notarize, stamping each page with a metallic seal.

“Congratulations,” Brandt says drily, handing the documents to the adjutant for safekeeping. “You are no longer under Mr. Stone’s contract, nor under your father’s guardianship. As of this moment, the War Department recognizes you as an emancipated Omega.”

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. Finally.

“There’s more,” Phillips grumbles, picking up another stack from the desk. “Nondisclosure agreements, property disclaimers, details of your continued obligations to Project Rebirth, including any future meltdown fixes. You’ll remain on file as a civilian consultant, subject to recall if we have further questions. Sign here, and here, and—”

Tony nods absently, flipping through the pages. It’s all boilerplate: hush-hush about everything, SSR retains the right to rope him back in if meltdown issues resurface, etc., etc. He snatches the pen again, scrawling his signature at the bottom of each form.

His hand aches by the time he finishes. He sets the pen down with a click, rolling the tension from his neck, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him. Erskine’s included.

Brandt leans in, swiftly checking each signature. Satisfied, he tucks them away into a thick dossier. “That should do it.”

Phillips nods once, curt. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Stark. Don’t screw it up.”

Tony huffs a tired laugh. “I’ll do my best, Colonel.”

He glances at Erskine, who offers him a subtle, approving nod. The other SSR staffers look relieved—one or two might actually be happy for him, though Tony’s not sure. The rest probably just want their meltdown expert to be done with personal drama so he can finalize the Rebirth Chamber.

The door creaks open, admitting a uniformed aide who steps in to retrieve the stack of completed forms from Brandt. Tony tries to ignore the wave of vulnerability that hits him as he watches them vanish from sight—all that paperwork, the keys to my future, in someone else’s hands.

But it’s done, or close enough.

No more Tiberius Stone. No more forced contract. No more guardianship from Howard.

Tony is… free.

Phillips exhales, flipping through the last of the pages with a grunt of finality. “That’s it, Stark,” he mutters. “We’ll arrange a car to send you back to Manhattan.”

Tony leans back in his chair, pressing his fingertips to his temples like he’s staving off the world’s worst headache. “Oh, no. No, no, absolutely not.” He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “With all due respect, Colonel—and I mean this with every ounce of sincerity in my body—the last time your men ‘transported’ me anywhere, I was abducted, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of a government utility vehicle with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Just let me call my butler.”

Phillips looks unimpressed. “Stark—”

“No, no, I insist,” Tony says, standing up and stretching his aching limbs. “I’ll spare your boys the hassle. Trust me, they’ve done enough damage to my trust issues—and my kidneys—for one lifetime.”

Phillips glares at him but doesn’t argue. It’s clear he doesn’t give a damn how Tony gets out of the bunker—only that he does.

They’re on the same page there, at least.

Tony, for his part, has no intention of going back to Manhattan. Maybe ever again, if he can fucking help it.

Not like Howard’s going to let him set foot on the property anyway.

No, he’s not going to Manhattan.

He’s going to Brooklyn.

Tony stares at the blank page, and the blank page stares right back—accusatory, unyielding. In the cramped, makeshift quarters the SSR arranged for him, he can’t escape it. There’s no window to gaze out of, no casual conversation with a friendly face to break the mounting pressure in his chest. The soft overhead light buzzes, washing the concrete walls in a sterile, colorless glow.

He’s supposed to be sleeping—lights out and all that—but he had convinced one of the guards (Barnett? Baxter? He can’t remember) to let him stay awake a bit longer. He’d told them it was urgent—a personal matter. He had relented eventually, albeit with suspicious glances.

Now it’s just him, a cheap fountain pen, and a single crisp sheet of SSR-approved paper. All as exciting as wallpaper paste.

The pen feels heavy between his fingers, but not as heavy as the weight of his unspoken words.  

He’d insisted that if he was allowed to communicate with anyone, it had to be in writing. Phone calls were too risky—even a short phone call, even if the SSR listened in. Because that’s the problem: the SSR would listen in, and Bucky would pick up on Tony’s fumbled half-truths in an instant.

Tony doesn’t think he could keep his voice from shaking, or keep from blurting something about the project, or the new arrangement, or Tiberius.

And Bucky—God, he was probably tearing the city apart looking for Tony already.

Tony’s chest seizes at the thought.

He sets the pen to the paper—nothing but a vast expanse of white, waiting—and tries to start. His mind runs in frantic circles: Are you okay, Buck? I’m safe—sort of—there’s nothing you can do, but please, don’t do anything crazy or reckless. Hugs, Tony.

No. That’s ridiculous. He can’t say that. Too many details, too risky. Besides, the SSR censors will strike out anything that even so much as hints at their location or references Project Rebirth. And Tony really doesn’t want to risk them deciding all correspondence is too sensitive to send.

He closes his eyes and lifts the pen, pressing it carefully against the page again.

B—

He manages one letter before panic hijacks his brain. He wants to write out Bucky’s name, to see it in ink, to remind himself that it’s real, that Bucky is real, but the pen hovers, trembling. An ocean of longing wells up behind his eyes, choking him. He wonders if he could just… scrunch the page into a ball and say to hell with it. But he needs this.

He needs Bucky to know he’s okay.

He wants to say more. He wants to say: I miss the way your arms feel around me, the warm rasp of your voice in the morning, the reckless grin you wear when you’re about to do something foolish. I miss the quiet times, too—the hush of late nights when you’d trace lines on my skin, the moments you’d catch me thinking too hard and pull me close so I’d think about us instead.

But he can’t.

And he’s no poet.

So he forces himself to continue.

B—,

I hope—

His handwriting is a mess, shaky. There’s a spatter of ink where his pen digs in too hard. Tony stops, exhales, tries to slow the hammering of his pulse. This isn’t a love letter; it’s not a war bulletin either. But it might as well be both, for all the weight of it pressing on him.

What can he say?

That he’s been forcibly “escorted” to a top-secret intelligence agency’s facility in the dead of night and can’t return to Brooklyn yet? That the arrangement with Tiberius is looming over him like a noxious cloud, but said top-secret intelligence agency says they can maybe shield him?

That physically, he’s okay, but every minute that passes without hearing Bucky’s voice feels like a fresh bruise to his soul?

He can’t say any of that, at least not in a letter that will be read by a roomful of government suits before it ever reaches Bucky. And he sure as hell can’t mention Project Rebirth or the chamber or the hush-hush details Erskine explained to him. If he tries, the SSR censors will shred his words to confetti.

Keep it brief, keep it benign, Erskine had told him gently, a paternal hand on Tony’s shoulder. Tell him you’re safe. And nothing else that could compromise the project or put him in danger.

He had tried not to bristle at the word “danger,” but, well, that ship has sailed. Bucky will always be in danger as long as he’s associated with me, Tony thinks, throat tight.

He forces his gaze back to the page.

B—

I hope you’re staying safe, and that Steve is, too.

He grimaces. It’s so formal. So not them. But what else can he say that’s safe enough for SSR eyes?

Things are…  complicated. I’ve had to take care of an urgent matter, and it’s going to keep me away longer than I thought. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.

He stops, re-reads it. Each sentence sounds like it’s wearing a starched collar—stiff, flavorless. But he can’t say more. He can’t say, “I’m being held here for my own good, so I don’t get slapped into a forced bond with Tiberius. I hate him, and I’m terrified, and I wish I could bury my face in your neck and just breathe you in until my lungs don’t hurt anymore.”

No, that won’t fly. Tony clenches his jaw, forcing himself to keep writing.

I’m okay, truly. These people aren’t harming me. They’re…

He debates how to phrase it. Helping me. They are—kind of. In a clandestine, bureaucratic, slightly traumatizing way. The memory of being dragged out of bed in his underwear, blindfolded, and tossed in a van is still fresh. Yet they’re also offering him his first real chance at freedom.

… they’re helping me sort out a mess. You’d be proud of me for sticking to my guns.

A watery smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He can almost see Bucky’s response: a half-smirk, a cocked brow, the quiet ferocity in his eyes. Hell, yes, I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Always have been.

God, Tony misses him so much it leaves a raw ache under his ribs. He needs to keep it together.

I’m sorry I can’t tell you more right now. I wish I could. You know I would if it was safe. I promise, you don’t need to worry about me. Everything is under control.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Lies, lies, lies. He’s not under control. Tiberius’s looming threat, Howard’s fury, the swirl of war projects—none of that is under control. But if Tony writes the truth, that he’s in the Strategic Scientific Preserve’s protective custody, that he’s planning to use some obscure piece of wartime legislation to block Tiberius’s claim, Bucky will tear through every government building from Washington to the Atlantic. And that might ruin everything.

So he has to reassure him. Even if it’s a lie—especially because it’s a lie.

I can’t say when, but I’ll come back to you and Steve as soon as I can. I promise. Until then, please just… take care of yourself. Don’t do anything reckless. (Yes, I know that’s rich coming from me.)

He chews his lip, hearing in his mind the dull ring of Bucky’s voice the last time they spoke—I need you out, I need you with me. That vow they made in hushed, trembling breaths. Yours, Tony had whispered.

But now Tony can’t even hint that he’s being forced into the darkest corners of secrecy. Instead, he’s writing it all neat and bland, like a letter from summer camp.

He stops to rub at the sting in his eyes, refusing to let tears spill. If the SSR censors catch him bawling over a letter, they’ll definitely intervene, or try to stifle him, or, worst case scenario, chalk it up to Omega hormones.

He’s not giving them the satisfaction.

Slowly, he leans forward again, pen scraping across the paper.

Please pass on my love to Steve. Tell him I said not to pick any more fights with local meatheads unless you’re there to bail him out. (Yes, that’s an order.) And keep an eye on him for me. I know you always do.

I miss you. More than I can say here.

Stay safe. Both of you.

Yours,

Tony

His signature is shaky. He stares at the final word, Yours, and imagines how Bucky might read it. He wonders if Bucky will read between the lines, if he’ll guess all the things Tony isn’t saying. He hopes so—God, he hopes so.

Because he doesn’t know how to say, I love you. Not in a letter that may end up in a classified file. He’s never said it out loud before, not even face to face. It’s always been implied, scribbled around the margins of their lives: the brush of a hand against a cheek, a borrowed sweater on a cold morning, the protective half-snarl in Bucky’s voice whenever Tony’s cornered.

But never just… I love you. So he doesn’t. He can’t.

He lifts the page, scanning it one last time. It’s too short. Too vague. Too many black holes. But that’s the best he can do. He sets the pen down, heart thrumming with a complicated swirl of relief and dread.

It’s pitiful, stilted, a flimsy shield against Bucky’s inevitable fury. None of it captures the raw longing that’s been clawing at Tony’s insides ever since that phone call. He can’t even convey how badly he wants to see Bucky’s face, to feel his arms around him, to bury his nose in the crook of Bucky’s neck and let that sure, steady presence chase away the stench of Stone’s forced claim.

But it’s the best Tony can do.

A hollow tightness settles in his chest. He wonders if it’s worth sending at all, or if it will just incite more questions—more anger. Maybe it’ll keep Bucky from tearing Manhattan apart, but it sure won’t soothe that Alpha protectiveness that Tony knows runs bone-deep in James Barnes.

Still… Tony has to try.

Gently, he folds the letter. He tucks it in an envelope, addressing it to Bucky and Steve’s building in Brooklyn—just the apartment number, the street. No mention of a last name, no extra details. Tony hopes that’s enough.

The door clicks again, and Tony startles, turning to see the SSR guard. He’s a younger man, a Beta, maybe fresh out of some advanced training program, stands with his posture stiff.

Tony presses a quick palm over the envelope, then picks it up. “Hey,” he says softly. “If I need to send something out, how does that work?”

The guard glances at the letter, then at Tony. “I can take it to the communications officer on your behalf. All personal mail gets routed through them for screening.”

Tony’s heart thuds. Screening. There it is: that official word that means they might read every line, might black out references or withhold it entirely if they think it’s too revealing.

He licks his lips, feeling the dryness in his mouth. “Will they… open it?”

The guard shifts, looking faintly uncomfortable. “All non-classified correspondence is subject to at least some check, Mr. Stark. But if it’s cleared, we can send it through a discreet channel.”

Tony’s fingers clench around the envelope. “Right. Sure. That’s… standard procedure, I guess.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. He’s on government property, a potential asset with classified knowledge. Of course they’ll read his mail.

He casts one last glance at the folded paper inside. It’s just a few lines of reassurance, devoid of anything that might reveal SSR’s secrets. But it’s still his letter to Bucky. Intimate in a way no official eyes have the right to read.

Yet if Tony refuses to send it through official channels, he has no way of contacting Bucky at all—and Bucky will remain in the dark, probably thinking Tony’s been ambushed by Tiberius.

Or worse.

Reluctantly, he holds out the envelope. “I… need this to get to Brooklyn as soon as possible. It’s private.”

The guard nods once. “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

He takes the envelope from Tony’s hand, and Tony releases it slowly, heart twisting in his chest.

Everything in his life is out of his control right now—this letter is just another casualty.

Morning comes with little ceremony. A dull buzzer in the corridor stands in for a sunrse, telling Tony it’s time to get up, to move, to work. He’d barely slept anyway—between hammering out that painfully stilted letter to Bucky and the ceaseless hum of fluorescent lights, rest felt more like a distant memory than a biological necessity.

The overhead fluorescents hum to life on their own timer, casting a sterile glow across the small, windowless room that the SSR designates as his ‘quarters.’ Tony can’t decide whether it feels more like a military cell or a drab dormitory. The walls are bare, the furniture minimal: a metal cot with starched sheets, a narrow desk, and an unforgiving metal chair. He’s spent enough years in boarding school to be familiar with crappy accommodations, but at least there, he had a window and occasional classmates to break the monotony.

Today, as the unrelenting mechanical buzz fills the hall, Tony rouses with a soft groan. He’s already dressed—he never truly changed out of the scratchy gray SSR shirt that hangs loosely off his shoulders. It’s an awkward fit, and he’s pretty sure it’s about half a size away from falling off altogether, but it sure beats sitting around in his undershirt, feeling every draft against his skin.

When the guard finally appears—the same one as yesterday, though Tony still hasn’t caught his name—Tony is pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to shake off the headache that’s begun to pulse behind his eyes. The guard raps a knuckle on the frame of Tony’s open door, then takes a step back. He has the stiff posture of someone who expects trouble, but can’t decide what exact brand of trouble Tony might be.

“You’re wanted in the lab, Mr. Stark,” the guard says, stepping aside so Tony can pass. “They’d like you to review the project’s design.”

Tony straightens, heart kicking up a notch. Finally. Work he can bury himself in, if only to forget—for a few hours—how utterly stifling this place is. Where isolation presses in on him more than the stiff uniform ever could.

The guard gives Tony a brief, assessing look, as though double-checking that Tony hasn’t spontaneously grown fangs or decided to make a break for it. It’s still jarring to be measured this way—like a potential threat or a potential victim. Tony can’t decide which they see him as. Maybe both.

“Right,” Tony says. He clears his throat, forcing nonchalance. “Lead the way.”

They wind through a seemingly endless maze of hallways, each turn revealing more dull sameness: floors of unyielding concrete and walls painted that soul-sucking shade of beige that feels specifically engineered to kill any hint of optimism. Tony’s footsteps echo in the silence, and the overhead fluorescents keep up their irritating flicker, bathing everything in a harsh, morgue-like gleam.

The air smells aggressively sterilized, like someone went overboard with the industrial-grade cleaner. It’s sharp and a little sour, failing to fully cover the underlying notes of metal shavings, machine oil, and that electric, bitter tang of ozone or maybe just charred wiring.

As they go deeper, Tony’s gaze darts to the people they pass: SSR officers in crisp green uniforms, bootsteps perfectly synchronized, expressions locked on stoic. Some spare him a glance—too quick to be friendly, too slow to hide a flicker of… what? Contempt? Curiosity? Both? The scientists are no better—lab coats and hurried strides, clutching binders of data like shields. Even so, Tony feels their eyes skitter over him before they yank them away, like he’s too out of place to process.

And that’s the thing: Tony can practically feel how he doesn’t belong. It’s there in every lingering stare that says what are you doing here? He’s not just the newbie—he’s an Omega in a fortress of concrete and steel where not a single honey-scented trail or discreet collar signals the presence of any other Omegas. Nope, it’s Alphas and Betas all the way, their pheromones tangling in the air with a no-nonsense edge. Tony is the odd one out, the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit.

Erskine’s promise—that Tony’s necessary here—drums in the back of his head. He’s essential to their mission, or so they claim. That doesn’t stop the stiff shoulders or sideways steps as he passes by. Official clearance doesn’t magically erase anyone’s bias, and in these hush-hush corridors, old prejudices hang around like rust that refuses to scrub off.

Finally, their escort halts at a heavy steel door, ENGINEERING & MAINTENANCE stenciled in neat black letters across the metal. The guard taps a code into the keypad—each beep absurdly loud in the sterile quiet—until a tiny green light flares. With a pneumatic hiss, the door slides open to reveal the humming, mechanical heart of the facility.

“They’re waiting for you,” the guard says, stepping aside with a curt nod.

Tony swallows hard, forcing down the tight lump lodged in his throat. The moment he steps into the engineering bay, the air changes. The scent of metal and oil saturates the space, thick and unyielding. Machines hum in a low, rhythmic cadence, and the sheer size of the room takes him by surprise—wide, rectangular, crammed with workstations, drafting boards, and half-finished projects.

The design bay looms around him like an industrial cathedral, concrete walls draped in coils of wire and unfinished contraptions. Harsh fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the long worktables littered with blueprints, scattered notes, and abandoned coffee cups. And in the center of it all, the machine stands—a towering steel chamber with thick injection ports and an intricate harness nestled inside, cables snaking from its shell like arteries.

Tony’s gaze sharpens. Restraints. Stabilizer brackets. Injection nozzles. It’s crude, rougher than the sleek renderings Howard once flaunted. Up close, it feels more real, more dangerous.

As soon as he enters, the room stills. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. A cluster of engineers in wrinkled button-downs turn to stare, expressions flickering between confusion and disbelief. Tony knows this moment well—the weight of sudden recognition, the pause when people realize what he is.

Unbonded. No mating mark.

Male.

It takes a breath, maybe two, before hushed murmurs ripple through the room. He doesn’t catch the words, but he doesn’t need to. He can read it in their eyes.

Speculation. Curiosity. Something sharper—skepticism, maybe, or quiet disdain. The tension prickles against his skin, an invisible pressure he refuses to acknowledge. He’s used to this. The quiet scrutiny. The unspoken questions. But this time, there’s something different.

It’s the same hush-hush scrutiny he’s grown accustomed to, the undercurrent of Who let an Omega in here? But there’s something more intense this time, a sharper edge to their curiosity. He wonders how much Erskine told them—or if they were made aware of Tony's designation. Judging by their awkward, uncertain looks, probably not.

An older Beta, posture erect despite the rumpled edges of his collar, steps forward. His buzz-cut hair lends him a stern, military countenance. “Stark, right?” he ventures, voice carefully polite.

“Tony’s fine,” Tony replies, measured and even.

The man flicks a glance toward his colleagues, as if searching for backup. “Dr. Erskine mentioned you’d be overseeing the redesign. We—uh—haven’t had the opportunity to work with someone like… you before.”

Tony meets his gaze without flinching, ignoring the open curiosity and the subtext behind it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” The massive steel contraption looming nearby catches his eye, and he motions toward it with a subtle tilt of his head. “Is this it? The Rebirth rig?”

A younger engineer, hair sticking out in all directions like he’s been yanking at it in frustration, fumbles with a sheaf of papers. “Yes, s—uh. We were making strides, but the meltdown issue keeps coming back to bite us. Dr. Erskine mentioned you might have solutions for stabilizing the serum flow.” The man’s gaze flicks—inevitably—toward the unblemished skin at Tony’s collar. “Is there… anything you need before we begin?”

“Just your data on meltdown thresholds,” Tony says, pointedly ignoring the glances. “Show me exactly where it fails, and I’ll tell you how to fix it.”

He moves toward the nearest worktable, lifting a blueprint. The quiet in the room stirs, shifting with the scrape of chair legs and shuffled feet. Some scowl, others step back, giving him space. A few move closer, watching him like something foreign, something that doesn’t quite belong.

Tony fights the urge to tense. He knows this game. He’s been inspected before—he can endure the discomfort.

His focus sharpens on the blueprint in his hands. The lines of the injection columns, the calculations scribbled in the margins—these are things he understands. The tension in his chest loosens, fraction by fraction. Because this, at least, is something he can control.

He spots the meltdown threshold logs stapled to the blueprint’s edge, nearly buried beneath a stack of dog-eared schematics and frantic notes. Sliding them free, he scans the data—temperature spikes, pressure fluctuations, sudden catastrophic failures. His eyebrows lift.

“No wonder your injection ports are frying,” he mutters, finger tracing a steep curve on the chart. “Your temperature climbs too fast—it’s torching the tubing from the inside.”

A younger engineer—lenses smudged, hands fidgeting—leans in. “We reinforced the chamber walls, but it still hits meltdown after ten seconds.”

Tony shakes his head. “Reinforcement doesn’t fix the problem if the heat spike is still there. You need to reduce friction and ease the load on the fluid pump first.”

Across the table, a tall, wiry engineer—arms folded, shirt grease-streaked—lets out a low grunt. “That’s all well and good, but we don’t have time for a full redesign.” His gaze flickers over Tony’s face, hesitating at his unmarked throat before jerking away. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Tony holds the man’s stare. “You don’t need a full overhaul. Just swap out key feed lines, tweak the injection angles, use an alloy that disperses heat better. That alone should cut your meltdown rate by fifty percent.”

He taps his pen against a crucial junction in the blueprint. “Trying to brute-force it with thicker walls? That’s like putting bigger tires on a car that’s leaking fuel. It might limp along, but it won’t fix the problem.”

The first engineer, an older Beta with a measured gaze, exhales slowly. “We’d have to recalibrate the coolant flow. Maybe redo the harness. That means more downtime, more resources.”

Tony shrugs. “Do you want a prototype that works, or one that keeps blowing up?”

Silence. The overhead lights hum. Distant metal clangs against metal in the adjoining workshop. Someone mutters something—Tony catches the tail end of “know-it-all.”

He doesn’t react. Instead, he flips the page, revealing the system’s cross-section. “Here.” He jabs his pen at the injection nozzles. “This is your failure point. The serum hits too fast, the temperature spikes instantly. Add a pressure gate—think throttle control. You won’t need one massive injection. You can regulate the flow in real-time.”

He sketches a rough diagram in the margin—a compact regulator valve, half the size of the current mechanism. A concept he’s refined before: controlled input means better stability.

The young engineer peers at the drawing, interest sparking behind his thick lenses. “A pressure gate? That… that might actually work.” He drags a finger over the sketch. “We’d need better sensors for the feedback loop, though.”

“Which we can do,” Tony says, firm. “I’ll draft the circuit schema. It’s not that different from the controllers used in—”

He stops himself just short of saying "Stark Industries." Clears his throat. “—in other high-precision projects I’ve worked on.”

Spied on. Same difference.

A pinched-faced Alpha in the back scoffs. “Pretty advanced work for an Omega with no formal education.”

The retort burns at the back of Tony’s throat, but he clamps down on it. Reacting only feeds that bias, and he’s got bigger things to worry about than some jerk’s barbs. So he steadies his voice. “Advanced or not, if you want the meltdown fixed, you need a dynamic approach.”

Off to Tony’s left, a Beta with neatly combed hair finally speaks up, calm and methodical. “All right. Let’s set up a preliminary test run. Partial load only, just to see if this gate concept holds. We’ll loop in the Machinists for hardware modifications.”

Relief stirs in Tony’s gut, though he keeps his face neutral. He swivels his pen, offering it out. “I’ll help prep. If you can get me a decent calibrator for temperature readings, I’ll show you the calculations I’ve been working with.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Beta nods and waves for Tony to follow him deeper into the bay. “This way.”

Time becomes a blur of scribbled equations, half-hearted coffee cups, and a thick current of unease that never fully leaves the room. Tony finds a spare stool next to a workbench—makeshift chaos everywhere, from coiled wires to half-dismantled servo motors—and dives into the meltdown math. He blocks out the pointed stares, the occasional scornful mutter, burying himself in columns of figures. Hours slip past unnoticed as he checks, double-checks, and tears out pages to redo them faster.

Every so often, a researcher or engineer sidles over to hand him a chart or a data set, nerves transparent in their posture. Some keep glancing at Tony’s bare throat. Others hover at arm’s length, like they’re afraid of the intangible boundary that comes with his Omega status. Still, curiosity wins out. They ask questions. Tony answers.

Eventually, Tony leans over the giant contraption itself, a flashlight in one hand, checking a bracket that secures the harness. The metal is warped, telltale signs of heat stress. “If the occupant’s heavier, this bracket might tear,” he mutters, making a note in his pad. “That’d be catastrophic once you’re at full power.” He can almost see the meltdown sequence in his head—a chain reaction of structural failure culminating in an explosion.

He’s so focused he almost misses the echo of new footsteps approaching. There’s a faint shift in the air—new scents, predominantly Alpha. Tony straightens, shining his flashlight on a weld. “We’ll need to reinforce—”

A coarse chuckle interrupts him, pitched just loud enough to make sure Tony hears. “Holy hell, that’s the Omega they’re talking about?”

“Look at that neck—spotless. Didn’t think they let unclaimed ones roam around like that.”

Tony tenses, adjusting the angle of his flashlight.

A third voice: “Christ, bet he’s never even been pinned for a rut. You see how jumpy he is? Poor thing probably hides behind Daddy’s desk all day.”

Tony forces himself to breathe. The bracket jiggles loose in his hand, and he reattaches it, letting the mechanical work anchor him. But it’s hard—so hard—when all he wants to do is scream.

He’s reminded—not for the first time—that when he’s with Bucky, this part of him doesn’t feel like a flaw. How Bucky, without realizing it, makes space for Tony to be soft, to lean into those submissive pulls without feeling like he’s giving up a piece of himself. But here, surrounded by sneering Alphas with their cheap bravado, Tony’s designation a chain around his neck.

Someone laughs. “Ah, come on. I bet a sweet face like that’s just dyin’ for the right partner to sink teeth in. Maybe that’s why the bigwigs brought him here—someone’s gotta keep morale up.”

Metal squeaks under Tony’s grip as he tightens the bolt a bit too hard. There’s a rustle of movement behind him—some of the original engineers shifting uncomfortably, maybe trying to hush the new arrivals. But the newcomers keep going.

Tony bites his lip, breath shallow. Focus on the task.

One of them snickers. “Imagine it: lockin’ him up in that harness, runnin’ your hands all over—”

“Shut it,” someone else mutters, a bit of an aside, but it’s not a strong protest—just an awkward attempt to keep the harassment from turning into a fight.

“Why? It’s not like any of us can actually do anything about it. Who’s protecting him, anyway? Brandt? That’s one hell of a way to move up the chain.”

A surge of acid roils in Tony’s stomach. He can feel his face heating, and he resists every urge to spin around and hurl a wrench at the creeps behind him. But that’d only prove every nasty rumor.

How people like Tony are hysterical. How Omegas are illogical, emotional. Incapable of thinking with their heads, only with what's between their legs.

He forces himself to breathe. The bracket jiggles loose in his hand, and he reattaches it, letting the mechanical work anchor him.

Another voice, pitched just loud enough: “Maybe he’s hoping some officer’ll stake a claim soon. I’d sure love a crack at that if I got the chance.”

They laugh.

His pulse pounds in his ears. He wonders if he can pretend he didn’t hear any of it. He’s done that before—playing deaf, playing dumb. But it always leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

The mocking conversation dips back into quieter snickers. Tony hears footsteps move away. Maybe someone intervened, or maybe they just got bored. Either way, they’re no longer right behind him.

He slowly exhales, pressing a hand to his chest. His heart hammers. He stands there, half-hidden by the metal frame, wanting to scream, or punch something, but knowing it’d do no good.

Without thinking, he rubs a thumb over the unmarked place at the base of his neck. Usually, he keeps the collar of his shirt buttoned a little higher around strangers, but it’s hot in this lab, and the uniform is ill-fitted. It’s easy for anyone to see that he has no mating bite.

He swallows hard, reminding himself: They can’t actually touch you. The SSR needs you, for now.

But the words resonate in his mind—for now. Once the project is done, if Colonel Phillips changes his tune, or if Howard shows up…

A faint panic swirls in his gut. He stamps it down. Focus on your job. Build something that can’t fail.

So he does his best to tamp it down, willing his breath to stay steady, his heart to stop hammering. His chest feels too tight, but if he lets his emotions get the best of him, he’ll smell of anxious adrenaline—ripe for the taking. And he’s learned that certain people love the spike of that hot, distressed aroma.

For Alphas like Tiberius, it’s practically blood in the water.

And sure enough, over by the chamber’s open hatch, a group of new arrivals—mostly Alphas, by the way the air thickens—send glances his way. Tony hears one of them murmur, just barely audible, “Jesus. Smell that? Already a little sweet, isn’t he? Thought these government labs had stricter codes about his type wandering around unclaimed. Don’t think I’ve sniffed a ‘mega in months.”

Laughter follows, hushed but no less grating. Tony grips the edge of the table until his knuckles whiten, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel.

Because this is the part he’s always hated: that no matter how stoic he tries to be, surrounding bystanders can always track the shift in his mood through the barest change in his natural smell.

He looks down at his notes, scribbled in uneven lines, trying to bury the heat under logic.

The overhead lights buzz, casting sterile light on the long row of tables. The engineers who aren’t openly gawking at Tony are busy at drafting boards or tinkering with prototypes, occasionally exchanging glances as though waiting for the next bit of drama to unfold. His cheeks burn; he’s not about to provide them with a show.

Tucking a pencil behind his ear, Tony squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. There’s a whiff of stale coffee and lubricating oil drifting past as someone crosses behind him. Clinging to that practical, mechanical smell helps keep him grounded.

He returns to a blueprint pinned to a metal easel. It’s the chamber’s core design, complete with injection columns and a half-dozen stabilizer arms. Even though the environment is tense and borderline hostile, Tony’s mind starts to hum with possibility. Some part of him thrives on the puzzle—it’s easier to think about meltdown thresholds than scornful remarks.

Still, their words reverberate in his head, cheap insinuations about harnesses and unblemished glands. His jaw tightens. He pretends not to see a pair of eyes flick to the curve of his neck.

It’s not worth it, he tells himself. Ignore them.

The jeers quiet eventually, fading to hushed snickers and bored shuffles. Tony hears them move away, the tension in the air thinning. He rubs at the back of his neck, hyperaware of how any flush of distress might coat his scent in fear, a beacon for the creeps to swarm. Focus, he tells himself.

So he does. He fiddles with the bracket again, notes alignment angles, tries to let the mechanical puzzle anchor him. Remembers that for now, he’s vital to the SSR. They can’t touch him. Not really. But that for now bounces ominously in his mind. If Colonel Phillips or Howard decide Tony’s outlived his usefulness, these leering Alphas would pounce at the drop of a hat.

He’s on the verge of sinking deeper into that anxiety spiral when a familiar figure steps up, the Beta with a weary but earnest expression—Reynolds, from earlier. He holds out a small stack of fresh logs. “Hey,” he says, voice low. “Test results. We tried your timing tweak. Made it to cycle ten before meltdown.”

Tony’s breath stutters in relief. “That’s… progress.”

“Yeah,” Reynolds agrees. “Something’s still off, though.”

Tony grabs the logs, flipping through them. “Then we figure out what.” He sees the data—a wave building, resonance intensifying. “If we introduce a damping function, maybe at cycle eight, it might break the chain reaction…” He’s talking to himself more than to Reynolds, scrawling an equation in the margin. Numbers form a tight pattern in his mind, overshadowing the earlier harassment.

The Beta leans in, brows lifting in surprise at Tony’s speed. “So we’d divert some of the serum to a secondary reservoir between pulses?”

“Yes,” Tony confirms. “It resets the baseline, so the next pulse doesn’t stack on the previous one. We’ll need specialized tubing, but it’s better than another meltdown.”

Reynolds nods, a flicker of genuine admiration crossing his features. “No one else came up with anything like that.”

Tony manages a lopsided grin. “That’s what I’m here for.” He tries to keep his tone light, ignoring the twinge of weariness in his limbs. “Show it to the machine shop. If they can rig a sample run, I’ll help calibrate.”

“Will do.” Reynolds lingers, gaze flicking to the small knot of Alpha newcomers murmuring in the background. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “sorry about the… comments. People get stupid about designations. Ignore ’em.”

Tony’s chest tightens, a swirl of complicated feelings. He wants to appreciate the sympathy, but it also reminds him how fragile his place here is. “Thanks,” he manages. “It’s not your fault.”

Reynolds nods, sliding away. Tony exhales, setting his pencil down. The engineering bay hums with energy, half-intense design chatter, half-lurking prejudice. He can’t decide which is more suffocating.

But the small flame of accomplishment warms his chest: he’s making headway. Bucky’s face swims up in Tony’s mind—he can almost imagine Bucky’s proud smile if he saw Tony now, directing a team of wary engineers through advanced mechanics. It’s enough to keep him standing, keep him scribbling notes, keep him from storming out of the lab altogether.

Stepping back to the central blueprint, Tony runs a finger along a diagram of injection ports, mentally calculating pressure deviations. Beyond the rhythmic clang of metal and the hum of overhead lamps, he hears snatches of offhand remarks, the rustle of movement around him. But he tunes it out, drowning in the logic of meltdown thresholds.

He ignores every sideways glance, every hushed whisper about the unmarked Omega in their midst. This is where he needs to be, can be—solving problems no one else even recognized as problems. If that means enduring a few more barbs from narrow-minded Alphas, so be it.

Pen scratching across the paper, Tony outlines a new set of instructions. Another piece of the meltdown puzzle solved. He grits his teeth in a grim approximation of a smile, vision tunneled on the blueprint.

He’s here. He’s needed. And for now, that has to be enough.

Tony’s nerves twist and coil like snakes in his gut, the edges of his vision blurring as he hunches over the toilet bowl. His throat is raw from gagging—he can taste acid, sharp and bitter, clinging to the back of his tongue.

Three days.

He’s spent the last three days pouring himself into the SSR’s damn designs—barely sleeping, living on coffee and adrenaline—trying to prove that he’s vital to the Rebirth Chamber.

That he’s indispensable.

But right now, he’s just a shaky mess, palms slick with sweat, knees trembling so hard he’s not sure they’ll hold him upright.

He squeezes his eyes shut, chest tight, breath caught in that awful space between a gasp and a sob. Because if he blows it today—if he can’t convince the higher-ups his father’s math is incomplete—there’s no second chance. He can’t let them dismiss him, can’t let them toss him back to Howard’s clutches or, worse, into Tiberius’s forced bond.

A wave of nausea makes him retch again, stomach cramped and empty, and Tony can’t decide which is more painful—the heaving or the raw fear seizing his chest. Minutes tick by before he can finally straighten. His hair is damp with sweat, and he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror: pallid skin, haunted eyes, and the faint imprint of desperation in every line of his face.

The overhead light hums, too bright, too harsh. He presses cold water over his cheeks, splashing away the acidic tang on his lips, trying to wash off the dread clinging to his skin. None of it helps. But he forces a breath, mouth twisting in a shaky half-smile at his own reflection.

“Get it together,” he says, voice low and ragged. “They’re waiting.”

They: Colonel Phillips, Senator Brandt, half a dozen SSR bigwigs.

And Howard.

He can’t think about that too hard or he’ll start heaving again.

He dries his face on his sleeve, ignoring how the fabric clings to his clammy skin. He pictures Bucky, just for a second—the comforting rasp of Bucky’s voice in his ear, that warm, grounding presence that makes Tony feel more than the sum of his fears. If he can hold on to that, maybe he won’t crumple in front of everyone.

His stomach lurches at the thought anyway, but Tony sets his jaw. He’s got to do this—for himself, for Bucky, for this single shot at a future where he’s not bound to Tiberius or yoked under Howard.

He steels himself, forces his shoulders back, and faces the door. The violent flutter in his chest doesn’t disappear, but he locks his knees, one unsteady step after another. It’s all he can do to stay upright as he pushes out into the corridor.

He’s exhausted and half sick, and he can practically hear Howard’s derisive snort already. But that’s too damn bad. There’s no turning back.

Tony presses a hand over the subtle quiver in his stomach, takes one last breath, and steels his spine.

He has to be brilliant today.

He has to be everything they said he can’t be.

And he will.

“What the FUCK do you mean they haven’t been fully briefed?!”

Erskine, the picture of nonchalance in his slightly wrinkled suit, just blinks. His gray tie is a little askew like it might slide right off if someone tugged it too hard. “Colonel Phillips is aware you’ll be presenting,” he explains gently, totally unbothered. “But he and Senator Brandt may not be… entirely familiar with the finer details of your contractual status.”

Tony’s stomach does a double backflip, and not the good kind. “No. No, you see, I was under the impression you’d smoothed all that out,” he hisses, leaning in, trying—and failing—to keep his voice down. It bounces off the concrete walls and draws a curious glance from a pair of guards who are obviously not paid to mind their own business.

Erskine sighs, patting Tony’s shoulder as if Tony is a startled cat who might scratch his eyes out. “The War Department is on board with the overall concept,” he says, which is apparently scientist-speak for we’re winging this by the seat of our pants. “But Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt might be under the impression that… well, Howard gave the green light for your involvement.”

Tony nearly swallows his own tongue. “Howard? Gave the green light? Seriously?” He swipes clammy palms down the front of his borrowed slacks—which he hates, by the way, they’re a size too big, and the scratchy fabric is driving him nuts. “In case you don’t remember, Howard doesn’t want me here. Or anywhere. He doesn’t even want me alive half the time, let alone leading some classified project he thinks belongs to him.”

Erskine offers one of those placid smiles that, on anyone else, Tony might interpret as pity. “You’re forgetting that you are the only one capable of fixing the meltdown issues,” he says calmly. “Phillips and Brandt will recognize that once you show them your improvements.”

It takes all of Tony’s willpower not to scream. Instead, he presses his palms together in front of his face, reminiscent of someone desperately praying for a miracle. “And if they don’t recognize that? If they think, just like everyone else, that I’m just an unqualified Omega butting into Daddy’s big war toy? If they decide to toss me back to Howard like a used oil rag?”

A jolt of nausea twists his stomach, and for a horrifying second, he imagines having to slink back to New York in shame, Tiberius Stone’s smug grin waiting with open arms. I’m not letting that happen. I can’t. The sheer terror of it all has his scent glands pulsing with anxious adrenaline. If he’s not careful, he’s going to smell like fresh panic for the rest of the day, and that’s not the confidence he needs to radiate in front of the most powerful committee in the country, thank you very much.

Erskine’s expression softens. “That won’t happen, Anthony,” he says quietly, stepping in to lower his voice. “You’ve already proven your modifications work. Phillips is pragmatic—he wants results. Senator Brandt wants a patriotic victory he can advertise. And your father needs a working machine. You hold the key to all of it.”

Tony exhales, counting to three (it feels like a millennia). He tries, valiantly, to keep the scene of him yacking in a toilet ten minutes ago out of his mind. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go in there and wow them with… numbers. But if this backfires, you owe me a gigantic apology, possibly in the form of a small island far, far away from my father. And the rest of the United States Army.”

Erskine’s mouth quirks like he’s fighting a smile. “I will see what I can do.”

Before Tony can summon another protest, Erskine presses a hand lightly between Tony’s shoulder blades, guiding him toward a heavy metal door at the end of the hall. It’s guarded by a pair of stoic officers who straighten as they approach, each giving Tony that once-over glance—like they’re cataloging his unmarked neck and wondering what the hell is this undignified poser doing here?

Great. As if Tony’s nerves weren’t frayed enough.

Erskine nods to the guards, they nod back, and the door slides open to reveal a modest conference room with a big wooden table. No windows, overhead fluorescents buzzing far too loudly, and a swirl of pheromones that hits Tony the second he steps over the threshold. Not as intense as a stadium crowd, but enough that his instincts flare, picking up undertones of tension. Alpha tension, specifically.

And there he is—Howard Stark, starched shirt, tie perfectly centered, mouth set in a line so grim it’s practically a slash across his face. Colonel Phillips stands next to him in crisp uniform, arms crossed over a broad chest, while Senator Brandt hovers near the front, wearing the kind of politician’s smile that Tony’s known since childhood: polite, hollow, vacant.

With Erskine’s hand gently pushing him along, Tony picks his way to the empty seat at the head of the table, every molecule in his body screaming at him to look away, hide, bolt. But he can’t, so he locks eyes with Howard, ignoring the pure panic clenching his gut.

Howard’s eyes flash with surprise, and then something like raw, unfiltered anger—like he’d love nothing more than to yank Tony out of this room by the collar, or perhaps his hair, if they’re being historically accurate.

Tony gulps audibly.

The silence is oppressive, thick enough to choke on. Tony swallows hard, his throat still raw from earlier, and forces himself to sit. His fingers tremble against the tabletop, so he presses them into his lap, willing himself to be steady.

Howard is still staring at him, mouth thin, hands folded so tight his knuckles are white. For a long moment, no one says a word, and the tension coils tighter, strangling the room. The only sound is the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents and the slow, deliberate tap of Phillips’s fingers against his forearm.

Finally, Howard speaks, voice clipped, each word edged with barely restrained fury.

“What,” he demands, “is my son doing here?”

A pause. The silence stretches. No one answers.

Howard’s gaze sweeps the room, sharp and accusing, but the committee members shift uncomfortably, none of them meeting his eyes. They don’t know, Tony realizes.

Colonel Phillips breaks the silence, arching a grizzled brow. “That’s what I’d like to know as well,” he says in a low, steady tone. His uniform is immaculate, pressed corners and polished insignia, and he regards Tony with the same clinical scrutiny one might give a malfunctioning piece of equipment. “Dr. Erskine said this meeting required every capable mind on the project, but I wasn’t aware young Stark here was part of the, ah… official personnel.”

Tony can’t help but reflect, momentarily, on the last joyful occasion he was in the Colonel's presence. Slumped at the family dining room table, sweating profusely through his suit as he struggled to combat the side effects of his early pre-heat.

Tony grimaces. So much for first (or second) impressions.

“He’s supposed to be at boarding school,” Howard continues, voice dangerously low, vibrating with a fury Tony hasn’t heard in years. “Omega boarding school. In New York. He’s just entered a bonding contract, actually. He’s supposed to be clearing out his dormitory.”

Tony’s fingers curl into the fabric of his borrowed slacks, nails digging into his palms. He keeps his expression schooled into something carefully neutral, forcing himself not to shrink under Howard’s glare. To stave off the nausea swirling in his gut.

“I can assure you that he is not every capable mind,” he snarls. “He’s a child, an Omega. Barely out of short pants, for God’s sake. He’s still contractually bound for a mating. This is outrageous.” He rounds on Erskine, rage seething behind his eyes. “Explain yourself.”

Erskine, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He meets Howard’s glare with the same measured calm he always carries, adjusting his glasses before folding his hands neatly atop the table.

“As I have already stated to the War Department,” Erskine begins, voice even, “I believe your son to be an essential asset to this project’s completion. From the very beginning, I noticed that his original blueprints—the very ones that were later incorporated into your own—were the first to show any applicable, demonstrable promise of effectively activating my formula.”

Howard’s expression flickers, just for a second, before his mask of controlled fury settles back into place.

Tony tastes blood in his mouth, reminiscent of that dreaded argument with his father only mere months ago.

Erskine leans forward slightly, his gaze pinning Howard in place. “Do you know what you took, Mr. Stark?” His voice is calm. “Do you truly understand? Those scribbled notes, those rough diagrams—they were never meant to be groundbreaking. They were the idle musings of a bored, brilliant, seventeen-year-old. Your son was simply playing with equations, theorizing, stretching the limits of his own mind. He never knew what he had stumbled upon.”

The room falls quiet.

“He had no agenda, no ambition tied to those sketches. He was not seeking power, prestige, or military dominance. He was a child experimenting with ideas for the sheer joy of creation. And yet, in those pages, in the margins of notebooks you dismissed as a boy’s distractions, lay the foundation for America’s most secret, most vital weapon.”

Erskine’s gaze sharpens, and his voice drops even lower. “Before you took them. Before you refined them. Before you built upon them. Your son had already laid the groundwork for the machine that now sits, thanks to him, on the other side of this facility.”

Silence crashes over the room like a tidal wave. Tony’s pulse pounds in his ears, but he forces himself to stay still, to keep his hands from trembling against the table.

Howard’s nostrils flare. His voice remains steady, but there’s something venomous coiling beneath it. “You mean to tell me that you abducted my son, dragged him to a government facility, and threw him into a classified project without my knowledge?”

Tony swallows hard. The tension in the room is razor-sharp, balancing on the edge of a knife. He forces his voice to remain steady. “I volunteered.”

Howard’s head snaps toward him so fast Tony almost hears the crack. “Excuse me?”

Tony swallows past the lump in his throat, straightens his spine despite the trembling in his limbs. “I volunteered,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “No one… abducted me.” Lies. “No one forced me into anything. I chose to be here.”

And, alright, he may be stretching the truth, a little.

Semantics.

Howard’s lips part, probably to argue, to call him out on the obvious bullshit, but Erskine cuts in smoothly. “Your son is here because I believe that he is invaluable to this assignment. His mind is as rare as the serum I seek to perfect. If you cannot see that, then I am afraid you are letting your pride cloud your judgment, Herr Stark.”

Howard’s hands clench atop the table, fingers twitching like he’s resisting the urge to slam his fist against the polished wood. His nostrils flare, eyes dark with something venomous.

“Let me make something abundantly clear,” Howard says, voice low and deliberate. “My son is not a soldier. He is not an asset. He is an unbonded Omega who should be finishing his education and preparing for a future with his Alpha—not being dragged into classified war efforts by men who should know better.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Tony feels heat creeping up his neck, a fierce mixture of anger and mortification, as he’s referenced like an object to be passed off to some waiting Alpha. The small part of him that used to shrink under Howard’s stare wants to fold in on itself—wants to blurt out He didn’t drag me here; I came because I’m tired of letting you run my life. But Tony swallows, steels his spine, forces himself to speak before Erskine has to defend him.

“I’m not a child,” Tony manages, though his voice wavers under the oppressive tension. “And the only reason I’m ‘preparing for a future with an Alpha’ is because you sold me off like cattle. That contract was never my choice.”

A flicker of something savage crosses Howard’s face—outrage, maybe, at being contradicted so openly in front of Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt. His temper is a coil waiting to spring, Tony can practically see it in the taut lines around his mouth.

Erskine doesn’t flinch. He sets his shoulders with professorial calm.

“Tony volunteered,” he repeats gently, “because his input is that essential. Whatever your personal feelings on the matter, Mr. Stark, the War Department has recognized the mechnical issues. We can’t ignore a viable solution.”

Howard scoffs, turning to the two officials.

“I’m sure everyone in this room would agree that letting an untrained, unbonded Omega direct anything related to a top-secret project is unthinkable. It’s improper. A complete violation of protocol. Need I remind you both of the enormous repercussions if this were to leak? We’re in the middle of a war, for God’s sake. The public would be outraged if they knew we had an Omega—my Omega—handling vital military technology.”

Senator Brandt sets down his pen with a pointed click. His carefully blank expression doesn’t hide the flash of discomfort in his eyes.

“We are aware of the social… implications,” he concedes. “It’s quite unusual, and—frankly—a potential scandal if the press got wind. Omegas aren’t drafted, they aren’t tested for engineering roles, and they’re certainly not expected to contribute to a project of this magnitude.”

He looks almost uncomfortable as he gestures to Tony, who’s still rigid in his seat.

“But the War Department prioritizes results above all. If your son has the only existing blueprint that can safely run Dr. Erskine’s formula, it might outweigh other considerations. Even the, ah… improprieties.”

Colonel Phillips, for his part, sits like a statue of iron.

“My primary mission is to see Project Rebirth operational,” he says gruffly. “We were on the verge of scrapping the entire harness after that last meltdown. Now Dr. Erskine says young Stark here—” a faint grimace at the word “young” “—has the data to fix it.”

Howard’s lips peel back in a bitter imitation of a smile.

“Fix it. Him. A child who has no business stepping foot in a war lab, let alone rewriting my designs. He’s incompetent—he’s never finished a real engineering course in his life. And he’s an Omega who can’t go two minutes without his pheromones distracting—”

Tony’s cheeks flare hot at the pointed jab, and he notices Colonel Phillips shift in discomfort, possibly catching the faint whiff of Tony’s anxious scent. Tony clenches his hands under the table, nails pressing into his palms, trying to steady his breathing. He hates that in a room of Alphas and Betas, they can track every nuance of stress in his smell. Hates feeling exposed.

Erskine speaks up, firm but unruffled.

“He’s not incompetent. He’s gifted. The meltdown equation was something Howard’s own teams could not resolve.” He swings his gaze to Colonel Phillips, face resolute. “And if Tony is correct, you’ll have a stable chamber that can finally handle the formula.”

Senator Brandt clears his throat, glancing at Howard.

“Mr. Stark Senior, I understand your reservations. But if Dr. Erskine—and, by extension, the War Department—deems this meltdown fix crucial, it may be time to set aside… tradition.”

He almost chokes on the word, as if the notion of ignoring the Omega stigma is personally painful. But the undercurrent is clear: the SSR might be willing to ignore an Omega’s legal contract if it means winning the war. 

They’re desperate.

Colonel Phillips, looking every bit the weathered commander under the humming fluorescents, leans back in his chair with a weary sigh. His arms cross over his barrel chest, a deep scowl etched into his face.

“Look,” he growls, “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether this kid should be in an Omega home economics class, or knitting doilies in the Hamptons with the rest of his boarding school classmates. What I do care about is whether someone—anyone—in this damn room can get that contraption operational before we’re all speaking German.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escapes Howard like a razor slicing through the tension. Leaning forward, he clasps his hands under his chin in a parody of deep reflection.

“There’s nothing wrong with the machine,” he says. “Whatever hiccups we’ve had? They aren’t in the engineering. If Erskine’s magical formula can’t handle the rig, well,” he spreads his fingers, “maybe the problem is the serum. Not my design.”

Tony blinks, half-disbelieving Howard’s audacity. A conspiracy? Seriously?

Phillips’s bushy brow arches.

“So you’re saying Dr. Erskine and your own kid are staging some big sabotage just to tank your invention? For… fun? That’s a new one, even for me.”

Howard’s jaw tenses. Undeterred, he presses on, voice dripping condescension.

“I’m saying the Rebirth Chamber works exactly as I built it. If Erskine’s serum isn’t responding, it’s his problem, not the hardware’s.” His eyes flick to Erskine, accusation crackling. “He’d like to shift the blame onto my engineering, so he brought my son into this. Kid’s got too much time on his hands, apparently.”

Erskine adjusts his glasses in that precise, deliberate way of his, refusing to be drawn into a shouting match.

“The chamber functions, yes—but nowhere near efficiently enough. Not for the timetable we face, nor for the level of power the serum requires at peak activation. Mr. Stark Senior,” he says, calm but firm, “the meltdown logs are real. Even you can’t ignore them. And if your son is correct about the conduction error…”

Howard’s glare intensifies at the mention of Tony’s theories.

“Oh, Tony said so, did he?” His sneer is lethal. “The boy who can’t even keep his grades up in a glorified Omega prep school suddenly thinks he’s an expert on advanced war machinery?”

Tony fights the urge to recoil. Instead, he gives a tight shrug. “Well, guess all that time not doing my homework freed up some brain cells to fix your mistakes.”

It’s a calculated jab—he can see the moment it lands, see how Howard’s eyes darken with the kind of fury that usually precedes broken glass or bruised ribs. Tony braces himself for the worst. But before Howard can lunge across the table and throttle him, the tension snaps under the calm, clipped voice of a newcomer.

“Well,” comes Agent Margaret Carter’s distinctly British accent, “since we’re all so attentive—” she aims a level gaze around the table “—perhaps we’d like to hear more specifics about these so-called inconsistencies, Mr. Stark.”

She’s not looking at Howard. Her focus is on Tony instead, and the entire room seems to pivot on that subtle shift—gazes snapping to the unbonded Omega at the head of the table, the one who’s apparently holding all the cards. Tony’s heart hammers so hard he half-expects everyone to hear it, but he takes a measured breath, lifting his chin just enough to feign steadiness.

“Sure,” Tony says flatly. “Let’s start with the basics.”

He pushes his chair back a fraction, just enough to free his hands so he can gesture. His tone is clinical, cool—even a bit condescending, as if he’s explaining a tired math puzzle to people who stubbornly refuse to grasp it.

“The vita radiation chamber Howard designed has a critical efficiency problem. The coolant regulation is inconsistent, which leads to thermal hotspots along the chamber walls.” He pauses, letting his gaze skim over the table until it lands squarely on Howard. “In plain terms? The machine overheats. And when you’re dealing with vita radiation, uneven heat isn’t just a design flaw—it’s a death sentence.”

A few of the committee members shift, clearly unsettled by that blunt warning, but Tony presses on, tapping his fingers softly against the table’s edge.

“Then there’s the neutron flux. It’s oscillating above safe thresholds, so the system can’t handle the serum’s activation process. Once you push power beyond seventy percent saturation, the chamber’s structural integrity fails.” He clicks his tongue. “Which means anyone inside is taking a one-way trip to kingdom come.”

He catches the flicker of unease that ripples through the group, sees Senator Brandt stiffen in alarm. But Tony doesn’t slow down.

“And let’s not forget coil alignment,” he continues, leaning in, voice low and urgent. “The current design uses symmetrical windings, but the discharge in this setup is exponential, not linear. You need to angle the coils inward by at least two degrees to stabilize the energy flow. Otherwise, you get cascading failure in under five minutes of operation.”

An ugly screech pierces the stillness as Howard shoves his chair back against the floor. The sound sets everyone’s teeth on edge, but Howard doesn’t care. He’s livid—eyes hard, mouth compressed into a furious line.

“That’s bullshit,” Howard snarls, voice brimming with disbelief and condescension. “We’ve tested and retested the coolant system. The neutron flux is within acceptable parameters, and the coil alignment follows the standard specs for this energy type. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Tony sees it: that glint of uncertainty lurking in Howard’s gaze, almost too quick to catch. He’s struck a nerve.

“Really?” Tony says, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. “If everything’s so perfect, then humor me this, Dad: what’s the resonance frequency of vita radiation at seventy percent saturation? And how does it interact with the structural integrity of the chamber’s injection ports?”

Silence. Thick as concrete. Howard’s jaw shifts like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. Tony can almost see the gears in his father’s mind spinning—scrounging for the data that just isn’t there. Because this is the math Tony spent sleepless nights confirming, the math Howard overlooked.

“The—the resonance—” Howard starts, then stalls.

Tony lets the moment stretch, letting everyone feel the weight of that unspoken answer. His heartbeat roars in his ears, adrenaline sizzling under his skin. Don’t back down, he tells himself. If you flinch now, you lose.

Slowly, he leans back in his chair, reaching into the worn leather satchel at his side. The quiet snap of the clasp seems to reverberate in the tension-charged air. He can feel every eye follow his movements, the hush so thick it’s like the room itself is holding its breath.

He withdraws a stuffed manila folder, edges frayed and crumpled from frantic handling. The entire thing lands on the table with a dull, resounding thump.

“This,” Tony announces, voice level but loud enough to carry, “is everything you’re missing.”

He flips the folder open with a flick of his wrist, scattering a stack of meticulously drawn blueprints, schematics, and pages of mathematical equations across the polished surface of the table. The neat, angular scrawl of his handwriting fills every inch of the paper—corrections, adjustments, innovations that no one else in this room could’ve seen, let alone understood.

He lets the men around the table stare at the chaos for a beat before he continues, his voice gaining momentum, riding the adrenaline that’s roaring in his veins.

“This is three days of non-stop work,” Tony says, gesturing to the papers like he’s presenting evidence in a trial. “In just seventy-two hours, I’ve managed to fix the fundamental flaws in Howard’s design. The coolant regulation? I’ve recalibrated it to disperse heat evenly across the chamber, eliminating the hotspots that would’ve turned your test subject into a human torch.” He flips to another page, jabbing a finger at the detailed diagram of the neutron flux regulator. “The neutron oscillation? Stabilized. I adjusted the frequency parameters so the energy input doesn’t just spike past safe thresholds—it flows, exactly as the serum requires for safe absorption.”

Tony pauses, letting his gaze sweep across the room, meeting the skeptical eyes of the committee members, the military brass, the engineers who are still pretending they aren’t impressed.

But he’s not done.

“And the coil alignment?” He picks up the blueprint, holding it up for everyone to see. “Two degrees inward, precisely calculated to account for the exponential energy discharge pattern. Without this adjustment, your precious vita-ray chamber would’ve lasted maybe five minutes before a catastrophic failure.” He drops the paper back onto the table with a sharp slap. “But with my corrections? It’ll run as long as you need it to.”

Tony takes a breath, his chest rising and falling in sharp, quick bursts. His pulse is still a roaring drumbeat in his ears, but he presses on, letting the bravado carry him, even if it feels like his legs are about to give out beneath the table.

“This project doesn’t work without me,” Tony says, his voice dropping into a low, fierce rhythm. “You need me.” He leans forward now, his eyes burning with the weight of every insult, every dismissal, every blow he’s ever taken from his father or anyone else who’s tried to diminish him. “I’m the only person in this room who can see the math behind the machine. The only one who understands how the serum and the radiation interact on a molecular level. You want to inject that serum into a living subject and have them live to tell the tale?” His gaze swings around the room, daring anyone to challenge him. “Then I’m the one who’s going to make sure it happens.”

Silence stretches like a taut wire in the wake of Tony’s words, heavy and electric. It’s the kind of hush where everyone in the room is bracing for the fallout, for one person—anyone—to decide which way this is going to tip. Dust motes drift through the sterile light overhead, and Tony can hear his own blood pounding in his ears.

Finally, a cough rattles from Senator Brandt’s throat. He’s clearly uncomfortable, tapping a pen restlessly against the tabletop. Colonel Phillips, arms folded tight, lets out a long, measured exhale. He’s wearing an expression that hovers between grim and impressed—and something else, a lingering wariness.

“You’ve got some brass ones, kid, I’ll give you that,” Phillips mutters, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are hard, skeptical, and they rake over Tony like he’s trying to find the catch in all of this. “But what you’re asking is for us to let an untrained, unbonded Omega effectively run the show here. This is the United States Army we’re talking about, not some private workshop.”

Around the table, half a dozen staffers from the War Department exchange uneasy glances. They’re scanning the blueprint pages, eyeing Tony’s notes, and while some look quietly impressed, others look torn—like they’d rather fight an army than defy a social norm so deeply ingrained.

Howard shifts in his seat, ice in his gaze. “I don’t recall the Army giving you the power to make that call, Colonel,” he says in a clipped voice. “And if you’re really entertaining the idea of letting my Omega son lead a federally funded operation, I suggest you think again.”

Tony forces his expression to remain neutral, though a knot of fear coils under his ribcage. He knows what that voice promises if they leave here without locking in Tony’s position. Howard will bury him, one way or another.

There’s a heavy scrape of chair legs as Senator Brandt stands, smoothing his immaculate suit jacket. He clears his throat, eyes flicking between Tony and Howard. “Tony,” he begins carefully, “your… modifications are compelling, I won’t deny that. But Colonel Phillips has a point—this is an unprecedented step. And we do have your father’s entire engineering division at our disposal. An entire team of men with formal degrees and—”

“And none of them saw the meltdown issue,” Dr. Erskine interrupts softly, his accent coiling around each word. Beneath his mild demeanor, there’s a steely edge. “They wouldn’t even acknowledge it until near-disastrous incidents occurred. Now Tony has handed you not only the proof but the solution.”

Brandt bristles, tapping a finger against the polished tabletop. “Even so, it’s… questionable, from a legal standpoint, to put a teenage Omega in charge—”

“Then put me next to whoever you want,” Tony fires back before he can stop himself. His voice echoes strangely in the hush. “Call it a consultancy. I don’t care about the title. I only care that these changes get implemented, correctly, so we stop risking catastrophe. If your entire staff can’t handle the math, I’ll stand by to walk them through it.”

Colonel Phillips’s jaw flexes, not quite a scowl but something close. “You think they can’t handle it, son?”

Tony stiffens. “I know they can’t. Because if they could, we wouldn’t be here right now, would we?”

Howard exhales a derisive noise, something between a scoff and a growl. “Oh, so we’re all idiots except for you, is that it? You can fix a multi-million-dollar machine in three days, no background, no training, just—”

“Yes.” The word bursts from Tony, surprising even himself. “Because I did.” He throws a hand out, indicating the scattered papers. “You can read it. Check it. Test it. But you can’t deny it.”

A storm brews in Howard’s eyes. “And who the hell do you think you are, telling this entire room you can do what Stark Industries couldn’t?”

Tony’s gaze flickers, but he forces himself not to look away. “I’m the only reason your negligent data hasn’t killed your project, Dad.”

He spits the last word, voice tight, heart thundering like it might punch through his chest at any second.

Before the tension can snap into full-blown conflict, Erskine quietly steps forward, placing both hands on the table. “I believe there’s a simpler path,” he says in that calm, professorial tone that seems to diffuse edges wherever he goes. He turns to Colonel Phillips, then Senator Brandt. “The War Department needs Project Rebirth operational, ja? You want my serum, my research—without which, the rest is worthless machinery.”

Brandt narrows his eyes. “We’re all aware of that, Doctor.”

“Good.” Erskine’s expression remains mild, but Tony recognizes the flicker of steel behind his eyes. “Then I will be equally plain. Unless Tony Stark oversees these modifications—personally—I shall withdraw my formula. Entirely. I am, after all, the only one who truly understands it.”

The room explodes with noise.

Howard’s chair screeches as he half-rises. “Excuse me?!” he roars, fists slamming onto the tabletop with a loud thud. Colonel Phillips jerks upright, mouth agape, while the rest of the committee erupts into frantic whispers and half-shouted protests. The hiss of shifting chairs, rustling papers, and outbursts of “Impossible!” or “He can’t do that!” fill the air.

Erskine, for his part, stands perfectly still, hands folded, letting the pandemonium wash over him. Tony’s heart spikes with a volatile mix of shock, gratitude, and fear. He knows Erskine wields significant power here, but actually watching the entire War Department quake at his ultimatum is… staggering.

Phillips recovers first, glowering at Erskine with all the intimidation a seasoned colonel can muster. “That’s blackmail, Doctor.”

Erskine inclines his head. “An ugly word for what is, at its heart, a pragmatic solution, Colonel. The SSR wants working super-soldiers. I want to ensure we do not kill the test subject or waste years and resources on meltdown after meltdown. Tony can provide that solution, or no one can. If you refuse him, you refuse me.”

Howard stabs a finger in Erskine’s direction. “The War Department owns your formula. We have contracts—”

“You have partial notes, incomplete processes,” Erskine corrects smoothly. “And you know it. Even your best scientists cannot replicate my serum without my final approval. So either we do this my way—Tony’s way—or we do not do it at all.”

The uproar intensifies, half the men in the room talking at once. Tony hears disjointed snatches: “A teenage Omega can’t command a federal project!” … “We’ll have a lawsuit on our hands!” … “Erskine’s gone mad.”

Senator Brandt tries to restore order, rapping a knuckle on the table. “Quiet!” But it’s no use; the cacophony roars on.

In the midst of the chaos, Tony stands there, heart a pounding blur of disbelief. He’d known Erskine supported him—but this? It’s like Erskine is burning every bridge behind them, forcing the War Department to accept Tony or let the entire project sink.

Howard whirls on Tony, eyes blazing. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you? You and Erskine, plotting behind my back—”

Tony bristles, but he can barely form words in the face of so much swirling argument. “I didn’t ask for this, I—”

Howard surges closer, as if he might yank Tony out of the room by force. But Colonel Phillips slams a hand down on the table, bellowing with the authority of a man used to commanding armies, “Enough!”

Slowly, the din falters. Brandt seizes the chance to speak again, voice low but urgent. “Doctor, we cannot simply place an Omega child in charge of a major military project. It’s— it’s unthinkable.”

Erskine’s eyes are tired, but resolute. “Then you cannot have my serum. Because I will not see it wasted on faulty machinery. Or see an innocent volunteer killed by meltdown. Tony’s designs are the only path to a stable Rebirth Chamber.”

Phillips glances uneasily at Brandt. The Senator’s face is twisted in an expression of profound discomfort—he knows exactly how big this bombshell is. If Erskine really walks away, the project is dead. All the money, all the time, all the political capital gone.

“You can’t be serious,” Brandt says at last, voice hushed.

Erskine shrugs. “I am quite serious, Senator. Tony either leads, or I go.”

A long moment passes. The hush now is even heavier than before, as if the entire room is holding its breath. Tony can’t tell whose side Colonel Phillips will take, or whether Senator Brandt can muster the guts to override Howard. Every cell in Tony’s body feels pulled taut, as though a single misstep might tear him open.

Howard, breathing raggedly, finally swings his gaze to Phillips. “This is insanity, Colonel,” he rasps, trying to keep his voice controlled. “We can’t let a male Omega—my son, no less—overstep every protocol we have. He has no legal freedoms. He’s—”

“He’s the only one who’s got the meltdown solution,” Phillips says curtly, echoing Erskine’s words. He scowls, leaning forward to glare at Tony. “But be damned if I let him gallivant around with full authority.”

Brandt exhales a shaky breath, color high in his cheeks. “Perhaps… a compromise,” he says, voice wavering. “Tony can provide his schematics and direct an engineering sub-division, under Erskine’s supervision. We’ll keep things quiet. Off the official record, if we must. This is a secret project anyway.”

Howard’s fist pounds the table. “Absolutely not.”

But Phillips rubs a hand over his face. “You really want to kill Rebirth over pride, Stark? Because that’s what you’ll do if Erskine pulls out. The War Department won’t have your back then, I can promise you that.”

Howard scowls, fury radiating off him in waves. But he falls silent, pinned by the Colonel’s unyielding stare.

Then, at last, Brandt forces a tight smile that is anything but happy. “We have an obligation to the war effort. We cannot afford to lose Dr. Erskine’s work. So I say we do it—quietly, discreetly. Tony… your meltdown modifications will be implemented. You’ll oversee them, at least until we have a viable prototype.”

He turns to Erskine, and his tone is clipped: “Doctor, you’ll be personally responsible for controlling the boy’s involvement. You answer to Colonel Phillips and me, and you keep him on a short leash. We can’t have the entire base gossiping about an unbonded Omega running advanced war tech. Understood?”

Erskine’s eyes flick to Tony, relief flooding them, but he merely nods, all professional calm. “Understood, Senator.”

Howard looks murderously at everyone, but even he can see that the tide has turned. He flexes his jaw once, seething. “Fine,” he chokes out, the word tasting like acid. “But if this fails—if one screw is loose—” His eyes pin Tony with lethal clarity. “You’re done. And I’ll make damn sure no one ever hears your name again.”

A charged quiet settles, as though the room itself is holding its breath. The War Department has spoken, but all Tony can feel is a cold spike of dread. The solution they’re proposing—that he hide behind Erskine’s authority, quietly enacting his meltdown fix—leaves him exactly where he’s always been: under Howard’s shadow, never truly safe. He can almost feel Tiberius’s contract tightening around his neck like a leash.

His heart pounds, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, summoning every scrap of nerve he has left. Because if he steps back now, he’ll just be trading one cage for another.

When he looks up, the gathered men see something in his face—something sharper than an Omega ought to have.

“Then I have terms,” Tony says quietly.

His voice slices through the stale air like a gunshot, and every head swivels. Eyes narrow in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists into a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

His voice is low, but it cuts across the stale air like a gunshot. Every head swivels, eyes narrowing in fresh alarm. Howard’s mouth twists in a sneer, but Tony doesn’t give him time to speak.

“I’m not asking for money or recognition,” Tony continues, and there’s a soft scoff from some War Department official near the back. Typical Omega, that expression says. Of course he isn’t in it for money. But Tony’s next words twist the room into a stunned hush.

“What I am asking for,” Tony says, letting the weight of it resonate, “is legal emancipation—from Howard’s guardianship and from the bonding contract he arranged with Tiberius Stone. I want it formally documented, notarized, and recognized by the SSR. And I want them—” his gaze snaps to Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt “—to enforce it.”

A ripple of incredulity passes through the assembly, shifting chairs, widened eyes. Even Agent Carter arches a brow in a flicker of surprise—though not disapproval. Howard practically sputters, red staining his cheeks.

“That’s impossible,” Howard snarls. “You can’t— there’s no mechanism— an Omega can’t just—”

Tony sets his jaw, forcing every ounce of resolve into his voice. “I don’t care if there’s ‘no mechanism.’ You all want my meltdown fix. Dr. Erskine refuses to proceed without me at the helm. So you’ll make it possible. Or we walk.”

Senator Brandt’s throat bobs as he swallows, struggling to regain composure. “Son,” he begins carefully, “emancipating an Omega from his legal guardian—especially a father of your… standing—” He casts a nervous glance at Howard, who simmers with malice. “That’s unprecedented. It would set off a firestorm of controversy if it got out.”

Colonel Phillips grimaces, muscles ticking in his jaw. “You’re talking about a direct challenge to both your father’s rights and your Alpha’s contract, Stark. That contract is recognized under state and federal codes. Nullifying it… There’s no precedent. None.”

Tony lifts his chin. He can feel his heart skidding against his ribs, every nerve screaming this is insane. But he plows onward anyway—because if he doesn’t, Tiberius Stone will own him in a matter of weeks, and Howard might do worse in retaliation.

“Then we find a workaround,” Tony says, each syllable ringing with a steadiness he doesn’t quite feel. “You label me an essential wartime consultant—like Dr. Erskine. A special exemption—something. Tie it to a hush-hush classification so no one can protest publicly. Keep me under SSR protection, if that’s what it takes. But I’m not stepping foot in your labs without legal assurances that neither Howard nor Tiberius can force me back.”

A murmur ripples among the men gathered—a swirl of shock, grudging admiration, outright horror. Tony spots more than one officer exchanging glances that say This Omega is barking mad… but maybe we can’t risk losing him.

Howard, for his part, looks like he’s on the verge of lunging at Tony. His fists tremble at his sides, eyes blazing. “You ungrateful—”

“Mr. Stark,” Erskine interrupts with chilling calm, “I suggest you let the Senator and Colonel decide. After all, if you truly care about Rebirth—and your own reputation, might I add—you won’t want word getting around that you let the entire project collapse over your personal vendetta.”

Howard’s mouth snaps shut, though his nostrils flare in rage. His stare bores into Tony, promising retribution if Tony so much as blinks.

Senator Brandt glances at Phillips with open anxiety. The Colonel blows out a measured breath, then turns to Tony. “We can’t just rewrite the law, kid. But…” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Given this is an SSR operation, off the public record, maybe we can file a special injunction. A restricted guardianship override, or something akin to a protective detail. We’re at war—there are emergency statutes. If we prove you’re vital to national defense…” He trails off, clearly wrestling with the implications.

Brandt’s lips press into a thin line. “We’d have to handle it quietly, beneath the War Department’s radar. You’d be bound to the SSR for the duration—no public disclosure, strict confidentiality. We’d keep official recognition of you to a minimum, which means no public appearances tied to the project and limited discussion with outside parties. You’ll be free to live off-base, if that’s what you want, but you must abide by strict security protocols. No unauthorized communication about Rebirth, and any travel will need SSR clearance. Is that acceptable?”

Tony’s chest feels too tight—he can’t tell if it’s fear or relief welling up. “That’s fine,” he manages. “As long as it keeps me out of Tiberius’s reach.”

“And out of your father’s,” Erskine adds pointedly.

For a beat, no one speaks. Then Howard’s voice, frosted with contempt, cuts through the hush. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “You’d betray your own blood, defy every code we live by, just to—”

“It’s not betrayal,” Tony snaps. “It’s survival.”

Howard’s glare could set the room ablaze, but Colonel Phillips interrupts with the air of a man who’s made a reluctant decision. “Senator,” he says quietly, “I’ll need you to coordinate with War Department legal counsel—covertly. We’ll draft the paperwork under emergency provisions. If we do this, we do it fast.”

Brandt nods, sweat beading at his temple. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” His gaze skitters to Tony. “But you realize, young man, once we make you SSR property—pardon the phrasing—there’s no going back. You’ll be expected to deliver results. No second chances.”

Tony’s stomach churns, but he forces a small nod. “Understood. It’s a better fate than what’s waiting for me otherwise.”

A strained silence follows. All eyes fall on Howard, whose fury practically vibrates the table. But with Phillips and Brandt aligned, plus Erskine’s ultimatum, he’s locked into a corner.

He forces out a sneer, each syllable dripping venom. “Fine. Sign your precious injunction, or whatever damned nonsense you come up with. But don’t you think, for one second, you’ll win.” His gaze lands on Tony, making him feel pinned. “Because when this fails—and it will fail—I’ll be sure no one ever touches your so-called ‘emancipation’ with a ten-foot pole. I’ll bury you.”

Tony swallows hard, refusing to look away. “Then I’ll just have to make it work, won’t I?”

An ugly pause stretches, thick with the promise of war—of personal war, overshadowed by the real war raging overseas. But slowly, Colonel Phillips snaps the tension. He raps the table, voice harsh: “All right. That’s enough. Brandt, coordinate with legal. Stark—” He nods at Tony, an expression akin to grudging respect flitting across his features. “Get your meltdown fix ready for the next test. Doctor Erskine, you’re in charge of containing this mess until the paperwork is done. Nobody breathes a word outside this room. Understood?”

A collective murmur of assent rises, though it’s half-choked by Howard’s silent wrath and the swirl of shock among the staffers. Tony takes a shaky breath, forcibly unclenching his fists.

He came here hoping only to salvage a chance at freedom, or at least some measure of control. Now, somehow, he’s got the War Department dancing around an Omega emancipation. It’s dizzying.

Erskine gives Tony’s shoulder a fleeting, supportive squeeze. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us—my associate needs to gather his notes and prepare the labs. Come. We should—”

“Tony,” a voice says.

The tension at the back of Tony’s neck coils like a striking snake. Slowly, he turns to find Howard, jaw clenched tight. Their gazes lock, and Tony’s pulse hiccups in raw, reflexive fear.

Erskine starts to step between them. “Mr. Stark, perhaps we can discuss—”

“I need a word with my son,” Howard announces. “Alone.” He doesn’t look at Erskine. Doesn’t look at Brandt or Phillips either. He only has eyes for Tony.

Tony feels the weight of every bruise, every insult, every threat that’s passed between them. The thought of being alone in a room with Howard sets his nerves aflame—he can practically feel the ghost of past violence prickling along his skin. But he meets his father’s stare anyway.

In the corner of his vision, Colonel Phillips steps closer, clearly uneasy at the request. “This may not be the time, Howard. We have a schedule and—”

But Tony draws a breath, something steadier than he expects. “It’s fine,” he says, voice surprisingly even. “Let him talk.”

He senses Erskine’s apprehension radiating beside him, but he can’t look the doctor in the eye right now. Instead, Tony squares his shoulders, forcing himself to swallow the knot of fear stuck in his throat.

“All right, Dad,” Tony sighs. “Let’s talk.”

Howard’s mouth twists, and without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the far door leading into a private corridor—one not cluttered with SSR personnel. Tony follows, ignoring the sidelong looks, ignoring the tension coiling in his own gut.

The last thing Tony sees before the door slides shut behind them is Erskine, brow furrowed, and Colonel Phillips rubbing the bridge of his nose like he already regrets letting the Starks vanish from sight.

Tony’s fingers tremble as he dials. The heavy brass rotary clicks under his touch, each number dragging out the inevitable. The dim glow of the servant’s quarters is the only thing keeping him from feeling like he’s suffocating entirely. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop his hands from shaking too visibly.

The line crackles. One ring. Two.

Then—

“Yeah?”

Bucky’s voice is thick with exhaustion, a low rasp wrapped in the remnants of sleep. Tony almost falters, almost drops the phone back onto the receiver. But he can’t. He’s already let the moment stretch too long.

He licks his lips, forces his tone to be light, breezy, the way he does when things are spiraling out of his control.

“Guess who’s off the market?”

He immediately winces.

Silence.

A stillness so sharp it might as well be the edge of a knife pressed against his skin.

Then—

CRASH.

Tony jerks the receiver away from his ear as a deafening smash rattles through the line.

Something heavy, ceramic maybe, a plate, hits the wall on the other end. The muffled shout of Steve’s voice follows, alarmed, urgent.

“What the hell, Buck—?”

Tony breathes out a slow, unsteady exhale.

Bucky’s voice is different when it comes back. Lower. Tighter. Lethal.

“Say that again.”

Tony closes his eyes. “It’s official,” he says, voice steadier than he feels. “Howard has it all lined up. Contracts, legalities, the whole nine yards. I’m spoken for.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—

A low, guttural sound rumbles through the receiver.

Tony stiffens. He’s never heard Bucky make that sound before.

It’s not anger. Not entirely.

It’s something more. Something primordial. Something deadly.

“Who.”

Tony doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Bucky already knows.

But he needs to hear it anyway.

Tony swallows. “Stone.”

The sharp inhale on the other end tells him everything.

Then—

“That’s not happening.”

Tony lets out a weak laugh, but it’s humorless. Wet. “Hate to break it to you, stud, but my old man’s not really one for democratic decision-making.”

Another bang. This time, something heavier. Maybe a chair against the wall.

Steve’s voice, distant and alarmed, filters through again. “Jesus, Buck, calm the hell down—”

“Tell me everything.” Bucky’s voice is so quiet, so measured, that it sends an actual chill down Tony’s spine. “Now.”

So Tony does.

He tells Bucky about the inevitable contract, the moment his father told him like it was a business transaction, the way Tiberius had stood there, smug, reveling in his victory.

He strategically leaves out the part about the press of lips against his cheek, the suffocating scent of the Alpha curling around him, the way his thumb had pressed against Tony’s scent gland like he had a claim.

He doesn’t need Bucky destroying any more of his and Steve’s meager furniture.

Tony doesn’t realize his breathing has gone shallow until he hears Bucky’s next exhale. It’s shaking.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“I’m going to kill him.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

Tony exhales shakily, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, well, if you could do that without landing yourself in Leavenworth, that’d be swell—”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Tony,” Bucky snarls. “He can’t have you. He won’t. I won’t let him.”

Tony flinches, but not out of fear. Out of something else. Something deep in his chest that tightens at the possessive edge in Bucky’s voice.

Because this isn’t just about keeping Tony safe.

This is about keeping Tony.

The silence stretches thick between them, heavy with something unspoken. Then, after what feels like an eternity:

“Tell me where you are.”

Tony hesitates. “Bucky—”

“Tell me where you are, Tony. Now. Tell me he’s not—”

Tony swallows hard. “I’m safe. I’m okay, I’m with the Jarvises.”

He glances at Jarvis, who is watching with quiet, measured concern. The butler doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

Tony inhales sharply. Then, slowly:

“I have a plan.”

Bucky’s breath is sharp. “I don’t give a damn about plans. I need you out. I need you with me.”

Tony’s chest clenches. “I know. But if I don’t do this right, I’ll never be free.”

Bucky is silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately:

“If you’re not free,” he says, voice raw, “then neither am I.”

Tony’s throat tightens.

“You are mine, Tony. Not his. Not ever.”

Tony exhales shakily, gripping the receiver tighter. He can feel it, the fire burning beneath Bucky’s words, the sheer, unwavering truth of them.

“Yours,” he whispers back, like a vow.

Tony doesn’t so much wake up as he does surface slowly from a fitful doze, the edges of sleep clinging stubbornly even as his mind alerts him to something amiss. There’s an uneasy hush in the air—a tension he can’t quite place. It takes him a long minute to register that the unusual quiet is because the Jarvises, who typically bustle about at dawn with a comforting routine, aren’t making a sound.

A pang of alarm tightens his chest. He’s still in the modest servant’s suite—tiny bed, worn nightstand, overhead light dimmed to the lowest setting. Jarvis insisted he stay here last night, away from prying eyes. For safety.

If this is safety, Tony thinks sourly, then I’m toast.

He rolls out of bed, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. The recollection of the phone call with Bucky rakes over him like a raw bruise. His pulse jumps as he remembers the crash, the rage in Bucky’s voice, the vow.

You are mine, Tony.

The echo of it warms him even as dread prickles at the base of his spine.

He slides on yesterday’s clothes—still neatly folded on a chair, courtesy of Ana—and smooths his unruly bedhead back with trembling fingers. His heart is thrumming, but he forces his face into neutrality before easing open the bedroom door.

The hallway is empty. Not a whisper of the usual morning clatter. Tony’s ears strain for any sign of the Jarvises. Nothing.

He makes his way toward the small kitchen, footsteps nearly silent. The overhead lights in the corridor are only half-lit, the gloom casting odd shadows along the walls. Outside, the sun has barely crept over the horizon, painting thin slivers of dawn across the windowsills.

When Tony steps into the kitchen, he halts.

Tiberius Stone is seated at the little wooden table at the center of the room—like he belongs there, like this is his domain. He’s alone. No father, no business associates, no staff. Just Tiberius, perched with disconcerting ease in the Jarvises’ private space.

And Tony’s heart drops to his stomach.

Tiberius sports impeccably slicked-back dark hair and a face that radiates smug confidence—traits that, in Tony’s humble view, seem overly assertive for seven in the morning. He’s wearing a crisp, tailored suit, the top few buttons undone as though to display the edge of a claim. It’s a power move—everything Tiberius does is a power move.

He looks up at Tony with a slow, appraising gaze.

“Morning, Stark,” he drawls. “You look like hell.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile that never reaches his eyes. “Cozy little hole you’ve got back here.”

Tony tucks his hands into his pockets to hide the tremor in his fingertips. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says evenly, though his throat feels tight. “This is the servants’ quarters. They’re off-limits to visitors.”

Tiberius shrugs, barely acknowledging Tony’s complaint. “Servants, guests—does it matter?” He lazily straightens, rolling his shoulders. “Once the contract is sealed, you’ll figure out how pointless those distinctions are. I go where I want.”

Tony’s stomach lurches. He edges forward, hands slipping into his pockets so Tiberius doesn’t see how his fingers clench. “Where are Ana and Jarvis?”

Tiberius’ lips twitch. “I asked them to step out. Politely, of course. I don’t think they’ll wander too far. They worry about you.” His eyes dance with mock innocence. “Such loyal employees.”

“So you threatened them until they left me alone,” Tony sighs. “How very chivalrous of you. Want to skip the niceties and tell me why you’re here?”

“Straight to business.” Tiberius sets his forearms on the table, leaning in. “I suppose it’s too early to pretend pleasantries. Let’s see...” He tilts his head, nostrils flaring—subtle, but obvious enough in Alpha body language. “You smell… off,” he remarks, distaste curling at the edges of his tone. “One could even say ‘mangy’.”

Tony’s jaw tenses. “You’d know all about it, I’m sure. You do love burying your nose where it doesn’t fucking belong.”

Tiberius’ eyes narrow with predatory interest. “Funny. My nose says you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time with that Alpha. You reek of someone strong.” There’s a purr in his voice, dangerous and amused. “Daddy still doesn’t know about this one, does he?”

Every muscle in Tony’s body goes rigid. He doesn’t respond. Can’t. Because giving Tiberius anything would be a mistake.

Tiberius interprets the silence with a flicker of triumph. “Mm. Thought so.” He slides his gaze down Tony’s frame, lingering on the faint flush at Tony’s collar. “An Alpha so potent he’s practically branded you. That’s quite the scandal in the making.”

He stands up smoothly, stepping away from the table. Tony’s eyes track the movement, every cell on high alert.

“Dunno what you’re sniffing around for, Stone,” Tony says, voice carefully bored, “but you might want to keep your fantasies on a leash. The last thing that paper-thin reputation of yours needs is another tabloid feeding frenzy.”

Tiberius lifts an eyebrow, still wearing that faint, disinterested smirk. With casual ease, he pulls the cuff of his shirt sleeve over his warped, exposed wrist. “Don’t play stupid. I can practically taste his scent on your skin. Did he knot you yet? Or did you just let him rub one out against you like a desperate pup in rut?”

Tony can’t contain the sharp flare of rage in his chest. It’s only the memory of Jarvis’s and Anna’s presence nearby—anxious, listening—that keeps Tony from lunging at Tiberius.

“Charming,” Tony says instead.

“You smell like him, Tony,” Tiberius volleys, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “And if you won’t tell me who he is, I’ll find out on my own. Not that it matters, of course.” He glances toward the doorway, and Tony can sense Jarvis hovering out of sight. “Once our contract is done, I don’t care who he is—he’ll be irrelevant. But I do like to know exactly who I’m taking from.”

Tony’s chest constricts.

Tiberius steps closer, and before Tony can flinch back, he’s grabbed Tony’s chin. His grip is firm but oddly dispassionate, his thumb brushing over Tony’s lower lip in a way that sends a wave of revulsion through Tony’s entire body.

“So,” Tiberius muses quietly, as if he’s inquiring about the weather, “did your little secret Alpha mark you yet? Did he bite right here—” Tiberius ghosts his thumb over Tony’s scent gland, where Bucky had worried a bruise into the skin mere weeks ago—“pump you full, maybe do it on his knees so he could see how pretty you look when you’re pinned?” He cocks his head. “You strike me as the type who likes it rough. But hey, maybe you prefer a gentle hand. Hard to say with that attitude.”

Tony jerks away, dizzy. “Fuck off, Stone.”

Tiberius leans in, tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Or… perhaps he hasn’t actually gotten around to knotting you, yet?” He waits, eyes boring into Tony’s. “Oh, you sweet, foolish pup. That blush on your face is very telling.”

Tony’s fists clench. “Stop—”

Tiberius continues as though Tony never spoke. “Well, he’s done… something, I can smell that much. But not everything. Tsk. So he’s a coward, is he? Or maybe he just doesn’t have the balls to see it through.” He gives a mocking shrug. “Either way, that’s good news for me.”

“I said shut up, you fucking lunatic,” Tony snaps, voice tight with anger and shame. The heat in his cheeks intensifies, exactly what Tiberius wants.

Tiberius’s grin spreads, slow and cruel. “There’s no need to be shy, darling. I’m just assessing the goods. Howard wants me to be fully informed, and let’s be honest—an Omega’s sexual experience is crucial in a contract like this.” His voice is so cold, so casually degrading, that Tony feels sick. “If you were already knotted, well… that would certainly be messy, complicated. But since you’re still unmarked—still untouched in the real sense, anyway—it’s actually quite a relief. Gives me a nice, clean slate to work with.”

“If you’re trying to woo me, jackass, maybe don’t talk about me like I’m a piece of property,” Tony snarls, taking a step forward without even realizing it. He’s so angry he can feel his heartbeat thrumming at the back of his throat.

Tiberius merely raises an eyebrow. “But that’s exactly what you are, Stark. At least, that’s what your old man’s selling. And I’m buying.” His smile turns into something wolfish, a flash of teeth. “Or do you think Daddy would have drawn up these papers if you had a real choice?”

Tony’s stomach churns. He can’t deny the truth in Tiberius’s words—this is exactly what Howard does, packaging Tony up like an investment, a bargaining chip to strengthen alliances. That doesn’t make it any less maddening.

Tiberius lets out a small, theatrical sigh. “For what it’s worth, I’m almost disappointed your Alpha friend hasn’t knotted you. I would’ve enjoyed the challenge—scrubbing his scent off you while I fucked you full of mine.” He laughs, soft and humorless, as though the idea amuses him. “But seeing as he hasn’t staked a real claim, you won’t be that hard to break in.”

Tony recoils, repulsion tightening his chest until he can barely breathe. “You’re insane.”

Tiberius’s eyebrows lift. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” He stands, looming over the table with the kind of quiet menace that makes the hair on Tony’s arms rise. “Funny how everyone says that, yet nobody seems interested in doing a damn thing about it. Howard, least of all.”

The tension in the cramped kitchen is suffocating, thick enough to taste. Tony watches as Tiberius adjusts his cuffs, methodical and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. The knowledge that Tiberius waltzed in here—into the Jarvises’ private space—and made himself comfortable only twists the knife deeper.

Tony breathes carefully, forcing himself to think of Bucky’s voice—of that promise he made. It steadies Tony, even if just a little. “If you’re only here to threaten me, consider me underwhelmed. All bark and no bite—can’t expect much more from dad’s lapdog, I suppose.”

Tiberius’ eyes flare. For a moment, Tony wonders if he’s pushed too far. Then Tiberius laughs again, an ugly, abrasive sound. “I do so enjoy that smart mouth of yours. It’ll be fun finding ways to put it to better use.”

Tony’s stomach turns. “H romantic. These threats are becoming increasingly unoriginal, by the way.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Tiberius says, triumphant. “Let’s not pretend otherwise. I know your father. He won’t let a little detail like your… ah… private entanglements sway his business. So if you don’t want me ratting out your indiscretion, maybe you should start acting like the good, obedient fiancé—ah, sorry.” He spreads his hands in mock apology. “Whatever the hell your father calls this arrangement. ‘Pre-bonded partner’? ‘Future acquisition?’ The terminology barely matters.”

Tony forces himself to unclench his fists, ignoring the sting in his palms where his nails have bitten into flesh. He can’t risk letting Tiberius goad him into something rash. “What do you want?”

Tiberius steps closer, crowding Tony against the edge of the counter. Tony holds his ground, refusing to back away. This close, the Alpha musk is overpowering, an oppressive weight in the air. “For now?” Tiberius murmurs, voice dropping to a private hush. “I want compliance. I want you to remember exactly who’s in charge, that you can’t wiggle your way out of this. You will present yourself as my prospective mate, as intended. No more of this sneaking off. No more midnight phone calls. If I so much as suspect you’re letting someone else sniff around your neck, I’ll make it known to your father. And I’ll make sure you regret it.”

A flicker of genuine fear churns in Tony’s gut. He hates that Tiberius can see it in his eyes, but there’s no hiding that primal surge of adrenaline in the face of an alpha’s threat.

“Did I make myself clear?” Tiberius demands, stepping close enough that their bodies almost brush, his breath hot against Tony’s cheek.

“Crystal,” Tony says, voice tight.

Tiberius’ lip curls with satisfaction. “Good.” He leans in, dangerously close, and Tony can smell the rancid sweetness of coffee on Tiberius’ breath. “We’ll keep up appearances until the contracts are finalized. Then…” His hand drifts up, just shy of grazing Tony’s mating gland. Tony stiffens, bile rising in his throat. “Then I’ll make my claim real. Permanently. And I won’t let your father’s money or your sense of self-preservation stop me from marking what’s mine.”

Tony glares at him, teeth clenched. “Quit touching me, Svengali, I swear to God—”

Tiberius smirks, letting his hand fall away. “Oh, there weill be plenty of touching, Omega. But I’ll let you cling to your illusions a little longer if that’s what keeps you docile.”

An unsteady breath escapes Tony. He can’t even summon a retort. The raw disgust in his chest makes it hard to speak.

Tiberius gives him a once-over, then steps back. “I’m done here.” He casts a derisive glance around the Jarvises’ modest kitchen. “Tell your father I stopped by, if you like. I’m sure he already knows. But do me a favor…” He turns his gaze back on Tony, eyes gleaming. “Wash off that stink. If I have to smell someone else on you again, I might not be so polite next time.”

Tony swallows, shoulders tight enough to snap, but says nothing.

With a short, humorless laugh, Tiberius saunters past him, heading for the back door. The hush seems to thicken once more, pressing against Tony’s ears until all he hears is the dull thud of his heart.

A heartbeat later, Tiberius is gone, the screen door swinging shut behind him.

Tony waits until he’s certain Tiberius isn’t coming back, then lets out a shaky exhale. His knees feel weak. He braces his palms on the counter, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.

He hears movement at the edge of the hallway. Jarvis, reluctant but stepping in now that the intruder is gone, appears at the threshold. His expression is grave, lines of concern etched across his brow.

“Are you all right, Tony?” Jarvis asks quietly.

Tony doesn’t look up. He can’t. His throat feels too tight. “I’m swell,” he forces out, voice ragged. He clears it, tries again. “Yeah, J. I’m okay.”

Neither of them believes it. But Jarvis doesn’t push. He simply crosses the room and sets a warm hand on Tony’s shoulder, silent comfort radiating in his touch.

Tony draws in a slow breath, chest aching. The memory of Bucky’s voice, fierce and protective, echoes in his mind:

He can’t have you. He won’t. I won’t let him.

Tony lets that resonance ground him. Because if he has any hope of making it out of this nightmare intact—and keeping Bucky free with him—he’s going to need every scrap of resolve he can muster.

The kitchens have always been Tony’s refuge, a small pocket of warmth and normalcy in an otherwise suffocating environment. He’s barely left since Friday, tethering himself to the space where Ana moves with practiced ease, flour dusting her sleeves, the scent of fresh bread curling through the air like a lifeline.

She doesn’t question why he’s here, why he hasn’t set foot outside these walls except to sleep. She just… lets him be. And maybe that’s why he hasn’t unraveled completely—because while the rest of the estate looms over him like a cage, Ana and her kitchen is safe.

She fusses over him like it’s a full-time job, placing warm plates in front of him every few hours, making tsk noises when he so much as looks at his coffee without touching the food. He tries to protest—because eating feels like a chore, because his stomach is in knots, because the walls are closing in and the air is too thick—but she just raises an eyebrow and levels him with that look.

The one that says you are not winning this fight, idióta, so eat.

So he does. Mostly because she’s watching him like a hawk.

At least the conversation is a welcome distraction.

“Tell me about your Alphas,” she says, slicing vegetables with quick, sure movements, her back to him but her tone deliberately light.

Tony snorts softly, poking at the eggs on his plate. Tony snorts softly, poking at the eggs on his plate. “Alpha. Singular. One very beautiful, slightly possessive, and currently homicidal Alpha. Steve’s just a friend.”

Ana hums, unimpressed, the rhythmic slice of her knife against the cutting board never faltering. “Oh, igen?” she muses, tone as dry as overbaked biscuits. “Just a friend?”

Tony waves his fork loosely, leaning back against the worn wooden chair. “A good friend. A good, small friend with violent tendencies and a chronic inability to mind his own business, sure, but that doesn’t make him my Alpha. We’ve been over this, Ana.”

Ana simply hums again, turning to toss the diced peppers into a sizzling pan. The scent of caramelizing onions and garlic thickens in the air, grounding, soothing. She moves with a quiet certainty, each movement efficient and precise, but there’s a warmth to it, a familiarity that makes the kitchen feel like a space outside of time.

Tony exhales, rolling his shoulders. “Look, if I had two Alphas by choice, don’t you think I’d be the first to admit it? Alas, I seem to have acquired one through hostile takeover, so forgive me if I’m not throwing a parade.”

Ana doesn’t look up, but he catches the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Of course, drágám.”

Tony eyes her warily. “I feel like you’re humoring me.”

“Always.”

Tony sighs, picking up his fork again. “I can’t win with you.”

“No, you cannot.” Ana slides a skillet onto the stove with a practiced flick of her wrist, setting a wooden spoon against the edge before finally turning back to him. “So, tell me about them anyway.”

Tony exhales but doesn’t protest. He knows what she’s doing—keeping him talking, keeping him here, instead of wherever his mind keeps spiraling. He lets her.

He pushes his eggs around with his fork, nudging a piece to the side like it personally offended him. “Bucky’s still boxing,” he says, voice quieter now. “He’s a YMCA welterweight champion now—ridiculous, right? Not that I’m surprised. I mean, look at him. Or—well, you can’t, but if you could, you’d get it. Not that I—” He cuts himself off, face suddenly warm, and promptly redirects his frustration toward his eggs, stabbing at them like they’re to blame.

Ana smiles, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and sitting down across from him. “And yet, you are the one he has claimed for his own.”

Tony huffs. “Yeah, well, I have many redeeming qualities.”

Ana’s brows lift. “Such as?”

“Excellent bone structure.”

She snorts but waves him on, signaling for more.

Tony shifts, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate. “Steve’s still out there trying to teach Brooklyn’s youth how to throw a proper punch,” he says. “Which is deeply ironic, considering he spends more time getting tossed into gutters than actually landing any hits. You’d think some benevolent force of the universe would’ve given him an upgrade by now, but nope—still five-foot-nothing, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and running purely on spite and righteous indignation.”

Ana’s lips twitch, watching him closely.

“He got into it with some guy last week over a stolen bicycle,” Tony goes on, shaking his head. “One second, he’s just buying milk, next thing you know, he’s nose-deep in a brawl because some punk snatched a kid’s ride.”

Ana hums. “And your Alpha?”

Tony shrugs. “Oh, Buck was furious. He’s got this whole ‘I’m the only one allowed to rough up this vigilante idiot’ thing going on. Almost decked Steve himself out of sheer principle.”

Ana shakes her head, sipping her coffee. “That one—he carries the weight of the world, doesn’t he?”

Tony huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it. And Steve sure as hell isn’t gonna stop picking fights with guys twice his size, so Bucky’s pretty much signed up for a lifetime of damage control.”

Ana hums, setting her cup down. “And what about you?”

Tony blinks. “What about me?”

She gestures vaguely at him. “Do they carry you, too?”

Tony hesitates, fork stilling against his plate. The answer is obvious.

Of course, they do. They always have. In ways he doesn’t always recognize until it’s too late—until he’s halfway drowning and they’re the ones dragging him back to shore.

But he doesn’t reply, just focuses a little too hard on breaking apart a piece of toast, crumbling the edges between his fingers. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but not quite easy either.

Ana gives him a look that says I see you, even if you don’t see yourself. But she doesn’t push, just tucks a piece of stray hair behind her ear and reaches over to pluck his fork out of his fingers, setting it back onto his plate. Then, in one smooth motion, she picks up his coffee and slides a small dish of honey-drizzled toast in its place.

Tony blinks at her. “Uh—”

“You are running on caffeine and willpower,” she says, cutting him off. “Eat something real, if you don’t want your eggs, or I will start feeding you by hand.”

Tony squints at her. “You wouldn’t.”

Ana raises an eyebrow, reaching for his plate.

Tony immediately snatches up the toast, taking a bite before she can make good on her threat.

“Okay, okay! Jesus.”

Ana smiles, satisfied, and takes a slow sip of her coffee.

He chews slowly, mechanically, as Ana returns to the stove, but the act feels distant—like he’s watching himself from somewhere just outside his own body. His limbs feel heavy, weighed down by something thick and inescapable, like wading through molasses.

He shifts in his chair, too aware of the way his skin feels too tight, his breath too shallow. There’s an ache in his chest, a pressure building under his ribs that he can’t quite shake.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

He forces himself to focus on the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread, the quiet scrape of Ana’s knife against the cutting board. It should be comforting. It is comforting. But something in him won’t settle. His hands are clammy, his pulse a dull, thrumming beat against his ribs. He can still feel the ghost of fingers on his chin, the press of a foreign Alpha’s presence suffocating the air from his lungs.

Tiberius had been in this kitchen. Had leaned against this table, spoken with that same smug certainty, left his scent behind like a warning.

Tony’s stomach churns, and he barely catches himself before he gags on the bite of toast.

He shoves his plate away, appetite completely gone.

Ana’s eyes flicker up from her work, sharp as a blade. She doesn’t speak at first, just watches.

Tony pointedly looks anywhere but at her.

The silence stretches, stretching thin and tight, until—

“Antal.”

His spine stiffens, breath catching in his throat.

Ana sets her knife down and wipes her hands on a dish towel, slow and deliberate. She moves around the counter, quiet and steady, like she’s approaching a wounded animal.

Tony forces a smirk, though it feels cracked around the edges. “If you’re about to give me a lecture on finishing my breakfast, I gotta warn you—I’m a lost cause.”

Ana doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge the deflection. Instead, she reaches out and rests a gentle hand on his wrist.

Tony barely stops himself from flinching.

The touch is light, grounding, a counterweight to the spiraling tightness in his chest. It shouldn’t make his eyes sting, but—God—everything inside him feels frayed, pulled too tight.

Ana tilts her head, studying him with that quiet, unshakable patience that somehow makes it worse.

“You are dropping,” she murmurs.

Tony exhales through his nose, gaze flickering away. “I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, too sharp.

Ana’s grip tightens just slightly—not enough to trap him, just enough to keep him here.

“You are not fine,” she corrects, voice firm but soft, like she’s stating an undeniable fact. “Your body knows it, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Tony swallows. His throat feels thick, uncooperative.

He knows what this is. Just like after the gala.

The aftershock. The crash. The biological recoil of an Omega after an altercation with an Alpha who wasn’t supposed to be near him.

His nervous system is shot, his scent profile probably erratic, and the more he ignores it, the worse it gets.

He can feel it now, the sharp-edged restlessness clawing under his skin, the deep-seated ache in his muscles like he’s been wrung out. His throat feels tight, the air in his lungs too shallow. His body wants comfort, stability, something to anchor him, but—

No.

He clenches his jaw, shoving the feeling down with all the force he can muster.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, more stubborn this time, shaking off Ana’s hand.

Ana doesn’t look convinced.

She exhales through her nose, then—without a word—turns back to the counter and pulls out a clean dish towel. She moves with practiced ease, dipping it into a basin of warm water before wringing it out.

Tony watches, wary, as she steps back toward him and, without hesitation, presses the damp towel to the back of his neck.

The sensation is immediate.

The warmth sinks into his skin, soothing the overheated, overstimulated edges of him, and his breath stutters without permission.

He hates how effective it is.

Ana doesn’t say anything. She just keeps the towel there, firm but gentle, the way one might calm a feverish child.

Tony exhales shakily, fingers curling against his thigh. He should pull away. He should crack a joke, make some clever quip about spa treatments or overbearing housekeepers, but—

He doesn’t.

Because for the first time since Tiberius pressed his lips to Tony’s cheek, since the suffocating presence of that Alpha curled around him like a noose—

He feels like he can breathe.

His muscles unclench by inches, the tension draining so slowly it almost hurts, like a tightly wound spring finally releasing. The air in the kitchen isn’t so thick anymore, and his own pulse, erratic and jagged, starts to even out.

Ana doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

She just stays, standing beside him, the towel warm against his skin, her other hand resting lightly against his shoulder in quiet reassurance.

Tony swallows past the knot in his throat. His fingers twitch against the table.

“… It’s stupid,” he mutters after a long beat.

Ana glances down at him. “No,” she says simply.

The silence stretches between them, thick but not suffocating. Ana gives him the space to gather his thoughts. To decide what he wants to say. If he wants to say anything at all.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Tony exhales shakily. His grip on the edge of his stool tightens, then loosens, then tightens again.

His voice is quieter when he speaks. Less sure. Less armored.

“It’s worse when I’m with him,” he murmurs. “Tiberius.”

Ana doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as flinch. She just nods, waiting for him to continue.

Tony stares down at the counterop, watching the surface seemingly ripple from the slight waver of his gaze.

“The closer I get to Bucky,” he says slowly, “the worse it feels. Being around him.” His throat bobs. “Like my body knows it’s wrong.”

Ana exhales, quiet but steady. “It does know,” she murmurs. “Of course it does.”

Tony swallows. His chest feels too tight, his skin too warm, the residual pull of Alpha presence clinging to his scent receptors like something toxic. “It—it hurts to be around him,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just—not just in my head. It’s—physical.” His hands clench into fists against his lap. “Like something inside me is short-circuiting, like—like I’m being rewired wrong.” His breath falters, catching on something jagged. “Like every part of me is fighting it.”

Ana’s lips press together, and her gaze darkens, something sharp and protective flashing through her expression. But she still doesn’t interrupt. She lets him speak.

Tony lets out a shaky breath. “And it wasn’t—it wasn’t this bad, before.” He rubs at his chest like he can soothe the ache blooming beneath his sternum. “But now? Now, it feels like my entire body is rejecting him outright. The closer I get to Bucky, the worse it gets. It’s like my system is…” He trails off, voice cracking slightly.

Ana finishes for him. “Telling you to go to your Alpha instead.”

Tony’s jaw tightens.

Because she’s right.

Everything in him aches to be near Bucky. It screams for him when Tiberius gets too close, when his scent so much as lingers too long. The bond—even unfinished, even incomplete—is already pulling at him, demanding he go where he’s meant to be.

And that’s the worst part.

Because he can’t.

He can’t go to Bucky. He can’t let himself sink into that warmth, that safety. Can’t let himself be taken in the way his body is already pleading for.

Not when this contract looms over him. Not when Tiberius is circling like a vulture, waiting to sink his teeth in.

Ana moves first.

Not quickly. Not sharply. Just with that quiet, practiced ease that makes it so easy to forget she was raised in a world where softness was a liability.

She picks up the damp towel from where she left it, folding it neatly in her hands before pressing it back against the nape of his neck.

Tony stiffens—just slightly—but doesn’t pull away.

The warmth sinks into his skin, soothing the overstimulated ache beneath the surface. His breath stutters, but he lets it happen.

Ana doesn’t say anything.

She just keeps the towel there, firm but gentle, her other hand settling lightly on his shoulder.

It’s grounding.

It shouldn’t be.

But it is.

He’s always been sensitive, there.

Tony exhales, something tight in his chest unraveling just a fraction.

He still feels like he’s too close to the edge, like his own body isn’t entirely his right now, but—this helps.

The warmth. The steadiness. The presence.

Ana moves carefully, like she knows exactly how close he is to shattering, like she’s done this before. And maybe she has. Maybe not with him, but with someone else.

And maybe that’s why she doesn’t say anything.

Because she knows no words will change the fact that his body is wrong right now, that every cell is screaming for something—someone—he can’t have.

No words will change the fact that the one bond he wants is the one he’s being forced to deny.

His fingers twitch against his thigh.

He should joke. He should smile, throw something careless into the air just to fill the silence, make it easier to ignore the weight pressing against his ribs.

But he doesn’t.

Because for once—for once—he doesn’t have the energy.

Ana watches him, quiet and patient.

After a long moment, she speaks.

“You would bond with him,” she murmurs, the words careful, deliberate. “Your Brooklyn boy.” Not a question. Just a quiet, steady acknowledgment.

Tony doesn’t look at her.

His jaw clenches, throat working as he forces down the sharp, aching thing curling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispers. It’s not even a confession at this point. Just a tired, inevitable truth. “I would.”

The words settle between them, heavy and irreversible.

Ana’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Then that’s what we fight for,” she says.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

Ana’s hand stays firm on his shoulder, her presence steady, unwavering.

“You are not alone in this, Antal,” she murmurs, low and certain. “No matter how much you try to be.”

Tony exhales slowly so his breath doesn’t expose itself as a shuddering sob.

The kitchen hums around them, the soft crackle of something simmering on the stove, the rhythmic tick of the old clock on the wall. The world is still moving—uncaring, relentless—despite the storm rolling under Tony’s skin.

He lets himself lean into the moment, just for a breath. Just long enough to remember that not everything has to be a battle.

But it never lasts.

Because reality doesn’t care if he’s barely holding himself together. It doesn’t care if he’s unraveling at the seams, if every inch of him is screaming to be somewhere else—to be with someone else.

Tony lifts a hand and drags it down his face, exhaling slowly. “I should get out of your way,” he mutters, his voice rough, too raw around the edges. “You’ve got things to do. I can—”

Ana doesn’t let him finish.

She gives his shoulder the barest squeeze before releasing him, stepping away only to grab another plate. A fresh slice of warm bread, butter melting into the surface, a small dish of preserves set beside it. Nothing extravagant. Nothing overwhelming. Just enough.

She sets it in front of him without a word.

Tony stares at it.

His throat works around something thick, something unbearably fragile.

Ana doesn’t meet his eyes, just busies herself at the counter again, pouring herself another cup of coffee, moving with the same quiet ease she always does.

But the gesture is there.

The choice is there.

No force, no expectations—just something offered. A simple, unspoken stay.

Tony exhales sharply through his nose, blinking hard as he reaches for the toast. He takes a slow bite, ignoring the way his fingers shake just slightly where they curl around the edges.

Ana doesn’t comment.

She never does.

Instead, she sips her coffee, idly stirring the pan on the stove, and lets the silence settle between them like an understanding too old, too deep, to need words.

Tony doesn’t so much wake up as lurch into consciousness.

One moment, he’s tumbling through a vague, distorted nightmare of Tiberius’s voice echoing in his head—sly promises, threatening whispers, a sneering mouth pressed too close. The next, he’s wrenched from his bed by rough hands, his entire body jolting awake in a visceral rush of fear.

He yelps, and fights on instinct, half-blind in the dark, still tangled in sheets and disoriented by the abruptness of it all. His limbs flail, heart pounding a frantic tattoo in his ears. He tries to shout, to demand to know what the hell is happening, but the words die in his throat as a thick gag is shoved between his teeth. It tastes of cloth and dust and panic.

He chokes on it, a muffled curse burning in his mouth. The blindfold slams over his eyes a breath later. He barely has time to register the shape of the intruders—too many, definitely more than one or two—before everything goes black. The press of cloth against his face is suffocating, and for a moment, he’s seized by raw, animal terror: I can’t see, I can’t breathe, I can’t—

The hands grip him like a vice, manhandling him off the mattress. He’s in nothing but his thin boxer shorts and a threadbare undershirt.

If he weren’t terrified, he’d be a little mortified.

The nighttime warmth of June does little to shield him from the gooseflesh prickling across his skin.

He thrashes, wild and uncoordinated, elbows connecting with unyielding torsos, knees slamming into muscle. One of the intruders grunts sharply—Tony hopes he’s done some damage—but they don’t relent. Strong arms clamp around his shoulders, and a new surge of panic flares in Tony’s gut as he’s dragged across the room. He can’t see, can’t even get his bearings. His socks catch on the carpet, tangling around his toes.

A voice hisses, “Careful, don’t let him—”

Then Tony’s back hits a solid wall—no, a doorframe—and a burst of pain explodes across his shoulder blades. He lets out a furious, muffled scream. The gag reduces it to little more than a choked growl.

How the hell did they even get into the Stark estate?

His father’s property is patrolled by private security and guarded by enormous wrought-iron gates. And Tony can’t imagine Jarvis letting some random strangers just march upstairs to yank Tony from his bed. Unless these people wore S.I. badges… or had forged some kind of official paperwork.

Or Tiberius. Could Tiberius have bribed someone?

And if Tony could roll his eyes, he would.

Because, of course, Tiberius would bribe someone.

He tries to snarl something around the gag—an insult, a plea, a demand, he isn’t sure—when another set of hands wraps around his legs, lifting his feet from the floor. He’s bodily carried from his bedroom, pinned between two or three people like a struggling cat.

The estate’s corridors blur by in frantic half-steps and stumbles. Tony’s sense of direction is shot. He’s never been more aware of the echoes of footsteps, the shifts in the air, the temperature changes between rooms. They’re moving fast, too fast for him to count corners or guess where they’re headed. Outside? Probably. He can feel the rush of warmer air—summer night humidity clinging to his skin. Then a jarring tilt, a sudden down-step—stairs—and he almost slips from their grip. They hoist him higher, ignoring the bruises no doubt forming on his arms.

Eventually, they reach what Tony assumes is the driveway—or maybe the side parking lot? He’s not sure. Either way, he hears the slam of a heavy door, feels the shift of night air replaced by stifling, enclosed darkness. A vehicle. A van, most likely. The sting of metal against his bare ankles confirms it: he’s being shoved into a cargo area.

He lands hard on the floor—metal ridges biting into his skin—and a new wave of adrenaline slams into him. Tony bucks wildly, thrashing. A knee pins his thigh, a forearm braces across his chest. Someone mutters a curse. For a second, it sounds like they might sedate him. Tony wonders if they’ll press a cloth soaked in chloroform over his mouth, maybe jam a needle into his neck. But no sedation comes. Instead, they force him into a corner, shoulders jammed against cold steel.

The engine rumbles to life.

He’s moving. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

It’s a long drive.

Could be an hour, could be three—Tony’s sense of time distorts into a haze of terror and anger. His limbs ache from being twisted in an uncomfortable position. The gag is suffocating; saliva soaks into the fabric, and breathing becomes an exercise in willpower. He’s painfully aware of every noise: the hum of the van’s tires against asphalt, the occasional hiss of static on a radio, subdued voices murmuring instructions.

He keeps trying to place them—who the hell are these people? But none of the voices are distinct enough to recognize. They don’t speak enough for him to get a real read. All he can do is nurse his fury and try to calm the wild, panicked flutter in his chest.

He realizes that everyone in the van can probably smell his panic. The thought angers him as much as it should unsettle him.

By the time his right hand is asleep, Tony’s fully convinced Tiberius is behind everything

The slimy bastard had threatened him, after all—threatened to ensure Tony couldn’t run, threatened to force the bond before Tony could do anything about it. This must be Tiberius’s next move, right?

And yet…

The way these people handle him isn’t the typical manhandling of personal goons. They feel more regimented, more disciplined—like soldiers. They keep Tony pinned with minimal force, never letting him slip free, but not breaking bones either. They haven’t battered him unconscious.

They’re rough, but they aren’t sloppy. Professional.

Besides, it doesn’t match the typical brute force Tony’s beloved betrothed would probably employ.

So… maybe Howard’s enemies? Or some other corporate sabotage? Or possibly Howard himself, pulling a twisted power play? Tony doesn’t know. He can only stew in the uncertainty as the miles roll by beneath them.

Eventually, the van stops.

There’s a jolting sense of movement as the doors slide open. The arms haul him out again, and the night air—or is it morning now?—smacks him in the face. The temperature is cooler, less humid. Maybe they’re farther north, or near a coastline. Tony can’t tell. Everything’s disorienting.

They drag him through another threshold, and the air changes again: colder, staler, artificially filtered. A building with heavy ventilation, maybe a lab or an industrial facility. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead sets his nerves on edge. The floor under his feet is concrete. His toes are cold. The blindfold is still on, pressing uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose, and every small sound—footsteps, the rustle of clothing, the echo of doors opening—is a brand-new source of panic.

They march him down a corridor—turn left, then right, then left again. Tony keeps track of corners automatically, clinging to whatever details he can glean. He tries to force himself to memorize the route, just in case an opportunity to escape arises.

At last, they halt. A door hisses open—mechanical, high-tech. Then Tony is shoved forward, stumbling blindly until he collides with the cold metal of a chair. He grips its back to steady himself. The hands on his arms don’t let go until he’s properly seated.

Then, mercifully, the blindfold slips away, undone from behind. Tony flinches at the sudden brightness, eyes watering as he blinks rapidly. The gag remains, cutting off any immediate demands he might have.

His surroundings come into focus slowly: white walls, bright overhead lights, a wide mirrored window on one side—one-way glass. Definitely an interrogation room. Stainless steel table, two chairs, minimal furnishings. No windows. No sign of Tiberius or anyone else Tony recognizes.

Tony’s chest heaves, each breath rasping past the gag. He’s about to try and speak around the cloth when when one of the men in dark suits steps forward. Without ceremony, he grabs hold of the cloth and yanks it free with a sharp tug. The burn in Tony’s mouth is immediate; the corners of his lips sting, raw from friction. He coughs, sputtering.

“What the—cough—hell—” He sucks in a deep breath. “Where am I?” His voice comes out harsh and ragged. He looks around, seeing that the people who brought him here—maybe three or four?—are stepping back toward the door. None of them answer. “Who are you working for?”

Tony demands, anger lacing every syllable. “Stone? Howard? Who?”

No one responds.

Lovely.

One by one, they file out, leaving him alone in the room with only the reflection of his disheveled self in the mirrored glass. Tony curses loudly, stands up, slams his palm against the table to anchor his swirling thoughts.

Nothing. No response.

“Hey!” Tony barks, his voice cracking slightly, raw from the gag. “This is kidnapping, you bunch of two-bit gangsters! You can’t just—just—” He slams his palm against the cold metal table, the sharp sound cutting through the room. Frustration burns hot in his chest, setting his nerves on edge. “Do you have any idea who I am? If my father doesn’t skin you alive for this, I—”

He cuts himself off, bile rising in his throat at the mention of his father.

Howard’s involvement is ambiguous, but Tony can’t imagine him orchestrating something so clandestine. Usually, Howard likes to operate in the spotlight of his own ego.

This feels too neat, too government.

Seconds tick by. Minutes, maybe. The buzzing fluorescent light overhead sets his teeth on edge.

Tony paces, every muscle wound tight, his mind racing with a thousand worst-case scenarios.

He’s being tested, or they’re waiting for him to break, or Tiberius is about to walk in with a smug grin and a twisted contract of his own.

When the door finally clicks, Tony whirls around so fast he nearly topples the chair. He braces himself, fists clenched at his sides, bracing for Tiberius or a stranger or maybe even some official he’s never met.

Instead, Abraham Erskine steps through.

Tony stands still, unmoving. Stunned.

Erskine closes the door behind him with deliberate care. He wears a utilitarian suit, tie slightly askew, as though he threw it on in a hurry.

He looks… tired.

“Stark,” Erskine says quietly, his accent unmistakable. “I do apologize. Truly, this was not how I intended to do this.”

Tony blinks, adrenaline coursing through him. “You—what—why—?” It could be the interrupted sleep, or the lack of caffeine, but he can’t seem to process the fact that it’s the German doctor in front of him, not some foreign operative or Tiberius Stone’s hired muscle.

Erskine offers a small, apologetic tilt of his head. “The dramatics were… regrettable. But it was necessary. Bringing you here discreetly was the only way we could ensure your father—and certain parties—would not interfere.”

Tony’s pulse still thrums with leftover adrenaline. His mind wrestles with contradictory impulses—run or demand answers—but his body is too exhausted to do either effectively. He slumps back against the metal chair, every nerve on high alert.

“Not how you intended to do this?” he hisses, voice shaking with residual fury and no small dose of fear. “You—what the hell is going on, Erskine? You abducted me.”

Erskine exhales heavily, stepping closer with slow, deliberate movements, as though trying not to spook a cornered animal. “It wasn’t my first choice, Anthony.” He gestures apologetically at the mirrored glass and the harsh lighting. “But we were running out of time, and it was critical that we get you away from Stark Industries—away from Howard’s estate—without drawing attention.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “This is the Strategic Scientific Reserve, isn’t it? Some secret bunker in the middle of nowhere.” He flings an arm at the sterile walls. “Could’ve just asked me to come along, you know. Maybe sent a nice letter? A singing telegram? Instead of… this.” He motions to the reddened marks on his wrists where the bindings had cut into his skin.

Erskine’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Mm, yes, I considered a formal invitation. But then I remembered your father reads your mail. Besides, we had to circumvent certain… legal entanglements. From what little you’ve told me, I understand you have… contractual obligations. And that you wish to be free of them.”

“My father reads my mail?”

Erskine continues, voice even. “The law is not in your favor, Tony. You know this. Omegas—especially those with binding contracts—have little recourse without intervention. We are that intervention.”

Tony huffs a breath, shifting his weight like he’s trying to shake off the tension crawling up his spine. “And what, you just happened to have a legal team on hand to pull an Omega out of a bonding contract? Not sure if I buy that little fairytale.”

Erskine actually smiles at that, small and wry. “No, I planned for it. I had already begun drafting the petition once you called me. I anticipated you would need an alternative to your current… situation.”

Erskine then settles into the other chair, leaning forward with his hands laced atop the metal table. There’s a studied calm to his posture, like a kindly professor about to walk a student through a complicated theorem. The fluorescent light overhead hums, painting Erskine’s face in tired lines.

“Let me explain, Tony,” he begins, voice subdued. “I plan to invoke what is known as the ‘Defense Priority Omega Provision’—an emergency wartime statute that rarely sees the light of day, even within these halls. It’s been on the books less than a year.”

Tony rubs his sore arms, wincing at the faint bruises left by the government lackeys. “But why? I didn’t even know the War Department had laws that could override standard Omega guardianship.”

“It’s a convoluted legal beast,” Erskine admits. “When war broke out, the War Department pushed for a series of emergency measures to secure any and all resources they deemed critical. Usually, they aim for materials—steel, rubber, uranium. But in theory, the same logic can apply to specialized personnel, including…” His eyes flick sympathetically to Tony. “…unbonded Omegas with key expertise. Nurses, mainly. Medical staff.”

Tony’s heart gives an unsteady thump at being referred to as a ‘key resource.’ He’s not sure whether it’s flattering or unnerving. “So you’re saying the SSR can basically step in and say, ‘We need Tony Stark for national defense,’ and that trumps my father’s guardianship? And—and the bonding contract?” He stumbles over the last phrase, Tiberius’s sneering voice a jagged echo in his mind.

Erskine offers a small, encouraging nod. “Exactly so. Under this statute, the SSR is authorized to file a federal injunction on your behalf—if I can prove that you are indispensable. It won’t sever your father’s guardianship permanently, not immediately, but it will suspend it for the duration of your involvement with our project.”

Tony frowns, lips pressing into a thin line. “So this would be… temporary?”

“For now, yes,” Erskine says gently. “But experience shows once you’ve been granted a measure of legal autonomy—especially in a high-security context—it’s difficult for anyone to reassert the old constraints. The War Department wouldn’t easily relinquish valuable personnel to a private Alpha who might hamper the war effort. You’d remain under an SSR ‘protective contract’—not so different from a civilian consultant—but with additional legal shields in place because of your Omega status. A judge’s signature would ensure neither Howard nor your intended Alpha could force you back home against your will.”

Tony’s pulse hitches at the thought of a protective contract. The last time he heard the word ‘contract,’ it involved Howard trying to brand Tony’s neck for good a mere two days ago. But this… “So I’d be… effectively on loan to the SSR,” he says slowly, processing. “As long as you need my math, you keep me safe.”

It sounds ludicrous to even say out loud.

Erskine gives a faint, wry smile. “It’s an extraordinary measure for extraordinary times. The formal petition is an ‘Emergency Guardianship Override’—coupled with a ‘Non-Compete Injunction’ that bars your father and your Alpha from interfering. We’d cite the War Powers Act of ’41, along with our own SSR statutes and this new Omega provision. It sounds complicated—because it is—but the net result is straightforward: you would answer to us, not Howard, for the duration of this work.”

Tony wants to scoff at the idea of answering to anyone, because he’s Tony, but it’s still better than being under Howard’s thumb.

He also can’t ignore the coil of real fear that tightens in his chest every time he thinks about confronting his father. “He’s not going to stand for it,” Tony mutters, knuckles going white where they grip the table. “When he finds out I’ve gone behind his back… he’s not just going to yell, Erskine. He gets—” Tony’s throat works. He can almost feel Howard’s hand clamping down, bruises blossoming. “He gets physical.”

Erskine’s expression darkens, genuine concern etched across his features. “I’m sorry, Anthony,” he says softly. “Truly. I suspected Howard’s temper was no small matter, but I didn’t realize…” He clears his throat, something like sorrow flickering behind his glasses. “Well. Under these War Department clauses, if your father tried to forcibly remove you from SSR premises or harm you, he’d be in violation of a federal injunction and could face charges as serious as treason—especially if it was deemed sabotage of essential defense personnel.”

Tony’s breath catches. “Treason? Because of me?”

“Yes,” Erskine agrees quietly. “But it means you’d be protected. Legally, physically. They’ll station guards if necessary. Your father might be powerful, Tony, but the federal government has ways of ensuring cooperation—especially during wartime.”

Tony drags a hand down his face, exhaustion settling over him like a heavy blanket. “All right. Okay. Jesus. So let’s say we do that. I get assigned to this project under SSR oversight. But how long are we talking? Because this—” He gestures at the sterile interrogation room. “This doesn’t exactly feel like a place I want to hole up in for the rest of the war. I have a… I have a life out there. I can’t just vanish for a year.”

“We don’t intend for you to live on-site permanently. The chamber construction is projected to run at least through next summer—maybe longer—but that doesn’t mean you’ll be confined here the entire time. Once we secure the injunction, you’ll be free to come and go under SSR jurisdiction. Think of it as a specialized consultancy contract. You’ll return here for major breakthroughs, tests, demonstrations. In between, you can live wherever you choose—Brooklyn, if that’s your preference.” He arches a subtle eyebrow.

Brooklyn. Just the mention of it unleashes a tumult of hope tangled with dread. Tony’s mind jumps straight to Bucky—God, he’s been picturing Bucky’s restless pacing ever since the van ride, those broad hands curled white-knuckled, ready to stand against the entire world once Monday night comes and Tony doesn’t appear at the cramped apartment like he promised.

He can practically feel his Alpha’s anxiety, that fierce protectiveness turning into a raw, furious determination. Bucky would tear through every street, every corner of the city, until he was certain Tony was safe.

Suddenly, the ache in Tony’s chest is impossible to ignore. He lowers his gaze, swallowing hard before forcing himself to speak. “I… yeah,” he manages, voice tight. “Brooklyn would be good. I—there’s someone… some people there.” It’s lame, not nearly the declaration he wants to make—I have an Alpha who’s my everything, and I need to get back to him.

Erskine nods, a fleeting smile acknowledging Tony’s unspoken admission. “There would be restrictions, of course,” he cautions gently. “You can’t publicly share anything about the project. You’ll probably have to meet with an SSR liaison regularly for status updates. But otherwise, you can maintain a private life. We’re not trying to conscript you, Tony. We just need your work.”

Tony swallows the rush of conflicting emotions—gratitude, fear, relief, disbelief. “You make it sound almost too good to be true,” he mutters. “But I guess if it keeps Howard and—” He hesitates, heart pounding at the thought of Tiberius. “—and any other Alpha from forcing a bond on me, I’ll take my chances. Speaking of which,” he says, “where the hell are we, anyway? Because I swear if we’re in some government dungeon in Manhattan, you people really took the scenic route.”

Erskine shifts, as though weighing whether to divulge that detail. Eventually, he says, “This is an SSR holding facility in New Jersey.”

Tony stares at him, deadpan. “New Jersey?” The words drip with derision. “You kidnapped me and dragged me across state lines just to plop me into the one situation that might be worse than a forced bond?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “God. If my father doesn’t kill me, the smell of this place might do it.”

Erskine hums in amusement. “I didn’t realize you held such animosity for your neighbor.”

Tony snorts. “Neighbor, schneighbor. Guess we just skip Manhattan, skip civilization, and hide in some random bunker in an East Coast armpit.” He throws his hands up. “Great. Can’t wait to sample the local… bagels.”

Erskine regards him quietly for a moment. “May I ask one thing?”

Tony tenses. “What?”

“If there is someone in Brooklyn you trust—someone you might want to inform you’re safe—” Erskine lifts a hand in a calming gesture. “We can arrange a discreet communication. No details of your location or the project, of course, but perhaps a short telegram letting them know you’re unharmed.”

Tony’s chest tightens. Bucky’s face flashes through his mind. He wants nothing more than to tell him, I’m okay, don’t do anything reckless, but the risk… “Maybe,” he says, voice rough. “Let me think about it.” The last thing he needs is a paper trail leading Howard or Tiberius to Bucky’s door.

“Of course,” Erskine says. He’s perceptive enough not to pry further. “But know that it’s an option. We don’t want your life suspended entirely.”

Tony nods, releasing a slow breath that does little to quell the racing in his veins. “All right. So… when does this all go down? The hearing, the demonstration, the whole dog-and-pony show?”

“It’s set to move swiftly,” Erskine explains, laying out the timeline with methodical care. “Colonel Phillips arrives in a few days, along with Senator Brandt. We’ll brief them on your role and demonstrate that Howard’s current blueprint is unworkable without your corrections. Once we have their backing, we’ll file the injunction in federal court—likely in Washington, if we can expedite it. Given the war climate, I expect they’ll push it through quickly.”

He folds his hands. “In the meantime, you’ll begin reviewing the existing Chamber schematics. Identify every critical flaw, start drafting solutions. If the War Department sees that you’ve already made progress—maybe even solved major issues—they won’t hesitate to sign off on your provisional independence.”

“So,” Tony says, voice rough, “I roll out the improvements on Howard’s designs, prove I’m not just some spare part, and then… the War Department grants me independence? They’ll step in and remind him he can’t keep me under lock and key?”

A faint smile touches Erskine’s lips. “That’s the essence, yes. Of course, Howard remains a powerful figure—he won’t be dismissed from the project entirely. In fact, we still need him for funding and resources, not to mention his existing contracts. The government can’t exactly throw Stark Industries out the door. But we can set legal boundaries around you. If we can show you’re vital on your own terms, the War Department won’t let him override that.”

Tony’s mouth tightens at the thought of Howard retaining any control, but he exhales through his nose, reminding himself that partial freedom is still miles better than none. “Well, it’s not a perfect solution,” he says wryly, “but I’m sure I can find a way to live with it.”

He doesn’t tell Erskine that it’s more privilege than anyone has ever promised him. That the promise of it is so tempting that Tony can almost taste it.

“Another option is to file a sworn statement about any… potential mistreatment, to emphasize the national interest in keeping you safe. The War Department could label it an anti-sabotage measure, if necessary.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, sharp as glass. Tony’s face shutters, all amusement draining away at the thought of sharing details of Howard’s cruelty—in writing, on an official document no less. His stomach churns violently. He shakes his head, words caught in his throat. “No,” he says at last, bracing his palms against the table. “I’m not—I’m not doing that.”

Erskine doesn’t press. “Understood,” he says quietly, and leaves it at that. He stands, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape. His smile is subdued, but there’s gentle warmth behind it.

“Regardless, Tony, you should know you aren’t alone here. The SSR is prepared to see this through. And—if I may speak freely—I have every faith you can outshine even your father’s reputation.”

Tony’s throat works around a tangle of emotion. He thinks of Bucky again, of that quiet vows they shared in the dark of a cramped Brooklyn dorm room: We’ll figure this out. We’ll find a way. Maybe this is it.

He stands too, legs still shaky from the night’s ordeal, but he musters a ragged half-smile. “All right, Doc,” he says. “Point me to the nearest drafting table, and let’s fix your mechanical fiasco. Then we can kick my father’s guardianship all the way to Siberia. And, uh… any chance you’ve got some pants on standby?” He glances down at his bare legs with a grimace. “Or at least a bathrobe? I’m all for making a statement, but this wasn’t exactly the outfit I had in mind for my big professional debut.”

Erskine’s grin warms into something genuine. “Follow me,” he says, opening the door to the corridor. “First, we’ll get you settled in. This facility isn’t home, but we’ll do our best to make you comfortable for now. And once the immediate demonstration’s done, we can talk about letting you return to Brooklyn.”

As Tony steps out into the glaring hallway lights, a quiet sense of possibility hums in his chest. It’s not a guarantee—he knows that. There’s a thousand ways this could blow up in his face, especially if Howard gets wind of it too soon, or if Tiberius angles for a final power grab. But if the government can truly shield him… maybe Tony can have a future that doesn’t end in a forced bond or a black eye.

A future that includes Bucky, openly, without fear.

Until he leaves Tony.

But that’s a problem for another day.

Tony will make it work, if only for the sake of the promise he made to himself—and, in unspoken moments, to Bucky. No more hiding. No more limping away from Howard’s fists or another Alpha’s schemes.

And so when Erskine leads him past a pair of uniformed guards who nod respectfully, Tony—with as much dignity as he can muster in his wrinkled undershirt and bare feet—straightens his spine and returns it.