Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Methods to Madness

“It was a spark that started the fire
A legend that grew in the telling
It started with two men
One was life
And one was death”
-Avengers (#44)

Chapter One

“Tony, m’boy,” comes the Alpha’s usual greeting over the mobile’s receiver. One Tony’s slowly become accustomed to the last year with each update of his ailing father’s condition and Stark Industries’ consequentially precarious, business connections.

“Obie,” Tony acknowledges, dropping several bills onto the barista’s counter and collecting his meager breakfast of an overpriced coffee and a sloppily assembled sandwich. “Is your vacation boring enough that you felt the need to call me for entertainment?”

His friend chuckles, and Tony imagines the man shaking his head in amusement. “Haven’t quite started. Just landed a few minutes ago.”

“I hear the drinks down on the beach are strong,” Tony suggests, tearing a large bite from his sandwich as Happy flags him down for boarding. Balancing his food in one hand, Tony follows his bodyguard, stepping out onto the airport’s apron with little hesitation.

The blinding morning rays are held at bay by the lenses of his DITA Flight 006 sunglasses. A gift from a particularly overeager Alpha visiting from Korea to settle a contract. Tony still relishing the shock plastered upon her face when he simultaneously accepted the gift and rejected her advances. Only to slightly regret it later when he received an earful from Pepper about the dangers of burning bridges or something to that effect—he only half-listened.

“I’ll have to order one for the both of us,” Obadiah continues, utterly jovial for such an early hour. “Especially, to celebrate the newly appointed Stark Industries CEO.”

Tony grits his teeth at the title, not entirely certain where he mentally stands on the unanticipated inheritance. “It isn’t quite official, yet.”

“But it will be, soon enough,” Obadiah returns dismissively. An indiscernible undertone causing the bit of food in Tony’s stomach to harden to stone. Despite his fraying nerves, he allows his friend to carry on woefully unaware, “I felt it would be best to offer my congratulations before you’re swamped with all that legal paperwork.”  

“I think I’d prefer the drink,” Tony deflects, eliciting a barking laugh in response. Reality solidifying when he rounds a corner to find SI’s business jet awaiting him. The Embraer Legacy 500’s stairs unfolded in preparation for his arrival.

“Once I get back,” Obadiah promises. “You take care now, Tony.”

The call mercifully ends, and Tony fumbles to pocket the phone as he proceeds up the steps and through the hatch. Catching a snippet of conversation between the pilots within the open cockpit before shuffling farther inside the cabin. And groaning as he plops gracelessly down into an oversized, leather seat; a punch of air escaping its side as he adjusts uncomfortably.

Happy slides into the seat opposite him, appearing as weary as Tony feels with dark bags under his eyes and a washed-out complexion. “You seem tired, Boss,” Happy starts.

Tony grunts in acknowledgement. “Nothing gets past you.”

“Isn’t that what you pay me for?”

Shoveling more of the sandwich and chasing it with a shot of coffee, Tony teases around a mouthful, “I thought it was for midnight burger runs.”

“I guess that’s true.” Happy’s lips curl in a hint of a smile. “Anyway, Pepper’s told me about your tendency to stay awake all night.” Tony hums noncommittally into his cup. “It’ll take several hours to get to New York. Maybe you could catch up on some sleep?”

Tony nearly scoffs at the Beta’s attempt to nurture him like a helpless child, but the insistent heaviness to his eyes seems to outweigh the affront. “Guess it couldn’t hurt.” Then, redirecting his attention to the pilots now busily configuring controls, he states, “There’s a hefty bonus if you decide take the long route.”

Turning in their seats to regard him, both pilots beam at the bribe. The co-pilot enthusiastically accepting with a salute and a pleasing, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Tony says with relief, then awkwardly repositions himself to seek some level of comfy in spite of the seatbelt digging into his lower abdomen. The leather squeaking inordinately loud before the high-pitched whine of the engines starting up penetrates the quiet.

Yawning, Tony leans his head back. Eyes fluttering shut as he mutters his request, “Wake me when we’re there.”

“You got it,” comes Happy’s quiet reply as the plane slightly jolts forward to commence its taxi to the runway. The soft thumps of the wheels against the concrete below lulling him steadily into slumber.

~*~

Tony jerks to a hand painfully squeezing his knee, shaking his leg with exigency. His noise of protest piercing the low, consistent thrum of the engines while he blindly bats at the offending limb.

“Mr. Stark.”

Grudgingly, he squints his eyes open to discover Happy looming over him. The Beta’s hand instantly relinquishing him to immediately slip into his own suit pocket.

“Are we almost there?” Tony wonders, casually stretching to ease muscle strain.

“Mr. Stark,” Happy repeats, collecting a pair of bulky earbuds in his hand and shakily fitting them into his ear canals. Tapping the sides with the tip of his finger until they flash blue. “I’m sorry,” he says at length, mouth pressing into a thin line.

Tony grunts. “For waking me right in the middle of being sandwiched between two models in a Jacuzzi with endless mimosas?” He scrubs a tired hand over his face. “Maybe I’ll forgive—”

“No,” Happy curtails, voice notably cracking. “Not for that.”

Blinking away his bleary vision, Tony takes in the Beta’s contrite expression. It triggers an unsettling prickling sensation at the back of his neck. “What for, then?”

Happy’s gaze turns downcast, his hands briefly clenching into fists. “As you know, Pepper is pregnant.”

“I was the first to know.” Tony shifts upright, discovering his only means of escape blocked by the bulk of the man’s body. His pulse instantaneously spiking from the perceived vulnerability.

With a nod, Happy explains, “I never thought I’d find a mate, you know? But now…” He laughs breathily. “I have Pepper and a child because of you. And we’re happy.”

Utilizing his Omega nature to soothe and deescalate the current potential threat, Tony eases the tension from his own shoulders. Allows himself to appear small and fragile in hopes to dissuade whatever plan the Beta has in store. “She deserves the best,” he cautiously decides to say.

“Yeah.” Happy sighs. “Because you also treasure her as family, I know you’ll understand.” Tony locks eyes with Happy’s unnervingly wild stare. Their depths imploring, seeking forgiveness. “I need you to understand.”

Tony remains at a loss when Happy produces an unidentifiable, sleek device from his other pocket. Running the pad of his thumb nervously across it. “If it had been anyone else but her...” A small sob wrenches out of him, reddening his face. “I would’ve chosen you.”

Before Tony has a chance to react defensively, the muscles throughout his body unexpectedly stiffen and cease to respond to any conscious command altogether. An unbearable cold slithering through his veins, and nerves alighting in white-hot agony as a sharp ringing unceasingly stabs at his eardrums. His lungs battling to function, instinctively saving his breath.

As he slumps against the backrest, Happy turns ominously for the cockpit. A warning for the Captain caught in Tony’s throat while Happy, in turn, renders the pilots equally incapacitated. Tony scarcely able to observe the man’s actions as he leans over the unconscious forms to mess with the console dials. His vision wavering with burning tears of betrayal when Happy backtracks to fetch a parachute pack from the overhead storage bin, slinging it onto his back with visible urgency.

Happy’s face swims into view moments after, Beta green-ringed eyes now glistening with remorse.

“Goodbye, Mr. Stark,” he says, guttural, then hurries past him towards the rear of the plane. A subsequent burst of wind sending loose papers flying before his stomach lurches from a remarkable dip in altitude. The nose gradually tipping into a steeper dive as an inordinately loud vibrating noise and the aircraft’s warning system blares over the deafening roar: “Stall. Stall. Stall.”

Memories begin fleeting across his mind; cutting him deep with his father’s glare when booted from his home. Followed by countless nights on the streets, battling elements and dumpster diving for food. Alphas, Betas, and Omegas alike seizing an advantage over his need of survival with offerings in exchange for acts which continue to churn his stomach.

The mental anguish forcing him to close his eyes with intention to escape to a far more peaceful place. Tuning out the destabilized rattling of the cabin to explore a future he’s only dreamed. Imagining waking to giggles and tiny feet thumping against wood flooring in some remote cabin, far away from vulture paparazzi and predatory business deals. The afternoons spent in a work shed, tinkering with his latest invention with a mate lingering at the threshold, looking on with unbridled fondness.

He scarcely registers the jolt of impact, the screeching and crunching of metal, and the blistering heat scorching his skin. Then, he’s blissfully lost to a dark, fathomless sea of nothingness.

“You’re barely standing on your feet,” Steve remarks, simultaneously signing with his hands. “Retire for the night.”

The man wobbles on his feet as he pushes away from the metal railing of the lookout. His breath visibly clouding in the crisp evening air. “I’m not the one who’s been on duty for the last 24 hours. You should get some rest, I’ll keep watch,” he signs in return.

A spike of irritation claws up Steve’s spine at the insubordination; especially, from a lowly Beta. “Are you questioning my authority, Lieutenant Barton?” he warns with a low growl, allowing the man’s imagination to fill in for the implication. A tingle of pleasure erupting in his chest when Barton stiffens in fear. Possibly, recalling the corporal punishments he’s notorious for inflicting, Steve assumes.

“No, sir.”

“Such a shame,” Steve says coolly as the Beta salutes him, then wordlessly brushes past him in direction of the barracks. Eyeing the Beta’s retreat intently until he crests the hill in the distance.

The wind kicks up minutes later, nipping at the exposed skin of his face. Snow all but imminent as storm clouds paint a dull shade of gray across the sky. Causing Steve to grimace at the first taste of winter after years of battling in warmer climates. Already despising his current outpost in the newly acquired Hydra territory. A damning waste of his precious time and energy by the Great Dictator, if there ever was.

“This is a placement of importance,” Red Skull states, turning his chair away from the window to face Steve entirely. Placing his hand upon a file and sliding it across the desk.

“Is that so?” Steve accepts it, flipping it open to reveal his orders and a woefully short list of soldiers under his command.

The chair squeaks as Red Skull slightly rotates to once again revel at the sight of his armies below, readying for another territorial war. One he should be leading instead of babysitting assets, Steve thinks bitterly.

“There’s a weakness at our border. It appears a faction of the US military has managed to breach it multiple times, effectively eradicating our soldiers and several testing facilities.”

Steve nods in comprehension. “Has the research been compromised?”

“Not yet.” Glancing over his shoulder, Red Skull concludes, “Which is why I want you there—to ensure it doesn’t fall into their hands.”

“Understood.” He stands upright, clicking the heels of his boots together while raising a salute. “Hail Hydra,” he states, then pivots and marches towards the double doors.

“There is also a task in there meant for your eyes only,” Red Skull calls after him. “And if you do well, Captain, I’ll promote you to a five-star general, as well as my trusted advisor.”

Steve grips the railing, imagining the power he’ll wield in such a position. Granting the Great Dictator the illusion of victory in order to maintain the man’s ignorance towards Steve’s endgame. And once the world falls within his grasp, he’ll stand above all.

Eliminating anyone who would dare match him.  

He’s wrenched from his thoughts at a familiar hum feathering into earshot and immediately scans the sky for the unidentified aircraft until it breaches the horizon. Its light flashing against the backdrop of ever darkening clouds, unheeding of the border in its approach.

Yet, despite it flying strategically over an unguarded section of the wall, Steve notes the severe lack of stealth. Finding the unusual structure doesn’t resemble any recent military aviation designs, and the bold red and gold coloring along its flank far too flashy.

A private jet, he deduces as he reaches for the radio at his shoulder. Teasing the call button when the nose of plane unexpectedly pitches downwards, commencing a near vertical plummet. Steve opting to observe its trajectory until it disappears into the thicket of trees kilometers ahead with a resounding boom. A plume of fire and smoke skyrocketing upwards to harshly juxtapose the brightness of the snow now fluttering down to blanket the earth.

Steve leaps from the tower, landing firmly with a crunch of gravel underfoot. Adjusting the shield on his back as he strides towards the edge of the forest—only to halt at someone’s shout of, “Captain!”

Barton trots over to him, breathless. Evidently having spotted the aircraft before turning in, he asks, “Should I call for reinforcements?”

“Stand down, for now,” Steve commands, not desiring spying eyes all over such an intriguing event. “Use your judgment here, where it’s needed.”

He blinks in confusion before his expression hardens in suspicion. “I’m coming with you.”

Releasing a feral growl and baring his teeth Steve forces the Beta to take a daunted step in reverse. “Do you desire punishment this badly?”

“No,” Barton retorts, head bowing minutely in submission. “Alpha,” he tacks on for good measure.

Steve straightens to full height. “You’ll receive your formal reprimand upon my return.”

With that established, he sprints for the crash site. The snowfall increasing in density the deeper he travels, dodging trees and leaping over brush. His eyes stinging, barraged by snowflakes mixed with heavy soot; the light of the inferno acting as a beacon to guide him.

Pushing aside a curtain of drooping pine branches, Steve unveils a large meadow scattered with various types of debris and a wall of thick smoke. An outlining mound of dirt from the impact effectively preventing the blaze from igniting a wildfire. Not that he would mind if it meant reassignment, Steve thinks dispassionately, pulling a mask from the pocket of his utility belt to affix it over his face.

The heat chases the cold from his bones while he cautiously begins his search of the scene. Effortlessly lifting portions of the plane’s structure to discover mere remnants of leather chairs and broken glass. Anything deemed crucial seemingly incinerated or currently aflame.

It wasn’t planned, Steve infers as he bends down on one knee to study an intact section of the landing gear. And spots what appears to be a human arm sticking out from between a small crevice of crumpled cowling and heap of twisted steel in his peripheral.

Steve immediately rises to his feet and jogs the short distance to confirm its existence. Momentarily pondering if the labor is worth a potential corpse before gripping hold of the scraps and heaving them into separate piles. His muscles burning from exertion with each sizeable piece removed, until a final chunk of aluminum alloy uncovers an unconscious man lying underneath.  

Crouching, Steve first examines the filth-caked face; observing viciously red blood oozing from an impressive gash edging the hairline and curving downward over his cheekbone. Although serious, Steve finds it the least concerning of the injuries next to the sliver of metal protruding from the center of his chest, the severe burns along his abdomen, and the lacerated flesh of his right thigh, exposing bone. His enemy’s critical state prompting Steve to reach for the neck, and genuinely surprised by a weak heartbeat fluttering against the pads of his fingers.

Lowering his head until his ear hovers slightly above the bloodied mouth, Steve listens intently for the soft wheezing of the man’s respires. A devious smile breaking over Steve’s face at the prospect of offering an American spy to the Great Dictator with the subsequent reward of his foolish trust.

My golden ticket, Steve delights.               

“What an unlucky son of a bitch, you are,” Steve states as he delicately maneuvers the enemy into his arms. Adjusting him until he’s firmly secure to carry. “Whichever deity you believe in, they’ve clearly forsaken you.”

He stands slowly with intent not to jostle the wounds more than necessary. Supporting the enemy’s head against his shoulder and disregarding the blood seeping into the Kevlar of his uniform.   

He trudges forward towards the section of forest he emerged from—only to stop abruptly, descrying a pair of bodies in the brush. Their conditions evidently worse, given their charred and dismembered remains. Likely deceased upon impact, Steve contemplates, and hardly worth saving. 

One is more than enough.

Steve regards the enemy once more, taking notice of the bluer shade to his lips. “Don’t die on me yet,” he growls lowly, hastening his pace. “Not until I’m done with you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

“I’m not this kind of doctor,” Prisoner 812-P admits, nervously fidgeting. “My knowledge of treatments only extend to minor illnesses and wounds. And that’s mostly due to the lab accidents I’ve endured.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve replies shortly. “Either heal him now or yourself over the next year.” Grasping a fistful of the yellow jumpsuit, Steve hefts the prisoner until the toes of his shoes scarcely brush the floor. Relishing the way he instantly bares his neck in submission. “Despite being more valuable alive, Omega,” he spits the word out venomously, “you’re not entirely untouchable.”

The Omega’s gaze darts uncertainly between Steve and the spy upon the operating table. Allowing a few tense seconds to pass before assenting with a trembling nod, prompting Steve to roughly relinquish him. And watches as he stumbles to regain his footing, grasping at the table to catch himself.

Such pathetic, weak creatures.

“I’ll do it.” 812-P rubs the apparent soreness at his collarbone before straightening his askew glasses. “But I need assistance. Preferably, anyone with medical skills.”

Steve hums in consideration. “That can be arranged.”

“And I’ll need a healthy blood supply. S-several liters,” he stammers. Making a sweeping gesture towards the guards posted outside the double doors as he concludes, “I’ll send word of which type once I run an initial test.”

“Anything else?” Steve asks with an edge of irritation, glimpsing the spy’s deteriorating state on the monitors.

812-P shifts uncomfortably, focusing on the shine of Steve’s boots when he boldly wonders, “And what if he dies?”

Steve instantly visualizes multiple torture procedures Hydra’s yet to test with the prime subject squirming and crying out helplessly. A feral smile slowly curls the corner of his mouth. “For your sake, I suggest that doesn’t happen.”

Blanching, the Omega bursts into frantic motion. Clinks and clangs of metal trays and other equipment echoing in the small confines of the room as Steve casually exits through the doors. The two lowly cadets quickly shifting to stand at parade rest, awaiting orders.

“Gentlemen,” he begins, pivoting on his heel to face them. “This operation is strictly confidential under the orders of the Great Dictator,” he lies with practiced ease. “No personnel are granted access to this prisoner and all pertinent information in that respect—with exception of myself and to whom receive my explicit permission. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they acknowledge in unison, attention trained forward.

With a nod, Steve marches from the medical building. A small, slightly dilapidated hospital Hydra commandeered, nestled at the foot of the outpost along with the prison and weapon testing facility. The rest of the buildings are stationed near the top of a steep hill, save for the lookout tower minutes to the west with a vantage point spanning a 16-kilometer radius.

A small but functional place, and one which teases Steve’s patience as he braces against the bite of the wind and heavy snowfall. Ice and gravel crunching underfoot while he steadily hikes the slope in near pitch darkness. The dim outer lights of the barracks building guiding the way.

If not for it, the panic looming would consume him. The memory of gloomy depths and freezing water lurking at the edges of his consciousness.

A loss of control.

The crunch of metal and the crack of the ice.  

Mentally shoving it away, he concentrates on the current task. Cresting the top of the hill, he bypasses the barracks now quiet with sleeping soldiers, then crosses the small courtyard to the communications office. The door creaking as he enters and the internal warmth of the cabin curling through the frame to offer welcoming relief.

“Captain,” a voice greets flatly.

“Lieutenant Romanoff,” he returns cordially, stomping the accumulated snow from his boots and brushing the remaining powder from his hair.

She partially rotates in her chair at the radio console. A brow quirking quizzically, Romanoff sets the book she’s been reading aside expectedly.

“Patch me through to Base A95,” he orders without preamble, striding closer. “Private line.”

Refraining from probing for answers, Romanoff dutifully switches outgoing frequencies, then dials a number from memory on an outdated cellular phone. Briefly pressing it to her ear before passing it over.

“Line secured, sir.”

Accepting it, he promptly heads into the relative seclusion of the adjacent office he’s claimed for personal use. Rounding the desk and plopping into the pleather chair, Steve listens intently to the cold silence through the receiver until a click sounds on the other end.

“Identification,” a deep voice requests.

“Captain Steven Rogers,” he replies authoritatively. “Outpost 12. ID number 771840-HC.”

A pregnant pause stretches unbearably before the operator responds. “To whom is your call directed, Captain Rogers?”

“Colonel Wanda Maximoff.”

“Understood,” comes the typical reply. “Connecting you now, sir.”

Steve punches out a heavy breath, drumming his fingers against the woodgrain of the desk impatiently. Glancing at the digital clock positioned at the corner and figuring the evening hour isn’t late enough for her to have retired to bed. Yet, minutes tick by; steadily reducing the chances of survival for his golden ticket.

“Base A95, Colonel Wanda Maximoff speaking.”

With a vexed huff, he starts, “I’m cashing in the favor you owe me.”

His curtness elicits a mirthless chuckle before her voice muffles as she dismisses another party nearby. Returning to the conversation the moment it’s deemed exclusive. “The invasion of Sokovia was nearly ten years ago, and I was but a naïve child. Barely alive and desperate to promise anything, if it meant being spared by the indomitable Captain Hydra,” Wanda uses his moniker with clear derision.

Gritting his teeth, Steve growls a warning. “Are you reneging on our deal?”

“Calm yourself.” The Alpha sighs. “Just curious how you still believe the same dynamic exists between us.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Steve questions evenly.

“If you think I haven’t been currying favors with our Great Dictator and those in the higher ranks, you’re sorely mistaken,” she sneers. “Simply put, the past is exactly where it belongs, Steven. I’ve moved on and you no longer own me.”

Steve grips the phone, the protective casing cracking minutely under the pressure.

“However,” the Alpha continues, “I’m not so inclined to dismiss a request from the one who gifted me this second chance at life.” The grating noise of rustling fabric assaults his eardrum as she seemingly repositions to deliver a blow to his ego. “If you ask nicely, that is, and deliver a favor for me sometime down the road.”

He inwardly curses himself for neglecting to keep her in check. Assuming the proverbial chains secured around her throat stayed well-maintained enough to attend to other priorities. Now, her will proves far stronger than he anticipated; depriving him of a pawn to maneuver and, in exchange, gifting a potential hindrance to his success. 

Steve would be impressed by her cleverness to tip the scales in her favor, if not for the fact she insists to overpower him, specifically. The Alpha’s usefulness transforming into an unfortunate waste of potential as he files a mental note to eliminate her from the equation.

What a pity.

However, Steve thinks, he can still regain some beneficial control before she’s disposed of—but only if he plays his cards accordingly.

“A request, then,” he falsely yields, utilizing the same salesman charm he perfected nearly a century prior. “I need to borrow one of your prisoners as soon as possible.”

“Do you?” Wanda replies with an air of indifference.

Shutting his eyes, Steve scarcely reins in the fury at her insolence. His mask cracking marginally under the pretense of subdued defeat. “Please,” he adds.

“I suppose.” Steve imagines a triumphant smirk upon her face, then how it will morph into one of pure terror in due time. “And what, may I ask, is the purpose of the transfer?”

“Assistance for an experiment,” he fabricates effortlessly. “It’s time sensitive and confidential. I’ll need them within the next half-hour.”

“I see.” She hums, considering. “Is there a prisoner in mind?”

“Whichever one has a medical background.”

“Consider it done,” she states, unaware of the current game. “Don’t forget my deal, Steven, or else.” The Alpha terminates the call, seemingly pleased to leave him seething in her absence.

Tossing the phone onto the desk, he yanks open a drawer to retrieve a pad of paper and local area map. Decisively pressing forward with his plan as he plucks a pen from its holder and sets to measuring the longitude and latitude. Scribbling down the numbers before storming out. The door ripping from its hinges when he inadvertently tears it open with full strength, effectively drawing Romanoff’s curiosity.  

“Send an incident report to Headquarters in regard to the downed enemy plane at these coordinates.” Resting the door against the frame, Steve proffers the folded piece of paper between two fingers. “Convey the initial investigation yielded total loss to the aircraft, unsalvageable materials, and no survivors.”

Snatching the paper, Romanoff crosses her arms over her chest. Her head inclining fractionally, gaze keen and searching. “No survivors, Captain?”

Steve mirrors her challenging pose. Standing his ground with a confirming, “None.”

Romanoff scrutinizes him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing with skepticism. “Should I transmit Lieutenant Barton’s report, as well? I think Headquarters would take interest in the discrepancy between your accounts.”

Her head cocks to the side when he falls speechless, brow rising slightly in implication of a checkmate.

“I didn’t realize he also filed a report,” Steve says at length, cautious with his words.

“It is standard protocol,” Romanoff reminds, offhanded. And with a tiny quirk of her lips, enlightens, “Albeit, if it appears further information were to come to light within a twelve-hour window, reports can be stalled and amended.”

He meets her smug ploy with an inscrutable smile. “It’ll be my word against his, regardless.”

Removing her headset, Romanoff stands with remarkable grace. Prowling towards him on whisper quiet feet gained from years of service with the KGB. Her hand reaching to brush against his cheek, warm and gentle, before snaking around his throat to grip the hair at nape. Steve permitting her to tug his head back and releasing an amused sound when her mouth hovers indicatively over his jugular. A tingle of delight tickling his skull at their habitual dance of dominance—an endless game of tug-of-war where a winner has yet to be named.

Steve would establish her as his mate, he thinks, if it weren’t for her Alpha gender marker. To do so would be against Hydra law and his own convictions. The only options being Beta or Omega, and Hell would have to freeze before he picked the latter.

“Barton may be the eyes of this outfit,” she says in a hushed voice, “but I’m the ears. Handpicked by the Great Dictator himself.” Relinquishing him, she pats his cheek patronizingly. Her own mirth lighting the gold rings around her pupils. “Try to remember that, Captain.”

He bristles at that. Eyeing her vulnerable backside as she strolls to her station, addressing him over her shoulder, “It seems Lieutenant Barton did, in fact, misperceive the events. I’ll be sure to correct it.”

Steve squares his shoulders, poised to remove her permanently if she presents as another threat. “And in exchange for this overlook?”

The Alpha pauses; frozen over the keyboard as she evidently senses the beast sizing up its meal. “You desire to rule,” she infers. “And I have no intention of stopping you.” Head whipping around, Romanoff pins him with an earnest look. “We want in.”

~*~

The covered truck lumbers into view, headlights piercing through the veil of the storm and bouncing off the snow coated office buildings. Steve wincing when a high-pitch squeal of the brakes grates against his ears, followed by a hiss of air as it slowly rolls to a halt. Prompting him to give the windows of the barracks a cursory glance for movement and satisfied to find none of the residents disturbed.

Barton adjusts his stance beside him; loading his bow with an arrow and pointing it towards the ground in preparation while the prisoner unsteadily clambers down from the truck’s bed. Chains at his wrists and ankles rattling and snow crunching loudly beneath his feet as he’s guided by two soldiers around to the front. A third soldier emerging from the passenger seat with a sleek device tucked under her arm.

“Are you Captain Rogers?” she seeks to verify, sliding the tablet from her armpit and holding it out indicatively.

“I am,” Steve confirms, signing the electronic document without delay.  

With that formality done, she strikes a formal salute and states, “Hail Hydra.”

Steve throws up his hand and responds in kind. Then, redirects his attention to the guards shoving the prisoner forward. His head remaining bowed in proper conduct as he comes to stand before Steve.

“Identification and credentials,” Steve demands.

The prisoner replies in a faint, defeated tone. “602-P. Beta. Scientist and Surgeon, sir.”

Surgical skills, Steve considers. Perfect.

Completing the transfer, Steve begins marching 602-P to the medical ward with Barton trailing close behind. Steve keeping a firm grip on the Beta’s arm to prevent injury until they’ve reached the medical building. The two guards now gone and replaced by Romanoff leaning casually against the wall. A grim expression pinching her features.

“Is the—”

“Not yet,” she reassures. “But best to hurry.”

Heeding the warning, he hustles the prisoner through the doors into a cacophony of alarms and pained cries. Spotting the frazzled Omegan doctor wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead as he desperately fiddles with various equipment.

Unlocking 602-P’s shackles, Steve is pleasantly surprised when the Beta instantly rushes to aid without need of a command. The doctor succinctly apprising the newcomer of the spy’s condition before the surgeon commences instruction for intubation.

Steve observes them until he’s confident they have the dire situation handled, then exits the surgical room to find his newest subordinates awaiting him.

“Chances of survival for that level of trauma are generally low,” Romanoff starts.

Crossing his arms, he refutes her doubts stubbornly, “The spy will live.”

Waving out of his peripherals draws his attention to Barton, flanking him from the opposite side. Watching the Beta’s hands as he inquires, “And if he doesn’t?”

Steve's lips press thinly. Unwilling to divulge more than necessary. “Inform me the minute the prisoner is stable,” he sidesteps. “I’ll be surveying the wreckage for anything useful.”

Tromping off, Steve feels their eyes boring into him. Clearly untrusting, but wise enough to hold their tongues—for now.

If the bastard dies, he muses maliciously. I’ll need to be rid of two potential whistleblowers.

Tony dreams in flashes.

One moment gone.

The next stuck within a nightmare.

Liquid fire shoots up his arm. Agony sings up his leg at a resounding crack. Claws rip the flesh and snap the bones of his chest, then stab mercilessly along his body.

Shadows move within the blinding brightness above. A dance of color, blending and shifting dizzyingly. Muffled words fluttering into his ear while an imperceptible commotion fades in and out in intensity.

His throat stings raw with unbridled screams, bursting forth before they choke on some unknown obstruction.

A mixture of smells clogging his nose—bitter and putrid—followed by something cloying as a roughened cloth is pressed gently against his face.

Forcing him to return to the endless void.

~*~

Cold.

Icy air burns his lungs and settles into the exposed joints of his hands with a deep, gnawing ache. A mild discomfort, he distinguishes, next to the unbearable heaviness at his chest. Tendrils of pain piercing the numb bubble enveloping him moments after and forcing a strained gasp from between dry lips as he’s hauled unceremoniously into stark reality.

Wrenching the heavy, crusted lids of his eyes open, Tony blinks hard to clear the bleary image of a broken ceiling light dangling overhead. His breath visibly billowing while he groggily begins taking stock of his surroundings.

Gingerly, Tony shifts his throbbing head against the flat surface of a pillow to study the firm, torn up mattress he lies upon, complete with a shabby blanket layered atop him. His mind slow to comprehend until he spies a vitals monitor and IV stand stationed alongside the metal bedframe. The obscure angle causing him to squint to analyze the fairly abnormal heart rate displayed before tracking the IV tube as it snakes down into the crook of his left arm. Embedded needle having been secured by strips of surgical tape.  

I’m alive?

A sudden cough erupts from him and Tony grimaces at the smarting pressure it produces.

Yeah. Definitely alive.

Tony fights the overwhelming agony to inspect the scope of his injuries. Ascertaining his dextral arm and torso are swathed in mesh gauze, as well as the matching half of his face. His right leg, likely broken, given the hard cast encasing it. And his chest evidently the worst of it all, wrapped in thick bandaging with wiring poking out from between cloth folds. A few he realizes leading to the aforementioned machinery, but a pair of thicker, mismatched ones trigger concern. Following their path with his eyes until he reaches the ends, hooked to what Tony instantly recognizes as a car battery.

With a strangled noise, Tony fumbles with a shaky hand to disconnect them. Resolved to free himself by a feeble tug.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Startled, Tony frantically looks about the shadows to locate the source. Surprised to see an unknown man by a small sink a few feet away. The disposable razor he’s using gliding the length of his cheek, collecting foam and facial hair.  

“I rather hoped you wouldn’t wake.” Gifting Tony a commiserating look, he pleads, “Forgive me for saving your life.”

Tony blinks owlishly, sluggishly processing the heavily accented words.

“Why—” Tony’s faint voice cracks, provoking an aggressive coughing fit. Tears blinding him as the force of it aggravates his wounds.

A sympathetic sigh rises above his wheezes, followed by splashing as the man finishes his shave. Tony’s head buzzing when he eventually settles and swallowing an urge to vomit as the room seems to sway nauseatingly.

“Please don’t take it personally,” he defends, wiping his face with a ratty towel before collecting a small, plastic cup. The faucet squeaking as it turns on and the spray of water inordinately loud. “I’m not one of those who enjoys needless suffering.”

The man pads lightly across tile flooring. Leaning over, he nudges a hand under the back of Tony’s head and raises it with exceptional tenderness to meet the rim of the cup. “Drink slowly.”

Tony attempts to do as directed, but as the cool water hits his tongue, he falls to his more primal instincts. With desperation, he clutches at the cup to intake every drop, unbothered as several beads drip down his chin. The relief immeasurable and over far too quickly as the man abruptly yanks it away, leaving him bereft.  

“That’s plenty for now,” he admonishes, gently lowering Tony to the pillow. “You’re still not out of the woods, yet. Try to rest.”

Tony protests with a tiny shake of his head. “Who…?” He weakly clears his throat. “Wh-where?”

“My name is Yinsen. Or, as they would call me, 602-P. Much easier to remember,” he introduces with a humorless grin, causing Tony to release a confused, soft sound at the apparent joke. “You’re in a medical ward at a Hydra outpost located within the formerly known country of Canada. Which part, precisely, I’m not certain.”

Canada? Tony’s hazy memory recalls the invasions within the previous decade. Hydra’s territory expanding to the west after Captain Hydra’s conquering throughout Europe. The US maintaining a defensive hold along the border with the newest shipments of Stark weaponry in tow. And Howard’s reluctance to share any of it with Canadian troops, condemning them to the mercy of Hydra and their ever advancing technologies.

Terror lances through him. The monitor harshly signaling his change in pulse, now pounding acutely at his temples. Tony shuddering and gasping for air when Yinsen places a hand upon his shoulder to ground him, hushing him in a language Tony doesn’t understand.

“You have been out cold for four days,” Yinsen informs softly as Tony calms, giving a comforting squeeze. “There will be time for questions once you have recov—”

A blaring buzzer curtails him; eliciting Yinsen to whip around and stand stiffly when a door Tony failed to notice is jerked open. Light from the corridor spilling into the dim interior, temporarily blinding him as a muscular man marches inside.

“Consciousness only occurred a short time ago,” Yinsen hurries to advise. “He isn’t coherent enough for an interrogation. The stress could—”

“Move aside, prisoner,” comes an eerily composed voice. Tony’s body instinctively responding to the Alpha’s tone with an involuntary shiver.

Yinsen obeys, permitting him unimpeded access to Tony’s bedside. The Alpha stepping into view, looming over Tony with an expressionless look. His gaze roving Tony’s form as though assessing the damage for himself.

With the light blocked, Tony notes a white scar carving a jagged line from the Alpha’s brow, across his left eyelid, and over the cheekbone—the point of it disappearing into the scruff at his jaw. His hair combed back to enhance the sharp angles of his face and the stunning blue of his eyes. A delirious thought of potential entering Tony’s mind before the sight of the red, Hydra symbol—emblazoned across the Alpha’s uniform breast—reminds him of his fate.

A fog of fatigue creeps over him, despite the glaring danger. Slipping out of awareness before jolting at the Alpha’s peremptory and repeated demand: “I said, give me your name.”

Tony musters up what little energy remains to focus on the gold in the Alpha’s eyes. The gleam of a challenge he recognizes within them triggering his father’s voice from the deep recesses of his subconscious: “Stark men are made of iron.”

With a hint of his typical debonair smile, Tony cheekily replies, “Iron…Man.”

He catches a low growl and an incomprehensible, placating response before exhaustion pulls him swiftly into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Tony combats drowsiness with every transition into fragmented reality. Sometimes, conscious for a spoonful or two of lukewarm soup and several gulps of water. Other times, mentally grappling at vague sensations while his wounds are redressed, or the incontinence pads tucked beneath his lower region are changed. A part of his addled brain registering embarrassment to the latter violations.

But as time progresses, Tony steadily regains the ability to keep undesired, intervals of sleep at bay. Arousing to sounds and ministrations with increasing ease until he firmly reclaims corporeal awareness. The lethargic fog in his mind dissipating as he rolls his head to the side to better view the unfamiliar prisoner now studying the monitor. His caretaker’s countenance haggard and body tense from evident stress.

“Should we start arranging the funeral?” The man turns sharply at Tony’s hoarse voice. “I’m not that big on flowers. Kind of allergic.”

A glimmer of mirth banishes the hard lines on the man’s face. The white, Omegan rings encircling his pupils brightening as he smiles wanly.

“The eulogy might need a little work,” Tony continues. “‘He was alive for a while. Then, he died.’ Not exactly moving. Lacks adulation.”

Ticking his head, the Omega hesitantly plays along, “Maybe I’ll mention your tenacity towards death since you flatlined twice on the operating table.” Glancing towards the heavens, he feigns mourning, “‘Although he sucked at trying to die, he never gave up.’”

Tony coughs a laugh in return, but winces when his chest throbs. The affliction evoking a sense of vulnerability and pressuring him to accomplish the arduous task of merely sitting upright.

With newfound determination, Tony bends his uninjured arm awkwardly in preparation to lever himself. Releasing a grunt when he commences a war on gravity. His atrophying muscles straining to support him, and a yelp escaping unbidden when pain shoots outwards from his center mass in warning.

“Whoa,” the Omega exclaims, immediately grabbing at him. “I don’t think you should be moving.”

Tony doesn’t respond, except by stubbornly pushing against him to convey his decision made. And with a resigned sigh, the Omega slides an arm around his shoulders to bear his weight. Guiding Tony upwards until he’s nearly vertical before briskly gathering the pillow and blanket, tucking them into a makeshift backrest to keep Tony propped. The scant padding it provides hardly saving his spine from the unforgiving wall when he leans into it, eliciting a groan in complaint.

Tony’s head swims from the change in position, provoking nausea to return with a vengeance as bile burns low in his throat. Shivers wracking him once he’s exposed to the frigid air, causing goosebumps to dance across his flesh. His heart making its own objections while it pounds mercilessly against the cage of his ribs.

Despite the distractions, Tony stays keen on the fellow prisoner’s movements while he scurries to the opposite side of the room. Observing him collect his own bedding from an inflatable mattress placed directly beside another where the slumbering form of Yinsen lies. The Beta’s soft snores filling the intolerable quietude and offering an illusion of normalcy.

Overcome by relief to see the man’s life spared after his little show of defiance, Tony guiltlessly reflects on said interaction. Recollecting Hydra Joe’s superior demeanor, piercing glare, and unmistakable disposition to assert authority. Then—to Tony’s immense pleasure—his subsequent slip of control. The antagonized growl still reverberating inside his skull.

Big Bad Alpha huffed and puffed, but couldn’t blow the house down.

The heaviness of a blanket being draped over him draws him back to the present. Coarse material scratching across every inch of skin while the Omega deftly covers him. A flush heating Tony’s face in dawning realization as it slides against a specifically sensitive area.

I’m naked!

Scrabbling for the edge of the blanket at his hips, Tony tugs it higher—only to be stopped short by something distinctly hard and protruding from his sternum. A memory of jumper cables and a car battery flashing at the forefront of his mind.

Shakily, Tony reaches to tear apart the mound of bandages, but is abruptly stalled by a hand gripping his wrist.

“Let me do that,” the Omega says, his kind insistence only serving to compound Tony’s mortification.

“Undressing me already and I don’t even know your name,” Tony quips, squirming slightly to mitigate his discomfort. “At least buy me a drink first. Single malt scotch on the rocks, por favor.”

Chuckling dryly, the Omega takes his cue, “Dr. Bruce Banner, PhD.” Twisting at the waist, he collects scissors from a small, rolling tray to begin the tedious process of cutting through the folds. “Or just Bruce is fine.”

“Just Bruce, huh?” Tony parrots. “Don’t have a fancy number like him?” He inclines his head indicatively in Yinsen’s direction.

The Omega’s brows furrow, peeved by the insinuation. “812-P,” Bruce replies through gritted teeth. “You’ll probably have one soon.”

“Lucky me,” Tony returns sardonically. Belatedly realizing the courtesy of introduction is yet to be returned. “Not curious whose ass you’ve been wiping, Just Bruce?”

Bruce carefully snips another layer before answering in a hushed voice, “We both know who you are.” His gaze darts upwards, piquing Tony’s interest to follow his line of sight until he spies a blinking red dot in the far corner. The surveillance camera strategically camouflaged by darkness.

“In our scientific fields, it’s impossible not to,” Bruce carries on. “Other than your—frankly, brilliant—lectures, you’ve also made innovative strides towards cleaner energy resources and saved countless lives.” Digging a finger to part a particularly tight strip of gauze, Bruce adds in afterthought, “Which was entirely unprecedented given your dad’s legacy.”

Tony utters a tsk at that. Proud to learn his reputation has shifted from beneath Howard’s blood-stained shadow, but ashamed to remember his agreement to step back within it. “The old man does have a knack for blowing things up.”

Including relationships, he thinks bitterly.

Bruce hums his concurrence. “Hydra’s been after his work since the Second World War. If they find out his son is in their claws…” He shakes his head to expel the thought. “It would be catalytic.”

“So,” clearing his throat, Tony ventures a guess, “you won’t be telling the Happy Brigade about me?”

“No.” Bruce’s hands tremble as he slices through another layer. The wrappings thinning out sufficiently for Tony to distinguish an outline. “For Yinsen, myself, and what’s left of the world, it would mean a grisly end.” Looking squarely at Tony, Bruce proclaims, “For you, likely a fate worse than death.”

Tony flinches at the notion of being the reason for a hypothetical doomsday. Envisioning the world engulfed in flames and bodies littering the ground while he slaves to satisfy Hydra’s every whim. The mental image causing something heavy to settle in the pit of his stomach.

Eventually, Bruce peels away the final piece to reveal a sizeable, round device implanted center breast. His skin gradually healing around it but still crusted with dried blood. The constriction he’s been enduring suggesting a hollowed space hidden underneath the casing where the cables disappear into—their destination and its overall purpose unknown.

“What the hell did you do to me?”

Bruce shamefully looks away. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I didn’t—”

“It’s an electromagnet,” Yinsen suddenly chimes in, rising from his respective bed and ambling over. Bruce politely moving aside to allow him room. “Part of the fuselage impaled your chest cavity,” he elucidates. “The good news is that it punctured a lung, but only caused a small pneumothorax. Which should heal on its own.”

The reassurance hardly dispels Tony’s mounting distress. His respires becoming shallower and pulse quickening when he dares to press further, “And the bad news?”

Yinsen’s throat bobs as he swallows, steeling himself. “During the extraction, the metal splintered. We were only able to remove some of the shards, but many still remain, and are now headed into your atrial septum. But this,” the Beta lightly taps the magnet, “is preventing them from entering your heart.”

Stunned, Tony glances from them to the only barrier between life and death. Digesting the facts and heavy implications if either part were to cease their critical functions.

“It’s a temporary fix,” Tony conjectures. “I’ll die when the battery drains.”

Yinsen nods solemnly. “I’m afraid so.”

Tony regards the other prisoner, who remains resolute in avoiding eye contact. Guilt written across his downturned face.

“It’s already happening,” Tony easily deduces.

“Your readings have stopped improving,” Bruce confirms.

Fear floods his veins, mentally dragging him back into a similar bottomless pit of despair he once survived. His lungs struggling to intake air before the flame of determination unexpectedly reignites. An idea rapidly constructing as the cogs in his head begin to turn. “Is there a lab?” he wonders, intonating desperation. “And equipment?”

At the apprehensive look they share, Tony beseeches, “Can you get me there?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Bruce says apologetically. “It’ll be too risky and would arise suspicion.”

“You’re also hardly fit for physical activity,” Yinsen tacks on. “Apart from the misfortunes I’ve mentioned, you’ve also suffered multiple contusions, several lacerations, widespread second-degree burns, and a fractured femur. So, rest is still necessary.”

“But,” Bruce is quick to interject before Tony has a chance to argue. “There’s a possibility to sneak in a list of materials and set of blank blueprints, if you promise to work within the camera’s blind spot.” Then, gesturing between Yinsen and himself, he offers, “We’ll act as your hands.”

Groaning his frustrations, Tony grudgingly concedes, “Guess I’ll take what I can get.”

Yinsen reaches to correct his nasal cannula just as the familiar buzzer sounds. Tony dismally noting how submissive and defeated his newly gained comrades stand. His arm raising automatically to shield against the blinding light as a soldier walks in, balancing a rattling food tray.

“Both of you are to return to your services today,” she orders. “The guards outside will escort you.”

Immediately complying, they scuttle past her. Bruce hazarding a parting glimpse over his shoulder at Tony before disappearing around the frame. The newcomer kicking it shut behind them with finality, leaving him utterly alone and defenseless in her presence.

Radiating a subdued power Tony can’t quite identify, she stalks over. Hazel eyes ringed gold locking on him as she sets the tray upon his lap, then perches herself on the edge of the bed. His leg involuntarily sliding to rest against her thigh when the mattress dips.  

“Playing babysitter?” Tony starts, defaulting to anxious babbling in the face of a threat. “Pep—uh, a friend of mine tends to do the same. Says I’m like a reckless child that’ll wind up dead in a ditch somewhere without her.” Pointedly looking at his bruised and broken body, he mutters, “She might have a point.”

Reticent, Hydra Jane merely continues to scrutinize him with an intensity he’s never encountered. Almost swearing she could read his thoughts—peer into his soul.

He quivers under it.

“It’s a tad chilly in here, right?” Tony strives to divert her attention. “Is the heating bill too high or does the thermostat—?”

“You should eat,” she cuts him off, pushing the tray and the unnoticed bowl of food closer. The mushy, beige contents inside appearing bland and unappetizing.

“Porridge?” Tony attempts to swallow past a lump forming in his throat. “I read a story about this once. Something about a little girl and three hungry bears trying to kill her.”

The Alpha’s mouth twitches, hinting at a smile. “It’s oatmeal.”

“Same difference,” he retorts, implying more than the food. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

Lips parting slowly, she gifts him a feral reveal of teeth that would even make a predator cower. “Eat.”

The Alpha command slithers over him, but ultimately lacks the same effect as Hydra Joe. Something Tony finds bewildering enough to place a mental pin in to analyze later. That is, he thinks grimly, if he’s even still alive.

For now, he decides the better option is to appease her, and scoops a healthy amount of slop onto the spoon. Only to fumble it when it nears his mouth, globs streaking the blanket.

Without comment, she bends forward to collect the dropped utensil, but Tony rushes to beat her to it. Grouching as he snatches it up, “I can do it myself.”

The faint smile returns as her eyes glint with amusement. “I think I’m beginning to agree with your friend.”

Tony huffs petulantly in response, stirring the oatmeal absently. “I’m not telling her you said that.”

Humoring his independence, the Alpha opts to supervise as he clumsily consumes his meal. His hand uncooperative from the bitter cold when he grabs for the cup on the tray. And cursing below his breath when he unintentionally knocks it sideways, spilling its contents before it clatters onto the floor.

“For an Omega, you’re incredibly persistent.”

Tony immediately freezes. His thoughts exploding into a whirlwind of panic as he calculates the weeks from his last injection. Determining a span of considerable time remains before the next round, and any Omegan trait shouldn’t be outwardly perceptible. No pheromones to pick up on and the identifier rings faded.

How did she…?

Tony endeavors to deny it, “I’m not—”

“Black market blockers have a specific scent, similar to ripened bananas.” Folding her arms over her chest, she expands on her insights, “Albeit used across the spectrum, it’s typically a bi-monthly staple for Omegas—if they’re able to obtain it.”

Taken aback, Tony deflects caustically, “Were your parents bloodhounds by chance?”

Her expression instantly turns glacial, eyes darkening with a simmering rage. The acute change sending a shiver racing up Tony’s spine.

“Touchy subject. Got it.” Tony shoots for levity, “Guess it’s comforting to know there’ll be other competitors for Worst-Parent-of-the-Year.”

Ire deflating fractionally, the Alpha abruptly switches tactics. “You’re going to give me your real name, Iron Man, before I walk out of here.”

Tony swallows nervously at the underlying threat and brushes a clump of oatmeal from the blanket. Drawing upon the skills he’s gained interfacing with the Board of Directors as he replies flippantly, “Not before you give me yours, Mama Bear.”

The Alpha easily catches the reference, if the curl of her lips is any indication. “I asked you first.”

“Technically, Papa Bear did,” Tony parries. “Since we’re keeping track.”

Mama Bear decides to yield to the battle of names—for now—and moves on to a more significant matter. “What were you doing in Hydra air space?”

“Enjoying the view,” Tony answers cheekily. “Heard the country is breathtaking this time of year.”

“So breathtaking, you crashed?”

Tony recoils.  

Metal folds and rips.

Fire licks at his skin.

“Goodbye, Mr. Stark.”

With convulsive gasps, Tony fights the tide until he safely returns to the hospital bed. A high-pitched ringing in his ears drowning out the monitor’s alarm while the pounding at his temples aggravates his stitching. His body trembling from receding adrenaline, and leaving him drained of precious energy.

Mama Bear now stands motionless, absorbing the sight of him in silent contemplation. Giving Tony the impression of being a bug under a microscope.

Falteringly, Tony endeavors to recover a semblance of control, “I h-held it a little t-too long.”

“Stop,” she says with an oddly soft inflection, then swoops to retrieve the cup from the floor and heads to the sink to refill it. Seemingly allowing him a moment to compose himself.

Tony barely suppresses his emotions when she proffers the drink. Eyeing her warily through blurry vision, uncertain of her intentions. “I don’t like being handed things.”

Placing the cup onto the rolling tray with notable force, Mama Bear maneuvers it closer for his benefit. Muttering a promise as she unceremoniously collects his half-eaten meal and departs the room, “We’ll talk again.”

“Looking forward to it,” Tony replies dully to her retreating backside and waits until her shadow vanishes from behind the door to drop his guard. Discreetly shedding anguished tears into the palm of his hand.

Warm water sooths the chill from Steve’s bones as he rests his forehead against the shower tile. Allowing it to mentally transport him to someplace tropical; visualizing white sand beneath his bare feet, the sun’s rays kissing his skin, and the gentle roar of waves. The planet healing, at long last, after the Great Dictator’s rule and the dawning of his own reign.

Something sorely needed, he knows, after his emergence from the ice a little over a decade ago. Beholding a barbaric world Hydra prophesized, where humankind became increasingly irresponsible with their freedoms. The very fabric of society verging on collapse—pressured by escalating corruption, crime, starvation, and needless war.

Although, Steve admits, his failure to attain the serum played a critical role in spite of the superhuman abilities gained from Howard Stark’s experiment. Inadvertently dooming Hydra’s initiatives while powerless to fend off the US planes that shot him down over the Arctic, consequently losing decades of his life and the formula to the frozen sea.

Yet, even with his blood samples and hundreds of scientific experts enslaved, the missing key to the serum’s replication remains inconclusive. Its secret safeguarded from the Great Dictator’s reach by Stark Industries and Howard’s governmental sycophants. Leaving Steve to be the only Super Soldier in existence.

Much to his own advantages.

His thoughts returning to the only factor standing between the current situation and his new objective. Wondering if Romanoff managed to extract any information from his little, golden ticket, or if a more calloused method will be required.

Switching off the water, Steve steps out and towels off. The bathroom spacious enough for the mated pair that once owned the cabin, but now serves a purpose of luxury for himself.

“Consider it a gift,” Red Skull indulges him, “for your unwavering loyalty.”

Although uncomfortable, at first, with the idea of roaming hallways haunted by familial memories, Steve’s become accustomed to the privacy it offers. The cabin standing off the beaten path behind the barracks, yet close enough to keep a watchful eye on his unit’s activities.

Tying the towel at his waist, Steve exits the bathroom into the main bedroom. Grabbing his suit from the closet and tossing it onto the neatly made, king sized bed with intent to dress. Only for his fingers to pause on the knot of the towel when he catches a whiff of Alpha pheromones.

“We’ve discussed this, Romanoff.” He releases a harsh breath in exasperation. “No one is permitted inside my house.”

From his peripherals, he observes her move into the room from the doorway. Opting to lean against the dresser with little respect to boundaries.

“He isn’t a spy.”

Looking up, he quickly mulls over her final judgment. Recognizing her honed deduction skills are rarely, if ever incorrect.

“That’s hardly consequential.”

Her brows furrow, clearly confounded. “How?”

Confidently facing her, Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “Red Skull is desperate for any scrap of information regarding Howard Stark,” he explains. “He’ll believe we’ve captured a spy, whether the prisoner possesses military and political intelligence or not.”

Romanoff’s chin tilts upwards, somewhat skeptical. “You think he won’t call your bluff?”

Steve chuckles dismissively. “I know so.”

Diverting her gaze to the bedroom window, she falls into pensive thought. Allowing several protracted seconds of silence to pass before she speaks again. “That’s quite a gamble.”

He shrugs, hardly concerned. “The odds are in my favor.”

“Are they?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” he challenges, irked by her incessant probing. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

“It’s more to do with what he isn't.” Approaching the bed in two long strides, she elaborates, “We don’t have a clue about his identity or any importance he might have to his country.” At Steve’s narrowed look, she says, “He’s hiding something.”

“All right,” Steve says, gesturing her to continue. “I’m listening.”

A nearly imperceptible sideways glance denotes her hesitancy to disclose a certain piece of information, but she wisely imparts it anyway. “He’s an Omega.”

Steve’s hackles rise instantly, recalling the prisoner’s insolent smile and audacity to disregard a direct demand from an Alpha. A growl building in his chest as his hands clench into fists.

“And,” Romanoff quickly adds, sensing his unraveling restraint, “I’m certain somebody attempted to murder him.” Leaning closer for emphasis, she says, “The crux of the matter we need to find out is: why?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

“How long have I been here?”

Yinsen eases his arm into the sleeve of the yellow jumpsuit. The once pink and weepy burns now a pattern of dark blotches and raised scars with a matching set creeping up his right flank and neck. His skin tight and unbearably itchy alongside the overall soreness from fading bruises and healing gashes. Especially, his head wound turned mild concussion, which remains the source of an unrelenting, dull headache.

“A little over five weeks,” Yinsen answers helpfully, guiding the zipper until it reaches the bottom of the magnet to allow space for the cables.

Tony throws his head back against the bathroom wall with a painful thunk. “And not a single shower until now? That’s a new personal record.” Tony adds self-consciously, “You’ve probably smelled better things.”

“Probably,” he agrees, a teasing glint in his eye. “But we managed with a few sponge baths.”

Heat floods Tony’s face at the mental image, despite his nudity and the Beta’s washcloth assistance mere minutes prior. Awkwardly wiping beads of water from his forehead as he endeavors to change the subject. “Did you bring it?”

Holding up a finger to shush him, Yinsen rises from his crouched position and steps on quiet toes to stand at the doorframe partitioning the en-suite bathroom from the hospital room. Giving a cursory glance around it to determine no Hydra goons are waiting to catch them red-handed before hurriedly backtracking. Producing multiple, sloppily folded sheets of paper and a sharpened pencil nub from his pocket as he plops down onto the damp floor beside Tony.

“Here’s the list.” He smooths out a particularly crumpled piece, then holds it out. “I apologize for any limitations.”

Tony stares intensely at it until Yinsen takes the hint and lays it on his lap. The paper hardly touching his leg before Tony snatches it up and searches hungrily for the necessary elements and tools. Only to pause in shock when he reads over multiple, incongruous items.

“These are…”

“Some of your father’s weapons, yes,” Yinsen confirms dejectedly, picking at the lint on his jumpsuit.

“That can’t be.” Perturbed, Tony runs the pad of his thumb across the lettering, smearing graphite along the margin. “How did Hydra procure them?”

“Treason? Defectors? Terrorist cells?” He shrugs. “The possibilities are endless.”

Tony blinks hard, recalling his previous vision of a world aflame—only now with his own name raining down from the sky.

“Well,” Tony says gruffly. “Let’s fix that.”

Gathering the blank sheets, Tony sets to work. Rolling onto his hip for a better angle, he sketches out the design; formulating schematics and unstable yet effective chemical fusions. And paying little mind to Yinsen peeking over his shoulder while he scratches out a few numerical equations, reworking them into tighter parameters.

“Interesting,” Yinsen comments as Tony modifies a few structural flaws and finalizes measurements. Then inquires as he points to a specific element, “What is this?”

“Palladium,” Tony mumbles, scribbling a notation on how to extract it. “Each missile contains 0.15 grams, but you’ll need at least 1.6.”

“That will require about a dozen to be disassembled,” Yinsen calculates. Reaching for the blueprints now scattered around Tony’s legs, he seeks permission, “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Scooping them up, Yinsen thoroughly studies each section. Humming in what Tony perceives as simultaneous fascination and comprehension.

“I see,” the Beta says at length. “But what can it generate?”

Tony fiddles with the pencil, itching to do more than simply outlining. “If my math is correct—and it always is—3 gigajoules per second.” He lightly pats the magnet. “It should keep the shards out of my heart.”

“I’ll say.” Awestruck, Yinsen remarks, “This could run it for 50 lifetimes.”

“Just the one will suffice,” Tony rejoinders, pressing the blunt graphite against his pointer finger. “Question is: can you do it?”

With a sad chuckle, Yinsen carefully refolds the papers. “Why else would Hydra need me, if not for my skills?”

“Fair enough,” Tony concedes his point, dipping his head somewhat shamefully. “But since we’re on the topic…”

“You want to know what I do?” Tony easily identifies a tone of self-reproach underneath the mask of cool acceptance. Experiencing a pang of sympathy when the Beta states, “I help them win.”

“Except now,” Tony reminds him.

“Maybe.” Yinsen ruminates, “Or I have just given them the solution towards world domination.” Inching his glasses up his face, he wearily rubs at his eyes. “There are two difficult paths that will alter the outcome for humanity. And you, my friend, are the one standing at the fork in the road.”

Tony’s breath hitches at that. “What if there’s a third option?”

“I suppose if you figure that out,” Yinsen sighs, “then I hope you will do everything in your power to bring it to fruition.” Squeezing Tony’s arm, he exhorts, “Don’t waste this second chance at life, Stark. You're still here for a reason.”

The words penetrate deep into Tony’s mind, swirling in the mixture of self-deprecation and societal judgments. Remaining lost to his racing thoughts while Yinsen stands, stuffing the blueprints into his pocket before offering him aid.

Waving him off, Tony grasps at the edge of the bathroom counter. And with a fortifying breath, begins to haul himself up with the gracefulness of a newborn foal. Favoring his recovering leg while he wobbles to his feet, and disregarding the burn from his muscles as he struggles to maintain balance.

Yinsen is quick to grab ahold of his jumpsuit when he nearly pitches sideways. Slinging Tony’s arm around his shoulder to support him—despite Tony’s grumbling protests—then slowly maneuvers him closer to the counter. Allotting Tony the honor of precariously hefting the battery by its frayed handle.

“The screws seem to be mending the breakage well,” Yinsen strives for positivity, permitting Tony to set their pace while he limps onward. “I estimate you will be walking independently within the next few weeks.”

Tony grunts in response, concentrating on the trek across the room. Grateful to be cast-free, at the very least, while relearning how to operate his legs. His energy waning with every laborious step and battling the floor as it appears to spin beneath him. A groan of relief escaping him when he finally arrives at the bed and collapses onto the sunken mattress; panting as pressure builds in his chest and his heart pounds rapidly.

With tremendous effort, Tony adjusts to a more comfortable position. Swiping his sleeve above his brows to remove a layer of sweat before glancing in direction of the camera. Fairly certain—after performing tests to provoke his captors—that this particular model lacks an audio feature.

“My best friend—Rhodey—he’s a colonel,” Tony says apropos nothing. “He should be looking for me by now.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Yinsen replies sincerely, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Tony’s arm. “But he will never find you.”

Tony tenses as the cuff constricts. “How do you know?”

Skin creasing between his brows, Yinsen picks up a nearby notepad to chart the reading.

“Your friend is likely aware of Hydra’s human trafficking practices. As well as the ramifications if he were to breach enemy lines,” he explains. “The risks are too great to comb for a needle in a haystack.”

“Rhodey can do anything,” Tony weakly argues, his faith wavering. “You don’t know him like I do.”

“That is true.” Yinsen tears a blank page off the notepad and draws a three-by-three grid. “But have you considered he might have the same confidence in you?”

Warmth spreads through Tony’s chest at that, temporarily chasing away the increasing discomfort before the Beta seats himself. Offering the paper with an “X” marked in the middle square.

“Your move.”

With little else to do, Tony makes to reach for it—but stills at a sudden loss of sensation.

“My left arm is numb,” he says in alarm, looking up to meet Yinsen’s widening eyes. “Is that normal?”

Steve loathes to admit the validity of Romanoff’s point. Her insights throwing a wrench in his meticulous plans; altering the timeframe in mind and forcing him to endure the monotony longer than necessary. Leaving him little choice but to replace Barton at the tower’s surveillance console while his subordinate scours the wreckage site for a significant piece of equipment.

Yet, after days of the Omega’s indistinct self-talk and occasional boundary testing via colorful vocabulary, Steve grows restless. Ultimately deciding to abandon the monitors for a change of scenery and a well-deserved meal.

The mess hall is quaint, barely fitting six tables and kitchen within its walls. Its loft once reserved for honeymooners now designated for the cook’s personal quarters. Allowing access needed to prep the daily supply of food during the early morning hours and cook meals at a speedier rate.

One meal of which Steve’s halfheartedly partaking in as he pokes at it regrettably with the tip of his knife. Determining the steak scarcely edible from its rubbery center and crunchy, burnt edges. The low quality evoking a sense of yearning for the gourmet food he indulged while stationed at Hydra Headquarters. Always served upon elegant dishware and paired with various selections of wine.

I’d be eating that now if not for this damn Omega, Steve thinks bitterly, spearing a piece onto his fork and grudgingly placing it in his mouth. Is the effort really worth the trouble?

Recollecting on the near month and a half of his prisoner’s recovery, Steve assesses the wasted medical supplies along with other limited resources. Plus, the time spent setting the stage for the handover with a carefully crafted story. All for the Omega to undermine him by retaining anonymity with seemingly little to no fear of any consequences. Compelling Steve to ponder how such an Omega could become insufferable and if the Great Dictator might see through the ploy due to it.

Maybe I should kill them all, he considers, working through a particularly chewy and flavorless bite. Then recount catching two traitors conspiring with a spy.

“Captain.”

Steve flicks his gaze up from his plate to the young, petite private standing rigidly at the opposite side of the table. The ambient noise falling silent as the other diners stop eating in favor of witnessing the interaction.

“Private Meier,” he acknowledges, shooting a baleful glare at prying eyes until the soldiers turn away to murmur amongst themselves.

Slipping the rucksack from her shoulders, the Beta drops it heavily onto the table; causing Steve’s tray to rattle from the minor impact. “The search was successful, sir.”

Standing swiftly, Steve slides his lunch aside to eagerly grab for the bag. Immediately pulling the strings loose and flipping the flap open to behold the twin set of incriminating, orange boxes nestled inside.

“Excellent job,” Steve praises automatically, sticking his hand in to inspect for damages. “Where were they located?”

“About a half-kilometer from the main wreckage, buried in a debris field,” Meier answers, proudly lifting her head. “It took several hours to dig up.”

Which explains why I never found them, Steve thinks.  

“And Lieutenant Barton’s whereabouts?” he wonders, belatedly noticing his subordinate’s absence.

“He’s resuming his duties at the tower, sir.”

Steve nods in approval, pleased by the unexpected competence. “Take the remainder of the day to rest as a reward.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she replies with clear elation, and offers a salute before ambling towards the group still in the midst of discussion.

Hauling up the rucksack, Steve sets off for the communications office. His sour mood shifting as he steps out into a sunny day. Welcoming the bit of warmth on his face, despite the perpetual chill on the air and the mixture of mud and slush coating his boots.

The pleasantness seemingly infectious when he nears the building, finding the door cracked and the shades of the windows tied apart. Romanoff already catching sight of him through the glass and rotating in her chair greet him. The Alpha’s head tiling with intrigue as he enters, dropping the bag unceremoniously at her feet.

“I assume there’s no appreciable damage,” she starts, easily figuring out the bag’s contents.

“Almost perfect condition,” Steve assures. “How soon can you get this done?”

“For the cockpit recordings, I should have them transcribed by sometime tomorrow.” Folding her arms across her chest, the Alpha suggests, “If you want any information concerning the plane itself, you’ll have to appoint one of the prisoners to parse the data.”

“Wonderful,” Steve returns flatly, suppressing an urge to sigh as he turns to leave. “Be sure to check in later, then.”

Romanoff doesn’t respond—already falling into concentrated motion to disassemble the CVR’s casing. Pulling the box out before gathering several tools from the belt at her waist and placing them in a neat row on the console.

Steve releases a long breath through his nose as impatience rises. But ultimately tempers it by his decision to return to the monitors while awaiting the results.

Walking with a slow gait through the courtyard, Steve comes to a halt when Barton suddenly appears—nearly knocking into him with a look of consternation. The Beta doubling over to fight for breath before reporting, “The prisoner. He’s—”

Shit.  

Steve bolts forward before the Beta can finish. His advanced hearing picking up on breathless curses as Barton stumbles after him, barely able to keep pace.

“Captain,” the Beta calls after him as they reach the bottom of the slope. “The prisoners are at the testing facility.”

Whirling around at that, Steve barks, “Why are they there?”

“According to Lieutenant Hensley, 602-P claimed the prisoner could be healed with special equipment,” Barton explains through short respires. “It was their only option.”

“You’re telling me Hensley believed he could act against my authority?” Steve snaps back, zeroing in on the warehouse farther down the pathway. “This could be a trap or an escape attempt.”

Barton shakes his head fractionally. “He sought your permission a couple hours ago, sir, but you were unavailable. And the prisoner’s condition is deteriorating dangerously.”

Damn it.

With a snarl, Steve races for the facility. Shoving past a startled Hensley positioned outside before bursting through the double doors—and straight into a flurry of activity.

812-P is closest, pressing a defibrillator against his golden ticket’s chest. The Omega’s body jolting beneath the electrode pads, causing the metal table he lies upon to shake violently. While 602-P scurries about, collecting seemingly random objects before returning to a separate workstation.

“He needs it now,” 812-P stresses, warming up the machine once more as 602-P commences tinkering with an unrecognizable device.

In a fury, Steve storms over to the Beta. And grasping ahold of his wrist, yanks him from his current task.

“What are you doing with my prisoner?” Steve growls inches from the Beta’s face, whose eyes clench shut in anticipation of punishment.

“H-he’s in cardiac arrest,” the Beta stutters out as a high-pitched whine fills the space around them. “Please. This will save him.”

Steve glances incredulously toward the round device in question, then to the lifeless Omega before releasing the prisoner. Threatening in a low voice, “You have 90 seconds to complete it.”

With a sharp intake of breath, the Beta gets back to business. His hands incredibly steady while he assembles it, fitting pieces seamlessly together like a puzzle.

“30 seconds.”

His countdown serves to drive the prisoner faster as the Beta wires it to the main electrical unit. Overhead lights flickering and dimming while he carefully switches the power on. The device emanating a bluish, white glow as the lightbulbs simultaneously die, plunging the warehouse into semi-darkness.

Moving to gain a better view, Steve’s struck by the intricate design and ethereal beauty. Marveling at the futuristic technology and all the possibilities it unveils in the name of weaponry advancement.

Especially, Steve thinks, for his own benefit.  

“It worked,” 602-P whispers in awe, cradling it gingerly between his fingertips.

“We’re losing him,” 812-P shouts, kicking the Beta into gear as he disconnects the device, and rushes to rescue the dying prisoner.

Trailing behind, Steve takes notice of Barton locking the doors from his periphery when he comes to stand at the other side of the table. Opting to oversee the procedure as both prisoners begin withdrawing a similar yet clunky device from the Omega’s chest. Revealing a gaping hole edged by shredded skin and a thick wall of scar tissue. The gruesome sight hardly perturbing him after years of encountering fatal wounds on the battlefield.

Many of which were done by his own hands.

Intrigued, Steve continues to observe as 602-P gently slots a sleek, metal cylinder into the hole to presumably shield the surrounding flesh. Then inserts a magnet deep within the cavity before guiding the device’s wires inside, promptly attaching them with an audible click.

The Omega suddenly lurches to life—emitting a strained cry as he flails wildly in apparent disorientation. His hand unconsciously seeking comfort as it clasps onto Steve’s own, causing him to jerk back in surprise. Finding the skin disturbingly icy against the heat of his palm, but the hold remarkably powerful for such a weak creature.

His thoughts reeling as a prickling sensation erupts in his chest before an indiscernible constriction occurs at the Omega’s distressed whimpers. Eliciting him to rip free from the slackening grip, and place distance between them. Unsettled by his raised heartbeat and the lingering touch of the Omega’s hand.

Aside from his half-lidded and frantically roving gaze, the Omega is pale and drenched in sweat with red tinting his cheeks. His body shivering uncontrollably in spite of being gentled by the prisoners with hushed tones and reassuring words.

Feverish, Steve easily concludes, feeling the tightening in his chest intensify. Highly so.

Shaking himself, Steve strives to regain control. “How did you allow this to happen?” he accuses gruffly. The prisoners flinching in response, but steadfastly keeping their eyes upon the Omega. “Answer the question,” he demands.

812-P falters, “W-we’re doing our best. Th—”

“These buildings lack proper heating, which has attributed to his worsening state,” 602-P interrupts. “There is only so much that can be done.”

“Like this?” Steve waves indicatively towards the device.

“It is meant to keep his heart beating,” 602-P says, matter of fact. “He is still alive, as you ordered, sir.”

The Omega curls in on himself. One hand still extended and dangling off the edge as though still reaching for Steve. Evoking irritation within him at the fact he nearly lost his gold ticket, even under the care of several individuals.

“If you want something done right,” his father’s voice echoes in his skull. “Do it yourself, Steven.”

Pivoting on his heel, Steve tromps over to Barton, who shifts to stand at attention.

“I want the prisoner transferred to my cabin once the unit retires for the night,” he commands.

“Captain?” Barton asks, bewildered, and peers over Steve’s shoulder at the aforementioned prisoner. “I’m not positive that’s a good idea.”

Steve’s eyes narrow in warning. “And why not?”

“I don’t trust him, sir.”

Steve smiles tautly at that, somewhat relieved by the show of loyalty.

“Neither do I.” Stealing a final glimpse at the Omega, Steve brushes past Barton to unlock the doors. Recalling his father’s wisdom as he enters the passcode.

“Stick to the plans you make.” Grasping Steve’s nape, his father imparts, “And most importantly, maintain control. That is what great dictators do.”

Pulling open the door, Steve says in parting, “Make sure you’re not spotted.”

“Yes, sir,” comes Barton’s uncertain reply before the door slams shuts behind him.

Maintain control, Steve mantras in his head, rubbing his still tingling palm against his uniform. Maintain control.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

“Incredible,” Bruce remarks quietly, his fingertip tracing the perimeter. “What is it, exactly?”

“An arc reactor,” Tony responds in a similarly hushed tone, sighting the lanky guard’s posting by the doors from his periphery. “I have one powering my lab back home. This is just a miniature version.”

“Any drawbacks?”

“It’s not as self-sustaining as the other.” Tony rubs tiredly at his face, simultaneously brushing off beads of sweat trailing down his cheeks. “Besides the required 8-hour electrical recharge for every 24 hours of usage, it’s expected to burn out within a year.”  

Bruce hums thoughtfully, but what advice he’s about to offer is curtailed by the dreaded buzzer. A keen squeal from the door’s hinges piercing Tony’s eardrum as their other captor pushes inside, successfully returning from escorting Yinsen to his respective cell. His posture stiff and countenance solemn as he makes a beeline for them.

“You,” the Beta points to Bruce. “Let’s go.”

Bruce immediately obeys, gathering a nylon cable from the table’s surface while he rises from his stool. An inquisitive look passing over the Beta’s features as Bruce dutifully proffers it.

“What’s this?”

“A charger.” Bruce jerks his chin towards the reactor. “He’ll need periodic access to an electrical socket.”

“Fine.” Snatching the cable, the Beta angles his head as he stuffs it into his pants pocket. Gifting Tony a glimpse of the hearing aid nestled in the concha of his ear.

“Just take it easy, okay?” Bruce implores to Tony as he spins around to face him, automatically placing his arms at his backside while the soldier produces a long length of cord from his belt. His body jerking as the Beta roughly commences tying his wrists. “Give yourself a full day to recover before doing anything strenuous.”

“No promises, Hot Lips. I have a date tonight,” Tony wisecracks, wiggling is brows. Smiling crookedly when Bruce catches his reference with a skyward, unamused eyeroll.

The Beta grasps Bruce’s arm to indicate the completion of his work, then proceeds to usher him from the building without another word. Bruce throwing one last look over his shoulder as they pause to reopen the door; a gust of wind blowing his hair wildly.

“See you around,” Bruce bids farewell before he’s herded outside. The soldier allowing the door to bang closed behind them.

“Or not,” Tony mumbles, sensing the finality of it.

Redirecting his attention to his current surroundings, Tony mentally categorizes the familiar yet antiquated implements scattered upon workstations. Identifying parts and pieces of explosives and gutted projectiles with wiring cascading to the floor. Pondering the probability of biological warfare as he scans an array of vials filled with mysterious, multicolor liquids. An alarming amount of them emitting an ominous, violet glow.

Tony flinches as he reads the Stark logo printed across the outer skins of multiple missiles. Triggering the last unpleasant memory of Howard’s laboratory—being belly deep inside the Jericho, attaching components and splicing wires with the fierce encouragement from Howard hovering at his backside.

“You’re finally living up to the Stark name,” Howard practically preens. “This will be enough to wipe Hydra off the map regardless of any collateral damage.”

His stomach sinks at the concept as he pulls himself from the hatch. Pointedly dropping the tools with a reverberating clatter. “I don’t want to hurt innocents,” Tony grits out through clenched teeth. “And I refuse to help you do that.”

Pain lances through his skull as fingers knot themselves in his hair and sharply yank his head back to expose his throat. The golden rings in the Alpha’s eyes practically swallowing the color in his irises.

Howard growls. “Do you not care that a Hydra soldier killed your mother?” He tightens his grip until Tony releases a tiny whimper. “Or have you forgotten you’re also to blame?”

Tony startles at the buzzer. Shocked to find himself slumped over the table, his face resting against his forearms. The haze he’s experienced previously now resettling over his mind as a wave of unbearable heat rolls over him, eliciting him to shiver violently.

He counts the footsteps as the soldier approaches. The table’s surface vibrating under him as the Beta slams a hand down onto it.

“Wakey-wakey.”

Despite his raging fever and overall lassitude, Tony somehow conjures the strength for petulance. “But, Mom, I don’t want to go to school.”

“Did you really—?” The Beta stoops to be eye level, disbelief written across his face. “Did you just talk back to me?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Tony goads, “Ground me?”

Barking a harsh laugh, the Beta wickedly purposes, “I could duct tape your mouth.”

“How original.” Tony snorts, dispassionate. “Which Saturday-morning cartoon villain inspired that?”

Sneering, the Beta leans away and draws the pistol from his tactical belt. Squarely aiming it at Tony’s temple as he commands, “Stand up. Now.”

Eyeing the barrel warily, Tony determines this captor is equally as dangerous, but a tad more impulsive. The Beta lacking the dominating presence of Papa Bear and the quiet intimidation of Mama Bear, but makes up for it with a sharp tongue and an impressive arsenal.

“Oh,” Tony realizes. “You must be Baby Bear.” Lifting his head, he taunts, “Has anyone ever said you’re the spitting image of your parents?”

Confusion fleets across the Beta’s face, but he recovers quickly. “I don’t have time for whatever game you’re trying to play.”

“Well, Monopoly was my first choice, but since you have a constraint—”

A compelling click sounds as Baby Bear removes the safety, causing a frisson of fear to raise the hairs at his nape. The sudden emptiness in the Beta’s eyes evincing the threat as genuine.

“Easy there, Rambo.” Tony rests his weight on his elbows, placing his hands up defensively. “Let’s not do something you’ll regret.”

“I doubt I will.” He flicks the gun indicatively. “Get up.”

Tony heeds the demeanor change. Splaying his hands on the table, he pushes up from his respective stool and wobbles precariously on one foot.

“Put your hands behind you.”

Complying, he rests his hips against the edge of the table to keep upright. Relieved to hear the safety reengaged before Baby Bear is on him. Deftly binding his wrists together and giving what Tony deems as a revengeful tug on the knot. Eliciting a tiny hiss from between Tony’s teeth as his skin pinches and bones grind at the joints.

There’s a shifting behind him before a scrap of fabric slides over his eyes to obstruct his vision. His heart beginning to race as it’s secured, effectively robbing him of one of his crucial senses.

The Beta’s digits dig painfully into the crook of his arm, acting as a simultaneous guide and support while Tony limps steadily across the cement flooring. Forced to trust his captor with every uncertain step, even as a wintry wind blasts him. The cold cutting through the thin material of the jumpsuit, edging on painful as it contends with his fever. Causing his quivering to worsen as he’s pushed through the open door—sending him stumbling and sliding on slippery ground. The shoes Yinsen provided hardly gaining traction while Baby Bear promptly leads him up a small hill.  

Tony’s leg muscles burn in complaint as they reach a patch of even ground. Fatigue sapping him, despite the short distance, and body freezing as the wind whips mercilessly against him. Assaulting his nostrils with the heavy scent of pine and bits of loose soil.

It isn’t long before the ground slopes far steeper than his previous feat. The thought of climbing it daunting him to the point of stopping.

“Move or I’ll make you move,” Baby Bear urges, half-dragging him several steps.

Tony grunts as his legs tremor, threatening to give. “Loving the bedside manner,” Tony says snidely. “It’s a wonder you’re not a nurse.”

“You’re actually incapable of shutting up for five minutes, aren’t you?”

Tony puffs in exertion as he reluctantly commences forward, compensating his lethargy by using the Beta as a crutch.

“Some would call it a talent.”

“Most would call it annoying,” Baby Bear scoffs. “I knew I should’ve gagged you.”

“Well, aren’t we cranky?” The tip of Tony’s shoe snags something distinctly hard and jutting upwards from the mud, nearly causing him to topple forward. The Beta’s firm grip the only factor preventing his fall. “Is it past your bedtime, Baby Bear?”

There comes no response, save for a couple of high-pitched beeps as the Beta seemingly shuts off his hearing aids. A clear indication Tony’s no longer being humored.

“Rude,” Tony mutters, pettily allowing the Beta to take more of his weight—propelling them both sideways as the ground once again levels out.

Tony strains to focus his hearing, hoping to pick up on anything of consequence. But only catches the crunching of gravel underfoot and a distant squeaking of a door before he switches his concentration to his olfactory senses. Instantly feeling a rush of exhilaration as he whiffs the pungent odor of gasoline, denoting the presence of a vehicle close by for potential use.  

Baby Bear chooses then to alter course, as though keen on Tony’s bearings. Effectively throwing him off-kilter as their path winds, then gradually slants upwards; driving his exhausted body to the brink of collapse. Tony’s teeth chattering as he continues to battle his fever and the ever dropping outside temperature.

After an indeterminate amount of time passes, Baby Bear brings them to a halt, and Tony releases a harsh exhale at the welcomed respite. The Beta similarly winded, but not nearly as affected by the trek as he slightly maneuvers Tony to reach for something unknown. Surprising him when a door chime in the tune of “La Vie en Rose” begins to play. Immediately forming an unbidden image in his mind of Papa Bear sporting a curled mustache and black beret, storming the battlefields wielding baguettes in lieu of firearms.

Albeit inwardly cringing at the stereotype, Tony’s unable to stop a bubble of laughter from exploding from his mouth. The Beta’s hand tightening to the point of pain as Tony practically sags against him. His body protesting the uncontrollable guffawing with intermittent coughing and tears pricking at his eyes.

Lost to his fit, Tony barely registers the warm air kissing his clammy skin or the flooding of Alpha pheromones heralding the presence of the individual behind the door.

“Is there something you find exceptionally funny about your situation, Iron Man?”

“Non, Papa Ours,” Tony fights to say through bouts of laughter. Struggling to come down from his delirious high. “But do you happen to have some ratatouille instead of porridge?”

Silence extends for a length of time. Permitting Tony a moment to reclaim a state of calm before the Alpha speaks again. “Was the prisoner given any medication?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir,” Baby Bear answers exasperatedly. “He seems to come by this naturally.”

Tony huffs. “It’s pretty impolite to talk like I’m not here.” Shifting uncomfortably, he boldly jabs, “Didn’t Hydra teach you any manners?”

“See?” the Beta affirms with a low growl.

Papa Bear sighs loudly, patience thinning.

“You sure about this?” Baby Bear questions, clearly offering an out and engendering the Alpha to silently mull over whatever plan Tony isn’t privy to. Leaving nothing but the sound of Tony’s ragged respires and the roaring wind.

A grip of steel unexpectedly latches onto his other arm, ripping a yelp from Tony’s lips as he’s roughly transferred from Baby Bear’s custody. The Alpha not permitting him a peaceful transition from the bitter cold to the uncomfortably warm interior as he’s manhandled inside.

Tony immediately starts to sluggishly map the layout in his mind. Counting fifteen hitching paces straight ahead through an unidentifiable, open area before being shoved to the right—wincing as his elbow clips the edge of a wall.

Hallway, he distinguishes while he’s awkwardly marched in front of the Alpha, implying a narrow space. The hardwood flooring creaking beneath them.

As they reach step number nineteen, he’s redirected again. Hobbling along for another couple feet until his knees connect with the edge of a bed, falling face first onto a pleasantly plush mattress.

“Is this how you welcome all your guests?” Tony asks, voice muffled by the comforter. Tensing as his sore leg is lifted to be fitted by what Tony identifies as a heavy, metal cuff at his ankle. The rattling of a chain grating his nerves. “I’m not really the type to kink shame, but shouldn’t there be a safeword?”

Tony notes the bed dipping before the Alpha’s body presses him deeper into the pillow top. Jolting his senses when a vice grip snares the nape of his neck to pin him in place. The imposed submission sending a shiver racing down Tony’s spine.

“Be quiet, Omega,” the Alpha growls against the shell of his ear, warm breath ghosting over his profile.

Tony inhales sharply through his nose at the Alpha’s proximity; inadvertently scenting a tantalizing aroma of vanilla and orange. The smell evoking a long-forgotten, childhood memory of consuming an Orange Creamsicle by the poolside on a particularly sunny afternoon. Its creamy contents dribbling down his chin and dripping onto his bare toes.

“You will not speak unless spoken to, and you will follow direct orders,” Papa Bear continues to assert, wrenching his attention back. “Am I understood?”

He swallows thickly as something tightens in his lower abdomen. A desire to obey washing over him before the mulish part of his brain intervenes.

“I’m thinking ‘pineapple’ for the word,” Tony blatantly disregards him. “It’s spikey on the outside, acidic on the inside, and it can ruin good things—pizza, for example.”

The Alpha’s hand slips around to grapple him by the throat, inducing panic as his oxygen supply is woefully restricted. Tony bracing for the cut off as he wriggles with miniscule hope to dislodge him, wheezing in as much air as the offending meat-hook allows.

Yet, as seconds tick by with no indication he’ll be fully deprived, Tony sluggishly comprehends the warning for what it is and wills himself to settle.

“Am I understood?” Papa Bear repeats, unnervingly blithe.

“Ye-es,” Tony chokes out, then sucks in lungful after precious lungful of air as the Alpha mercifully relinquishes his hold and eases from atop him. The screaming ache in his wrists soothing to a dull throb as the cord unexpectedly slackens; tickling his flesh while it’s uncoiled and removed entirely.

“Sleep now,” Papa Bear says as he retreats from the room. “That’s an order.”

Tony doesn’t so much as twitch until he discerns the soft thud of a door shutting, followed by the thunderous noise of metal grinding against metal before a lock mechanism engages.

Rolling onto his back and pushing upright, Tony tears off the blindfold to take in his new, darkened confinements. His numbed fingers fumbling to unzip his jumpsuit to illuminate the cuff with the reactor’s light as he shifts to rest his bound ankle on the bed. Discovering the metal is nearly an inch thick and made from a strong alloy.

Cursing lowly, Tony examines the 3-dial lock affixing the chain and the second fastening the cuff itself. Calculating 2,000 possible combinations between the two and the number of days it’ll require to figure them out.

Turning to the remainder of the room, Tony finds it empty with bare walls, and what appears to be a singular window with the blinds drawn. He debates whether to chance inspecting it for a means to escape or to play it safe. Unsure if Papa Bear will randomly check in or if he’s being monitored.

With a quick glance around, he doesn’t detect any visible cameras, nor a glowing, red dot to signify a recording device. The odds of being caught sneaking about now decreasing to an amount he’s comfortable with, prompting him to slide from the bed. Only to grit his teeth when the chain lands heavily beside him, clanking noisily.

He strains to listen for any creak or thump, but nothing stirs beyond the door. With a small sense of relief, Tony positions himself to all-fours and winces at the soreness in his thigh as it bears his weight. Then resolves to crawl at a gradual pace, keeping his sights on the door as he crosses the room. The chain scratching along the floor until he arrives at the window.

Grasping the sill, Tony staggers to his feet and pulls the string. Grateful when the blinds fold up with little objection. The light from his reactor nearly blinding him as it reflects off the glass.  

“Please open,” Tony pleads, bracing one hand against the wall and the other on the window’s bottom handle. A tiny “Yay,” escaping him as it glides up smoothly, permitting a violent gust to rush inwards.

Blinking through flecks of dirt carried on the wind, Tony’s victory is short-lived once a solid barrier of steel bars spanning the frame comes into view. Recently installed, he thinks, judging by the untarnished bolts and its sturdiness as Tony gives each bar a forceful tug.

Groaning, he smacks his forehead against the wall. Lambasting himself for foolishly daring to hope.

Too easy. Should’ve known.

Side-eyeing the only other exit available, Tony presumes it’ll prove equally immovable, but ultimately decides it’s better to test the theory as he shakily kneels back down and advances towards the door in the same fashion. Merely a couple feet from his target when the chain pulls taut—its end securely wrapped around the bedframe and its length evidently measured to hamper any wandering.

Tony grunts in frustration as he extends his arm, fingertips hovering mere centimeters from the knob. The edge of the cuff digging into the top of his foot.

“Fuck,” he cries, slapping the floor in defeat. What remnants of energy he’s managed to preserve now spent. Forcing him to surrender to his exhaustion as he scoots to the bed and heaves himself up onto it.

Sleep claiming him by the time his head hits the pillow.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Steve shakes his head at his occupant’s blatant disregard for self-preservation as muffled sounds filter into his bedroom down the hall. Debating whether to reassert his authority or to grant the Omega the opportunity to sate curiosity. The latter hardly a concern considering the security measures he’s taken which withstood his own superior strength after installation. Ensuring the odds remain at zero for anything less—such as an impaired Omega—to penetrate the locks and bars.

Yet, he knows, if he were to let the behavior slide, it’ll result more of the same. His control slipping further with every dull thud and rattle of the chain.

Sighing, Steve listens intently until the Omega falls quiet, then carries on with his nightly routine. Assuming the Omega’s come to the conclusion of futility and submitted to his circumstances.

Which is more than he can say in regards to his Omegan mother. The one who abandoned him at the height of his illnesses and the family’s destitution in favor of her own obstinate desires, according to his father. Showing him at an early age what Omegas are capable of and how they’ll play a deceitful game until an Alpha’s usefulness is spent.

His father’s enlistment with Hydra, thereafter, not only having saved them from potential homelessness, but gifting Steve the chance to become the Alpha he’s meant to be.

“Your son has shown great potential even with health challenges,” Red Skull states to Joseph, placing his gloved hand upon Steve’s bony shoulder. “I see a bright future with him in our ranks.”

And with that, he trained tirelessly to advance, knowing in the depths of his soul he’d been born to enact change. Proudly accepting the mission to murder Dr. Erskine and obtain the Super Solider Serum in the name of Hydra. Only to be thwarted by Stark after learning of Steve’s truer intentions subsequent the experimental procedure. The Alpha happening upon the doctor deceased in Steve’s quarters, consequentially prompting Stark to sic the military forces on him and sequester the formula from society indefinitely.

Steve growls at the concept of his stolen years while Stark lived on. The Alpha proving to be a plague on the world while leaving Steve to pick up the pieces and play a proverbial chess match with his mentor, utilizing a wayward Omega as the pawn.

Slipping into bed, Steve mentally adds the destruction of Stark’s legacy to his master plan. A grin etching across his face at the notion of Stark’s most successful experiment being his ultimate downfall.

A bit of poetic justice, Steve thinks, shifting to find a comfortable position. At long last.

~*~

His eyes snap open at a scream of terror.

Scrambling from the bed, Steve half-trips over the sheets loosely wrapped around his legs. His surroundings rapidly becoming identifiable in the darkness as the serum clears his bleary vision. Fingers fumbling to detangle himself when another scream permeates the silence, piercing his sensitive eardrums.

Steve curses and stumbles from the heap of blankets into the hall. Barely registering the numbing cold against the bare pads of his feet as he races to Iron Man’s room. His muscles tensing automatically at the whimpers and distressed groans bleeding through the door while he brushes along the edge of the doorframe for the key.

Plucking it from its hiding spot, he hastens to slip it into the keyhole to unlock the security bar stretched across the door’s width. The metal grinding as he slides it over before flinging the door open—only to be immediately assaulted by Omegan pheromones pervading the confined space. The slight breeze blowing in from the window hardly dissipating the thick scent of cinnamon apples tainted sourly by fear. Evoking a foreign urge to defend; his body unconsciously readying for an attack.  

Standing arrested at the threshold, Steve battles his tenuous self-control. Endeavoring not to yield to biological nonsense, calls out to Iron Man thrashing on the bed. “Omega.”

There comes no reply. The Omega still lost in the throes of a nightmare.

Steve re-attempts with a slightly elevated voice, “Iron Man!”

The Omega’s wrenching sob in return triggers a tightening in his chest. No longer able to resist, Steve crosses the room and bends to take hold of the Omega’s shoulders.

“Omega,” he tries, gently shaking him. “Wake up.”

Iron Man whimpers but remains at the mercy of his subconscious.

Steve grits his teeth. The pressure in his chest worsening, eliciting him to move a hand up to lightly pat the Omega’s cheek.

“Wake—” White explodes in his vision before it’s chased by pain rocketing up his forehead. Steve instinctively covering his smarting nose as he rears back, staggering a couple steps towards the doorway to blindly grope for the hallway light switch.

Flicking it on, Steve discovers blood on the skin of his palm before gingerly prodding at the cartilage for any sign of breakage. Thankful to find it intact, despite the serum’s healing capabilities.

Scarcely awake, Iron Man begins stuttering out an apology, “I-I’m sorry. I thought—” He stops short. “Oh, it’s you. Nevermind.”

Rage rises at the insolence but is quickly tempered by the pheromones and the sight of the previously assertive Iron Man now shaken and frail. The Omega’s eyes staring distantly, haunted by invisible horrors. Arms wrapped protectively over his chest, clutching them tightly enough to whiten the knuckles. His hair disheveled and plastered down by sweat, darkly contrasting his deathly pale countenance. The mud from his shoes smearing across the bedspread as he curls into a defensive position.

Steve recognizes the episode with an odd sinking sensation in his gut. Recalling the first year post-revival spent isolated and re-experiencing the ice encasing him bit by bit until the intensity of it eased.

Is Iron Man reliving the crash?  

“You are not to do that again or there will be consequences,” Steve says sternly, albeit his tone is far softer than intended.

The Omega nods meekly, causing Steve’s fists to clench to combat the compelling, Alphan desire to reach out and gentle him.

“Stay here,” Steve commands and desperately grabs for the doorknob with an arising need to clear his head.

“Obviously,” comes a faint reply before the door closes, effectively drawing the corners of Steve’s mouth upwards in an unbidden smile.

Resilient, he considers, sliding the bar back into place. I’ll give the Omega that much credit.

Padding down the hall into the open kitchen, he contemplates the possible motives for Iron Man’s attempted murder.

Could be the fiery disposition, Steve thinks, not finding it difficult to imagine anyone wanting to throttle the Omega for his willful spirit. Or a jilted mate.

Steve recollects on how the New Age Omegas are more inclined towards aspirations and unruly independence rather than settling down. Evidently believing mating rituals to be archaic and oppressive in spite of historical success. Even ridding the traditional bite mark in rare cases of mating by replacing it with a matching set of rings on each mate’s pinky finger.

“Is this how you welcome all your guests?”

Iron Man definitely seems the type. Steve collects the kettle from the cupboard and fills it in the sink. Then setting it on the stove’s burner to commence boiling, he steadies himself against the counter and gazes out into the vast darkness of the forest beyond the kitchen window. No mark or ring. Which could mean the Omega rejected the bond, inciting an adverse reaction.  

The kettle’s whistle pulls Steve from his musings as he moves to retrieve a plastic cup and tea leaf packets. Drumming his fingers impatiently against the counter as he waits for the components to combine and cool. Anxious to recheck on the Omega’s mental state.

After the tea reaches a reasonable temperature, Steve once again makes the trek to Iron Man’s room. Relieved by the depletion in pheromones and to see Iron Man Composed when he reenters. The Omega no longer hunched over in fright, but still not quite his usual self. His gaze wary and neck angled slightly to expose the line of his throat.

“I don’t need tea.”

Steve halts. Taken aback by the submissive inflection in Iron Man’s voice. “Then, what is it you need?”

“A bathroom, for starters,” The Omega replies, utterly despondent. “That is, if I’m allowed.”

“You are.” Steve inclines his head, distrusting the drastic change in demeanor. “If I leave the door open for a minute, do you promise to behave?”

The Omega’s lips twitch, appearing on the verge of a snarky comment, but thinks better of it. “Yes.” At Steve’s quirked brow, he grumbles, “I’ll behave.”

Although uncertain of the unexpected respect, Steve comes to realize he’s reluctant to leave the Omega alone—and not out of concern of an escape, much to his own surprise.

Shaking himself, he sets the cup outside the room and heads to guest bathroom directly beside it. The area much smaller than his personal one with the facilities crammed close together, befitting the presence of temporary company or young children. The window embedded in the shower wall his only worry after removing any object Iron Man could potentially use as a weapon. But did manage to resolve the issue by a secondary chain wrapped strategically around the base of the toilet.

Steve gathers the length of chain and drags it along the floor into the bedroom. Finding the Omega now perched on the edge of the bed, his chin tilted low and eyes downcast.

It gives Steve pause. Stirring a sense of wrong after weeks of the Omega’s defiant nature.  

“Turn on your stomach.”

Iron Man hesitates but ultimately obeys, flipping over in the same position Steve left him in hours prior. Yet, in place of a thrill at this Omega’s submission, Steve feels oddly hollow. The triumph lackluster and empty—scarcely hard-won.

Unlocking the primary chain from the cuff, he quickly attaches the other. Waiting for a sign of resistance as he observes the Omega from his periphery. Pleased when Iron Man remains compliant, even as Steve makes to exit the room. Only then sitting upright to study the chain leading around the corner with a look of incertitude. Clearly mistrusting the compromise.

“You’re free to do your business,” Steve simply states.

Iron Man’s eyes snap to him, searching for what Steve presumes is a hint of deception. “Poor choice of words,” he remarks, wiggling his leg to pointedly jiggle the chain.

Steve barely suppresses a laugh. Conceiving the Omega’s witticism as somewhat endearing, albeit tiresome.

“Duly noted.” Pitching his tone lighter, he chaffs, “I’ll try to watch my language.”

“Finally, some manners.” Iron Man dramatically places his hand over his chest. “Wouldn’t want to offend my delicate, Omega sensibilities. Now would you?” he retorts, only serving to broaden Steve’s grin.

Emboldened, the Omega grips the bedpost until he’s steady upon his feet. His head held high while he takes a tiny, wobbly step before his features crumple in discomfort. But stubbornly commences towards the door at an agonizingly slow pace with little regard to the pain. A resolute fire alighting the faint rings of white beginning to appear around his pupils.

Despite his determination to walk without aid, Iron Man’s leg buckles as he nears. Eliciting Steve to shoot out a hand to arrest the Omega’s fall.

With a snarl, Iron Man quickly recovers his balance and bravely knocks Steve’s arm away. “I don’t need an Alpha’s help!”

“Oh, but you do,” Steve automatically returns with a growl. “You might believe you’re different from the rest of the weak, needy Omegas. But at the end of the day, you’re exactly the same.”

Iron Man squares his shoulders at that, unmoving from the threshold as he decisively sizes Steve up.

“Weak in comparison to whom—you?” He glares unflinchingly. “Someone who had their gender marker synthesized in a bottle,” Iron Man spits out, his speculation stupefying Steve enough to flinch.

“Yeah, I can smell it. Artificial hormones and pheromones aren’t new concepts to me.” The Omega takes a daring step into Steve’s personal space. “And neither are Alphan arrogance and prejudice, for that matter.”

“You have a lot of nerve speaking like this with your life on the line.” Steve matches him, bringing Iron Man's face within inches of his own. Indignation flaring at the ungratefulness and incredibly bold judgments. “Back down, Omega.”

“I’m starting to want you to make me,” the Omega goads, fully committed to standing his ground.

Steve chuckles as he belatedly notes Iron Man’s trembling. Recognizing the bravado for what it is. “Beg for my forgiveness or return to your bed.”

Misgiving flashes in the dark depths of the Omega’s eyes. Suddenly appreciating the consequences he’s brought upon himself.

“You wouldn’t…”

Steve feigns innocence, “I wouldn’t what?”

Making a choking sound in disbelief, Iron Man tries, “I can't hold it long. The sheets will be ruined.”

“I own a washing machine,” Steve easily parries with a shrug. “Make your decision.”

Gaze averting to a spot just above Steve’s shoulder, the Omega capitulates flatly, “Forgive me.”

Steve hums in consideration, not quite buying the Omega’s remorse. “Like you mean it.”

“Please, forgive me,” the Omega strains to say, clenching his eyes shut. Beginning to sway as his adrenaline recedes.

“Please, forgive you—what?”

“Alpha.”

“There,” Steve says smugly. “Not so difficult, is it?”

The Omega half-collapses against the doorframe in temporary surrender. “May I relieve myself now? Or do I need to kiss your feet, too?”

With a smirk, Steve gives a permissive sweep of his hand in direction of the bathroom. “All yours.”

~*~

The pencil scratches the drawing pad as Steve darkens the shadows within a fierce pair of eyes. Highlighting the identifier rings with a white pen, he allows himself a moment to stare into their mysterious depths. Pondering the secrets which lie within before moving on to shade along the jawline. Sketching out the Omega’s particular pattern of facial hair from memory, then adding the raised scar decorating the edge of his upper lip.

In drawing Iron Man, he hopes it might offer something he might have overlooked. Specifically, any ordinary feature which could easily be searched through government databases with use of facial recognition software. But as he completes it, he discovers nothing particularly common in that sense.

In fact, Steve realizes, it’s quite the opposite. Finding the Omega uniquely different yet familiar. His frustration mounting as he strives to pinpoint why before a series of knocks break him from his captivation.

Rising from the living room chair, he sets the pad and art utensils aside before ambling off to answer the front door. The rays of the early morning sun painting his visitor with an ethereal glow.  

“I have it.”

Steve instantly sidesteps to grant her passage. “Come in.”

Romanoff needs no further permissions, immediately entering and seating herself on the sofa. Placing a small device on the coffee table along with a stack of papers.

Steve takes up the chair once more, gifting her an expectant look. “Did you uncover the prisoner’s identity?”

She releases a soft exhale. “No.”

Steve balls his hands into fists.  

“But,” Romanoff rushes to say. “There are some pertinent details which gives us some clues.”

He perks up at that. “Relay them.”

Sliding the transcript over, she informs, “I’ve highlighted the sections.”

It doesn’t take long for him to come to the first strip of dialogue overlaid by a streak of yellow marker.

“Sierra, Tango, Alpha, Romeo, Kilo. 1-5-7-9-1-Charlie,” Steve reads the call sign presented to Air Traffic Control. The papers bending to the will of his grip while he connects the letters. “Stark,” he snarls.

“The plane was registered to Stark Industries,” Romanoff confirms. “For this flight, there were a total of 4 souls on board, including the crew.”

“Was there a passenger manifest?”

“Likely, yes, but it was never spoken of,” Romanoff answers. “SI tends to keep their shady dealings confidential.”

“So,” Steve surmises, “the Omega’s a client.”

“I don’t think so,” Romanoff disagrees, reaching for the device and tapping a button to play it.

A discussion between the pilots suddenly crackles over the speaker, creating a back-and-forth dialogue involving standard checklists and control configurations. Steve picking up an imperceptible conversation happening in the background before a familiar voice calls out: “There’s a hefty bonus if you decide to take the long route.”

There’s a squeaking of chair and rustle of fabric as one of the pilots reply, “Yes, sir.”

She stops it there. “This interaction is indicative of a leadership role. Or a more…,” Romanoff trails off, searching for the correct word, “favorable position. But, I have doubts it’s the latter.”

Steve quirks an inquisitive brow, unsure how she could brush off the inference. “Care to elaborate?”

Romanoff folds one leg over the other and sinks comfortably against the cushions. “Aside from generating a small scandal—which could easily be remedied by hush money—there aren’t any significant purposes for killing off the lesser party over an illicit affair.”

He concurs that with a sigh. “Then, the Omega is a cohort of Howard Stark, and ‘Iron Man’ is a pseudonym.”

“It’s safe to assume.”

Steve flips through the pages, reading what little information there is regarding the events leading up to the stall. Understanding from the indiscernible noises of the pilots and lack of further transmission, neither were responsible for the crash.

Which leaves…

“The other passenger,” Steve starts. “I only recovered two bodies from the wreckage,” he explains at Romanoff’s curious head tilt. “Both were the pilots.”

Romanoff purses her lips. “The assassin did the job and bailed before the crash,” she follows his train of thought with a curt nod in agreement. “Explains the white noise at the end of the recording and the garbled alert system.”

Steve glances at the hallway. A myriad of questions brewing in his mind.

“At least we have some kind of motive in connection to Stark. That should be convincing enough for the Great Dictator.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I call that a win.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Romanoff replies with a confused lilt. “Why?”

“I feel we’re missing something.”

“Does it matter?” Romanoff dismisses. “Everything’s prepared. You only need to deliver him.”

Steve considers that for several seconds and finds no point in prolonging his plans. Struggling to disregard an odd twinge in his chest at the idea of the Omega’s screams echoing through Hydra’s torture chamber.

“How soon is the next available flight?” he wonders, fighting to come to his senses.

“Not for another five days.” She flips a strand of hair from her face. “A blizzard is forecasted, beginning tomorrow. They won’t risk our aircrafts until it’s passed.”

Steve groans softly. “What the hell am I supposed to do with the Omega until then?”

“A little birdie told me he’s partial to board games and talking.” Romanoff smiles devilishly. “That might make things interesting.”  

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Cramps travel from his fingers through his palm as he rotates the dial for the chain’s lock. Grumbling beneath his breath over his body’s complaints despite years of intensive labor in his lab. His elation from discovering the first set of numbers—once the Alpha left him to his own devices—now fading along with the veil of night. Tony reaching to rub at his blurry eyes when the morning rays spill in through the gaps in the blinds.

The plan would almost be too simple, he muses, if not for the obstacles of a genetically altered Alpha and an outpost teeming with Hydra soldiers. But after mulling over a strategy to maneuver around them upon his imminent freedom, Tony ultimately decides that problem isn’t worth overthinking. After all, he is nothing if not adaptable. Practically taking the gold medal for successfully winging it in most dire circumstances—much to Pepper and Rhodey’s combined dismay.

Tony jerks as the shackle of the lock unexpectedly pops open. The heavy chain slipping free to land in a coiled pile on the bed.

For several heartbeats, Tony stares dumbfounded, disbelieving his stroke of luck. But is quickly shaken from it at the telltale sound of the door unbolting. And with his pulse leaping into his throat, scrambles to reattach the chain. His fingers shaking as he locks it in place mere seconds before the Alpha emerges from the hall, balancing a tray of food in one hand.

“Breakfast in bed?” Tony starts somewhat breathlessly, tucking his trembling hands beneath the comforter. “And it’s not even my captive anniversary, yet.”

Papa Bear gives a longsuffering sigh and sets the tray down in front of Tony. His complimentary meal perfectly proportioned and arranged neatly; compiled of scrambled eggs, strips of bacon, and buttered toast next to a steaming mug of coffee. The sight of it causing him to salivate and his stomach to rumble with anticipation.

“Has there ever been a time when you didn’t give lip?”

“Friday, October 21st, 1988,” Tony answers, sliding the tray onto his lap. “At 1:47 p.m.”

The Alpha shakes his head. Seemingly still perplexed by Tony’s nature. “And what kind of person managed that feat?”

“A vengeful, Soviet scientist practically married to a vodka bottle,” Tony says automatically, then shuts his mouth with an audible click of teeth.

Papa Bear crosses his arms, already zeroing in on that accidental bit of divulged information. “And who was this drunkard, Soviet scientist?”

“Uh…” Tony shovels a spoonful of eggs into his mouth to stall. “Alexei Yagudin, I believe his name was,” he lies. Mentally sending a plea to the universe that the Alpha’s personal interests don’t include innocent, Olympic figure skaters.

Brows creasing slightly, the Alpha appears to rack his brain, but to no avail. The lack of details causing him to leap to a less seemly conclusion.

“And what did you do?” he sneers. “Reject him?”

“Is mating all you knot-heads think about?” Tony retorts with a scowl. “Or—let me guess—you’re one of those old-fashioned types. Believing yourselves to be so damn ‘respectable’ for continuing to abide by outdated mating laws.”

He smirks at that. “As opposed to the more promiscuous, ‘respectable’ type?”  

“More fun, you mean,” Tony corrects, biting into a rasher of bacon. “Try taking that stick out of your ass sometime. You might actually enjoy life, plus a warmer bed.”

The Alpha blinks slowly, unfazed. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, I haven’t?” Tony returns sardonically. “I might’ve been a little busy defending my honor before the first sip of coffee.”

The wooden bedpost groans as Papa Bear leans his weight against it. His eyes narrowing as he demands, “What happened?”

Tony immediately regards his plate, not particularly in the mood for another standoff. “Why do you care?”

There comes no response. The heavy silence eliciting Tony to lift the mug and take multiple, awkward sips. Sensing the pressure of the demand building and the Alpha’s patience wearing thin with every passing second he isn’t forthcoming.

Sighing, Tony gives in.

“He wanted to exact revenge on…somebody else.” He rests the mug on his knee as pieces of memory from the harrowing event flash in his mind. “But he couldn’t reach them, so he decided on another personal approach.”

“Howard may have kept the formula for himself and ruined my life,” Anton slurs, unsteadily aiming the pistol. “But I can deprive him of an heir.”

Flicking his gaze up to meet the Alpha’s piercing blue eyes, Tony finds the once hard, impenetrable aspects of them softening with dawning realization. “Because you were an easier target.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s a curse.”

Papa Bear fractionally shifts his stance, evidently catching his meaning. “How did you survive?”

“The Alpha was a terrible shot, for starters.” Tony grimaces. “He was also too far gone to be consciously aware of any bystanders.” Indulging in another sip of coffee, he concludes, “I came to in an ambulance with three bullets lodged in my left arm.”

Papa Bear’s attention instantly drops to the aforementioned limb. The scars now hidden beneath the thin material of the jumpsuit.

“Show me?”

Tony jerks back slightly in surprise at the request. Finding it remarkably gentle with undertones of something Tony dismisses. His thoughts reeling at the Alpha’s demeanor change, pondering the meaning behind it.  

“I don’t usually make it a habit to strip for my captors without some kind of incentive.”

Whatever spell the Alpha is under breaks. His eyes snapping back to Tony’s face with unbridled discomfiture before the typical, steely expression masks it.

“It’s to verify your story,” he deems to defend. “Nothing more.”

Tony doesn’t buy it. Instinctively picking up on the shifting energy between them. “I’ll try not to feel too disappointed.”

Not desiring to invoke Papa Bear’s wrath, he obliges the curiosity and rolls the sleeve up to reveal them. Striving to remain calm as the Alpha moves closer for inspection, but fails not to flinch as a feathery touch tickles his skin. The Alpha’s thumb tenderly brushing over each scar as though intending to memorize their texture and shape. Provoking goosebumps to crawl pleasantly along Tony’s flesh and evoking a compelling urge to lean into it.

Tony releases a stuttering breath as the exploration ceases. Self-consciously scrubbing at the scars now tingling with the absence of the Alpha’s touch. An indiscernible emotion flaring the golden rings in Papa Bear’s eyes that remain steadfast upon the remnants of Tony’s trauma. The intensity of it making him shiver.

“You know, a picture might last longer,” Tony quips, fumbling to unfurl the sleeve.

“Finish your breakfast,” Papa Bear commands, voice utterly soft, then swiftly departs the room. Giving a small glance over his shoulder at Tony before shutting him inside.

What the hell?

~*~

The day passes excruciatingly slow. And with nothing to distract him, Tony’s mind wanders. Picturing Pepper now past her due date, cradling her newborn daughter with abject joy alighting the green rings in her eyes. Wondering what name she decided on—Please, let it be anything but ‘Apple.’—and if they’re both in good health.

Rhodey would’ve been at her side, Tony knows. Supporting her in Tony’s stead while documenting the experience with tentative hopes for his return. A small smile stretching across Tony’s face at the thought of Rhodey cursing over the lost bet on the baby’s secondary gender or griping to Pepper that Tony isn’t around to pay up.

It serves to strengthen his resolve to escape as he commences pacing between the window and bed to toughen his leg. Not bothering to stop when Papa Bear catches him in the act.

“You’ve certainly turned a corner,” the Alpha remarks, surprisingly pleased.

Tony puffs from the minor exertion. His muscles screaming from disuse. “I’m not for the couch potato life.”

Papa Bear chuckles, tossing a box onto the unmade sheets. “Something we have in common.”

Tony scrutinizes the box from across the room. “Boredom’s getting to you, too?”

The Alpha shrugs noncommittally and begins to set up the pieces on the game board.

Hesitantly, Tony shuffles over. Unsettled by such an innocuous gesture. “Do you usually play Checkers with prisoners?”

“Only with the ones who eat my cooking and sleep in my guest bedroom,” Papa Bear quips, then perches himself on the bed with an unmistakable expectation for Tony to join him.

“Was that a joke?” he asks, stunned. “Do Hydra soldiers even have senses of humor?”

Papa Bear flashes a dazzling smile. “Those without a ‘stick in their ass’ might.”

He stares in astonishment. “Have you tripped and hit your head since the last time I saw you?”

“Not that I remember.”

Tony’s mouth gapes. “You are joking with me!” Making a dramatic show of pinching himself, he says, “Well, that settles it. I’m definitely not dreaming.”

“May as well get used to my company now,” Papa Bear returns. “This will be the new norm until the upcoming storm passes.”

“Storm?” Tony parrots.

“Blizzard,” the Alpha provides helpfully. “We’ll be riding it out here. I’ve already stocked the kitchen.”

A torrent of ideas flood into Tony’s mind as the odds of escape increase. The blizzard offering him an outpost devoid of soldiers with the visibility low enough to hinder their attempts at tracking his location. Granting him several days to trudge through the wilderness, back to the safety of his home country.

Or, at the very least, gain a significant lead before the manhunt begins.

“Iron Man.”

Tony blinks. The Alpha’s voice pulling him out of his head. “What?”

“I asked you which color you wanted.” Papa Bear points to the checkerboard. “Black or red?”

Tony settles on the opposite edge of the mattress, placing as much space as possible between them.

“Dealer’s choice.”

The Alpha’s mouth opens to refute his response but decides against it. “All right. I’ll be black.”

“That must mean I’ll be red.”

Papa Bear’s lips quirk as he makes the first move, sliding his pawn into the corner. “Which parent did you get your quick wit from?”

Reaching for his own piece, Tony mirrors the move. “Not that it’s any of your business, but neither.”

“That isn’t possible.” Papa Bear looks up sharply. “Usually, Omegas take on the traits of the parent that birthed them.”

He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Well, I couldn’t say for sure. She died just a couple days shy of my tenth birthday.”

Papa Bear jumps Tony’s pawn, snatching up the red piece up. “How?”

Tony shuts his eyes.

“Take this, dear,” Maria holds out a sealed, mailing envelope. “Hide it under your clothes and don’t tell anyone.”

He obeys without question, stuffing it into his waist band mere seconds before a sudden impact jars him.

The sound of screeching tires.

A splitting pain in his head.

His mother’s pleas and a terrified scream.

“Strangled to death,” Tony says through gritted teeth, “by a Hydra soldier.”

Papa Bear cocks his head slightly. “For what purpose?”

“How should I know?” Tony snaps, battling the tears threatening to spill. “Why don’t you ask the asshole that murdered her? Or question the fact I didn’t save her?”

The Alpha’s skin pinches between his brows as he gifts Tony another unidentifiable look. “You were a child.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Tony hears himself repeat Howard’s rebuking words. “I could have stopped him.”

With a short hum, Papa Bear resumes the game. Allowing Tony the distraction needed until the sting of guilt fades. Leaving him hollow and yearning for a few fingers of scotch.   

“And which parent do you take after?” Tony wonders without forethought, double jumping a couple of the Alpha’s pawns.

“I’m proud to take after my father.” Unconsciously raising his chin, Papa Bear proclaims, “He was truly the greatest Alpha I’ve ever known.”

Gag me, he thinks, and barely suppresses an eye roll.

“What about your other—?” Tony falls silent as the Alpha visibly rankles. His nostrils flaring and hands balling into tight fists.

“Not worth mentioning,” the Alpha growls out, unceremoniously standing and exiting the room in a huff. The door slamming in his wake.

Choking on the spice of the Alphan pheromones heavy in the air, Tony mutters, “Jerry Springer would be making a fortune right now.”

~*~

Dinner is consumed without incident before Papa Bear offers dessert in lieu of an apology—at least, Tony assumes. Not quite certain if he’s capable of empathy or remorse, but not willing to test that theory by refusing the homemade pastry. Devouring it in a couple of bites with genuine surprise towards the Alpha’s baking skills.

A relatively pleasant atmosphere settles as the evening wears on and Tony commences readying himself for the night ahead. His basic needs attentively provided by the Alpha, including the charger when the reactor flickers in warning. Tony’s aching chest easing once he plugs the reactor into the wall socket directly beside the bed. The clicking from the heater coming to life following soon after. Its subsequent hum lulling him into a doze as he rests against the headboard.

He wakes sometime later to the bitter cold and an absence of sound, save for the howling wind. Discovering the reactor working sluggishly and its light dimmed from lack of a full charge.

An electrical outage, Tony realizes with mild panic, gathering up the comforter to wrap around his shoulders. Pondering the late hour and the amount of time remaining until Papa Bear rises for the day.

“Hey, Cabana Boy,” he shouts, wincing at the volume of his own voice. “Could use some room service in here!”

He catches the creaks and thumping of footfalls down the hall before the telltale grinding metal announces the Alpha’s arrival. The door swinging inward to reveal Papa Bear in the same matching, button up pajamas Tony noticed the previous night, but now complete with an untied robe and slippers.

The Alpha is far less intimidating in his sleeping attire, if not somewhat adorable.

“The storm’s knocked out the power,” Papa Bear states.

“Splendid observation there, Watson,” Tony quips. “I hardly noticed.”

Papa Bear exhales loudly.

“It’s only midnight,” he informs. “Will that device last until morning? I’d be able to grab a generator from the facility, if the electricity isn’t restored by then.”

Tony considers that, listening to the tiny groan of the reactor struggling to keep the shards at bay.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” he says gravely as the window rattles, drawing Papa Bear’s attention to it with visible concern.

“I’ll watch over you,” Papa Bear suddenly decides, tension hardening his features. “We’ll determine if it’s needed later on.”

“Yeah, sure.” Tony huffs at his increasingly ridiculous circumstances. “We’ll have the best sleepover—do each other’s hair, have pillow fights, gossip.” He deadpans, “It’ll make all the soldiers jealous.”

The Alpha maintains his neutrality. “I’d prefer if you just slept.”

“Party Pooper.”

Throwing his head back, Papa Bear shocks Tony’s senses as he guffaws. The Alpha’s eyes squeezing shut and smile stretching to expose perfect teeth now painted a blue hue by the reactor’s light. His hand rising to clutch at his muscled chest with little hope to control the spasms.

The sight of his genuine mirth causes a strange, fluttering sensation to tickle the flesh bordering the edge of Tony’s reactor. His pulse beating slightly faster against his throat.

Without another word, Papa Bear ducks out of the room; leaving Tony to sort out his confusion until he reenters with an armful of extra bedding. Tossing a few blankets at Tony before creating a makeshift nest beside the door with intent to stand guard.

Shivering, Tony hastily arranges the blankets and slides beneath them, effectively plunging the room into darkness. The temperature continuing the dip as he begins to toss and turn repeatedly. Struggling to banish the chill and gain warmth while the blustering night progresses.

Hovering at the precipice of sleep, Tony hardly registers the shuffling of feet across the room and the clicking of the blinds being moved. But jolts to full consciousness at the mattress dipping under the Alpha’s weight and the heat of his palm as it lays against the chilled skin of Tony’s forehead.

“Damn it.” Removing his hand, Papa Bear grips Tony’s shoulder and gives it a firm shake. “Iron Man.”

Tony groans in response, lacking the energy to do much else.

“The storm’s worsening. I won’t be able to reach the facility,” Papa Bear explains with a perceivable note of stress. “And we’re both close to becoming hypothermic.”

Blearily, Tony regards the shadow above him. “Fireplace?” he mumbles.

“The cabin doesn’t have any.” He sighs. “There’s no other choice.”

Tony stiffens as Papa Bear proceeds to slot himself beside him on the full sized bed. His massive frame eating up most of the space, forcing him to press against Tony’s backside. The Alpha’s body heat ripping a gasp from between his chapped lips.

Yet, regardless of the tiny voice in his mind screaming at the intrusion, Tony eventually gives into the impromptu cuddle session. The Orange Creamsicle scent flooding his nose as he steadily sinks against the solid support of the Alpha. A soft noise of content feathering into his ear as the blankets are tugged higher to be tucked around his neck.

“It’s only temporary, so don’t get any perverse ideas,” Papa Bear mutters. “You’re worth more to me alive than dead.”

Tony gives a tiny nod and gathers more of their blanket mound before pushing his icy toes against the Alpha’s legs.

“I can’t see the device.” Papa Bear’s breath ghosts across Tony’s profile. “Is it still working?”

“For now,” Tony replies through chattering teeth.

The Alpha falls quiet, allowing a few heartbeats to pass before addressing him again. “You need to stay awake for a while. Is that understood, Omega?”

“Yes,” Tony agrees weakly. “Is that an order, Alpha?”

Papa Bear inches closer, his arm curling around Tony's side as the wind continues to roar.

“For now,” he says softly.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

Iron Man eventually drifts off. Soft snores drowned out by the howling outside and intermittent groans from the cabin’s structure continuously battered by the storm. The darkness encasing them eventually becoming suffocating as the memory of the fathomless sea consumes him. Sinking Steve deeper into the abyss below as he reaches desperately for the surface, fingertips caressing traces of moonlight.

He jerks as the Omega unexpectedly rolls; unconsciously seeking to bury his face into the crook of Steve’s neck and slip an arm over his side. The warmth of his breath tickling Steve’s facial hair as he sighs contentedly, relaxing against Steve with an absence of fear.

Steve’s arm hovers over Iron Man’s slumbering form, confused where to place it with the change of position. Awkwardness stealing over him at the dawning realization of sharing a bed with another for the first time. Especially, a mouthy Omega with an admittedly intriguing past.

And now a grim future, Steve thinks with a pang in his chest. The sensation triggering phantom pain to slice over his left eye and his father’s voice to echo from within: “Emotions are weakness,” Joseph imparts. “If you allow them to control you, so will the enemy.”

Laying his arm along the Omega’s back, Steve disregards his biological responses in order to regain composure.

Maintain control.

Iron Man will serve a greater purpose, even if it means losing his life, Steve muses. A small sacrifice for the fate of all humankind and for peace unlike the world’s ever known.

He should be honored by the privilege.

Steve instinctively presses Iron Man flush against him when the Omega shivers, desiring to stave off the chill. Tingles erupting at the back of Steve’s head when the Omega hums in response before an aroma of apple cinnamon floods Steve’s nostrils, causing his mouth to water.

Shouldn’t he?

A clicking from the heater indicates returned power as a grey dawn finally breaks over the horizon. Iron Man releasing a whimper when the device recommences its charge with a noticeable, soft whirring sound. His shoulders sagging in evident relief.

Yet, even as the room warms, Steve is unable to bring himself to withdraw from the embrace. Allowing another hour to tick by for sake of holding the Omega until he eventually stirs. Removing his head from Steve’s neck to regard him with heavy-lidded eyes. The glow of the white, Omegan rings enhancing the flecks of copper within his irises.

Steve swallows convulsively. Mesmerized.

“Never woken up beside someone and still had my clothes on,” Iron Man gruffly mumbles. “There really is a first for everything.”

Something brittle and wounded overlays Iron Man’s sarcasm, eliciting Steve to squeeze the Omega closer.  

Iron Man’s eyes widen at the pressure. Their noses mere inches apart.

“Are you…hugging me?”

Steve flinches. “No,” he’s quick to deny. “We’re sharing body heat.”

The Omega falls silent, turning an ear to listen intently for the heater. “The power’s restored,” he discerns. “So, why are we still ‘sharing body heat?’”

“It’s better not to take any chances,” Steve excuses lamely before flinging the covers off and pushing himself from the bed. Hoping to elude the question altogether and conceal the flush painting his features, he diverts, “How much longer will that take to charge?”

A rustle of fabric beckons him to look over his shoulder to find the Omega exposing more of the device along with his bare chest now marred with scars. He scrutinizes it all with a slight frown.

“9 hours,” Iron Man infers. “Give or take—with emphasis on the give.” He fiddles with the outer casing, checking if the cord remains snugly plugged in. “It’s designed to begin recharging at no less than 20 percent.”

“Or else?”

“You can kiss my sweet ass goodbye,” he informs, rubbing the skin above his heart. “Came pretty close to tasting both cheeks there, Alpha.”

A lewd image flashes in Steve’s mind, warming his face even more. Attempting to banish the thought, he raises a fist to his mouth and coughs. “Well, it’s a good thing that didn’t happen.”

“Or a real shame, depending on who you ask.”  

Steve notes the glint in Iron Man’s eye and the knowing smirk. Feeling something stirring low at the Omega’s cocksure attitude and disheveled appearance. Picturing his hair amess and cheeks rosy in an entirely different context.

Clearing his throat, Steve hurries to change the subject, “Is there anything you’ll need today?”

“A shower,” Iron Man blurts, speaking over Steve before he’s finished the question. At his admonishing look for the lapse in manners, the Omega half-heartedly corrects, “May I have a shower, Alpha? Or are you developing some sort of fetish for my body odor?”

Steve scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The Omega’s smile broadens. “Difficult not to assume from the way you were clinging to me—”

“I was not clinging.”

“—like a little, love sick puppy waiting for a treat,” he finishes, wiggling his brows.

“You’re unbelievable.” Steve laughs harshly. “I would rather die in battle than ever consider touching you intimately.”

Iron Man makes a pointed hand gesture. “The Alpha doth protest too much, methinks.”

Folding his arms over his chest, Steve challenges, “And the Omega doth irritate me too much when a bar of soap is at stake.”

A grunt of frustration escapes the Omega in response, but otherwise holds his tongue.

Checkmate.

“You can bathe once that’s done,” Steve states. “In the meantime, I’ll get a started on breakfast.”

Iron Man scrubs a tired hand over his face. “Are you taking any requests?”

“Maybe. If you ask nicely,” Steve encourages.

With a huff, Iron Man replies, “Wouldn’t mind a little Irish in my coffee.” He pauses. “If you don’t mind?”

Steve’s fingers tap his arm as he mulls it over. Not overly fond of the idea of Omegas drinking, but figuring a compromise is necessary to keep the Omega compliant. “I guess a small amount couldn’t hurt.”

Iron Man’s eyes grow comically wide—clearly not having expected the concession—then bows his head to expose his neck. “Thanks, Alpha.”

Steve’s chest swells with pride at the Omega’s propriety. “You’re welcome.”

“Anything else?”

Tony chances the Alpha’s charitable mood. “Could use something clean to wear.”

Papa Bear points wordlessly to a pile of folded clothes on the countertop that Tony somehow missed. Shocked to find it isn’t the ghastly yellow, prisoner jumpsuit, but a set of ordinary black sweats. Giving Tony some sense of normalcy.

“Not the latest fashion, but I suppose it’ll do,” Tony jests with a clap of his hands. “So, uh, how exactly will I…?” he gestures to his current apparel.

“Step into the shower.” At Tony’s visible alarm, the Alpha reassures, “Close the curtain and keep your foot out. I’ll unlock the chain for you to undress, but it’ll have to stay on for the duration.”

“Kinky,” Tony teases. “Never pegged you as the ‘wet-and-restrained’ kind of guy.”

Red tints the skin across the Alpha’s features and darkens the tips of his ears. His discomfort more than deserved after his little boundary violation in bed—believing Tony to be dumb enough to accept his bullshit answer.

“Just get in,” he orders exasperatedly, averting his gaze to inspect a spot on the wall.

With a dramatic salute, Tony clambers into the tub and pulls the curtain closed over his cuffed ankle. Upholding the illusion of helplessness while the chain is removed, permitting him to remove his shoes and shimmy out of the jumpsuit and underwear without impediment. Lofting it all over the shower bar before sliding his foot back through, already anticipating Papa Bear’s next command.

“You learn quickly,” Papa Bear comments as the lock clicks shut.

“One of my many strengths, or so I’ve been told.” Tony’s foot retreats. “I’m also adept at pleasing others.”

He grins, satisfied, at the Alpha’s choked reply, “Take your shower.”

“I’d rather have a bath. Really pamper myself, you know?” he says, pitching his voice soft. Striving for innocence and nonchalance. “Although, I’m not overly fond of having an audience while I scrub my junk. So, I don’t know, maybe you could watch Gilligan’s Island reruns or something instead?”

Buy it, Tony silently begs. Please, buy it.  

He waits on bated breath until the Alpha comes to a decision. “Fine.” Tony all but collapses against the tiled wall. “But don’t make me regret giving you privacy, Iron Man.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tony casually returns, making a show of turning the knobs to start the water.  

“You have an hour.”

“Roger that.”

Papa Bear chuckles as he exits the bathroom, leaving Tony to stand there unmoving. His pulse thudding against the reactor in trepidation until the Alpha’s heavy footfalls recede down the hall.

Risking a peek around the curtain to check if the Alpha’s truly gone, Tony’s relieved to find the room empty with the door slightly ajar. Allowing the steam from the hot water to billow, thickening the air.

Well. He intakes a fortifying breath. It’s now or never.

Hyperaware of the fact Papa Bear isn’t far out of earshot, Tony carefully gathers the chain and quietly climbs from the tub. Listening for any movement from the hall as he hurries to open the lock and set it aside. The cuff chafing his ankle as he steps on the balls of his feet toward the sink. Dressing in a frantic speed he hasn’t achieved since the afternoon one of his bed partner’s intended mate showed up from work early.

Tony sends a grateful thought to the Alpha for the additional pair of socks in the pile as he wriggles his feet into the shoes, then reenters the tub. The water sloshing around his ankles, soaking through the flimsy material.  

This might be a bit of a problem.

Not letting it deter him, Tony rises onto his tiptoes to unlatch the window. Hoping the powerful spray of the water filling the tub masks the squeak it emits as he wrenches it open. Spitting out a curse when a freezing gust of air blasts him.

Remaining resolved, Tony lowers the water pressure to prevent the potential flood from alerting the Alpha too soon, then refocuses on the window. Thankful to see no bars hindering his escape, but daunted by a wall of snow blowing formidably within the vast darkness beyond.

Tony makes to jump to grab hold of the exterior windowsill, but stalls as the Alpha’s smile and hearty laughter enters his mind. His chest constricting at the realization of never experiencing either again and imagining the Alpha’s disappointment upon the discovery of him long gone.  

What am I doing? He shakes his head roughly. Concentrate.

Heaving himself up, Tony squirms through the narrow passage. Clenching his teeth as snow and ice particles pelt his face and sting his eyes. Leaving him to blindly feel his way out until gravity aids him, forcing him to land gracelessly onto a mound of fresh powder below. The fall jarring his neck, shooting pain down his spine.

“Ow,” he croaks, lying still for a minute before staggering to his feet. The cold immediately seeping through the meager footwear as his feet sink into several inches of accumulated snow.

Tucking his vulnerable hands underneath his arms, he presents his back to the wind in order to clear his vision. But finds it impossible as the storm envelops him completely, creating near whiteout conditions. The light from the bathroom window scarcely visible through the thick of it.

Tony groans miserably.

He’ll have to rely on his mental map for navigation.

Orienting his position from the starting point of the bathroom, Tony begins his treacherous trek. Simultaneously counting his steps and adjusting his measurements of the square footage as he skates around the cabin’s perimeter to the front door. Confidently changing course to head off in direction of the pathway where Baby Bear had previously escorted him.

Tony puffs as he laboriously trudges onward. The unforgiving wind rubbing his throat raw and piercing his lungs mercilessly. Frostbite an impending threat as he stumbles along, winding his way back to the heart of the outpost with one goal in mind.

As the ground gradually levels out, Tony is nearly bowled over by an intense gust of wind, causing him to hunch into himself. The storm remaining dark and oppressive until floodlights from nearby buildings cut through it to act as a beacon. Gifting him a layout of his unfamiliar surroundings where the smell of gasoline once permeated.

Pressing on, he eventually passes a row of adjacent buildings to a large, tented area. The scent of gasoline wafting through an untied flap thrashing wildly against the rainfly, beckoning him closer.  

Cautiously, Tony peers inside to discover two sleek, black Jeep Wranglers parked side-by-side under the dim glow of a hanging lamp. The remainder of the tent devoid of soldiers, leaving the vehicles woefully unguarded.

With a sob, he stumbles in and nearly trips over a rogue gas can beside the first vehicle. Tony’s fingers stiff and aching as he fumbles to yank the driver’s side handle. Overcome by a sense of salvation when it opens automatically, permitting him access. The enclosed space sparing him from the wind, but not necessarily from the below freezing temperature within.

“H-heat,” he stutters, pressing the button to start the ignition. The engine revving to life seconds before the heater kicks on. Ripping a pained cry from his chapped lips as warm air chases away the chill. Circulation sluggishly returning with unbearable pins and needles.

Holding his tingling hands over the vents, Tony curiously checks the rearview mirror to scan for anything useful. Only to be surprised by the presence of a tactical bag and pair of combat boots carelessly left behind on one of the backseats.

Definitely not looking this gift horse in the mouth, he thinks, twisting an arm awkwardly to collect them.

Dumping his treasures onto the passenger seat, Tony shakily peels the snow-laden shoes from his frozen feet before stuffing them into oversized yet relatively warmer boots. Sloppily lacing them up before returning his attention to the bag’s contents. Only to release a joyous shout at the sight of a winter coat packed inside. Tony swiftly pulling it on and zipping it closed with little concern to the missing Hydra logo.

His fortuitous search ends with a first-aid kit, flashlight, water bottle, and multiple protein bars. The last of which he unwraps to shove into his mouth before typing the destination into the touch screen GPS and shifting the gear stick into drive. Belatedly flipping on the headlights and wipers when he eases back into the raging storm.

The tires have almost perfect traction as he carves a path through the outpost. Rolling to a stop midway when his thoughts turn to Bruce and Yinsen’s fate. Briefly calculating the risks before rotating the steering wheel in the opposite direction. Sending them a silent promise of rescue once he’s officially crossed the border.

Tony drives on through a maze of backroads, faithfully following the arrow guide on the map. The stretch of the journey bumpy and treacherous, causing Tony to save the remainder of the protein bar for a smoother patch.

After roughly 10 miles, he finally breaks free of the forest. Only stopping to check the route options before turning onto what he determines is a paved road. The ground far more slippery in comparison with sizeable patches of ice. His hands clenching the wheel anxiously whenever the Jeep skids precariously over them.

The flurries become denser with every mile, resembling warp speed from Star Wars as they barrel past him. Tony far too distracted by the phenomenon and caught by surprise when his temple clips glass as the passenger side slams into a tall snowbank; clumps of it toppling to pile onto the roof. The tires wedged and immovable when Tony attempts to floor the gas pedal.

“Fuck!” He bangs a fist against the dashboard. Frustrated to be stuck now after coming so far. 

Tony knows he should probably hoof it from here—to gain as much ground as possible before the Alpha hunts him down, but the comfort of heat is enough for him to hesitate. Opting to watch the wipers scrape across the windshield instead, he remains mesmerized by the repeating motion until a flicker of light ahead piques his interest. The shape of a black Jeep heading straight for him barely recognizable as its headlights grow brighter.

With newfound urgency, Tony grabs the flashlight from the bag and scrambles out of the vehicle. The soles of his boots scarcely gripping the ice underfoot as he makes a desperate bid for the relative safety of the woods. Hearing unintelligible, heavily accented shouts carrying over the wind and car doors slamming as he abandons the road.

Gunfire erupts behind him no less than a minute later. The zip of bullets flying past him spiking his adrenaline, but giving him a boost of energy needed in order to battle the snow drifts. Tony managing to gain some headway before deciding to move downwind, intending to shake them off entirely.

Yet, as he maneuvers around a copse of trees, something metal unexpectedly clamps over his throat and throws him bodily against a tree trunk. The sheer force of it robing the air from his lungs before the unknown contraption constricts his airflow even more. Simultaneously starving him of oxygen and pinning him in place.

The team of soldiers eventually fan around him; their tactical flashlights and firearms aimed squarely at his chest. Providing Tony enough light to see the clamp isn’t some sophisticated trap, but an entire prosthetic arm attached to a man. Whose features are mostly hidden beneath a facemask, save for a pair of dark, golden-ringed eyes which remain zeroed in on their prey.

“Surrender,” he starts with a low growl, “or die.”

Wheezing, Tony slowly raises his forearms as the soldiers inch forward. Feeling gloved hands seize his wrists before they’re bound by a set of handcuffs.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

The restricted air within the burlap sack encasing his head is stifling, intensifying the pungent, pervading stench of bleached vomit clogging Tony’s nostrils. Its stench awakening a sense of morbid curiosity within him, triggering contemplation on the fates of countless souls who endured this kind of suffering before him. Envisioning an unidentified individual on their knees, desperately pleading for mercy—only for their visage to rapidly morph into a detached version of himself. Ultimately falling victim to a hail of gunfire.

Yet another body to feed Hydra’s ever-engorging death machine.

Tony clenches his teeth, suppressing any outcry as the soldier’s metallic grip tightens before forcefully yanking him out of the vehicle. His feet fighting for traction on the compacted snow, causing him to slip occasionally as he’s blindly guided through what he presumes is another Hydra compound. The jingling of tactical gear and crunching of ice beneath the soldiers’ boots setting him on edge.

He jerks at the squeal of a door’s hinges, then elicits a surprised shout as he’s roughly thrust into the building. The resonating slam of the door and squelching sound of wet soles on tile reverberating down what he presumes is a corridor. Tony’s disorientation preventing him from tallying his steps as he’s briskly marched along the passageway. Losing his sense of direction until he’s redirected through another doorway—only to bite his tongue when his elbow clips the frame.

A hand simultaneously bears down on his shoulder while the steel toe of a boot delivers a sharp kick to the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel. The concrete flooring beneath his knees unforgiving and triggering a dull ache that radiates from his thigh.

Tony instinctively sucks in precious air once the bag is ripped from his head, but is soon met with a violent coughing fit as he inhales a noxious combination of formaldehyde and ammonia. His eyes watering as he’s dazzled by a spotlight; specifically positioned to shroud the soldiers lurking within the shadows. The only expectation being the masked, metal-armed Alpha, who stands rigidly by his side as a deterrent against any escape attempt.

He senses several guns aimed at his head, daring him to move. Their collective fingers likely taut on the trigger, ready to fire if he so much as scratches an itch.

Clearing his throat, Tony’s voice comes out laced with palpable fright, “Not to sound cliché, but aren’t you supposed to take me to your leader?”

“Quiet,” comes the Alpha’s gruff command, carrying an implicit threat of violence.

Tony shivers.

Deciding it’s in his best interest to entertain his captor’s order, Tony drops his gaze to the unidentifiable, dark patches staining the floor. Residual evidence of a horrific past and Tony’s imminent future.

Minutes elongate, stretching to what feels like eons. Subjecting Tony to mounting joint discomfort and an endless mental loop of ominous outcomes. The intensity of his imagination pushing him to stray towards comparatively tranquil waters. Finding himself reliving the morning spent nestled beside Papa Bear; enveloped in a warm cocoon of comfort and ensconced within the embrace of powerful arms. The Alpha's eyes—softened by the gentle morning light—revealing a vulnerable aspect, while his cheeks flush with poorly concealed embarrassment and desire.

In retrospect, Tony could’ve thawed Papa Bear’s cold heart further. Worked his charm until the Alpha decided to set him free. His inner voice berating him for yielding to his impulsive nature and squandering the precious chance to secure a sense of safety and—dare he admit—a gratifying bond.

Rhodey’s right, he muses. I’m an idiot.

The door suddenly opens with enough force to bang against the wall, heralding the newcomer’s entrance. His footfalls confident and slow, exuding authority and power as he comes to stand over Tony. Gifting him an unimpressed once-over in lieu of a greeting.

“So,” the man starts with a thick, German accent. “I’ve been told you were skulking around my base, hoping the storm would cover your tracks to avoid Hydra’s detection.”

Tony swallows convulsively as the man steps closer.

“‘Skulking’ isn’t necessarily what I would call it,” Tony deflects.

“What would you call it, then?”

With a small shrug, Tony offers a partial truth, “Just out for a drive.”

Throwing his head back, the man barks a laugh. The frame of his monocle catching the light, illuminating the cloudy iris and green Beta ring of his eye.

“This one here thinks he’s funny,” he addresses his comrades. “A regular clown.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect a Hydra lapdog to understand good comedy,” Tony returns snidely. “Tell me, if I were to throw a stick, would you leave?”

With a swift and blurred motion, the masked Alpha’s boot cuts through Tony’s limited field of vision, forcefully striking his midsection before he can react. The impact stunning him momentarily before a sharp, searing pain surges through his body, causing him to double over to expel bile onto the floor. His bound hands hindering his ability to assess the extent of the damage inflicted.

“Be insolent again and the consequences will be far worse,” the Beta sneers, utilizing the tip of his boot to tilt Tony’s chin upward. “You will address me as Herr Strucker or sir. Is that understood, Omega?”

Tony intentionally spits the remnants of stomach acid onto the offending boot, causing it to withdraw hastily at the assault.

“Strucker? You’re really going with that?” Tentatively, Tony uncurls himself, then musters up a lopsided smile to conceal his fear. “Had the opportunity to pick a cool name and blew it.”

“All right. I’ve had enough of this,” Strucker says with a permissive nod towards the Alpha.

He lets out a startled yelp as his hair is invaded by the chilling touch of metallic fingers before he’s pulled mercilessly to his feet. The relentless grip compelling him to stand erect, forcing him to witness the Beta unholster his pistol and take aim.  

“W-wait—”

Bang.

Tony tenses. Not daring to glance downward as fresh pain ripples through his chest. Suspending his breath as he anticipates the inevitable approach of Death. Awaiting the brilliance of white light or the gentle echo of his mother’s voice—anything that will signify what lies beyond.

Yet, nothing happens.

“How…?” Strucker utters, perplexed. His voice muffled by the ringing in Tony’s ears. “How are you still alive?”

The world around him feels distant and hazy. Every respire requiring deliberate concentration as he relearns the very act of drawing air into his lungs. His head buzzing as he processes the magnitude of his own disbelief and gratitude for the precious gift of life that he’s somehow managed to keep.

“Maybe it’s the effect of that Flintstone’s vitamin I ate when I was a kid,” Tony automatically wisecracks. “Or I’m secretly Clark Kent.”

Strucker’s brows furrow, not quite catching the reference.

“Superman?” Tony tries. “You know? ‘Faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive…?’”

The Beta vigorously shakes his head, snapping out of his bewildered state. “Ack, why am I letting you speak?”

Once more, he gestures for the Alpha to act on his behalf. The metal hand relinquishing his hair to then seize the scruff of his neck to better stabilize him. His unoccupied hand gliding over Tony’s shoulder to deftly unzip the stolen coat before firmly clutching the collar of Tony’s shirt. Displaying grandiose, Alphan strength as he rips apart the fabric with a single tug. Unveiling the mesmerizing sight of the arc reactor beneath, still emanating its ethereal glow.

“Was ist das?” Strucker asks in obvious wonderment. The pad of his gloved finger tracing a patch of scarred skin bordering the device. Far too intimidated and uncertain to prod at it directly.

Despite his limited visibility, Tony casts his gaze down to inspect the damage. Finding the presence of a crumpled bullet casing wedged within one of the oval-shaped apertures on the inner ring. Its fatal trajectory successfully thwarted, leaving the reactor—and Tony himself—relatively unscathed.  

Strucker’s inquisitive touch transforms into an objectifying caress. “I’ve never seen such technology.” He draws near with intent to violate Tony’s personal space, hot breath tickling the chapped skin of Tony’s lips. “You will tell me what it is.”

Tony attempts to move away, gain some space between them, but the Alpha’s hold remains unyielding.

“A pacemaker.”

The Beta glares, clearly not buying it.

“How about this?” Strucker’s cheek grazes his own as he moves to whisper in Tony’s ear. “If you provide me with all the necessary information, I’ll spare you from a slow, agonizing death.” When Tony’s breath hitches, the Beta adds sadistically, “At least, for now.”

A fierce internal conflict unfolds. Tony’s overpowering instinct to preserve his own life clashing with the doomsday scenario at the back of his mind.

Yinsen’s voice reverberating within the confines of his skull: “Don’t waste this second chance at life, Stark. You’re still here for a reason.”

“Fuck off,” Tony spits.

“Very well.” Strucker utters a tsk in disapproval. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

Tony bites back a whimper as he’s unceremoniously dragged backwards by the scruff of his neck. And amidst a blur of light and shadow, experiences a fleeting sensation of being lifted before being slammed prone onto a metal operating table. Several soldiers converging upon him posthaste, securing his limbs to the slab with leather buckles.

“Now, before we begin…” The Beta leisurely walks around the table as the soldiers disperse throughout the room. Fitting a clean set of surgical gloves onto his hands. “I’d like your name and the organization you work for.”

Tony warily observes the masked Alpha approach from the opposite side. Dark eyes keen upon him, digesting every feature and involuntary twitch.

“Iron Man,” Tony replies. “And kind of still working on the group name. Thinking something catchy like The Justice League—only less league-y. Sounds like some law firm’s bowling team.”

“I see.” Strucker clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “Allow me to convey that your participation in my facility is voluntary. Hence, the manner in which we proceed is also entirely up to you.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.” Tony retorts, “I was starting to think I was being held against my will.”

“Definitely not. You are merely a guest,” a broad grin spreads across his face, “with options.”

Well, isn’t that some Grade A horseshit.

“Is one of my options being set free?” Tony wonders, pulling against his restraints. “Because I choose that one.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Strucker releases a longsuffering sigh. “I’m a patient man, you see. And I’m prepared to postpone the retrieval of that device until I possess the missing information—however long that may take.”

Tony growls as the Beta extends a hand towards him. Gently stroking Tony’s damp and disheveled hair as though he were nothing more than a bristling animal.

“As it turns out, I’m in need of a test subject. And you, Iron Man, would make an ideal candidate.”

Tony swallows thickly, feeling a lump forming in his throat. “No thanks.”

With visible amusement, the Beta delicately tucks a stray stand of hair behind Tony’s ear. “I wasn’t asking.”

His blood runs cold.

“Thought I had options,” he reminds.

“You do.” Squaring his shoulders, Strucker commences listing them off, “Option A entails an injection capable of modifying your DNA and potentially endowing you with unimaginable powers.” He chuckles. “Or it will bring upon an excruciating death. We’re still in the trial-and-error stage, therefore desired results remain to be seen.”

Tony’s heart races, thudding wildly in his sore chest now crushed to the table’s surface.

“Option B, on the other hand, involves the injection of a miniscule chip, designed to deliberately overstimulate your pain receptors at my discretion,” he explains, pinching Tony’s arm to illustrate. “Following that, we will evaluate the results.”

 Cocking his head, the Beta enforces his illusion of choice, “Which would you prefer?”

“I’d prefer Dr. Claw over here,” he nods toward the Alpha, “to just kill me now and be done with it.”

“All in good time,” Strucker dismisses, resolute in creating a human lab rat. “A or B, Omega. Decide now or I’ll do so for you.”

Succumbing to defeat, Tony reluctantly makes a decision. “B for the win, doc.”

“Excellent!” He claps his hands together. “I will return momentarily.”

Strucker scurries off, leaving Tony to endure the lifeless stare of the Alphan soldier. The light bouncing off the metal prosthetic as he marginally adjusts his stance.

“Is the mask for health reasons or a fashion statement?” Tony wonders, striving for a distraction to alleviate his fraying nerves.

He receives nothing but unnerving silence.

“Not much of a conversationalist, huh?” Tony taunts. “Must be difficult making friends.” He releases a raspy chuckle. “Then again, look who’s talking. Not many people know who I really am, either.”

“I know who you are.”

The world come crashing to a halt. Tony’s gaze locking with the Alpha’s eyes as he becomes paralyzed with fear.

Is this a mind game? Tony ponders anxiously. Or does he actually…?

Tony refrains from inquiring further, expecting it could lead to the Alpha revealing his true identity. And elects, instead, to divert his focus elsewhere. Biding his time by testing the durability of the straps until Strucker returns. The Beta humming a jovial tune as he pushes a cart carrying various medical equipment and other tools towards the table.

Tony strains to watch the Beta as he diligently prepares. The bastard deliberately readying his provisions just beyond Tony’s field of vision, maliciously inciting distress.

He jolts in surprise as hands surreptitiously slide beneath his torso to affix adhesive patches onto his vulnerable skin. Effectively connecting him to a vital monitor which immediately displays his accelerated heartbeat and elevated blood pressure.

“After insertion, we will test the chip’s distance capabilities for activation and deactivation, while also monitoring its overall effectiveness,” Strucker informs, shushing him when he instinctively whines at the sensation of a sterile wipe gliding across his neck.

“Sounds thrilling,” Tony returns flatly.

“You’ll feel a bit of a pinch,” the Beta imitates the calming intonations of a doctor, all while viciously brandishing the syringe at Tony’s eye level. Granting him the privilege to closely appreciate the needle’s formidable length and thickness.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Tony’s voice quivers ever so slightly. “I’ve seen bigger.”

The Beta hums thoughtfully. “I doubt that you have.”

Tony fixates on the damning needle until it vanishes from sight. Affording him only a few seconds before lancing pain shoots down his backside. Tearing a scream from his lips as the needle plunges deeper to pierce his spinal cord. The liquid inducing a burn akin to molten iron as the syringe is emptied into the injection site.

As the pressure subsides and the burning sensation gradually dissipates, Tony drops his face against the table. Feeling a twinge of regret over his past choices and a simmering rage bubbling up from deep within.

“There, there.” The bastard strokes a hand up and down his back in a mimicry of comfort. “All done.”

Tony groans helplessly.

“Now do you wish to give me what I asked for?”

He turns his head just enough to shoot the Beta a withering glare.

Strucker shrugs, noncommittal. “Suit yourself.” He twists around to addresses the Alpha, proffering him a small remote. “Begin.”

The burning suddenly returns with a vengeance. Every nerve becoming a flame of torment, exacerbating his still healing wounds and fresh bruises. His own pulse excruciating as it pounds relentlessly throughout his body, while his senses heighten to an intolerable degree.

“Commencing the first test,” the Beta’s voice practically booms as if it were spoken through a megaphone, grating unbearably against Tony’s sensitive eardrums.

An unseen device creates a spark before electricity unexpectedly surges through him. A burst of white overwhelming his vision as his mind is consumed by inconceivable anguish. Causing him to dip in and out consciousness until the torture abruptly ceases.

Tony lies motionless, finding himself adrift in the aftermath. His senses abuzz as though they were entangled in a disorienting symphony. Unable to pinpoint where the sensations are originating from.

Stucker’s blurry and disjointed features come into sharp focus as he looms over Tony. Dark satisfaction alighting his pair of green rings.

“Ah, welcome back.” Tony flinches, still far too sensitive. “Please, be honest. How did it feel?”

His throat feels raw and tender, permitting nothing more than a gentle whimper.

“How wonderful to hear,” he says gleefully. “Are we ready for that little heart-to-heart now?”

Tony struggles to articulate. His tongue feeling swollen and cumbersome, obstructing the passage of words.

Strucker lowers himself to position an ear directly above Tony’s mouth. “Come again?”

He makes another attempt at speaking, but is interrupted by a resounding, shattering impact. Causing the Beta to recoil as what seems to be a door hurtles straight for him—only to be swatted aside at the last minute by the masked Alpha. The ensuing clamor of the door crashing to the ground sending waves of pain through Tony’s temples.

Outraged, Strucker begins to shout, “What is the meaning of—!” but the words die when recognition dawns on him.

“Oh…Captain Rogers,” he acknowledges, promptly assuming a respectful stance. “What an…unexpected surpri—agh.” He’s curtailed as a large figure charges at him, propelling Strucker against a wall by the throat.

“I explicitly ordered you to hold him here and ensure his safety,” comes Papa Bear’s familiar bellow. “By whose authority were you granted permission for experimentation?” 

“I-it’s m-my authority,” Strucker chokes out, clawing desperately at the Captain’s wrist. “Thi-s is my fa-facility.”

Rogers snarls. “And he is my intended mate!”

Tony blinks.

Intended…what?

“I…I had n-no idea, sir,” the Beta rushes to mitigate his trespasses. “H-he possesses no re-registration or a-any bond markings. I assumed h-he was a pr-prisoner. You're out of l-line.”

Tony catches Rogers turn slightly, conducting a cursory assessment of his condition before reasserting his authority over his panicking prey.

“I have the right to inflict punishment, regardless of the bonding laws.” Rogers’ voice pitches low with emphasis, “He’s mine.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Worry.

Steve experienced the uncomfortable feeling after the banks closed down and food became scarce. His stomach gnawing with hunger while he wasted away to practically nothing—swimming in his clothes to the point of tying cords around the waist of his pants as a makeshift belt.

Then, felt it again while watching the sun set from his sickbed, wondering if his comorbidities would steal him away in the night. His mother’s abandonment and his father’s long work hours leaving him to fend for himself.

And, finally, when the missile tore through the plane’s wing, sending him spiraling into the Arctic. His life flashing before his eyes before the all-encompassing darkness crept in.

Yet, nothing since has recreated the same gut-dropping sensation until the Omega’s agonized screams reverberated downed the corridor. Sending a jolt through Steve’s system and driving him into a full sprint in direction of the medical testing ward.

Is Iron Man’s heart failing?

Despite the Omega’s earlier reassurances of a fully charged device, Steve’s fretted over any damage the lack of charge may have caused. Or if the device itself is able to weather the elements once he discovered Iron Man vanished.

His vision tints red at the sight of the Omega tied down, trembling, and riding the aftereffects of evident torture. A surge of protectiveness overcoming him as he blindly rushes in, hardly aware of his own actions until his self-control returns with the bastard clutched within his ironclad grip.

No one touches this Omega, the thought emerges from his subconscious, unbidden, and causes him to squeeze the bastard’s throat until he squirms. No one touches what belongs to me.

Baron Strucker, Steve knows, is a pathetic Beta with an Alpha complex, enabled by Red Skull himself. The little weasel having obtained his power through his willingness to spy on his own comrades. Taking down several soldiers by simply pointing a finger; alleging plans to depose Red Skull regardless of evidence to the contrary. His little witch hunts granting him the privilege to climb the ranks.

Even now with the satisfaction of inducing fear of his own power, Steve understands he must tread carefully. Being Red Skull’s favorite is bound to fall short where Strucker stands on relatively equal ground.

Figuratively speaking, of course, with the bastard’s feet now dangling in the air.

“He’s mine,” Steve snarls.

An interceding metal hand wedges itself between them, seizing Steve’s wrist in a crushing grip. The bones at his joints popping slightly under the pressure, sending spikes of pain traveling up his arm.

“Release him.”

Steve shoots a sidelong glare at the interloper, but otherwise drops the bastard. And smirks as the Beta scrambles for footing, desperately gasping for air.

“Bucky,” Steve acknowledges, pivoting to face his fellow Alphan Soldier and only childhood friend. “Winter Soldier,” he teasingly corrects at Bucky’s glower.

“There’s no record of an intended mate in your file,” Bucky decides to play the part for the spineless Beta who’s moving to cower behind him. “Hydra’s bylaw states all Omegas are to be registered in the system within 24 hours of a bonding agreement or imprisonment. Failure to do so results in—”

“I’m aware of the sanctions.” Steve squares his shoulders in preparation of a convincing lie. “But my situation falls into a legal grey area.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow before his gaze darts between Steve and Iron Man. Assessing.

“How is that possible?” Strucker dares to chime in. His confidence returning with the protection of his personal guard dog. “Nobody can operate outside the Great Dictator’s regulations.”

“It’s classified,” Steve returns dismissively. “Under Operation Phoenix.”

Strucker’s eyes widen, disbelieving, and peers around Bucky at Iron Man. “No. He couldn’t be.”

Steve immediately steps sideways to block his view, then snaps, “He is.”

“I don’t believe you.” Strucker scoffs, “He’s an Omega and a pansy. Could hardly handle a little electrocution, much less the training it takes to become an operative.”

With his hands balling into tight fists at the bastard’s confession, Steve’s barely able to keep his tone even as he replies, “You’re a damn fool. What better way to avoid suspicion than to appear vulnerable?”

Steve glances over his shoulder to the Omega, who stares back through half-lidded and glassy eyes. Silently willing Iron Man to remain quiet until they’re home free.

“He survived your torture where countless others haven’t, proving his strength and fortitude,” Steve remarks, finding himself surprised by his own genuineness.

The Beta scowls. “Even if it is true, that doesn’t explain why he isn’t registered.”

“It could’ve compromised the entire operation,” he concludes, catching the penetrating force of his old friend’s stare. “I’ve been granted leeway.”

Bucky’s attention locks onto Iron Man. The intense focus causing a growl to escape between Steve’s clenched teeth.   

“Regardless of reasoning, I’m required to seek confirmation over such claims,” Bucky states, cutting Steve a knowing look. “Once validated, you’ll be permitted retribution for the…treatment.”

A silent exchange passes between them. Bucky’s hardening expression conveying a wordless warning: “Fix this before I’m ordered to come for your head.”

“Of course. Protocols.” He clears his throat. “Until then, I’ll be taking my Omega back to the outpost—”

“No,” Strucker interjects. “I won’t allow you to take my subject.” He takes what’s meant to be an intimidating step towards him, but backs off slightly at Steve’s malevolent glare.

“I’ve claimed him,” Steve reminds him testily.

“So you did.” The Beta challenges, “But you have yet to prove that claim to me.” Lips parting in a venomous smile, he taunts, “Wouldn’t be too hard to present some evidence, now would it?”

Steve barely suppresses the urge to knock the bastard’s teeth out. Deciding sometime later to rid the pathetic Beta from existence for the innuendo and his attempt to wield power over him.

Iron Man wearily observes Steve approach the table. The metal chains clinking loudly as the Omega’s hand stretches out as far as the restraints permit. A plea seemingly resting on the tip of his tongue, causing Steve’s chest to constrict. Hating how the once lively and obstinate Omega’s been reduced to something pitiful and weak.

He leans down to eye level and notes Iron Man’s dilated pupils. His bloodied mouth continuing to move in an attempt to speak. Still fighting in spite of everything, Steve thinks with growing admiration.

Maybe I’ve underestimated him.

Steve brushes the sweaty hair from where it sticks to Iron Man’s forehead, causing him to jolt as though he’s been physically hit. He isn’t sure if it’s due to residual pain or fear, but it causes the need to protect to flare more intensely than before.

“It’s all right, Sweetheart,” he gentles without much thought to how easy the endearment comes. Telling himself it’s out of need to uphold appearances and nothing more. “I’m here to take you home.”

A flash of comprehension and a hint of familiar resistance passes over Iron Man’s face, leaving Steve simultaneously grateful and concerned for its return. Knowing firsthand how the Omega’s mouth could give rise to a more severe outcome, Steve draws closer and whispers against his lips: “Play along or we’re both dead.”

Certain the Omega’s heard him, he closes the remaining distance between them until his mouth meets a pair of unresisting lips—and is surprised to discover them softer than expected. Iron Man’s slow, nasal exhale tickling his skin and eliciting the fluttering in his chest to return along with a demanding, primal need. Feeling a sense of belonging spark inside his mind before pleasant chills race down his spine.

With effort, Steve forces himself to end the kiss, and moves away to find the white rings in Iron Man’s eyes bright with some unidentifiable emotion.

“Give him to me,” Steve threatens, “or else.”

With a huff, Strucker gives the order, “Untie him.”

He stays rooted to the spot as Bucky nears, reluctant to allow anyone access to the vulnerable Omega. Bucky studies him out of the corner of his eyes—disquieted—but graciously refrains from voicing any comments on the matter. Instead, proffers a tiny key Steve presumes will fit the locks.

Steve gently frees Iron Man’s bruised limbs from their confines, noting every whimper and hiss of pain. Then gingerly turns him over and eases him upright, placing a hand against his now bare chest to steady him. The device is—much to his immense relief—still glowing brightly with what he perceives to be a bullet shell lodged in the center of it.

Rage boils his blood as Steve scans the room until he spots the bastard furtively inching his way towards the door.

“You shot him?” Steve roars, inadvertently causing Iron Man to jerk in his arms.

Strucker glances beseechingly towards Bucky and the rest of his security detail, desperate for interference. Their hesitance entirely rational, Steve thinks, what with the punishments in store for an unwarranted assault on a high-ranking officer.

“He refused to give vital information,” the Beta decidedly blame-shifts. “And so did you.”

With a tsk at the pathetic excuse, Steve commences lifting his precious burden into his arms. Feeling the tickle of hair along his neck as the Omega’s head drops to lay against him. And belatedly realizing the extent of Iron Man’s agony by the sheer lack of defensive humor.

“There will be repercussions,” Steve says gravely as he carries the Omega across the room. “I suggest you prepare yourself—this won’t end well for you.”

The Beta sneers. “Next time, I suggest keeping the bitch on a tighter leash.”

Steve swiftly maneuvers Iron Man into one arm before decking the bastard in the face. And is gratified by the Beta’s pained shout before he staggers backwards, cradling his injury with both hands. The monocle’s glass shattered, and its frame now embedded deep into the upper eyelid, allowing blood to drip down over the unprotected eye.

“Winter Soldier!” Strucker cries, making a wild gesture. “Arrest him!”

Bucky doesn’t move. Refusing to intercede by maintaining his distance with a fist raised in de-escalation to prevent his ambivalent subordinates from firing upon them.

“You’ll return to your unit,” Bucky’s voice rises above the Beta’s wails of outrage. “And there you will wait for the Great Dictator’s verdict. Correct, Captain?”

“Affirmative.” Steve offers a grateful nod and salutes. “Hail Hydra.”

“Hail the Red Skull,” Bucky returns, mirroring him.

Steve gathers Iron Man’s unsupported legs and exits the torture chamber without further ado. Romanoff and Barton greeting him with impassive expressions and distrusting glances over his shoulders. Their weapons drawn and loaded, ready and willing to counterattack if one dared to take advantage of Steve’s unprotected backside.

As they move to flank him, Steve retraces his steps back to their respective vehicle. Inwardly praising his subordinates’ capabilities to read the situation well enough not to question him.

At least, for now.

~*~

“You claimed him? Why the hell would you do that?” Barton yells, then hurries to lower his voice to a more respectful decibel. “Sir.”

Steve disregards the slip as he contemplates latching Iron Man’s bedroom door in the off chance of another miraculous escape. But settles on leaving it as is with the Omega out cold and the storm still intensifying. His fingernail absently tracing the woodgrain as he battles his instincts to remain close to his Omega.

No. Steve clenches his eyes shut, hitting his forehead against the door. Maintain control.  

“It was necessary,” Romanoff comes to his defense. “A claim eliminates the need for tactical questioning, which could’ve exposed our little clandestine operation.”

Turning to lean against the doorframe, Steve tacks on, “It also bought us time.”

“Oh, really?” Barton returns with a skeptical laugh. “How long exactly?”

Steve passes the question to Natasha with an imploring look.

“Until the storm’s passed,” she answers dispiritedly. “Four days or less.”

Barton snorts. “Or less,” he parrots. “What now, Captain? Did you believe after your assault, the infamous Herr Strucker would let this sit?”

“No,” Steve growls in irritation. “He’ll be hitting the ground running the second he’s out of surgery.”

“Yeah, I bet he will,” Barton grumbles, crossing his arms indignantly.

Cocking her head slightly, Romanoff hazards a guess, “So, we fall back?”

Steve sighs.

“That would be the feasible option,” he’s ashamed to admit.

“Fall back?” Barton scoffs at the idea. “After all the preparation and careful planning? And all the time spent healing the prisoner?”

Romanoff frowns slightly, clearly harboring the same sentiments. “We’ve been compromised and don’t have much to offer to offset the consequences,” she reasons. “It’s either this or...,” lowering her head, she finishes grimly, “we face The Wall.”

Steve’s jaw clicks as he tenses. With hardly any knowledge of Iron Man’s identity and Bucky’s mandatory duty to report, he flounders for a solution. Especially, when the thought of Iron man enduring endless torture gives him a sour taste in his mouth. The haunting screams ringing in his ears.

And his lips still tingling from the kiss.

Red Skull can’t have him.

Alarmed, Steve muses over his sudden change of heart. Pondering if he’s truly this willing to give up the fight—for some Omega, no less.

“Captain?”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ll need a plan to return Iron Man across the border,” he resolves. “And rework our story to gain Red Skull’s favor.”

Barton makes a noise of dissent. “Why not just kill the Omega?”

Steve propels himself forward, his sights narrowing on his target. And seizes hold of the Beta—too caught off guard to react—only to freeze at the cocking of a gun. Its muzzle aimed point blank at his temple.

Panting, Barton shoots a grateful look to his savior before addressing Steve, “Seems you’ve got a bit of a soft spot, Alpha.”

Shoving him away, Steve signals to Romanoff to back down. And watches warily as she slowly lowers the weapon but doesn’t holster it.

“If they discover his body, we’ll automatically be implicated,” Steve fumbles for plausibility. “It’ll be in our best interest to fabricate a story of his escape and our involvement.”

Barton opens his mouth to argue, but Romanoff is quick to interrupt. “We placed our trust in you up until this point,” she says, unnervingly calm. “Now, the same is required of you while Barton and I clean up the mess you’ve made.”

Steve huffs his disagreement.

“Or we could turn you over in exchange for our lives.” She shrugs. “Your call.”

Steve grits his teeth and mentally contemplates the pros and cons of killing them. Even with regard to his superior strength, he’s aware they rival him in skill and could best him at a distance. Not to mention, their sudden deaths could evoke similar condemnation.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But we keep Iron Man alive.”

“For now,” Romanoff compromises, ushering Barton down the cabin’s hallway without another word. The Beta gifting him a dark look as he trails behind her.

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. A war brewing within him.

I should have worked alone.  

With paranoia creeping in, Steve re-enters the Omega’s room and finds him unmoved—still fast asleep on the bed with his chest rising and falling steadily.

Surviving Strucker’s experimentations are nearly impossible, Steve thinks, but to do so with a heart condition is nothing short of miraculous. And between that and the plane crash, Steve’s amazed the Omega’s functioning at all.

The wind howls, rattling the window as Steve crosses the room and sinks onto the edge of the bed beside him. Choosing to spend these quiet minutes cataloging every new bruise deepening to shades of purple and tracing the bandages on Iron Man’s wrist. His mind reminiscing the morning curled up together—recalling Iron Man’s lazy smile, drowsy eyes, and sleep-tussled hair.

The weight of him in his arms.

“This is your fault,” Steve says bitterly.

Iron Man shivers and curls onto his side, his legs pressing against Steve’s hip. Conjuring up the image of them weaved between his own in the early morning hours.

Shaking himself, Steve heavily sighs and pulls the comforter over the Omega’s shoulders. A burst of fondness overcoming him when he settles into it.  

“You’ve been nothing but trouble for me,” Steve continues the one-sided conversation. “Maybe they’re right; I’ve grown soft.” Running a hand through his hair, he thinks out loud, “I should kill you.”

His throat constricts painfully as he envisions Iron Man gone from the world. The air seeming to thin, triggering another episode as he frantically fights for breath. Reaching out desperately to grab a hold of something, Steve finds the Omega’s hand. The confirmation of Iron Man alive alleviating his panic and filling him with profound bliss.

Steve knits their fingers together, taking some liberties in the moment. The touch evoking a time he once held his mother’s while comforting her through a bout of flu.

“What is it like to have a soulmate?”

“It feels like home.” She smiles wanly, rubbing her thumb along Steve’s knuckles. “I hope you experience it one day.”

Steve exhales slowly.

“Why is this happening?” Voice wavering, he questions the Omega, “What have you done to me?”

Iron Man doesn’t respond.

No quips. 

No scathing comebacks. 

Steve doesn’t prefer him this way.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Tony groans miserably as the claws of consciousness yank him into reality.

This is getting old fast, he muses as he pries his tear-crusted eyelids open. And grimaces as he feels each lash untangle painfully, little by little, until he’s able to see the dimly lit room and the bed he lies upon.

Every inch of him is afflicted with needlelike pain or numbness, causing his muscles to twitch as he strains to roll onto his side. His head pounding profusely to signal the all too familiar headache’s return along with the unwanted disturbance in his gut.

It isn’t the first time he’s experienced electrical shock. The aches drawing forth the memory of a rather impulsive test run on a prototype repulsor engine he installed in his Audi R8. Wishing to cut down on fuel emissions, only to end up frying himself instead.

“Wow. You’re really this much of an idiot, aren’t you?” Rhodey’s muffled voice filters into his ears. His friend’s face bleary as he bends over him.

Barely conscious, Tony slurs his reply, “Please tell me no one kissed me.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Nobody’s kissing you today, Princess. Least of all, me.”

It sparks the recent memory of his escape through a bathroom window, trudging through snow, and the life-or-death chase through the woods. Then, an encounter with a watered-down version of Doctor Frankenstein.

And lastly, a kiss.

“Play along or we’re both dead.”

“Fuck,” Tony says hoarsely, his throat feeling akin to shards of broken glass. “I really am a princess now.”

“I don’t disagree,” replies a comforting voice. “You easily fit the damsel in distress role.”

“Just Bruce?” Flopping his head against the pillow, he finds the Omega standing near the bedroom door with what he presumes is a medical bag in hand. “You’re not here to kiss me, too, right? I can only handle one fanciful prince at a time.”

The Omega’s brows quirk upward in surprise. “Sorry, but you’re not really my type.”

“Nonsense.” Arms quivering, Tony feebly levers himself upright. Recognizing the lingering effects, he knows not to rush any kind of movement. “I’m everyone’s type.”

“Easy,” Bruce coaxes him. The squishing and squeaking of his snow-covered shoes subduing the heater’s perpetual hum. “You’re not in the best shape.”

“I’m fine,” Tony argues. “Really, I’m good,” he emphasizes at Bruce’s incredulous huff, but is grateful the Omega decides to aid him to sit against the headboard without further objection.

It belatedly occurs to him that Papa Bear—No, Captain Rogers.—has been remiss in restraining him. His ankle sliding easily across the soft sheets without the bulk of a metal or a chain to catch against the fabric. Nor any other rope or zip tie to hinder him.

The whistle of wind and intermittent banging through the cabin reminds him how close he’d been to saving himself. Mere miles from the border.

From freedom.

“What happened?” Bruce questions quietly, inspecting the arc reactor’s fractionally indented metal before moving on to the juncture of Tony’s throat. Locating his pulse, Bruce’s lips begin silently counting. His brows furrowing with concentration.

“Oh, just the usual day,” Tony croaks once Bruce’s fingers slip away. “Took a stroll in a blizzard until a bunch of Hydra goons decided to join in.”

Bruce’s eyes widen. “You escaped?”

Tony glances nervously towards the door, discovering it slightly ajar. Just enough for someone to eavesdrop.

“Sort of,” he confirms in a hushed voice. “Didn’t get too far, obviously.”

Bruce follows his line of sight with look of understanding.

“Is this,” the Omega gestures to the bruising dotting Tony’s midsection, “due to him?”

“No,” Tony blurts, causing Bruce to flinch at the volume of it. Quickly readjusting his tone, Tony corrects, “They’re gifts from some psychopath moonlighting as a scientist. And his loyal pet.”

Bruce makes a soft grunt and shoots him a piteous look. “Plenty of those around here.”

“How many with monocles?”

“Just the one, and he’s arguably the worst.” The Omega crosses his arms over his chest as his gaze averts towards the window. A haunting pain within his eyes. “Unfortunately, I know that as personally as you.”

The image of Bruce tied down, enduring something similar causes a twinge of sympathy to occur in Tony’s chest. And although he knows better than to pry, his unquenchable curiosity is difficult to suppress.

“What was done to you?”

With a sharp shake of his head, Bruce replies tightly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

That serves to pique Tony’s interest even more. He begins to lean closer, only to flinch back with a hiss as pain stabs at his stiff neck.

“Don’t touch anything.” Bruce snatches his wrist, halting him from prodding at the area. “Let me see.”

Tony gives in to the Omega’s insistence, allowing him to gently examine the skin at his nape with the slightest hint of pressure.  

“You’ve got a puncture wound and electrical burns,” Bruce informs with a commiserating look. “Best I can do is clean it and add ointment to stave off infection.”

Turning to rummage in the bag, Bruce digs out a wash bottle and salve before proceeding. His touch hardly noticeable from the concerning lack of tactile sensation.

“I think you’ll survive,” Bruce reassures. “Your pulse is slightly elevated and you’re a tad feverish, but that’s expected after all the trauma your body has endured.”

Tony snorts, indignant. “Yippee…”

“Ice the burns and the bruises, get rest, and try to intake plenty of fluids.” Bruce releases a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “And be grateful you escaped with your life. Very few were this fortunate.”

He swallows thickly as a sense of guilt overcomes him. Not finding it difficult to imagine hundreds of souls dying under the psychopath’s care.

Bruce clips the bag closed and turns for the door, seemingly having nothing left to say.

“Heading off?” Tony wonders, not quite prepared to be left to what punishment awaits him.

“Duty always calls. Besides…” Bruce stops to regard him, a grave expression upon his face. “I wouldn’t want to be the guy caught between an Alpha and his injured Omega.”

Tony shudders as he recalls Rogers’ claim: “He’s mine.”

“I’m not his Omega,” he denies.

Bruce smiles wanly. “Are you sure he knows that?”

Tony clenches his jaw, unable to answer that with certainty.

Bruce turns sympathetic. “This might actually be a good thing, you know?” When Tony shoots him a confused look, the Omega explains, “A pre-bond makes for an overprotective and possessive Alpha. It’ll guarantee you stay alive…at least for a while.”

“Not sure if that’s as positive as you contend it to be,” Tony argues.

Bruce shrugs. “Personally, I’d rather be the monster’s mate than its prey.”

“And what should I do once its food source is gone but it’s still ravenous?” Tony challenges the logic.

Bruce cracks a smile, flashing teeth, and confidently advises, “Eat it before it eats you.” With that, the Omega slips through the door, leaving Tony to ruminate.

Curious when the door has yet to close, Tony carefully rises on shaky legs and wobbles unsteadily towards it. Roughly a foot away when it abruptly swings open to reveal the very Captain himself.

Equally shocked to see Tony, Rogers freezes in place.

“I’m surprised you’re awake,” he starts softly, reaching out to touch, but swiftly aborts the action when Tony zeroes in on his hand. “Are you…hungry?”

Taken aback at the Alpha’s entirely foreign demeanor, Tony dumbly asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be punishing me or whatever it is that your evil handbook tells you to do?”

A thought darkens the blues in Rogers’ eyes, but the intensity of it abates quickly. “Do you want me to punish you?”

“Not particularly,” Tony’s voice cracks as he tries to banish the idea altogether, only to realize he can utilize it to his own benefit. Cracking a cheeky grin, he impishly implies, “Unless...you had something else in mind?”

Rogers lowers his head and shakes it fractionally, unable to conceal his amusement. “Seems like you’re back to your old self,” he remarks fondly.

Tony shifts his weight uncomfortably, hardly able to process it, then shrugs. “I mean, who wouldn’t anticipate a ‘punishment’ after such a life-saving smooch?”

Rogers’ gaze flicks up to meet his, pupils dilating as the gold surrounding them brightens. “I’m not punishing you,” he states with a roughened edge. “Yet.”

That sends a heated thrill racing southward from his belly, eliciting his nether regions to throb with interest.

Well, that’s…concerning, Tony thinks, swallowing convulsively as he wills the sudden thumping in his chest to calm. Probably just a symptom of torture, he reasons. And I’m still fresh off the blockers, so it’s likely biological. Nothing more.

Tony scarcely represses a shiver as Rogers continues speaking. His voice akin to velvet, caressing Tony’s heightened senses. 

“Until the storm passes, I’m permitting you free range of the cabin,” Rogers informs, shaking Tony from his current…distraction. “But another attempt to escape will force me to restrain you, again. Is that understood, Omega?”

Weakly clearing his throat, Tony barely catches himself from questioning the unexpected concession. “Yes, Alpha.”

Rogers nods curtly and authoritative, evidently unaware of Tony’s physiological responses.

Thank god for small miracles.

“You’ve been asleep for almost a day.” Rogers begins fidgeting with his belt loop. “I just finished making some stew. Would you…like to join me?”

Tony gawks, disbelieving. “Are you…asking me to dinner?”

Quickly straightening his posture, Rogers averts his gaze to avidly stare anywhere else. “Don’t read too much into it,” he dismisses. “I only intend to keep an eye on you and your health.”

He snorts indelicately at that. “And here I was thinking the ‘knight in shining armor’ stereotype was a myth.” At Rogers’ sidelong glance, Tony teases sarcastically, “Really know how to sweep an Omega off his feet, Cap.”

With a longsuffering sigh, Rogers crosses his arms. “You coming or what?”

Weighing the pros and the cons of his options, Tony finds the rumble of his stomach to be the deciding factor. Shakily, he moves until he reaches the threshold—only to abruptly halt in hesitation. Recalling to mind the last time they played chicken as Tony stares down the hallway in direction of the living area.  

Is this some sort of test? Shooting an uncertain glance towards Rogers, Tony considers the possibility. Seems like one.  

“Something wrong?” Rogers prompts, quirking a brow.

Definitely a test.

Tony stumbles, briskly reversing away from the door. “I should probably stay in bed, you know? 50 volts really takes a lot out of a guy with heart problems.”

The Alpha instantly flips from his usual nature to distraught as he swiftly breeches Tony’s personal bubble. Gripping Tony firmly by the shoulders, the Alpha fixates on the reactor, scanning it frantically for visible signs of deterioration.

“Is it malfunctioning?” Rogers asks urgently, brushing fingers down Tony’s bare chest to press against the scar tissue inching outward. “Could it be short-circuiting at all? Or jammed somehow?”

Floored by the Alpha’s compassion, Tony fumbles for words and settles on the simplest. “No.”

The Alpha’s shoulders relax. “Do you have pain anywhere?” he wonders, tone softened with unease.

“My head and neck are sore, and there’s some dizziness and weakness,” Tony admits quietly, marveling at the Alpha’s touch. His palm still flat against the pectoral directly over Tony’s heart, as though memorizing its rhythm. “Got a tea to cure post-torture bliss, Papa Bear?”

Lips forming a hint of smile, Rogers returns, “I hope you gave that bastard just as much of a hard time as you give me.”

“Of course,” Tony confirms. “Have to keep my reputation as Hydra’s number one pain in the ass, don’t I?”

Roger flashes his teeth as his smile turns feral. Eyes twinkling with something profoundly proprietorial. “Would be a real shame to have that reputation destroyed.”

Tony does shiver this time. “Now you’re getting it…”

Sliding fingers from Tony’s chest, Rogers takes the liberty to gently probe at the bruises at Tony’s stomach. Rogers’ brows furrowing at Tony’s sharp hiss of pain as the contact ignites a deep, burning ache.

“Let’s get you to bed,” the Alpha insists gently, easing a supportive arm around him.

Goosebumps tickle Tony’s skin as he’s guided back to bed, leaving him far too stunned to reject the Alpha’s assistance when he deposits Tony onto it. Rearranging him into a comfortable position, the Alpha rushes to fluff the pillow, effectively causing Tony’s heart to skip a beat.

“This isn’t necessary,” Tony mumbles, overcome by sheer awkwardness as he’s tugged by the shoulders until he sinks against the makeshift backrest. Heat building in his face when the blankets are pulled up to cover his lap and tucked in around him.

There’s something attentive to the Alpha’s care, as if done from previous experience.

Tender.

Almost sweet.

“I’ll bring your meal,” Rogers decides. “Just wait here.”

“Okay.” Tony casts his gaze down and fiddles with the edge of the blanket. “Thanks.”

Bruce wasn’t kidding, he thinks. This Alpha really acts like…

Tony scrunches his eyes shut and listens to the Alpha retreating from the room.

Better to be his mate than his prey…

Right?

“How is he?” comes Romanoff’s question as Steve exits the hall, halting abruptly in-between the living area and kitchen.

She sits in partial shadow, alone. The cabin now devoid of 812-P and Barton—who likely volunteered to escort the prisoner to his cell. Romanoff, evidently, remaining behind to act as surveillance. Her steadfast gaze bringing Steve to easily suspect it isn’t entirely to do with Iron Man.

“A little worse for wear, but is his usual self,” he answers, forcing a casual intonation.

She releases a short sound in acknowledgment, but otherwise doesn’t press.

“Are you planning to stay here for a while?” Steve asks, pivoting to face her.

“Likely,” she replies tersely. “Iron Man is still my investment.”

“And you’re still under my authority,” Steve returns with a low growl, discerning her encroachment. “He won’t be going anywhere.”

She cocks her head, incredulous. “His track record with you says otherwise.”

A flare of anger consumes the peace he felt minutes prior as he paces closer. “I want you out of my cabin. You can either leave willingly or by force.”

She doesn’t move, unflinching.  

“Leave now,” he threatens.

With a sigh, Romanoff picks at the lint on her pants leg. Giving a clear indication of refusal to heed his command. “You don’t see it at all, do you?” she starts, instead.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Seemingly satisfied to have tempered him, she stands up. “You’re slipping.”

Steve furrows his brows at that. “Excuse me?”

“Not only are you losing sight of the goal,” she deems to criticize, “but you’re also becoming irrational. Prone to your biological urges and tendencies.” Pausing to allow her words to sink in, she states, “A liability to Hydra.”

He pins her with a malicious glare. “Are you threatening me?”

“A little.” With a look of earnestness, she proposes, “What if I told you a third party aligns with your ideas and they’re willing to offer assistance to you?”

Jerking slightly in surprise, Steve returns ineloquently, “What?”

“Basically,” she continues, “I’m offering you the chance to have your cake and eat it, too.”

Steve’s suspicions rise sharply.

What kind of game is she playing? he wonders, eyeing his shield from its resting position against the couch’s armrest.

Romanoff smiles knowingly. “If you try anything, Barton will put our contingency plan into action. And it will guarantee that you endure The Wall.” Steve clenches his jaw as she removes her pistol from her belt and places it onto coffee table in good faith, then motions towards the opposite end of the couch. “Hear me out.”

Not willing to trust it, Steve swipes the gun. Now the one with an advantage, Steve seats himself to humor her. “You have ten minutes to convince me not to take my chances.”

“I’ll be brief, then.” Reseating herself in the chair, she appears hardly disconcerted as she brushes hair from her face. “Roughly a decade ago, a special task force was formed to combat Hydra’s ascendancy. It specializes in espionage and counter-terrorism while retaining complete autonomy as a neutral party to the war.”

Steve drums his fingers on his knee, absorbing the information. “But not entirely?” he presumes.

“Not where specific regimes are concerned—yes,” she admits. “However, where our allegiance lies is strictly our prerogative and is subject to change.”

“And despite the history with Hydra, your allegiance so happens to lie with me…for the moment,” Steve deduces, his thumb teasing the safety off. “How did you infiltrate Hydra? What’s your mission?”

Her lips pull taut. “We also operate on a need-to-know basis.”

Clicking his tongue behind his teeth, Steve concedes, “Fine. Why help me, then?”

Romanoff folders her arms over her chest as she intakes a fortifying breath. “We believe you’re the only one capable of overthrowing the Red Skull.”

Steve immediately chuffs a laugh as the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Where he thought he was the game master, he was actually the game piece. A puppet on a string influenced by the wills of another. The ace in the hole.

Impressive, he thinks admirably. Not very often I get blindsided like this.

“So, it’s my help you need.” Steve realizes, “Which is why you were both so eager to go along with my plan.”

She shrugs. “It was convenient.”

His hackles rise on Iron Man’s behalf as he comes to understand the implication. “Along with sacrificing Iron Man? Isn’t that a bit hypocritical where your values stand?”

“Some sacrifices are necessary,” she returns with a growl. “The ends justify the means. It would’ve been honorable.”

Steve lowers the pistol, stunned to hear his own motives echoed. The Omega’s fate apparently sealed, destined to be used.

“Because you were an easier target,” Steve concludes.

Iron Man shrugs. “It’s a curse.”

Romanoff clears her throat. “If you agree to our plans to take down Red Skull and topple the Hydra Regime, we will exculpate you and offer sanctuary in one of the neutral zones. Not to mention, you’ll be granted your own team to lead.”

Steve shakes his head, finding it all surreal.

“You know this is your best option,” Romanoff changes tactics. “With us, you’ll stand a chance. And so will Iron Man.”

The breath catches in his throat.

True to her abilities of perception, Romanoff utilizes his reaction. “We’ll keep you both safe and alive, so long as you cooperate.”

“And if I don’t?” he dares to ask. “Or I turn you down?”

She pins him under a predatory stare, shadowed with promise. “We’ll throw you both to the wolves.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Rogers appears absorbed in his thoughts while going through the routine of settling in for the night. The Alpha’s unusually subdued, lacking the intensity Tony’s grown accustomed to. The weight of his ruminations evident by his distant gaze and the tense line of his shoulders.

Tony doesn’t ask.

And wouldn’t his friends be impressed by his peculiar show of restraint. He can practically hear Rhodey now: “Keeping his big mouth shut? A Tony Stark first!”

Hours after the Alpha has gone to sleep, Tony musters the courage to try out his newfound freedom. Quietly slipping out of bed, he creeps from the room, treading lightly on the balls of his feet. Listening attentively for Rogers as he ventures down the hall toward the rest of the cabin. The stove light from the kitchen guiding his way.

Flicking on the nearest lamp, Tony quickly takes stock of his surroundings. The living room features a couch, matching chairs, and a worn wooden coffee table; forming a typical but welcoming seating area. A flat screen television hangs on the wall directly above a bookshelf filled with various novels, movies, board games, and other miscellaneous items.

Adjacent to the living room is a rather large kitchen, separated by a breakfast bar. The neutral colors of the cabinets matching the living room furniture, leaving Tony hardly stimulated.

“Cozy,” he remarks sarcastically, longing for the brightness and comforts of his lab back home.

Tony pads into the kitchen and immediately begins opening every drawer and cabinet—only to discover there isn’t much to work with. Nothing but plastic dishes, lightweight pots and pans, and silverware with the carving knives missing.

Sighing, Tony shuffles into the living room to peruse the games on the shelf and settles on a thousand-piece puzzle. Then empties it onto the coffee table, uncaring of the pieces that fall carelessly onto the floor.

“Need some help?”

Tony whips his head to find the Alpha leaning against the wall at the mouth of the hallway, evidently watching him from the shadows.

“Pretty sure I’ve got it handled,” Tony shoots for casual, despite the random flutter of elation he experiences to see him. “Not exactly rocket science or brain surgery.”

Rogers doesn’t take the hint and proceeds to plop down into a chair. Without further ado, he begins selecting various pieces to start connecting together. Allowing Tony a chance to appreciate his company without being the primary focus for once.

Tony allows minutes to pass in comfortable silence. Enjoying the moment absent of stress and fear. The memory of Rogers’ heroic rescue resurfacing as his mind reels from the pleasant atmosphere.

Clearing his throat, Tony starts awkwardly, “Big fan of puzzles?”

“Not really,” Rogers says, spinning a puzzle piece between his finger and thumb. “But you seem to be enjoying it.”

“Keeps my hands busy,” Tony returns carefully.

“Do you work with them often?” Rogers pries as he reaches to collect another handful.

“You could say that.”

“What is it that you do?”

Tony deliberates for a minute on the extent of information to disclose and opts for a partial truth. “I like to build things in my spare time.”

Snapping a few pieces into place, Rogers wonders nonchalantly, “What sort of things?”

“Gadgets mostly.” He shrugs. “Nothing fancy, really.”

A prickling sensation at the back of his neck and the sudden unease in his gut alerts Tony of a pair of icy, blue eyes now searching him suspiciously.

“But fancy enough to catch Howard Stark’s attention,” Rogers replies with a palpable undercurrent of abhorrence. The unexpected topic of his father making Tony fumble several pieces, causing them to scatter across the table. Which does not go unnoticed by Papa Bear. “What are you to him, Iron Man?” he demands.  

“No one special,” Tony says somewhat breathless. Slightly relieved to hear his identity remains unknown. “He likely wouldn’t even notice if I weren’t around anymore.”

This seem to only intrigue the Alpha as he pins Tony under his dark glare. “Being a passenger on his plane and not caring if you live sounds awfully personal to me.”

Tony swallows thickly.

“All right.” Rogers humors him, “Who would want to make an attempt on your life?”

Fresh tears sting at the corners of his eyes as he recalls Happy’s remorseful plea: “If it had been anyone else but her, I would’ve chosen you.”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, blinking his vision clear.  

Rogers drums his fingers on his knee. “Well, someone wasn’t thrilled you were heading to meet with Stark,” he spits the name with notable venom.

A cold chill runs up Tony’s spine. He decides to redirect the topic before any further connections between him and Howard are realized. “Or they just wanted to take me out for the sake of it.”

The Alpha scooches to the edge of his seat. “Why?”

“You’ll have to take it up with them,” Tony returns bitingly. “I didn’t exactly plan any of it.”

The hard expression becomes softer. More sympathetic. “A decision to take a life at this scale isn’t made lightly. Whoever wanted you gone clearly desired to bring attention to your death—to make some kind of a statement related to Stark.”

Tony blurts, “But nobody knew I’m—” He quickly stops himself. “That I was meeting with him.”

Rogers cocks his head. “Nobody knew?” he repeats, deeply skeptical.

“Okay. Maybe a couple people,” he reluctantly admits. “But none that I can think of that would try to kill me.”

Rogers makes a thoughtful noise.

“But what does it matter?” Tony blabbers on nervously. “Not like I’m important enough when their goal was to get at my…uh…acquaintance.”

“It matters to me.” Rogers snarls. “The Stark family name has been the common denominator for all the shit in this world.”

Tony sees red as he’s once again blamed for the acts of his father’s cruelty. “Oh, but somehow you’re not responsible for any of it?” Tony retorts with a growl. “All those lives lost and the families destroyed by Hydra’s loyal, little soldier! Who are you to talk?”

Rogers rises suddenly, causing the chair to slide back a few inches. Tony hurriedly gets to his feet, feeling a surge of adrenaline as Alpha pheromones overwhelm his senses. The orange scent acrid. Yet, despite the sudden turn towards aggression, the Alpha maintains a respectable distance.

“I could have left you in the wreckage and let Strucker have his way with you,” Rogers snaps. “I saved your life.”

“So what?” Tony barks a laugh, edging on hysterical. “What’s a single drop of water compared to an ocean of blood, Rogers?”

The Alpha bares his teeth, forcing Tony to take a step away. “You should be aiming that animosity towards your colleague. Howard Stark doesn’t spare a soul, not even his own people!”

An impassioned comeback dies on Tony’s lips as he’s hit with the truth of the Alpha’s words, jolting his system. It brings sharper clarity to the invention of the Jericho and Howard’s plan to indiscriminately eradicate all. Showing no mercy to friend or foe.

“This will be enough to wipe Hydra off the map…”

Tony tilts his head slightly, baring his throat. “You’re right.”

Rogers deflates instantly. “Come again?”

Licking his lips, Tony repeats, “You’re right, he doesn’t. In fact, he’s the complete antithesis of his own moral endeavors.” He huffs. “Like King Arthur claiming God sent him to represent the people while repressing their right to speak or act freely in the name of his own quest.”

The Alpha furrows his brows.

“Monty Python,” Tony explains.

Rogers’ brow quirks upwards, clearly still not catching the reference.

“Seriously? Don’t you guys ever have movie nights?” Tony waves it off. “In layman’s terms, then. An aggressive and self-serving king masquerading as society’s holy savior.” He then adds as an afterthought, “Except in this case, it’s funny.”

At the Alpha’s responding chuckle, Tony experiences a deep sense of satisfaction. Pleased to know he’s the cause for Rogers’ eyes to gleam brightly as the tension between them fades. Feeling his heart skip a beat as the Alpha moves to close the gap, prompting Tony to instinctively lower his chin.

“You keep surprising me,” Rogers starts, intonating fondness. Tony’s skin alighting at the touch of fingers caressing the edge of his jaw before guiding his face to look up. “Who are you, really?”

“Just some regular, unlucky jerk,” Tony jokes automatically. Lost in the blue hues of the Alpha’s eyes.

Rogers swipes his thumb tenderly over Tony’s cheek.

“Please.”

His breath catches. “Tony,” he says without much thought, but is quick to tack on the surname he’s adopted for himself, “Carbonell. Tony Carbonell.”

“Tony,” the Alpha tests his name on his tongue, voice a gentle lilt. Rogers’ hand lingering far longer than it should. With a half-cracked smile, he turns to retreat back to his respective chair, leaving Tony standing paralyzed in place, itching to trace a finger over the skin the Alpha’s touched. His heart beating mercilessly against the edge of the reactor.

He barely refrains from asking the Alpha to say his name again.

“It seems your luck might be changing,” Rogers starts impassively. “For the better, this time.”

Trembling, Tony retakes his seat. “What do you mean?”

“In the next few days, I’ll be escorting you back across the border,” Rogers explains.  

Tony blinks hard, disbelieving. “You’re…letting me go?”

“Not entirely.”

His hope fizzles.

The Alpha straightens his posture. “I’m placing you under the protection of a third-party.” At Tony’s puzzlement, Rogers divulges additional details, “You’ll have a level of freedom similar to your previous lifestyle, with exception that you’ll stay in the Neutral Zone until it’s deemed less of a risk. Then, you’ll be officially returned stateside.”

“Protection?” Tony parrots, utterly bewildered by the Alpha’s evolution from a cold and aloof disposition to one of genuine concern. “Gee, Rogers, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re starting to like me.”

The Alpha gazes at him with a heated intensity, pupils dilated and golden rings ablaze. “Maybe I don’t hate you half as much as I should.”

Tony’s mouth goes dry as the fluttering sensation teases his ribs. And warmth spreads outwards from his chest to the very tips of his fingers and toes.

“Oh,” he mutters, unable to look away.

A traitorous voice sounds from deep within: His Omega.

“What did you mean by less of a risk?” Tony rushes to change the subject, restarting the puzzle to calm himself.

Rogers’ lips tighten, defaulting to withholding relevant particulars to keep control.  

“Fine, don’t tell me.” He switches topics again, “Do you ever relax? You know, ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’”

The Alpha huffs. “I don’t understand that reference, either.”

“Of course, you don’t.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, Tony wonders, “What do you know?”

Rogers' face falls pensive, fixating on the half-completed puzzle. Taking up another piece, he resolves to continue the activity.

“I know I woke up in a world suffering far worse than it ought to be,” he says grimly. “What’s there to celebrate when humanity took all the wrong turns?”

Tony wasn’t prepared for such a profound answer but decides to roll with it if it means keeping the Alpha talking. “Were you in a coma?”

Rogers’ eyes grow distant, losing himself to a memory not yet known to Tony. “Guess you could call it that. I have practically nothing left from my past.”

He dares to scooch closer, encouraging the Alpha to open up more. “Must have been difficult.”

“Yes,” Rogers agrees with a grunt. “Especially, losing my potential mate.”

Ugly and unfamiliar heat churns in the pit of his stomach at the Alpha’s wistful expression. His temper flaring as Tony leans to gather more of the puzzle’s remaining pile, squashing the sting of jealousy towards someone he’s never met.

“Peggy,” Rogers sighs her name, causing Tony to clench his teeth. “The most beautiful Beta I ever laid eyes on. Strong. Confident. Incredibly keen.”

The green-eyed monster within grows more potent, roaring like a beast. Tony comes to the realization that he doesn’t like the notion of anyone else having the Alpha’s affections.

He scarcely maintains an even tone when he asks, “What happened to her?”

Rogers grips his knees with both hands. “Settled down with somebody else. Had two kids.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And what I learned later on, she had passed away a year before I was revived.”

The beast deflates, permitting a wave of guilt to replace it. “I’m sorry.”

A pregnant silence falls over them for several uncomfortable minutes.

“Do you actually mean that?”

Tony looks up to find Rogers’ eyes locked onto him. Imploring.

“Cross my heart,” Tony promises.

Rogers sinks into his chair, evidently relieved by Tony’s compassion as Tony succumbs to his Omegan impulses to comfort. Placing a hand upon Rogers’ forearm, he marvels at the bulk of muscle beneath and the higher body heat as it sooths the chill from his own fingers. Delight overcoming him when the Alpha covers his hand with his own and squeezes it delicately.

“Tell me more about her.”

“She was fiercely independent and could handle anything thrown her way,” Rogers gladly carries on. “Because of that, I never felt compelled to rescue her or anyone else.” He grins. “Until now.”

“I didn’t need to be rescued,” Tony argues petulantly.

“Not at all,” the Alpha ribs. “If I recall, you don’t need an Alpha’s help.”

“Exactly.” Tony examines the healing cuts littering Rogers’ knuckles. “But I guess I should still thank you.”

“You guess?”

Rogers still has yet to let him go and Tony is anything but eager to move.

“You spared me from breaking my own bones on that bastard’s face,” Tony expands on it. “Last thing I need is another injury.”

Rogers raises a brow. “Is that all?”

Tony shrugs.

The Alpha huffs. “After risking my neck out in a blizzard and dealing with that bastard, you really can’t think of anything else to be grateful for?”

Feigning thought, Tony teases, “The food’s pretty good.”

“Oh, really?” Rogers rubs his thumb along the backside of Tony’s hand. “Maybe I could cook you something you’d like later today.”

“Why?” He quirks a curious brow. “Is there a special occasion?”

The Alpha hums. “If you count Christmas as one?”

Astonishment crashes into him as his mind races to calculate the time elapsed since the crash. The revelation of it leaving him in a state of mild disbelief, accompanied by a profound sense of gratitude for having endured and survived.

“I…didn’t realize...”

With a glimmer in his eyes, the Alpha offers, “What would you like?”

Tony already knows. And despite everything, he isn’t one to pass on an opportunity.

“Cheeseburgers,” he says with a note of longing. “The greasier, the better.”

Rogers responds with a soft and amused exhale.

“How typically American.”

Tony’s aches are hardly noticed as he belts out a cathartic laugh. The relief it brings a balm for his soul after weathering the storms for so long.

Maybe the monster isn’t all he appears to be, Tony considers. I could get used to this.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

As the early morning hours approach, the Omega drifts off to sleep on the sofa. The light from the device casting a dim blueish glow, softening the hard lines on Tony’s face. Steve memorizes the curls of Tony’s hair fallen in unruly waves along the curved scar on his forehead and the way his eyelashes flutter and nose scrunches slightly as he dreams.

With Tony’s bedding in hand, Steve carefully lifts his head to tuck the pillow beneath. The Omega unstirring, even as Steve wraps the blanket around him. Feeling warmth blossoming in his chest when Tony exhales contentedly and subconsciously snuggles deeper into it.

Steve brushes a stray strand of hair behind the Omega’s ear before quietly withdrawing to his bedroom. Shutting the door and turning the lock, he pads to bed and collects the tablet Natasha handed him after grudgingly accepting her proposal.

“I’ve rerouted the IP address through a VPN and placed several firewalls so that Hydra won’t be able to track it,” she imparts. “You can keep in touch with me through the anonymous chat box. And you can look up information on anything you wish.” With a glare, she includes, “Unless it’s anything to do with outing us. We’ll know immediately if you try.”

Clicking the tablet on, Steve taps the search engine as Natasha instructed him and types in Iron Man’s name. Hoping it might garner some kind of result as the loading circle appears for seemingly eons.

Finally, the screen pops up with two relevant links, giving him pause when he reads over the first:

CEO and Renowned Engineer Tony Carbonell Deemed Missing

But nothing fancy. Right, Tony? he thinks with a huff, then continues on.

Pepper Potts, co-founder and CFO of Carbonell Intl., a multinational tech and energy company, filed a Missing Persons Report for CEO Tony Carbonell on Friday, November 14, 2008, after Carbonell’s flight failed to arrive at LaGuardia Airport (LGA) on Thursday.

According to The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB), Carbonell’s plane—registered to Stark Industries—took off from Los Angeles International Airport (LAX) at 7:25am local time on Thursday and was scheduled to arrive at LaGuardia Airport (LGA) by 6:07pm local time. The flight also scheduled a stop for refueling at Detroit Metropolitan Airport (DTW) but did not arrive. Air Traffic Control in Montana reported unusual activity with the flight prior to its sudden disappearance, indicating a possible hijacking. However, no further information has been given at this time.

Howard Stark, CEO of Stark Industries (SI), was sought to make a statement but was unavailable. In his absence, SI’s CFO, Obadiah Stane, made a statement on his behalf.

“We are shocked and deeply saddened by this tragic event, and are offering our full cooperation in the investigation,” said Stane upon his early return from the Neutral Zone of Mexico. “We can only hope that Tony and the others on board will be found alive.”

His intuition focuses on the informal use of the Omega’s name. Feeling unsettled by it, considering the customary formalities in the context of business.

Potts also delivered a statement. “We are utilizing all available resources towards finding Mr. Carbonell and those aboard, and plan to prosecute the ones responsible to the fullest extent of the law.”

An anonymous reliable source confirms that one of the passengers was Harold “Happy” Hogan, the personal assistant and bodyguard to Carbonell. He is also Potts’ mate of 3 years.

Steve clenches his jaw at the revelation. Squeezing the tablet until a visible crack snakes its way across the screen.

The other passenger—Tony’s assassin—was his bodyguard?

Steve growls lowly.

“It’s a curse,” echoes the Omega’s words in his mind.

He backtracks to the secondary link, which leads to the company’s website outlining its initiatives in the realm of renewable energy. Steve contemplatively tapping the side of the tablet as he reads through all the information given on the formation of Carbonell Intl. and its impressively expansive networking.

What was Stark after? he wonders, knowing of Howard’s carelessly destructive nature and his lack of awareness over environmental impact. But quickly recalls Natasha’s inference to Iron Man’s identity and his importance to Stark: “This interaction is indicative of a leadership role. Or a more…favorable position.”

The world isn’t ignorant to the loss of Stark’s beloved mate, nor to Stark’s intentions toward seeking a replacement. And Steve, personally, wouldn’t put it past him to set his sights on a certain unmated Omega rivaling him in technological business. Likely envisioning his empire growing exponentially with their collaboration while Tony is reduced to nothing more than a trophy to showcase and a pawn to manipulate.

A potentially unstable yet powerful dynamic such as theirs would definitely be a motive for murder, Steve considers. And also explains the first-name basis Stark Industries exhibited in the interview and Tony’s faltering interpretation of their relationship.

Steve detests the thought of Tony being Stark’s Omega. Picturing Tony cowering at the Alpha’s threats and forced to do his bidding. Everyone bearing witness as the Omega’s uniquely fiery spirit withers and dies under Stark’s oppression.

No. I won’t let that happen.

Clicking another tab on the site, he learns more of the company’s accomplishments in reducing carbon footprints, as well as Tony’s philanthropic contributions to impoverished regions around the globe.

If his overall objective is the betterment of humankind, Steve wonders, why would he agree to this kind of arrangement in the first place?

Blackmail, a subconscious voice answers, but Steve shoves that possibility away. From his experience with Tony, he can’t fathom the Omega giving into it without a fight.

Then, why?

Switching the tablet off, he slides it underneath the pillow for safe keeping. Believing there’s far more to the story than he can glean from the internet, and a greater complexity to the Omega he’s once thought to be feeble and powerless.

With hours to kill before Tony awakens, Steve collects his art supplies from the side table, then flips to a clean page in his sketchbook. The tip of the pencil gliding almost effortless across the paper as the portrayal of Tony, gazing into the distance with confidence and staggering strength, begins to emerge—a genuine leader in a world of deception and cruelty.

Exceptional.

~*~

Tony is muttering to himself, again.

Steve observes him sitting at the other side of the breakfast bar, deeply immersed in repairing a disc player using only a pencil and rubber band. Steve isn’t certain how the device was damaged, but Tony is resolute to correct the issue—perhaps out of desire to beat boredom or a simple need to engage in something productive.

He’s willing to bet it’s both.

The beef patty hisses upon contact with the pan, emitting a plume of steam. Disappointment seeping in at the absence of minced pie, glazed ham, and Christmas cake, but Steve’s intended this meal to be a spontaneous gift.

Or something akin to extending an olive branch, if he’s honest with himself.

In any case, it’ll improve the Omega’s confidence in him and open an avenue of communication in order to shift the scales against Stark. Not to mention, he isn’t entirely opposed to Tony’s presence. Admiring how he not only exceeded Steve’s own expectations but those of a vastly broken society. To share the ideals with Steve is incredibly uncommon, but to make decisions humanity should’ve made is a complete rarity.

A diamond in the rough, he thinks as a pleasant tingling sensation erupts in his chest.

“Burgers are nearly done,” Steve informs, adding a slice of cheese to the browned meat.

“Make mine a double,” Tony requests without taking his attention off the project, deftly tightening a small screw between his fingers. “With the works,” he tacks on.

Steve gifts him a thin-lipped smile, but reminds him of his manners, “I didn’t hear the magic words.”

“Abracadabra,” the Omega immediately wisecracks. “Hocus pocus. Bippity boppity boo. ‘Use the force, Luke.’”

“Smartass,” Steve retorts, grinning, and commences plating the food to the Omega’s specifications. Over the popping grease cooling in the pan, Steve catches Tony’s sarcastic gasp.

“Me? Never.” Standing up, the Omega takes the disc player and situates it atop the bookshelf. Then speaks over his shoulder as he commences hooking the wires to the television. “Frankly, I’m offended you would even think that, Rogers.”

Steve snickers. “And here I thought it would be the greatest compliment you will ever receive.”

“Well, you thought wrong. Didn’t you?” Tony plays along, giving the television frame a couple encouraging pats as it flickers to life. “Now you owe me a dessert to make up for it.”

Leaning against the breakfast bar, Steve replies teasingly, “Oh, do I?”

“Oh, you do,” Tony returns, selecting a movie from the modest collection and popping the disc into the slot. “I’m craving donuts, so make it snappy.”

Steve feels pride swell in his chest as he imagines the Omega managing his little empire with the same gusto and wit. Until the thought of Tony’s life nearly snuffed out due to Stark sours it. Rage creeping in from all sides as a murderous urge consumes him.

The Omega instantly senses the change in the air and freezes, much like a fawn detecting imminent danger. His eyes locking onto Steve, wary of his mood. His fright only stoking the fire as Steve realizes Tony is more terrified of him than of Stark, sharpening his disdain for the Alpha.

“I’m going to gut the assholes who tried to kill you,” Steve promises darkly, striving to dispel the Omega’s lingering anxieties.

Tony’s eyes widen as the white Omegan rings brighten intensely. The Omega’s mouth slightly opening, as if wishing to speak, but ultimately snaps closed with nothing to say. Steve catching the sweet scent of Tony’s arousal as it permeates the air; evoking thoughts of the night they shared a bed and eliciting his concentration to head southward.

“Yikes.” Tony visibly swallows and turns away to fiddle with the volume buttons. “That’s so…violent.”

It’s meant to be a rebuke—a desperate scrabble for morality—but it falls flat by Tony’s snatched glances towards him. Evidently pleased with his offer—no, Steve corrects himself, honored to be defended.

Steve straightens to his full height and proudly puffs out his chest. “It certainly is.”

“Avenging a little ol’ prisoner like me?” The Omega shoots for levity, but fails as his voice strains with undeniable desire. “Doesn’t exactly sound like Hydra’s style.”

The scent of cinnamon apples continues to choke Steve temptingly, causing him to grip the edge of the breakfast bar until the marble surface begins to fracture.

“I didn’t claim it was.”

The anticipation and tension continue to mount. Nearly hitting a crescendo before the moment takes a jarring turn when Tony unexpectedly blows out a breath and swiftly reverts to the carefree demeanor he displayed just moments ago.

“I’m famished.” Clearing his throat, Tony claps his hands and rubs them together. “Definitely ready for those burgers now.”

Steve recoils at the sudden switch-up as a rush of lightheadedness casts a fog over his mind. Ripping his fingers free from the breakfast bar, he stumbles out of the kitchen to his private bathroom, urgently splashing water over his face. The icy chill of it driving away his intensifying need and faltering willpower, restoring his composure.

Maintain control.

“You planning to stay in there long, Rogers?” the Omega shouts, his tone betraying no hint of the recent event. “The burgers are getting cold.”

Steve drops his head and chuckles below his breath, uncertain how else to react. Never once having his inhibitions lowered this quickly, nor this easily—not even with Peggy.

Exceptional, indeed.

~*~

“Since you decided to provide the meal, I figured I’d share the gift of one of the best movies in cinematic history,” the Omega says, enthusiastically plopping down onto the sofa and grabbing his plate of food. “You’re in for a treat, Cap.”

Opting to occupy the opposite end, Steve finds it difficult to resist the proximity the Omega is allowing. Especially with the mixture of pheromones still heavy in the air, even with several windows open.

“It’s been ages since I last went to the pictures,” Steve says nostalgically. “Haven’t really been that interested in the newer stories.”

“Good lord. ‘Pictures.’ ‘Stories.’” Tony tears a bite from the burger, his eyes shutting as he savors the meal. “What are you, 100 years old?” he taunts around a mouthful.

“Almost,” Steve replies. “90 is pretty close.”

“Excuse me,” Tony manages to sputter as he seemingly inhales his food. His eyes watering as he coughs to dislodge it from his throat. “I think I might have brain damage because I thought I just heard you say you’re 90 years old?”

“Technically, yes.” Steve gives a tiny shrug. “I age a bit differently than the average human.”

The Omega gawks at him. “You’re messing with me.”

“Why would I do something like that?”

Tony scoffs. “I knew it. You’re just playing a mind game.”

Steve smirks, thoroughly enjoying the Omega’s discombobulation. “As fun as that would be, I’m being honest.”

“No, you’re not.” Setting the plate onto his lap, the Omega defiantly crosses his arms over his chest. Stubbornly, he declares, “I won’t be easily deceived by mind tricks, Anakin.”

Steve barks a laugh. “I understood that reference.”

“Shocking.” Tony’s eyes narrow. “Thought you haven’t been to the ‘pictures’ lately?”

“Doesn’t mean others haven’t,” Steve rises to his challenge. “People talk, and I have ears.”

“That’s a bit offensive,” Tony quibbles. “What would Baby Bear think?”

“Baby Bear?”

“The gunslinger with the cool earbuds,” Tony describes curtly.

“You mean Barton?” Steve’s lips quirk. “He’s well-versed in pop culture and is far more adept at conversations than even you and me. Offense is hardly taken with him, unless you get on his bad side.”

The Omega grumbles, denoting his disfavor. “I must be at the top of his shit list, then.”

Recollecting Barton’s exasperation with Iron Man, he concurs, “I believe so.”

Emitting a sound of frustration, Tony persistently ignores etiquette and devours another bite while probing him for answers. “You still haven’t revealed the mystery of why you appear in your thirties when you’ve—allegedly—been alive for nearly a century.”

“Because that’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Steve pettily denies him, paying Tony back for the weeks of maddening anonymity.

“Is there anything you will tell me?” He sighs. “Or will it always be a futile game of Twenty Questions with you?”

Steve intentionally refrains from responding to further irritate the Omega; opting to consume his burger, instead.

“And here I was under the assumption that I was the major pain in the ass,” Tony grouses, removing a glob of ketchup from the corner of his lips with the back of his hand.

He gifts him a stern look. “I’m not usually difficult.”

“Right, because you’re the poster boy for upstanding behavior,” Tony ripostes, eliciting a broad smile from Steve. “You couldn’t possibly cause issues by being a member of one of the worst terroristic organizations in all of human history.”

Steve’s smile diminishes, and with it, his sense of humor. Averting his gaze to the window, he finds the sun’s rays shining through, dispersing the storm clouds and bringing about a long-awaited reprieve.

“I think it might astound you to learn that you and I aren’t so different,” Steve asserts. “We’ve chosen opposing teams and contrasting methods. Yet, at the end of the day, we’re both willing to embrace the unconventional to achieve a common goal.”

“How do you know what I want?” The Omega proclaims faintly, “I’m nothing like you.”

“Yes, you are,” Steve declares without a shadow of a doubt. Pinning the Omega under his gaze, causing him to sink back against the sofa cushions. “You’ll see it, eventually. We could make a formidable team.”

And defeat Stark once and for all, Steve leaves unsaid.

Tony scrutinizes him. The wheels in his head turning, deciphering.

Steve isn’t certain if the Omega comes to acceptance, but eventually, Tony averts his eyes and starts the movie. And with little left to discuss, Steve allows the distraction; finding the movie entertaining, if not thought-provoking. Especially considering the Omega’s prior comparison of Stark to King Arthur.

As the film progresses, Steve’s attention shifts increasingly towards the Omega. Captivated by his profile, Steve finds every feature deserving of his attention. Moreover, Tony’s resounding laughter as nothing short of angelic, adding an enchanting quality to the atmosphere. He wants to hear it the rest of his life.

Mine.

“Again with the staring.” Tony shoots him a chastising, sideways glance. “Is there something on my face?”

Reaching across the short distance between them, Steve’s fingers trace a tender path as he cups the Omega’s cheek. Tony’s eyes snapping to meet his while a myriad of emotions swirling within their depths—curiosity, surprise, and perhaps a bit of longing. The pad of Steve’s thumb chasing the subtle blush as it paints across Tony’s features.

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you, Tony,” Steve says apropos nothing, moving to caress the scars littering Tony’s neck. “If anyone tries to lay a finger on you again, I’ll break every bone in their body.”

He speaks sweetly to avoid intimidating the Omega, but the vow is anything but. Regardless of where their paths lead, Steve will ensure Tony’s safety.

“You can’t possibly mean any of this,” Tony says, voice wavering. The metaphorical walls he surrounds himself with beginning to crumble at their foundations.

Steve is quick to assure, “I do, and I won’t go back on my word.”

“For now,” the Omega calls him on his sincerity. Forcing him to acknowledge there might come a moment in the future where he’ll have to break his promise out of necessity or survival.

He agrees, “For now.”

Tony’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips, instantly capturing Steve’s notice. The Omega’s pupils are blown wide, nearly engulfing the white rings as Tony’s attraction manifests once more.

Grateful for a second chance, Steve leans in, ever watchful of the Omega’s cues. And is granted permission to proceed as Tony’s eyes fall closed and his head tilts in a welcoming gesture. His breath tickling Steve’s lips as he inches closer. The magnetic pull between them palpable.

A sudden and frantic rapping at the door catches them off guard, prompting Tony to roughly pull away, his eyes blinking rapidly.

In aggravation, Steve vaults over the back of the sofa and nearly tears the front door off its hinges. Causing the Beta outside to recoil at his fury.

“What is it?” he snarls.

Barton sends a questionable glance in Tony’s direction, but swiftly regains his poise. “Romanoff picked up a radio transmission between Outpost 7 and Hydra HQ, so you’ve been officially compromised. We have to move out—now.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

Wonderful, Tony realizes miserably, I’m a skeleton.

Tony practically swims in the Hydra uniform, despite it being the smallest size available. Weeks of bedrest, intensive healing, and malnourishment having all but reduced the muscle mass he’s built up over the years and burned noticeable body fat. Effectively causing him to stuff the hem of his jacket and Kevlar undershirt into the waist of his pants, while doubling up on belts to guarantee everything stays secure.

Although his condition remains a far cry from good health, Tony is thankful to be recovered enough to keep pace with the Beta ahead of him as they trudge through snowdrifts. The arctic wind stinging his face, flushing from the almost kiss and the adoring look he receives from Rogers after dressing. A gaze akin to someone seeing their mate clad in their clothes—possessive and desirous.

And dammit, he shouldn’t be thinking of Rogers in this context, nor should he like it. Not with the Alpha being nothing short of a dangerous sociopath, a serial killer—a fucking war criminal, for all intents and purposes.

Not to mention, Tony is his prisoner—was his prisoner.

Hell if he knows anymore.

At any rate, if his occasional True Crime TV binges with Pepper have taught him anything, it’s that only naive and crazy people fall for psychos. Only the suckers who believe the monsters are actually good at heart will ride off into the sunset with the delusion of a happily ever after, ignoring every red flag along the way.

And he isn’t one of them.

Will not be one.

Tony is wrenched from his musings as he trips, his toe snagging on something underneath the snow, but is rescued from a faceplant by a pair of strong arms swiftly pulling him up against a firm chest. The Alpha’s warm breaths feathering across the tip of his ear, inducing goosebumps to crawl along the nape of his neck.

“I've got you.”

He flinches, the contact electrifying—tantalizing—and hypersensitive after their moment together. The pressure evoking a sense of security, soothing his anxieties.

No. Nope, he inwardly panics. Not naive, not crazy.

Twisting out of Rogers’ arms, Tony feebly shoves him away—finding it as effective as moving a boulder uphill. “Thanks, but I can handle it from here.”

Rogers exhales loudly, dissatisfied, but otherwise grants him space without asserting dominance. Leaving Tony wondering just how far he can push boundaries before the Alpha inevitably returns to his senses.

They eventually arrive at the courtyard of the outpost, a scant number of soldiers milling about outside, performing maintenance or menial tasks to clear walkways. Anything, it seems, to have a break from their confined quarters now that the storm has prematurely died. A few of them sending glances their way, only to turn their backs quickly and resume their duties—likely feigning disinterest with their superior in sight, Tony assumes.

“I’ve notified Hensley of the change in command,” Barton announces, rotating to address Rogers directly. “He didn’t ask questions.”

“Unusual, for him,” Rogers remarks, leery.

The Beta smirks. “I ensured he accepted his position gracefully and informed him of your ‘new assignment’, if anyone inquires to your whereabouts. So, he shouldn’t present a problem.”

Tony’s thoughts reel, slowly but surely beginning to connect the dots. There wouldn’t be a need for threats if this were Hydra sanctioned…

Aware that the devil is often in the details, Tony reviews the information he’s gleaned so far during his stay at The Hydra Resort and pieces it all together:

“Play along or we’re both dead.”

“You’ll stay in the Neutral Zone until it’s deemed less of a risk.”

Son of a bitch, Tony realizes with alarm. He’s double-crossing Hydra. Stomach churning, Tony swallows against the bile burning low in his throat. And being his proclaimed Omega could make me guilty by association.

Emerging from behind the buildings, the black SUV rolls to a stop several feet from them. Tony immediately recognizing the driver as she waves them over.

Barton jests dumbly, “Your chariot awaits,” but Tony remains lost in his head, too preoccupied to give him any flak for it.

If Hydra finds out… He’s barely conscious of the Alpha’s guiding grip at his elbow and every step being taken. They’ll come here for answers…

“Hold up,” Tony pleads, bringing them to a sudden halt. “What about Bruce and Yinsen?” A lack of recognition passes over Rogers’ face. “The other prisoners,” he clarifies with a tinge of frustration.

Rogers’ chin tilts upward, a spark of understanding in his eyes. “What about them?”

Tony flicks his gaze to the hilltop, and licks at his dry lips as he contemplates his phrasing. “Look, I get I’m not exactly a part of your Sith Boy Scout troop, but even I know that whatever it is we’re doing is bound to cause somebody to revoke your membership.”

The Alpha’s stare tightens, a warning.

Boundary tested.

“So, uh,” Tony fumbles for words. “Won’t they be interrogated?”

“Yes,” Rogers confirms with an air of indifference. “And?”

“And,” he continues with outrage, “they don’t deserve to be tortured and killed over this, Rogers.”

“We’re not taking them with us,” Barton pipes in, earning a sharp look from the Alpha.

Already aware it’s a longshot, Tony decides to stand his ground nonetheless. “Then let them go free,” he beseeches. And before Rogers can object, adds, “Give them a fighting chance!”

Rogers remains utterly unmoved by their plight, causing Tony to resort to his most effective tactic. Baring his neck, he entreats softly, “Please, Alpha. If not for them, I wouldn’t have my life. I owe them theirs.”

After a quiet reflection, the Alpha orders Barton, “Go. Release them.”

Scoffing, the Beta signs his strong disagreement. And gauging by the quickness of the movements, Tony can only assume he’s the main subject of derogation.

“Do it,” Rogers bites out, leaving no room for debate.

With his upper lip curling, Barton hastily marches across the courtyard and vanishes down the hill.

Tony drops his head in pure relief, his heart swelling with appreciation. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Rogers indulges him with a faint smile before ushering him onward to their waiting transport. The rising tension becoming palpable as he slides into the backseat and refrains from complaint as the heater blows oppressively hot.

Anticipating that Rogers will claim the passenger seat, Tony is caught off guard when he chooses to occupy the one beside him instead and wedges his large shield underneath it. The Alpha’s convictions regarding gender roles now seemingly forgotten or possibly overridden by compelling biology. In any case, Tony doesn’t know what to make of the odd display of equality. And neither does Mama Bear, if her visible bafflement is anything to go by.

However, it becomes apparent the aberration pales in comparison to a more pressing concern as her demeanor turns icy.

Rogers bristles at her steely scrutiny. “What?”

“Where did you send him?” she asks cuttingly.

“To the cell block,” he answers plainly. “Should be on his way soon.”

A muscle in her jaw ticks as her gaze narrows to near slits. “He’d better be.”

Lowering his chin slightly, Rogers shakes his head with a chuckle.

“I had an inkling about you two.” He regards her with a calculating glare. “You shouldn’t be this conspicuous about your bond, Romanoff. Especially after all your efforts to maintain secrecy.”

Her eyes flash at that.

“There’ll be no hesitation.” Romanoff looks pointedly at Tony, eliciting a shudder from him as he grasps the gravity of it. “An eye for an eye.”  

Rogers scoots over, obstructing her view with the mass of his body. The Alpha remaining unflinching as Rogers bends forward, deliberately violating her personal space.

“Back down,” Rogers growls.

Her tone is deceptively sweet, belying her truer nature. “Just wanted to be clear, in case you’re having second thoughts.”

“I’m not.”

Romanoff emits a dubious noise.

“If he doesn’t return in ten minutes…” her words trail off ominously.

Rogers tenses, his muscles straining beneath his black leather jacket as he slowly leans back. And still watchful of Romanoff, instinctively wraps an arm around Tony’s shoulders, drawing him securely against his side. Tony’s heartbeat quickens at the protective posturing, minimizing his vulnerability to assault while arranging him entirely too close to the Alpha’s pheromone glands at the juncture of his throat.

Shivering at the proximity, Tony experiences a head rush as he breathes in the Alpha’s scent. Effectively calming his nerves while Rogers reaches awkwardly to retrieve an item from his tactical belt, discreetly placing it into Tony’s hand. Astounded, Tony examines the foldable knife with is fingers, his thumb tracing the edge of the flipper as his mind becomes consumed by its potential and the magnitude of trust the Alpha is bestowing him.

Blinking back tears, Tony presses more against him, utterly overwhelmed by the opportunity to defend himself.

A fighting chance.

Rogers seems to intuitively pick up on his gratitude and lightly rests his cheek against the top of Tony’s head. Tony relaxes further, his eyes slipping closed. Savoring the solace in spite of everything leading up to this point—and all that is yet to come.

At least, for now.

He startles an indefinite amount of time later as the front passenger door swings open, allowing a rush of frigid air to invade the cozy interior. Barton clambers in, casting a puzzled glance their way before he settles. His hands rubbing together as they hover over the air vents, evidently chilled despite the gloves.

Tony barely stifles a whimper of loss as the Alpha relinquishes him to situate himself in the middle, acting as a barricade between Tony and those upfront. The knife notably left in Tony’s possession.

“What’s our heading?” Rogers questions as the engine rumbles to life.

“Gate 19,” Romanoff states, engaging the drive gear. And slowly moves forward, away from the outpost and onto the recognizable backroads, snow crunching beneath the tires. “We have several agents stationed there as a failsafe.”

The Alpha huffs, incredulous. “I assume you have a plan for crossing the checkpoints on route?”

Checkpoints? Tony reflects on his escape plan with dawning horror. Images flashing vividly before him: armed guards, barbed wire, and something worse than the mad scientist and his faithful pet. I never would’ve made it.

Opening the central console, Romanoff fishes out a pair of electronic ID badges, each displaying nothing but Hydra’s infamous symbol along with differing sets of numbers and letters. Then promptly transfers them to Rogers, who immediately takes great care to examine them for flaws.

“You’re Lieutenant Colonel Gallagher,” she informs. “And Goldilocks over here will be your registered mate, Private Littlecock.”

“Ouch,” Tony says with mock affront, placing a hand to his chest. “May as well have castrated me. Would’ve hurt less.”

“I won’t deny the thought crossed my mind.”

Tony grimaces at her facetious tone. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrifying beyond all reason?”

Locking eyes with him through the rearview mirror, she gifts him a devilish, thin-lipped smile. “Constantly.”

“Of course, they have. How stupid of me to think otherwise when the entire Land of Oz is quivering,” he teases, fiddling nervously with the knife. “Do you, by any chance, have a weakness to water? Asking for a friend.”

Evidently grasping the reference, Rogers throws his head back in laughter, a sight that fills Tony with tentative pride. Barton, however, shoots him a sidelong glare, not even remotely appreciative of the joke.

Baby Bear is grumpy today.

Rogers proffers his fake ID through petering laughter, his fingers brushing against Tony’s own as he accepts it.

“Great,” Tony returns sarcastically. “Now I can sneak into the clubs like all the cool kids do.”

The conversations fade into an uncomfortable silence thereafter, causing Tony to desperately seek a distraction. Wiping a bit of condensation from the window to gain a better view of the landscape, he finds the clouds have blotted out the sun once more, blanketing the forest in a muted gray haze. The dense trees and rugged, snowy terrain stretching for endless miles in all directions, unveiling a monumental challenge he once thought to conquer on foot.

“What were you thinking?” Pepper’s voice resounds in his head, scolding him concernedly, as she often does. “You could have frozen to death, Tony!”

“He doesn’t think, remember?” Rhodey’s voice responds. “All that brain power and he’s still an idiot.”

With a faltering smile, Tony rests his forehead against the glass, unable to prevent a tear from escaping.

I miss you guys.

Eventually, they break out of the maze and veer onto the paved road Tony recently traveled. Except, this time, they steer away from Mr. Hyde’s lair, opting for the more scenic route to the border.

Rogers clears his throat. “Are you positive the IDs will work?”

“Absolutely,” Romanoff says, adjusting the wheel into the spin as the tires skid over a patch of ice. “Hydra’s weakness lies in its disorganization,” she deems to explain once the car stabilizes. “Identities are assigned as serial numbers with no photographic records. This method conceals their members not only from their enemies but also their own until valid identification is presented. Therefore, I’m able to hack the computerized system and register names with little proof, among other things.”

“How else did you think we wormed our way in?” Barton tacks on smugly.

Tony perks up at that. Not Hydra goons? They’re the ‘third-party'?

Rogers sniffs disapprovingly. “Exactly how long have you both evaded detection?”

Romanoff and Barton exchange a look.

Tony shakes his head. “First rule of espionage, Cap: reveal nothing.” At the collective suspicion he receives, he defends, “Oh, come on. It’s Basic Spying 101. Even grade schoolers know this.”

Barton studies Tony intently, sporting a slight frown. “Are we sure you’re not one?”

“He isn’t,” Rogers interjects. “I’ve checked.”

They share another significant look but refrain from comment.

Tony regards Rogers warily, not liking the sound of it. “What do you mean by ‘checked’?”

The Alpha shifts marginally in his seat. “It’s not important right now.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. What have you discovered about me?” Tony’s heart skips a beat, dread washing over him at the prospect of his revealed identity. Please, don’t let him know. “Do you know I like long walks on the beach? A few fingers of whiskey before bedtime? Or that I recently lost the Year’s Top Invention award to a 7-year-old?” He blabbers on, “Who has an unusually attractive aunt, by the way.”

Rogers grits his teeth at that last tidbit, the gold rings in his eyes burning with jealousy.

Oopsie. Didn’t mean to let that slip out.

“Wait a minute.” The Beta guffaws. “You’re claiming to be some kind of genius, yet a child beat you in a science fair?”

“Uh, no.” Tony’s words run away with him, “I took it easy. Practically gave the kid the trophy.” Barton rolls his eyes. “And it wasn’t a ‘science fair.’ It’s one of the most prestigious, international exhibitions on earth, reserved for those with an IQ above a certain threshold.”

Barton remains unimpressed. “None of that helps your case.”

“Is that right? And how many accolades are under your belt, Ron Stoppable?” He straightens his posture. “Do they even hand out awards for spying, or do they just hang an Employee of the Month plaque on a wall?” Seeing the Beta’s dour expression, Tony delivers the final jab, “I’d wager that if there were such a thing, Kim Possible here would be winning it consecutively.”

The Beta’s frown deepens into a scowl as Romanoff concurs with a tiny nod. “Don’t you dare side with him.”

She shrugs. “He makes a good point.”

“That I do,” he rubs it in. “I always do. Whether or not anyone listens is another matter.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Barton returns with notable petulance. “I wasn’t listening.”

Tony decidedly flips him the bird, consequences be damned.

“All right, that’s enough,” Rogers intervenes, casting a stern glance at the Beta. “We’ll be approaching the first checkpoint soon,” he states, yanking Tony’s attention back to their dire situation. “Conceal your weapons and don’t draw attention to yourselves; they’re keen on deception.” The Alpha drops his gaze indicatively to the knife still clutched in Tony’s hand.

Taking the hint, Tony fumbles to pocket it, feeling a tightness in his chest and the first traces of a cold sweat tickling the skin along his forehead. Seeking stability, he reaches out for Rogers, only to grasp nothing but air as the Alpha moves to the other seat in preparation. The gap separating them seemingly vast and daunting.

No. Come back, Tony inwardly begs, the words catching in his throat.

“Roll the windows down,” Rogers instructs, defaulting to his Captain demeanor. “Avoid any sudden movements, don’t speak unless spoken to, and remain calm.”

Regardless of the caution, Tony’s shaking doesn’t cease as he complies, gasping at the icy bite of wind. His rapid heartbeat thundering in his ears while his imagination conjures various scenarios of torture and death.

Guiding the car into a lane of a commandeered toll booth, Romanoff gradually slows the vehicle to a halt as they near the lowered barrier arm. The small group of soldiers already fanning out to cover both sides, their guns slung across their chests and aimed at the ground, menacing.

“Afternoon, Ladies,” Romanoff greets them politely, blatantly ignoring Rogers’ advice. Then, salutes. “Hail Hydra.”

The soldiers step unsettlingly closer, strategically positioning themselves to block the doors. Tony’s guard leaning into the window to scrutinize him; her piercing gaze dissecting and inspecting while her nostrils flare, scenting him. The intensity compelling him to shrink against his seat, wishing he could disappear into it.

Showing little interest in pleasantries, they demand practically in unison, “Identification.”

Tony feels his panic building as he obeys. Her attention snapping to his trembling fingers as he offers the badge, nearly causing him to drop it in fright. Yet, she does nothing more than snatch it from him before fetching a handheld device from her belt, its design resembling that of a credit card reader.

Swiping the ID through the magnetic stripe, her expression blanks, causing Tony to lose the ability to breathe. He steals a desperate glance at Rogers, finding the Alpha’s vigilance aimed at the unfolding interaction rather than his own. His cold eyes assessing the soldier with the instincts of a predator, and body poised to defend.

The device’s beeping recaptures Tony’s attention. Eliciting a stuttering breath as the Beta gives a nod to her superior and returns Tony’s ID to him before stepping away.

Meanwhile, the other soldiers finish their verification processes and follow suit, except for Romanoff’s guard, who remains for further questioning.

“Your intended destination?” She demands. “And purpose of travel?”

“Gelassenheit Gate,” Romanoff responds, her confidence unwavering. “Reassignment.”

Using the handheld device again, the soldier enters the information.

“Confirmed. You may proceed,” she declares, raising a parting salute. “Hail the Red Skull.”

The barrier lifts, granting them passage. Tony slumping in his seat as the car pulls forward onto the road once more.

“Iron Man?”

Startling violently, his vision blurs as he looks around frantically for whoever addressed him, hardly registering anything. The relentless pounding in his chest persisting and his lungs still fighting for oxygen.

“Tony…” Rogers’ voice calls softly before Tony is gathered into his arms. His head nestled into the crook of the Alpha’s throat as fingers gingerly card through his hair. “Shhh,” the Alpha gentles him. “It’s okay now.”

But it’s not, Tony thinks, a sob wrenching out of him. Nothing is okay.

He clings to the Alpha until his labored breathing eases, his heart rate slows, and his trembling calms. But even after the storm of his emotions subsides, he continues to relish the comfort he finds in the Alpha’s embrace. And there he lingers, unwilling to let go.

Not naive.

Not crazy.                                                                                                                                                   

Tony begins to question if he truly believes it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

Tony’s managed to regain a portion of his composure following the second checkpoint. The process relatively the same with the only noticeable difference being a prolonged wait time, presumably intending to induce anxiety. Nevertheless, Tony’s beginning to get a handle on his panic, and as he respires deep and evenly, he reminds himself that freedom is well within reach. He just needs to keep his shit together—stand strong in the face of adversity.

Stark men are made of iron.

Rubbing his hands against his pants, Tony strives to rid his palms of sweat as they enter a dimly lit tunnel cutting through the mountainside. It triggers a sense of claustrophobia, as if the walls are pressing in to crush him. Shutting his eyes to combat it, he instead pictures his spacious lab and the latest AI invention he’s left behind. Feeling the tension bleed out of him as he mentally corrects programming errors and tightens system parameters.

The comfort it brings shatters when the car decelerates. Eliciting Tony to lean over to survey the upcoming blockade of concrete barriers, a line of chain link fences, and barbed wire spanning the width of the tunnel. Nervously noting how the number of armed guards awaiting them has tripled in comparison to the previous checkpoints while picking up on an unsettling atmosphere surrounding them—his unease validated by the stiffening of Romanoff and Barton’s postures.

At their approach, the guards encircle the vehicle, effectively blocking off all avenues of escape before a few depart from the group to commence with the security procedure. A burly Alpha instantly fixates on Tony as he strides towards his door; his physique remarkably bulkier than Rogers’, and towering over others with a height of no less than seven feet. The Alpha’s muscles appear disproportionate to the uniform given the deliberately torn sleeves for a better fit, exposing a cliché tattoo of a rose entwined with chains on the skin of his upper arm.

“Exit the vehicle. All of you,” comes another guard’s directive, prompting Rogers and the other two occupants to comply without hesitation. Conversely, Tony stalls long enough to draw in a fortifying breath before awkwardly leaving the car. Offering no resistance as his assigned guard—whom Tony has dubbed as Rosebud—orders him to stand near the cement wall.

Keeping his head lowered submissively until he reaches it, Tony then turns around to find Rogers positioned on the other side of the tunnel, woefully out of reach. Romanoff, however, is merely a few yards away on his left. Her gaze fixed straight ahead on what he assumes is Barton, who’s hidden from view behind the SUV’s frame. The vehicle itself now subject to a thorough search by several guards.

Rosebud snatches his attention as the Alpha comes to loom over him. And in a gravelly, baritone voice, he demands, “Identification.”

Tony isn’t about to refuse, producing the badge with record speed.

The Alpha slides it through his portable ID reader, whistling as he waits. A racket of clanging metal and clattering of objects rising above the eerie melody as the guards strip the car of weapons and any other items of interest.

Although he can’t see what’s happening with Rogers, Tony is able to catch Romanoff’s verification process, overseen by a pair of regular-sized guards with average muscle builds.

How come she gets Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but I’m saddled with the younger Toguro brother? Tony thinks bitterly.

“Private Peter Littlecock, eh?” the Alpha identifies him—Goddammit, I’m seriously paying her back for this.—then his lips curl into a predatory smile. “An adorably apt name for a male Omega.”

He feels the blood drain from his face at the lustful inflection of the last two words.

“I’m bonded,” Tony rushes to assert. “Off the market. Spoken for. Tied down. The old ball and chain.” Avoiding eye contact, Tony desperately hopes Hydra’s mating laws will be enough to dissuade any undesired, lewd behavior.

The Alpha emits a raspy chuckle. “I really don’t care about that.”

Fuck!

Rosebud crowds closer until Tony’s backside meets the concrete, then hunches to box Tony in with his arms, preventing any chance to flee. Tony turns his head away as the Alpha’s face encroaches, his nose brushing along Tony’s side profile.

“You’re a pretty one,” Rosebud remarks sleazily, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Tony’s cheek, causing his stomach to flip in revulsion. “Been a while since I’ve seen the Omegas in our party, and not a single one as lovely as you.”

Tony casts a silent plea towards Romanoff as Rosebud dips down to unabashedly scent his neck. And while sympathy softens her countenance, she flashes the palms of her hands in show of them tied—constrained by their collective need to uphold appearances.

Even if it means enduring something unsavory to survive.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as Rosebud swiftly untucks the layers of his uniform from his waistband and kneads the flesh at the base of Tony’s back. The Alpha’s pheromones flooding his senses, causing him to gag on the wet dog odor before releasing a distressed sound as Rosebud’s fingers glide over the skin at his hip. The wandering digits then delving into his pants to seize a handful of his ass.

“It’s been too long,” Rosebud moans against the shell of his ear.

Another memory flashes. A night spent pinned under the weight of an unknown body while seeking respite from the unforgiving streets. Cold and starving. Reduced to a mere transaction.

Never again.

Something switches, opening a floodgate as fury surges through every inch of him, clouding everything in a haze. Time slows to a crawl, his movements unfolding in sluggish procession as he pulls the knife from his pocket and plunges it deep into the Alpha’s flesh.

“Son of a—!” Staggering back, Rosebud’s eyes widen, ablaze with a mix of rage and carnal hunger. Clutching at his upper thigh where Tony’s blade pierced him, he sneers, “You assaulted an Alpha and your superior, you stupid Omega.”

Tony pants, his focus narrowing on his assailant. And feeling disconnected from his own mouth, hears his voice echoing the Alpha’s words, “I really don’t care about that.”  

A moment of stillness blankets the scene. Not a soul stirring, lost in shock—until a distant cry of outrage incites an eruption of chaos.

Rosebud wrenches the knife free with a grunt, carelessly dropping it as he lunges straight for him. Tony attempts to evade but flinches at a reverberating cacophony of gunfire and shouting. The second of hesitation just long enough for the absolute bulldozer of a man to plow into him, toppling them both to the ground.

His skull strikes the cement wall first, white exploding in his vision and triggering a ringing to assault his ears. While the impact with the road jars his reactor, shooting searing nerve pain throughout his ribcage and down his left arm—intensified only by the added weight of the Alpha landing atop him.

With a strained cry, Tony’s exposed backside scrapes over asphalt as Rosebud drags him by the jacket until he’s entirely beneath the Alpha’s massive frame. And releases a choked noise of fear as his throat is grappled, blearily perceiving the Alpha grinning maniacally down at him as the pressure against his windpipe increases.

“By Hydra law,” Rosebud starts with malicious enthusiasm, “I’m authorized to punish you how I see fit.”

Tony’s lungs burn while he claws at the offending hand, futilely attempting to pry it off. His gaze wild as he searches through blurry shapes and shadows for the knife, yearning for its meager protection.

Rosebud appears to catch on and stretches to retrieve the knife without releasing his grip. Then, bringing it into Tony’s field of vision, the Alpha tauntingly waves Tony’s only defense in his face. “Looking for this?”

Aware of his slim chances, Tony still swipes at it—only for the Alpha to quickly pull it out of reach. “Too slow,” he jeers.

Helpless, Tony can only watch as the Alpha hurls the knife in a random direction, eliminating any possibility to reclaim it.

“Oh, no. You needed that, huh?” He smirks. “What a shame.”

Tilting down to gain a better angle, Rosebud begins unfastening Tony’s belts. The tinkling of the buckle igniting a new wave of resistance despite his fading consciousness, inciting Tony to change his tactic from freeing his throat to jabbing fingers directly into one of the Alpha’s unguarded eyes.

Hollering, Rosebud instinctively rears back, granting Tony a feeble gasp of precious air as the meaty clamp slackens. Seizing the opportunity, Tony peers over the large forearm, aiming his knee for a precise hit to the prized family jewels between Rosebud’s legs. The blow proving effective as the Alpha crumples to the side, affording Tony freedom to wriggle out from underneath him.

Wheezing, Tony flips over onto all-fours, endeavoring to scramble away, regardless of the crippling vertigo.

“LITTLE BITCH!” Rosebud roars, ensnaring Tony’s ankle and brutally twisting it into an unnatural position with a sickening snap. The lancing pain of fragile bones fracturing ripping an agonized scream from the depths of Tony’s chest as pinpricks of black appear in his vision, blotting out the tunnel’s light.

Rosebud clambers onto him, pressing him flat against the road. Barely winded as he hisses in Tony’s ear, “I did intend to kill you afterwards, but I’ve changed my mind. Instead, I’ll keep you for a while and use you until you’re raw and bleeding.” He chuckles darkly. “Fuck you until you’re a broken, sobbing mess on my floor—begging me to end your life.”

Fingers clench a handful of his hair, wrenching his head back before a wet tongue licks a line down his neck to his scent glands, causing Tony to shudder in abject terror and disgust. “Your body belongs to me.”

“Wrong,” replies a roughened voice before a loud clang of metal sounds. The Alpha subsequently vanishing from on top of him.

Rolling over, Tony winces at the excruciating pain shooting up his leg, then reverses on his ass, striving to distance himself from the ensuing brawl. Observing as Rogers and Rosebud vie for dominance, the golden rings burning brightly in their eyes and snarls emanating from between their bared teeth. Despite blood dripping from his nostrils and a gunshot wound oozing at his shoulder, Rogers is resolved. His features contort with wrath, reflecting an unbridled nature nearly lost to modern evolution—prepared to sacrifice everything for his Omega.  

Shit. Tony feels a frisson of something equally profound in response to it, rising from decades of suppression. He wants—needs—Rogers to triumph, and he knows it won’t happen if he continues to sit idly by.

Rosebud knocks Rogers’ shield aside with a mighty blow, sending the disc soaring past Tony, and clattering onto the road several feet from a small yet familiar object.

My knife! Tony realizes, shakily shifting onto his hands and knees, and begins to crawl for it while keeping an eye on the fight.  

Now evidently disarmed of all weapons, Rogers endeavors to dodge another swing—only to be captured and swiftly arranged into a chokehold. Rosebud hoisting him clear off his feet, allowing gravity to exacerbate Rogers’ battle for oxygen as his face reddens and his legs thrash frantically. Despite several missed attempts to strike the brute with his boot, Rogers eventually manages to land a powerful kick to Rosebud’s shin, breaking free of the hold as he buckles in agony.

Recovering quickly, Rogers takes advantage of the Alpha’s bent position by clasping the nape of Rosebud’s neck, then forcefully driving the Alpha’s face into his knee. Yet, despite the crushed nose and wail of pain, the Alpha remains determined to prevail and seizes Rogers by the arm and leg before hurtling him over his shoulder into the wall. The force of the impact chipping a large chunk of the cement, dust pluming as it collapses beside Rogers now sprawled on the ground—unmoving.

He reaches the knife just as Rosebud slams his gigantic foot onto Rogers’ throat. A strangled noise escaping Rogers as he grips the sole of the Alpha’s boot, his arms noticeably trembling as he struggles to dislodge it.

Tony’s thoughts race, analyzing his options for attack, and easily decides on Rosebud’s vulnerable flank. With his arm poised, Tony chucks the knife with every ounce of strength he possesses. Exhilaration washing over him as it hits home, embedding deep enough to throw the Alpha’s balance off-kilter as he involuntarily arches his spine.

Not wasting the help, Rogers shoves the Alpha’s foot upwards, causing Rosebud to stumble. Then unsteadily rises, wearily preparing for Rosebud’s next offense.

Yanking the knife out again, Rosebud inspects the blood-soaked blade before turning his attention to Tony. The dim lighting reflecting off the sheen of sweat along the Alpha’s brow.

“Ah, I understand now. You’re his Omega,” Rosebud remarks, reaching for his leg holster that Tony somehow overlooked, and pulling his pistol, points it squarely at him. “I suppose this will be just as satisfying—forcing him to watch you die.”

With a growl, Rogers rushes forward with intent to stop him, but Tony knows it’ll be too late. Bracing himself, he holds his head high, confronting his imminent death with a modicum of dignity.

However, he doesn’t feel the sting of a bullet as the shot unexpectedly flies wayward, interrupted by something unforeseen. The gun slips from Rosebud’s grip as he shouts with surprise—the tip of an arrow visibly impaled through the center of his palm.

Multiple arrows follow, striking the Alpha’s hulking frame in various places, compelling him to his knees. Tony blinks, in shock as Barton gives his target a wide berth before inserting himself between them, his loaded bow aimed solely at Rosebud’s chest. Flanking the brute stands Romanoff, a machine gun that Tony recognizes from one of the guards is drawn and ready. Although both bear cuts and bruises, they otherwise appear in better shape than he is.

Rogers’ laughter echoes inordinately loud in the suffocating silence. The bodies of the guards now lying scattered around the bullet-ridden vehicle, their expanding pools of blood suggesting they no longer pose a threat.

Neither does Rosebud as he sways, scarcely keeping himself upright.

Leisurely, Rogers limps over towards Tony to collect his shield. Only gifting him a cursory look of concern before returning to circle his fallen adversary. And fixes the Alpha with a dark and eager stare Tony hasn’t witnessed. As if he’s savoring the sight of Rosebud’s suffering—drinking it all in.

Rosebud grins, exposing a row of bloodied teeth as he coughs, heaving in a rattling breath.

“Alphas that rely on others are the weakest of them all,” Rosebud jabs, having no other recourse. “You deprived yourself of glory. And for what, a measly Omega?”

Rogers’ mouth curls slightly at the corner as he bends to be level with him. “An individual consumed by a single purpose can win battles. And I’ve done just that.” His jaw ticks. “I don’t take kindly to Alphas like you.”

With a shake of his head, the Alpha contends, “Someday you’ll realize the mistake you’ve made, believing you’re any different than me.” He coughs again, blood spilling from his lips. “You’ll grasp that nobody but yourself is worth waging a war over.”

Tony swallows hard, feeling a lump in his throat as Rogers ticks his head in his direction—contemplating Rosebud’s words.

“Somebody might be worth it,” Rogers says with naked fervor, conveying his earlier promises.

Then, with one swift motion, Rogers slices through the Alpha’s neck with the edge of his shield. A spray of crimson coating his face as Rosebud’s severed head tumbles before the rest of the body slumps, falling into a heap beside it.

Rogers never looks away, willing Tony to truly see—to appreciate every facet of what he is.

A champion.

A killer.

A savior.

A monster.

A mate.

All conveniently wrapped in one package for Tony to either accept or reject.

From within, the traitorous voice returns, rising above his inner turmoil to whisper an answer for him:

My Alpha.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

“The engine’s shot,” Romanoff states the obvious amidst a cloud of smoke coiling around the open hood, brushing hotly against Steve’s face. “Literally,” she tacks on.

“Great. We’ll have to hoof it,” Barton vents, his irritation mounting.

She sighs, resigned. “It won’t be too far. There should be a vehicle nearby.” Nodding indicatively past the barrier, Romanoff guesses, “Likely at the end of the tunnel.”

The Beta growls. “We’re running out of time,” he snaps, anxiously starting to pace. “They could already be on our trail.”

“There isn’t a choice,” Steve says through gritted teeth, leaning heavier against the SUV, the frame creaking under the strain. With adrenaline ebbing, he’s beginning to register the pain of his injuries: a deep throb in his shoulder, the stiffening muscles and stinging of his backside, and the tightening skin where bruises have bloomed across his throat. Though most are superficial enough for the serum to heal quickly, the bullet wound proves to be quite substantial and a hindrance for using his dominant arm.

Yet, without proper medical intervention, there’s little else that can be done. Leaving Steve to rely on the gauze Romanoff’s secured around it to stem the bleeding. Forever grateful of her foresight to pack a first-aid kit.

Barton halts his pacing, aiming fierce resentment at Steve. “We wouldn’t even be in this predicament if it weren’t for him,” he starts, jabbing an accusing finger at Tony currently resting in the backseat. “And with that bum ankle, he’ll do nothing but slow us down!”

“Clint,” Romanoff rounds on him for behavioral correction before Steve has the chance. And with her shoulders squared and chin raised, she fixes him with a stern glare until his anger recedes. His frown lingering, even as she partially knits their fingers together to console him. “It is what it is. We must move on.”

The Beta’s gaze shifts towards Tony again, then to Steve before he turns on his heel and storms through the hole in the barricade Steve recently tore open.

“Scouting ahead,” Barton shouts over his shoulder, not bothering to seek permission. “I’ll give the all clear.”

Steve watches him go, disliking how the Beta’s negative attitude towards Tony is leading to potentially jeopardizing reactions. “Will this continue to be a problem?”

Audibly exhaling, Romanoff closes her eyes and gives a gentle shake of her head. “Let him cool off,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “This mission is personal for him, and nothing has gone according to plan.”

“How personal?” Steve asks with the intention of insight and possible leverage over them both.

Her lips press thinly. “You can imagine our work carries certain risks.” Steve nods, encouraging her to elucidate. “And, regrettably, those risks can extend to those dearest to us.”

Naturally.

Emitting a soft hum to appear compassionate, he presses, “Who was killed?”

Turning her attention back to the tunnel, where Barton’s vanished around the bend, she reveals, “His mate and their children."

Oh.

Steve isn’t certain how to respond. The revelation burdensome as he fully understands the profound difficulty of losing a mate, let alone children. Representing not only familial love, but a core of stability and strength to continue the bloodline.

“You know, Iron Man—Tony,” she corrects herself, “reminds him a lot of her. And it’s not simply due to the fact she was an Omega.” Leaning against the cracked headlight, Romanoff adds, “She was headstrong, unwilling to accept defeat, and commanded respect irrespective of authority or gender.”

Exactly like him, he thinks with astonishment.

“But it’s easier to shield grief behind anger than it is to accept and let go,” she hastens to defend the dichotomy of Barton’s conduct. “He’s been grappling with it ever since Tony showed up.”

Steve mulls it over, arranging the information to form an overall picture, only to realize there’s still a gap that needs to be filled.

“And where do you fit in?” Steve ponders, setting sensitivity aside. “Acting as a replacement for what he’s lost?”

“You’re comparing apples and oranges,” Romanoff rebukes, shooting him a heated look. “I’ll never be what she was to him and vice versa.”

Rogers’ lips twitch with incredulity. “You’re not even the tiniest bit threatened by her memory?”

“No.” Her eyes crinkle as the corner of her mouth curls into a genuine smile. “I made peace with her ghost long ago—now, we’re friends.”

Shaking his head slightly, Steve averts his gaze. Back in his day, it was a rarity for a bereaved mate to take another bond, and anyone who did would be subject to ridicule and judgment, leaving them with little to no support. But, he supposes, times have changed. While steadfast loyalty to one mate, even in death, had once been the norm, the practice of having multiple mates has become commonplace. And though he acknowledges the shift in the societal mindset, the concept remains difficult to reconcile, even now. He simply cannot fathom, nor accept it.

There’ll be no such compromise in that area for him.

Romanoff slams the hood shut before proceeding to loot the dead for weapons and ammunition, piling them at Steve’s feet. There isn’t much to work with, but it’s still an improvement from their current situation as he counts three machine guns with full magazines, a pistol, and a couple of knives. And with addition of his shield and Barton’s bow and arrows, he considers the arsenal will suffice should they encounter further complications.

A resounding thud captures their attention from the distant section of the tunnel, where a blinking arrow is embedded into the cement.

“That’s the signal,” Romanoff says, adjusting the straps of the guns across her chest to sit easier against her shoulder blades before offering the remaining gear. Once he stows away the knives, slides the pistol into the empty holster, and attaches his shield to the harness at his backside, she wonders, “Do you have him? Or should I…?”

Steve inwardly debates that, given the keen pain radiating from his shoulder down his arm. The tremor and weakness extending to the tips of his fingers something difficult to ignore.

“I’ll manage,” he dismisses, stiffly moving to open the car door.

Reclined on the seat, the Omega is positioned feet-first with one missing a boot. His broken ankle is heavily bandaged to prevent movement, and his toes are covered by a bunched-up sock to maintain warmth. The rest of his body is snugly wrapped in a Mylar blanket, leaving his hair peeking out from the shiny mound.

“Tony,” he gently rouses him. “It’s time to head off.”

The Omega doesn’t speak as he unsteadily sits upright, the crinkle of the blanket loud within the confines of the car. Steve frowns slightly at Tony’s lack of humor and the haunted look in his eyes, prompting him to delicately cup the Omega’s face in his hands. And while minding the mottled bruising, checks his temperature and heartbeat—thankful to feel nothing but warm, dry skin and a strong, if slightly abnormal pulse.

No shock or infection, Steve concludes. Just rattled and in pain.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, lightly tracing a thumb across Tony’s cheek. And finally draws the Omega out of the horrors inside his mind as his gaze sharpens. “You still with me?”

Tony nods haltingly as his trembling fingers clutch at Steve’s wrist, seeking reassurance. If the situation were different, Steve would gladly provide more than these simple touches, but it’ll have to do in the meantime.

His teeth clench as he eases the dazed Omega to the edge of the seat. Barely restraining a growl as Tony sheds the blanket, the scent of the deceased Alpha wafting into his nose. A sudden temptation to desecrate the corpse overcomes him with the realization of it still lingering on his Omega’s skin—marking what is his.

That asshole deserved a far slower death than what he received.

“Would you prefer assistance to walk, or would you like me to carry you?” Steve decides to offer a sense of agency, aware it will help alleviate symptoms in the aftermath.

It seems to do the trick as Tony murmurs hoarsely, “Want to walk.” Sliding out of the car, he balances precariously on one foot, then adds, “Not a helpless princess.”

“All right.” The violent urge dissipates, pulling a smile from him. “Not a helpless princess,” he affirms, unsure of the origin but finding it endearing, nonetheless.

Angling himself carefully, Steve grits his teeth to endure the smarting pain down his spine as he guides Tony’s arm over his uninjured shoulder. Then stifles a noise as Tony’s palm grazes the wound, causing Steve to snatch the wandering hand to settle at the juncture of his neck.

With the Omega secured, Steve commences forward, maneuvering around the bodies in their path. Their progress agonizingly slow as Tony hobbles along, his toes scarcely touching ground as he leans into Steve for support.

After several quiet minutes—interrupted only by Tony’s grunts and gasps of pain—Romanoff decides to voice her thoughts: “Do you think the Alpha had been enhanced?”

Shifting the Omega closer to gain a better grip at his hip, Steve answers tautly, “Without a doubt.”

Her brow lifts inquisitively.

“Strucker’s serum is known to mimic the Super Soldier serum, but the outcomes are inconsistent and its potency wears off within a week, necessitating further injections. Which only increases the risks of heart failure and other fatal side effects,” Steve explains, squeezing his eyes shut as Tony briefly loses his footing, placing enormous strain on his injuries. “The Alpha would’ve perished eventually.”

“A week is plenty of time to invade and conquer an entire country,” she muses. “Especially if the number of Enhanced Alphas are substantial.”

“That bastard’s success rates are abysmal, since most don’t survive the initial transformation stage,” he reassures. “His saving grace lies in the handful of mutants he’s managed to produce, who haven’t succumbed to death. But, they’re uncontrollable when activated, so their abilities have been suppressed by blockers.” Steve huffs. “Red Skull desires a formidable army, but one he can fully control. He won’t deploy them for the consequential missions.”

She nods in understanding. “Guess we can count our lucky stars.”

He chuckles. “Guess so.”

As they reach the arrow, the serum takes effect; its healing properties evident as the pain of his lesser injuries diminish and the overall stiffness eases. Eliciting him to bask in the relief as Romanoff veers off to retrieve the arrow before rejoining them in their sluggish trek.

Tony is winded, shaking, and visibly fatigued. Beads of sweat dampening his flushed cheeks as they trickle downwards, staining the collar of the uniform. But he doesn’t stop, nor complain. Limping onward with fierce determination.

Steve marvels at the unwavering resilience, his fiery spirit, and his beauty.

An Omega unlike any other.

He’s wrenched from his admiration as they round the curve, revealing the end of the tunnel where a Humvee is parked right outside, facing them. Its presence halting them in their tracks until the headlights flash to assuage their uncertainty.

“Good. He found it,” Romanoff says, breathing a sigh of relief as Barton emerges from it, waving.

As they traverse the final stretch, Tony’s pace falters. His chest heaving from the exertion and his supporting leg weakening considerably.

Knowing the Omega’s aversion to help, Romanoff wordlessly stoops to grab Tony’s free arm and drapes it around her shoulders to lighten the burden. Yet, to their utter amazement, Tony accepts it—pressing on without so much as a peep of resistance.

Barton opens the back door at their approach. His countenance still tight with aggravation, but wisely keeps himself in check as they maneuver Tony inside. The Omega’s exhaustion apparent as he sags instantly against the seat, prompting Steve to hustle to his respective side, not wanting to leave him for long.

“All aboard the Fun-vee,” Tony quips feebly as the others pile in, drawing an amused look from Romanoff.

Barton says nothing as he shifts the gear into reverse, then effortlessly flips the vehicle around. The road ahead already fading into darkness as the sun dips below the mountain peaks, casting elongated shadows onto the frozen landscape.  

Steve lifts Tony’s legs to elevate them, causing him to slide into the corner where the seat meets the door. His face pale and drawn, and his eyes slipping shut while he concentrates on regulating his breath.

“Don’t worry,” Steve gentles, massaging the taut, quivering muscles of the Omega’s calf. “We’re nearly there.”

“Hurray,” the Omega mutters, crossing his arms over his chest in a poor attempt to self-soothe.

Their journey from there is shrouded in silence, punctuated by the humming of tires, crunching of ice, and the occasional directional inquiry from Barton. But Steve remains vigilant of their surroundings, searching the scenery for any trace of danger.

Eventually, the border wall comes into view through the windshield, looming larger as they near it. The vehicle jostles over uneven patches of road as they cross a short bridge, then enter a cove of trees that stretch on for about a kilometer. Until finally, they reach a clearing, where a soldier stands waiting to greet them.

“It’s okay,” Romanoff reassures as Steve immediately becomes alert. “She’s one of us.”

Barton pulls off to park along the forest’s edge, directly behind a row of prisoner transport trucks and various other vehicles. Then, the two exit the Humvee, leaving Steve inside with Tony, utterly leery of the newest development.

“Stay here,” he commands, gingerly placing the Omega’s legs onto the seat.

Clambering out, Steve surveys the area as he strides towards the trio, discovering the place deserted and the lookouts empty. Nothing to see except the solitary soldier, the darkened woods, and the imposing 9-meter wall with its metal gate.

It doesn’t bode well.

“Yelena?” he overhears Romanoff garnering the soldier’s attention. “Why?”

The Omega is rigid and flighty, eyes darting between them and random directions. There’s a fine tremor in her frame and her stance reads defensive.

Oh, Steve really doesn’t like this.

“I don’t know much else,” the Omega replies with a shaky voice, her Russian accent prominent. “It’s a necessary delay.”

“What’s delayed?” Steve questions, stepping up behind Romanoff.

“Our transportation,” Romanoff answers with a longsuffering sigh. “We won’t be able to cross until it’s arrived.”

Barton glances about uneasily, also sensing something amiss. “What if we cross and find a spot to hide until—?”

“Нет!” Yelena exclaims. “If you were to fall into the custody of the US Military, it would be disastrous.”

Romanoff responds in a string of Russian, to which Yelena reacts with a firm shake of her head.

“Sister,” Romanoff pleads. “Our window of opportunity is closing.”

She shakes her head more aggressively. “It is a gamble we are not willing to make,” Yelena says with finality. “You must wait.”

Unsettled, Steve checks on Tony, who is staring intently into the trees beyond the vehicle. His transfixion eliciting Steve to lean over to gain a clearer view, but finds nothing of interest stirring within.

“For how long?” Steve demands, losing his patience. “Give us a straight answer—now.”

Yelena jerks violently, her evasive gaze landing on him. And in an instant, Steve’s suspicions of what she’s been desperately trying to conceal are confirmed by the widening of her eyes and her blown pupils.

Fear.

Steve immediately equips his shield to his forearm. His perception sharpening as he reassesses the area, noticing minute details he’s woefully neglected—small piles of snow scattered about as though covering up evidence, an unnecessary amount of vehicles, and the faintest snapping of twigs off in the distance.

Yelena’s tone pitches softer, apologetic, “I can’t.”

Still scanning the forest, Steve growls out, “Where’s the rest of your unit?”

“I—I…”

“What happened?” Romanoff questions, finally seeing past her emotional attachment. “Why are you alone, Yelena?”

Steve briefly regards the Omega, seeing the last vestiges of color drain from her face.

Fuck.

Barton swiftly grabs his bow and nocks an arrow, assuming a defensive stance beside Steve.

Yelena’s voice warbles as she says, “I love you, Sister,” before her teeth bite down on an object in her mouth, foam instantly bubbling and spilling through her lips. “Forgive me,” she gurgles, collapsing forward into Romanoff’s embrace and pulling them both to the ground.

Even with Romanoff’s anguished cries, Steve’s enhanced hearing detects the almost subtle zipping of projectiles through the air. And as he hefts the shield up, he’s surprised by the light impact against the metal—only for his limbs to lock up as a searing electrical current courses through him. An all-encompassing whiteness filling his sight as he falls.

Steve comes to seconds later to sound of glass shattering and Tony’s panicked shout. Gasping, he rolls onto his side, battling the aftereffects as he staggers to his feet. And while blinking to clear the haze, he hastily rips off the small device attached to his shield and tosses it aside. The thunderous pulse in his ears muffling the sounds of the scuffle his Omega’s involved in.

Bucky now stands a secure yet advantageous distance from them. His eyes bleeding to black, save for the golden rings pushed outwards to frame his irises. Any trace of his friend is gone, entirely supplanted by his hunter persona and present objectives.

“You are under arrest for crimes committed against the Great Dictator and the Empire,” he declares.

Steve’s jaw tightens as he carefully evaluates their odds. Counting no fewer than fifty soldiers encircling them while estimating the additional strength of five men from Bucky’s mechanical arm and his superior fighting skills.

How the hell did they know? Steve wonders. 

As his comrades stumble to their feet behind him, he peers over his shoulder to assess their condition. And is relieved to find them recovering adequately, all things considered, before shifting his gaze to the spaces between soldiers. Watching as Tony puts up a valiant fight against several of them attempting to wrangle him out of the Humvee.

“Surrender,” growls the Winter Soldier, “or suffer the consequences.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen  

The stillness before battle creeps across the clearing. Steve steels himself and calms his mind, concentrating on his adversaries. His senses sharpening to pick up on their uneven respires, the slight rattling of metal, and the unnerved shifting of stances. Their fear palpable, easily scented on the air—terribly uncertain to come face-to-face with one of Hydra’s most successful weapons of mass destruction.

Which means they’ll second-guess their strategies. Hesitate.

Even the odds.

Steve devises a gambit as the soldiers finally wrestle Tony free from the Humvee. The Omega’s frightful shouts echoing.

“Barton,” he signs inconspicuously behind his shield, seeing the Beta in his peripherals catch the message. “Light the bastards up.”

With incredible speed, Barton attaches an explosive-tip arrow to his bow, then fires at a truck a bit further down the line of vehicles—consequently parting the sea of soldiers as they dive out of its flight path.

Steve leaps to shield his comrades before it detonates, combating the scorching heat and debris of the blast as the force of it propels them backwards—momentarily knocking the wind out of him as he lands in a heap on top of them. Swiftly rolling off, Steve recovers his footing just as a barrage of gunfire erupts, granting him no more than a glimpse of the bodies littered amidst the flaming wreckage. The metallic pinging of bullets barely audible over the keen ringing in his ears as he deflects them with his shield, striking multiple soldiers in the ricochet.

Upon hearing the retaliating report of Romanoff’s gun behind him, Steve charges headlong into a cluster of soldiers still scrambling to regain their bearings. And while bracing against the pain of his crippling injury, he collides with the closest one, shoving the soldier directly into another. Sufficiently disrupting their balance in order to deliver a precise punch between the first soldier’s eyes, causing their head to recoil and bash the other’s face in. Then, snatching up one of their firearms as they both collapse, unconscious, he manages to shoot down three more within range before he’s stalled by another round of rapid gunfire; compelling him to reassume a defensive position. Only to be caught off guard by the sudden weight of a soldier jumping onto his back; their arm hooking securely around his throat, thinning his oxygen supply.

Spitting out a strangled curse, he staggers sideways, prompting several more to converge on him—seizing his arms to pull and contort away from his body, then wrench the gun from his grasp. Their collective effort nearly forcing him to his knees as he’s bent towards the ground, igniting unbearable burning from his wounded shoulder.

Harnessing every last bit of his enhanced strength, he yanks a captured limb forward, sending a couple of them flying. Then, leveraging his liberated arm, Steve twists and blindly strikes at the others with the edge of his shield—relishing the crunch of bone and cartilage before the soldiers drop, effectively relinquishing him.

Steve’s lungs scream as the piggyback rider increases the pressure at his windpipe, their legs curling tighter around his waist. A foolish mistake on their part, Steve thinks, as he turns the disadvantage towards his favor by deliberately falling back, allowing gravity to slam them hard onto the ground—powdery snow spraying upwards upon impact.

The dazed soldier emits a strained noise as Steve deftly flips over them, landing in a crouch. Then, hoisting the soldier to their feet and drawing his pistol, Steve utilizes them as a meat shield while additional combatants advance. Their torso convulsing as it’s riddled with bullets, providing Steve the safest opportunity to systematically eliminate his foes as he fires back at them, one by one, over the soldier’s shoulder.

Once the last of his opponents are defeated, Steve discards the lifeless body without ceremony. His chest heaving while he catches his breath, releasing a hiss against the burning pain clawing down his arm while he readjusts the grip on his shield. Curious about his comrades, he shifts his focus to the unfortunate scene of Barton and Romanoff besieged as another wave of soldiers emerge out of the woodwork, offering back-up for the fallen unit. The Winter Soldier being far more prepared than Steve had initially been led to believe.

Tony…

Quickly scanning the field for the Omega, Steve spots him—limp and disoriented—as a pair of soldiers load him into the rear of a prisoner transport truck.

NO!

He springs forward, objective clear—but is derailed as pain explodes at his temple, eliciting him to careen sideways. Only afforded a few precious seconds to blink away the pinpricks of black in his vision, the sting of blood mixed with sweat dripping into his right eye, and the onsets of dizziness before his assailant launches another assault. The Alpha’s familiar metal hand scraping the surface of the shield as Steve unsteadily maneuvers to block the hit.

His partially ruined sight affects his aim as the Winter Soldier ducks his fist, then subsequently absorbs several crippling blows in quick succession to his abdomen. Doubling over, Steve receives a swift uppercut as a reward for his vulnerability. A sharp sting and coppery taste flooding his mouth as his teeth involuntarily bite the edge of his tongue.

Damn it, I’m losing steam, he thinks, belatedly realizing the serum is sapping him of adrenaline and strength to reserve energy, compensating for the increased blood loss as deep crimson soaks through the gauze.

Seeming to sense his fatigue, the Winter Soldier commences lashing out with renewed vigor. And batting the shield away, tackles Steve, causing him to trip over a body and land directly onto his shoulder. The molten fire spearing down his arm and across his chest ripping a pained cry from him as the Alpha settles heavily on top, pinning Steve down with his legs and a hand at the base of his throat.

Steve’s head throbs and his ears ring at the first punch. The next, his skin splits along his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose—the warmth of his blood contending with the prickling, numbing sensation spreading over his face.

Battling through the static in his mind, Steve perceives the Winter Soldier has yet to pull any other weapon. Unsure if it’s due to orders or if it’s remnants of Bucky’s true personality peeking through, Steve endeavors to coax the latter out. “I don’t want to fight you,” he wetly croaks, blood pooling at the back of his throat. “And you don’t want to fight me, either.”

A flicker of consciousness breaks through the blank stare. “No,” Bucky’s voice rasps. “But you’re my mission.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches in the barest hint of a smile. “I know.”

Always have been.  

Again, the darkness consumes his friend as the Winter Soldier programming regains control. Signaling Steve to fumble clumsily for a knife as the Alpha raises his fist to clobber him—only for him to abort mid-motion as soldiers encircle them, their guns trained on Steve.

“You’re alone in this fight now.” The Winter Soldier reiterates, “Surrender.”

Steve releases a thin and feeble chuckle as he fingers the handle of his knife. “Never.”

Slashing out with the blade, the Winter Soldier anticipates the attack and narrowly evades it—almost seamlessly capturing Steve’s forearm and yanking him onto his stomach in the process. The Alpha hurriedly snapping a pair of thick metal cuffs over both wrists before Steve can react, followed immediately by another set latching around his ankles.

His world swims nauseatingly as he’s grabbed by several hands; unable to shake their hold as they lift and cart him across the clearing. Barely managing to brace himself when he’s tossed into the back of a truck, white-hot pain flaring throughout his body as he lands face-first onto the metal floor.

As the doors shut and lock behind him, Steve groans, reeling from the pain and overall weakness. Only for him to whip his head upwards when he detects a hissing sound, where he discovers a large vent from which a wispy white substance begins flowing outwards.

SHIT!

He strives to break the restraints but finds their construction impervious to superior strength. Instead, he switches tactics by using his bound feet to kick forcefully at the doors. The metal creaking under the pressure, creating a sizeable dent before lethargy washes over him, halting any further progress.

Steve feels himself quickly growing lax. His lungs burning as they fill with noxious gas, and thoughts fade into a peaceful haze.

Then, nothing.

~*~

An awareness of cold pierces through the black veil, freezing him solid.

No, he thinks, edging panic as the ice steadily encases him. Not again.

He can’t move, can’t breathe. Sinking further into the dark depths of the sea.

Drowning.

Alone.

Steve gasps as he fully slams back into his body, the harrowing sensations subsiding. Disoriented, he pries his eyes open, and squints to take in the dimly illuminated cell. And only after reassuring himself that he’s enclosed by metal instead of ice does he relax and assess his situation.

Captured, he foggily remembers. And being held prisoner at a Hydra base somewhere.

A persistent buzz distracts him from his distress. Looking around, Steve finds the cell cramped, scarcely enough space to fit the bed and a toilet. The noise seemingly emanating from the bars—which are clearly electrified, if the built-in rubber pillars to act as a buffer between them and the walls are any indication.

Wobbling to sit upright, Steve notes his pain levels are bearable, and his shoulder is showing remarkable signs of improvement. Evidently having received treatment for it while still under a drugged stupor, thus enabling the serum to heal what remains.

They’ve also fastened an unbreakable metallic collar around his neck and stripped him of his uniform, leaving him solely in his dark undershirt and boxer briefs. His only options being the indignity of his state of undress or to submit by donning the yellow jumpsuit crumpled on the floor. The absence of heating in the cell obviously meant to coerce his decision.

“Fucking bastards,” he growls out, snatching up the damned prisoner garb and dressing, carefully sliding the sleeve over the bandaging. Next, he digs out a couple pairs of balled-up, holey socks from one of the pockets, and slips them on. Gritting his teeth as the crusty material scratches the soles of his feet.

Better than frostbite, he supposes.

The bed is nothing more than a metal slab with a blanket, causing him to huff a sardonic laugh at how it sorely contrasts the better accommodations Hydra offers its standard prisoners. His fists clenching as he imagines Tony enduring similar conditions, or perhaps even worse. The Omega’s haunting screams echoing in his head as he begins to pace, minding his distance from potential electrocution.

As hours pass, he continues moving back and forth, practically wearing a groove into the floor. His stomach panging with hunger and his throat parched from lack of water. Yet, he doesn’t stop—needing some sort of activity to mitigate his anxieties.

Romanoff’s recent observation suddenly enters his mind: “You’re slipping.”

Temper spiking, Steve strikes the wall and recoils as a bright burst of pain radiates through his hand. The metal alloy easily withstanding his strength, not even leaving a mark.

A testament to Red Skull’s plans to handle enhanced individuals, if there ever was one.

The skin around his knuckles and pinkie finger reddens from inflammation, but fortunately, nothing is broken. Shaking out his hand, Steve flexes it to alleviate the dull ache as he resumes treading the cell floor—until the loud squeal of a door opening down the corridor catches his interest.

Standing at the ready as the tromping of boots draw nearer, Steve’s taken aback when the soldiers appear, dragging a battered and bloody Barton into the cell directly across from his. The Beta releasing a pained sound as he’s dumped inside, unmoving as the soldiers shut the bars, engage the locks, and march off without any other acknowledgment.

After they depart, Steve tries to gain the Beta’s attention. “Barton?”

No response.

Stepping a little closer to the bars, Steve bangs the wall near the rubber pillar with hope the vibrations will serve to rouse him.

The Beta gives a miserable groan, then grimaces as he rolls stiffly onto his side and props himself up by the elbow. A collar also encircles his neck, and his jumpsuit is spattered with drying blood where he awkwardly cradles his other arm. One eye is severely swollen, and fresh bruises are beginning to darken in a variety of ugly shades. Steve then tracks the droplets of red as they drip from the large cut on Barton’s lip and the gash at the tip of his earlobe.

“Ro…gers,” he slurs. “What’s a couple of guys like us…doing in a place like…this?”

Steve smiles despite himself.

Tony would’ve appreciated the joke.

“Not exactly the Four Seasons, is it?” he jests in return, reveling in the camaraderie. “The customer service here is terrible.”

The Beta huffs as his features contort with pain. “Giving it a…2-star rating.”

“That’s awfully generous,” Steve remarks, intonating genuine surprise at the assessment. “They must be doing something right, then.”

Barton coughs lightly. “The straps weren’t too snug while they tortured me,” he says with a shrug. “I was actually pretty comfortable.”

His facetiousness prompts Steve to revert to business matters. “Have you seen Iron Man and Romanoff?” he asks, cautiously avoiding the Omega’s name in case of eavesdroppers.

“She was in the room next to mine. We both…woke up there.” The Beta gingerly shifts around, emitting tiny whimpers until he’s half-sitting against the wall. Then, awkwardly tilting his head to rest against it, he answers breathlessly, “Don’t know…not sure where he is. Or…where they took her afterward.”

Steve swallows thickly as a sickening feeling overcomes him.

“What did they want?” he presses.

Barton’s eyelids flutter, barely clinging to consciousness. “Everything that’s…transpired since the plane crash.” He inhales shakily. “Your motivations…plans...”

Leveling him with a glare, Steve assumes the worst-case scenario. “So, you told them.”

“No.”

He blinks at that, dubious. “No?”

Barton regards him earnestly, and practically snarls, “I’ll be buried six feet under…before Hydra gets jack shit from me.”

Interesting.

“And Romanoff?” he wonders.

He releases another cough. “Same sentiment.”

Very interesting.

“Hmm,” Steve responds, nodding approvingly. “That’s…good.”

The Beta’s lips part in a grin, flashing a row of bloodied teeth. “Don’t thank me for keeping a lid on it or anything.”

Steve smirks at the Beta’s audacity to believe loyalty isn’t automatically owed to him. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, well...” Barton squeezes his eyes shut and clutches at his chest. “You’re welcome anyway.”

Steve decides to take stock of Barton’s injuries. Although he remains uncertain of the severity, he speculates there might be a few broken ribs, extensive bruising, and some sort of substance circulating in his system. Therefore, choosing to abandon the Beta if another chance at escape presents itself would undoubtedly be wasteful in terms of a reliable teammate, but it sadly might be necessary.

“Was there any mention of how they gained the upper hand? Or our current location?” he fishes for more information.

“Nope…” Barton murmurs, losing the war on drowsiness and slumping against the wall, destined for what is surely to be an uncomfortable sleep.  

With little else to occupy him, Steve withdraws to the slab and settles on the edge. The quiet stagnation evoking unpleasant memories of his cadet days when he’d been appointed a trial year confined to an isolation pod—having nothing but his thoughts to pass the time.

Until his 15th birthday came to pass, that is.

As the food tray passes through the slot at the bottom of the door, he instantly notices the stark white corner of a piece of paper peeking out from beneath the plate. Scrambling off the cot, he trots the short distance, and eagerly collects it.

Huddling into the corner to block the eye of the surveillance camera, Steve unfolds the note with mounting excitement.

Lost your sanity yet? it reads in perfect penmanship. If not, could I have it? I’m not a big fan of mad tea parties and white rabbits.

Overjoyed by such a simple act of human connection, Steve frantically scans the contents on the tray for a way to respond. The obvious place being the thermos as he quickly unscrews the top, finding it empty save for a lone pen.

Smoothing the paper out on his lap, he awkwardly writes his reply.

Sorry, you’ll have to keep chasing that rabbit. Pausing to ponder if this is meant to be a test of his mental fortitude, he adds:   I can do this all day.

Steve slides both items into the thermos, consumes his meal, then shoves the tray back through the slot. Already anticipating their future communication.

He doesn’t wait long—another note appears in the thermos the following day.

Private James Barnes, the soldier introduces himself. Or as some of the lovely Omega ladies would call me, Bucky. Got yourself one?

Not interested in Omegas, Steve answers. Then, realizing the risks they’re both taking, decides to warn: We should probably stop correspondence before the Great Dictator finds out. I can handle this on my own.

The reply that comes after intrigues him.

The Skull has everyone running drills until they drop, Bucky states. You have time to kill, and I have lunch to serve. Looks like you’re stuck with me until the end, pal.

Steve gently rubs at his eyes as the cell filters back into his reality. The irony of Bucky being the one to place him here not lost on him. In fact, if there were such a thing as a cosmic joke, he would find the cruelty of it laughable.

With a sigh, he arranges himself into a semi-reclined position as it becomes apparent the authority of the base is letting him stew. Obtaining the right amount of comfort to rest, but still awake enough to stay attuned to his environment—a skill he’s honed over the years.

He’s confident Tony isn’t dead, but the prospect still sits heavy in his gut.

There will come an opening to liberate them both, but until then, he’s resigned to twiddling his thumbs.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen

Steve marks the passing of three days by the 12-hour routine delivery of stale bread and paper cups of water. The food slot beside the pillar large enough to fit the scanty meal into its inner compartment, yet too compact for Steve to extend anything more than half his forearm through it. Not permitting much leverage in terms of overpowering an unsuspecting guard.

In the duration of their confinement, neither of them are dragged off to the torture chambers or to face execution. Instead, they seem condemned to suffer indefinitely by sitting idly in a cage, figuratively licking at their wounds.

Barton, for the most part, slips in and out of consciousness as he heals from an apparent concussion. A wound at the side of his head had continued to bleed for more than a day, gifting Steve the opportunity to test for recording devices by loudly mentioning it to nobody in particular. The results conclusive once a guard hustled down the corridor to chuck a roll of gauze and butterfly bandages into the Beta’s cell merely twenty minutes later.

Meaning verbal conversations are definitely out of the question.

Which works just as well.

Barton now sits on his slab with an arm resting over his abdomen. And although his eye is a deeper shade of purple, the swelling has subsided to the extent that he can partially open it—enough to watch Steve’s hands, at the very least.

“When did you meet Romanoff?” Steve signs.

“Approximately six years ago, in Budapest,” Barton signs back one-handed, his movements stiff. “We tried to kill each other.”

Steve regards him with visible curiosity.

“Coincidentally, we were both there to assassinate the leader of the invasion—Captain Hydra, or so they call him. But nobody knows his true identity; it could’ve been anyone.” The Beta chuckles feebly. “It wasn’t until the city was well under attack before we realized that neither of us even belonged to Hydra.”

“And after that?” Steve encourages him to continue.

“Got out of Dodge. Took down as many as we could along the way,” the Beta says, then rubs at his temple where the gauze encircles his head. “Invited her to join our ranks once we crossed the border into unoccupied Romania.”

Steve hums thoughtfully.

Barton frowns, appearing to recall who he’s speaking to. “Were you part of that division?”

If only you knew, he thinks, pleased to hear his anonymity remains intact.

“Technically, I’ve been part of many,” Steve answers vaguely. “Red Skull often favored me on the front.”

“We gathered that much.” Shifting around slightly for comfort, Barton confesses, “It’s why we chose you.”

Ah, they’ve been strategizing for longer than he’s assumed. Likely biding their time for an opening to give an ultimatum while cultivating his favor in the process.

“Not the best decision,” he returns frankly. Then, gesturing at the Beta’s cell and current state, he taunts, “Look where it’s got you.”

“Down but not out is far better than the alternative.” The Beta half-shrugs. “Plus, it means we still have a chance to make it out of here.”

His lips quirk at that. “That’s awfully optimistic of you.”

“Yeah…” Baring his neck to him, Barton says timidly, “It was bound to happen eventually, especially with you in charge. Right, Alpha?”

Steve isn’t particularly shocked by Barton’s abrupt shift in attitude, as is often the case for many when confronted with their mortality. But he does find the undercurrent of supplication toward his Alpha nature to be entirely unexpected—the Beta unmistakably petitioning the formation of a formal pack, in so little words.

And that, he considers, is an offer he’s unwilling to refuse.

“Correct,” Steve assures, immediately embracing his newfound position. “I’m sure Romanoff is still alive,” he instinctively provides consolation.

A strained, wet sound leaves Barton’s mouth as tears well up in his eyes. “Thanks,” he responds with a trembling hand. “I’m sure Iron Man is, too.”

Steve nods curtly, accepting that as the Beta’s version of a truce.

“Just wondering,” Barton begins after a lengthy pause. “What made you change your mind about him?”

It’s a good question and one he’s still coming to terms with. There’s a brightness within Tony he can’t quite tame. An elusive yet compelling force contending with his own impenetrable darkness, where neither are able to dominate the other. The effects of it captivating, unlike anything he’s experienced—a delicate dance between conflicting principles and unity.

“This world needs somebody like him,” Steve says with the utmost sincerity. “I need him.”

Barton makes to respond, but Steve is quick to shush him with a finger to his own lips as the clanging of the cell block door disturbs the silence.

As heavy footsteps echo down the corridor, Steve braces himself for the impending intrusion. Readying for this one shot at freedom as roughly ten guards come to stand outside his cell.

“The Great Dictator has arrived and desires a meeting with you,” a guard informs. “It’s pointless to fight,” he adds with a smirk, intonating eager anticipation.

So, that’s the cause for the delay, Steve thinks as another guard moves to cut the power to the bars.

As the partition slides open, Steve launches himself forward, seizing a fistful of the first guard’s uniform—only to be thwarted by a sudden surge of electricity coursing through his body as the collar activates. The voltage potent enough to paralyze his muscles and white-out his vision, providing the guards an opportunity to close in.

A forceful kick to the back of his legs sends him sprawling to the ground, followed by his arms being quickly drawn behind him and pinned. His wrists and ankles swiftly secured seconds afterwards, using the same restraints Bucky possessed to immobilize him.

Steve gasps for breath as the pain recedes, but his reprieve is short-lived when his head is yanked to the side before he catches the bite of a needle at his neck. The sedative flooding his veins with an icy burn, instantly dulling his senses and rendering him pliant.

His surroundings are a blur as he’s supported by the entourage and half-dragged down the corridor into the maze of hallways. Barely able to discern any details until they enter a spacious room, where he’s roughly shoved onto his knees.

Behind a mahogany desk stands the recognizable figure of Red Skull, patiently awaiting him. And not too far from him is Tony, his restrained wrists suspended by a chain connected directly to a ceiling beam. There’s a piece of cloth bound tightly around his mouth, gagging him, and his leg visibly trembles as he balances on one foot—making an effort to keep his injured ankle elevated.

Not hurt, Steve sluggishly thinks, filled with immense relief.  

The Omega’s eyes flick towards him, his expression inscrutable, then glances away.

“Ah, Captain, we were just discussing you,” Red Skull starts with an ominous air, and smirking, steps from behind the desk towards the Omega. “Weren’t we?” he directs the question to Tony, who drops his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Leave him out of this,” Steve snaps, eliciting Red Skull’s hairless brows to lift upwards at his boldness. “He had nothing to do with any of it. I’m the one you want.”

Steve swallows thickly as the drug takes full effect, causing the world to swim before him. Hardly registering Red Skull’s approach until a gloved hand nudges his chin up.

“I’m afraid he’s an integral part,” Red Skull corrects, glaring down at him. “Even more so than you.”

He shakes his head to dislodge the light grip. “What do you mean?”

The Alpha exhales harshly as he straightens to full height, his patience thinning.

“Per the mission statement,” his tone turns cold, “I designated a task exclusively to you.” Cocking his head, he prompts, “You weren’t there to simply guard our border, were you?”

Steve’s mouth goes dry as he recalls the confidential envelope he opened upon landing in the West. And dismissing it as some minor chore, had neglected it to concentrate on the mundane management of the outpost and his daily surveillance responsibilities.

“What was your mission?” Red Skull exerts an Alpha command over him as Steve is overwhelmed by his master’s pheromones, evoking his own lifelong conditioning to the scent.

“To secure a package and deliver it to you,” he replies automatically, unable to battle against it. “I never receive word it arrived.”

“No, I suppose not.” Leisurely, the Alpha begins to pace. His dark eyes trained on Steve, gleaming with malice. “I imagine it’s quite challenging to focus on your duties while you’re plotting against me.”

Steve winces, feeling akin to a scolded child.

The Alpha halts as though sensing it.

“In case it hasn’t dawned on you, this was a test,” Red Skull enlightens. “I desired to see if you were truly ready to assume the role as my second-in-command, and to rule as another head of Hydra.” He sneers, “But you’ve failed.”

His throat tightens at that, leaving him uncertain how to respond.

“You didn’t consider it strange that an American business jet cleared our border without interference?” the Alpha presses on, perceiving he’s rendered Steve speechless. “Or that nobody bothered to verify the authenticity of your report?”

Steve hangs his head fractionally, wanting to kick himself for the critical oversight.

“I should express my gratitude, nevertheless,” Red Skull says, almost tauntingly. “Although the crash was…unforeseen, he was still brought to me alive, all thanks to you.”

Slowed by the mist gradually shrouding his mind, Steve struggles to connect the dots. “The package was—”

He darts his gaze over to Tony.

No…

“Yes,” the Alpha confirms.

Tony hasn’t been informed of being presented on a silver platter, as well, if the look of dawning horror is any indication.

“It was such a painstaking process to obtain him, you see, hence the reason I used informants to keep tabs on my prize.” Steve instantly thinks of Romanoff and Barton, and his indignation must be readable on his face for the Alpha to reassure him, “No, not your companions; though, I’m still impressed how vermin like them managed to nest unnoticed within our ranks.”

The sharp sense of betrayal eases, leaving veneration for them both in its wake.

Red Skull strides back in Tony’s direction. “Needless to say, I followed your progress—even if some details were sorely lacking,” he says with an irritated sniff. “My Winter Soldier has proven his usefulness. It wasn’t difficult for him to locate inconsistent information in our computer system.” The Alpha tuts. “You should have been more discreet.”

Steve’s ire flares anew as the Alpha pets Tony’s head possessively, causing Tony to flinch violently at the contact.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!”

The Alpha pauses mid-caress and clicks his tongue behind his teeth.

“Fascinating. It seems to be wearing off.” He gives two aggressive pats against Tony’s cheek, almost as if penalizing him for Steve’s outburst. “I must admit that I started having suspicions you were reverting, but foolishly thought little of it.”

“Reverting?” he echoes, wary of whatever game is being played.

“A shame, really.” Red Skull sighs. “This was to be your redemption, after all.”

What the hell is he going on about?

“No matter.” Red Skull waves dismissively. “Soon, everything will be corrected. Then, we can start building a better future for Hydra.” Tilting his head to regard the Omega, he asserts, “Isn’t that right, Stark?”

The world crashes to a halt.

“What?” Steve murmurs, the name bouncing around in his head, reluctant to accept it. “He isn’t…Howard,” he argues dumbly.

“Well, of course not. That would be utterly preposterous.” The Alpha’s laughter echoes loudly within the room. “He is his son.”

“No...” Steve says faintly. “That’s not possible. His son died 28 years ago, and he never had any other children.”

“That is what the media stated, yes. Even I was convinced, for a time,” Red Skull confirms coolly. “But rumors surfaced from within the scientific community years later. And not long after that, Carbonell International was founded.”

Once more, the Alpha reaches for Tony to pinch a strand of hair and pluck it from his scalp. And while examining it between his fingers, elaborates, “I dispatched one of my operatives to infiltrate his company, where they retrieved a DNA sample and verified that he is, indeed, Anthony Stark.”

Every fiber of Steve’s being screams in denial. Unable to reconcile the Omega he’s come to know with the heinous acts associated with the family name. But the evidence has been there all along—indisputable and laughably obvious.

The very reason Tony was on that plane.

“Tony?” he hears himself ask, seeking some kind of negation.

A silent acknowledgment is granted as Tony tentatively locks eyes with him. The truth revealed within their depths.

His heart stutters in his chest.

The son of my enemy…is my Omega…

Red Skull emits a contemplative hum. “With the effects abating, I assumed your memory had returned. Perhaps I was wrong.” He shrugs, then gestures towards the doors. “I believe we are done here, Captain. You will be confined to the White Room until I feel generous enough to deal with you myself.”

Steve’s wrangled to his feet by the guards, who strive to pull him away. The collar around his throat sending white-hot shocks through his body as he feebly resists. But he can’t leave Tony—can’t be separated again—despite his warring emotions.

“Tony!”

Surprise flashes in the Omega’s eyes along with echoing distress. Steve’s name, muffled and distorted, escapes past the gag.

The voltage increases, weakening him substantially, but he still struggles—even as they pass the threshold, and the doors begin to swing shut.

“TONY!” he cries out desperately, one final time, as the last traces of Tony disappear behind the metal panels.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

After Rogers completely vanishes from sight, the Dictator pivots to readdress him, “You have certainly made an impact, Anthony. To have influenced my best soldier into deserting our cause is rather remarkable.” With cool appraisal, he grits out through bared teeth, “I suppose I should credit that famous Stark charisma.”

Wonderful, another ‘fan’, Tony muses, stifling a groan as he shifts precariously within his restraints, trying to alleviate the building tension at his shoulders.

“Fortunately, I had anticipated it,” Fruit Punch Skeletor carries on, telegraphing his footsteps to heighten Tony’s unease as he menacingly circles him. “The information I was given by the seller and my Winter Soldier was quite illuminating—and made you both more predictable.”

Pausing at the edge of the desk, the Alpha picks up a mailing envelope and removes several papers. Tony’s dread mounting as the Alpha leafs through the stack.

“Ah, here it is. Personality Overview of one Anthony Edward Stark.” The heel of the Dictator’s boots scuffs the floor as he moves to stand before him. “To begin,” he cites the document, “he exhibits impulsive and compulsive behavior.”

In my defense, I haven’t done anything in the last 72 hours, Tony argues mentally.

“Is prone to self-destructive tendencies.”

Who isn’t?

“Volatile and doesn’t play well with others.”

Maybe if said others weren’t lusting after my hard-earned success and my sweet ass.

“Oppositional towards traditional Omega roles, and abrasive in hierarchy social structures.”

Ok, Boomer.

“Textbook Narcissism.”

That causes him to flinch. It’s certainly what he presents to the public, giving the impression it’s nothing more than a shield to hide inadequacies. Yet, beneath the veneer lies a genuine desire to aid an afflicted world—to offer humanity and a sense of hope without seeking reward. His Omega status, however, would place a target on his back by the powers that be. And seeing it as a weakness, would exploit or treat him as a threat to be eliminated for their own gain. Thus, returning imbalances and causing even greater suffering.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but one he must.  

Agreed…

“And lastly, manipulative by means of seduction.”

Now this boils his blood. Whoever sold him out definitely has a limited understanding of his character, and likely interacted with him only during business hours. Never witnessing his actual dating habits or the frequent instances where he’s fended off unwanted, lustful advances in his career. Any flirtation meant as a deterrent, given Omegas in the corporate sphere are expected to behave demurely and bow to authority.

Alternatively, Tony ponders if they’re somebody with knowledge of his unfortunate history surviving on the streets. Cast out like garbage when he refused to comply with his father’s demands to craft weapons of mass destruction and casualties. And though barely legal, he knew his body was worth a pretty penny—earning enough money to pay his college tuition and to finance his startup business, which evolved into the global giant it is today.

The Dictator watches his reactions intently.

“I can only presume you’ve mated him by the distinct mingling of your scents.” Tony nearly chokes on his own saliva. Well, that clarifies things. “He might have succeeded in overthrowing me if he had proceeded with the plan to exploit you rather than succumbing to such base urges.”

He swallows past a lump forming in his throat. Tony figured there had been a reason for Rogers to keep him, but he never imagined being a pawn in some sinister Alpha dick eating contest. Nor did he expect that somebody within his trusted circles would make such a despicable deal with Hydra. Raising the question as to who would coerce Happy to stop the transaction, and in such a violent manner, at that.

Why didn’t you just tell me, Happy?

A gloved finger hooks beneath the cloth at Tony’s cheek, tugging the gag free from his mouth. The discomfort in his jaw lessening before the Alpha abruptly seizes it. His blackened eyes coldly raking over Tony’s face.

“You are Howard’s spitting image,” he says as he leans in, the gold Alpha ring markers a stark contrast to his red skin. “How I loathe it.”

Tony’s heart races. “Quit the foreplay and either kiss or kill me already,” he defaults to a snarky response, eliciting a cruel smile from his captor.

“Do not flatter yourself, Anthony.” The Dictator roughly releases him. “I merely desire that brilliant mind of yours.”

“Not literally, though?” Tony asks cautiously. A tiny, subconscious voice inside his head urging him to stop talking. “You’re not storing brains in jars around here, right?”

The Alpha chuckles, moving away to give Tony the space he so desperately craves.

“An intriguing idea,” he teases, “but that would be an awful waste of your talents.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Tony replies dryly.

“Indeed.” Tossing the papers onto the desk, the Alpha prompts, “Which is why I would like to propose a deal.”

Oh, here we go.

“I don’t negotiate with psychopathic megalomaniacs, so you’re out of luck, Blow Pop,” Tony is quick to reject. “Sorry you blew all that money on somebody you can’t own. You should’ve kept the receipt.”

The Alpha smirks.

“You misunderstand,” he returns. “I do own you—make no mistake about that.” Disgust at the possessiveness slithers unpleasantly underneath Tony’s skin. “It’s merely to do with how you will spend your time,” the Alpha continues. “Whether it will be in comfort or perpetual suffering.”

Tony doesn’t like the sound of that.

“If you pledge your loyalty to Hydra, I will ensure you have your own living quarters, plenty of food, medical care, and perhaps grant you a few personal requests,” the Dictator expands, once again pacing the floor. “If not, you will endure intensive labor in addition to your scientific duties, be deprived of warmth in your cell, and be provided with the absolute minimum of rations to sustain you.” He levels Tony with a glare. “But you will serve me, regardless of what you choose.”

A Devil’s bargain. Anyone with a weak constitution would rush to sign their name in blood on the dotted line. But Tony is too familiar with them to overlook the fine print, where there’s strings attached and conditions to obey. Knowing every bit of it will be used to exert control and break him.

“I refuse,” Tony says without hesitation, his decision already made.

The Dictator’s eyes narrow, his jaw ticking.

“So be it.” The wrinkles in the Alpha’s leathery skin smooth out as his expression evens. “Do let me know when you have reconsidered.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Tony snaps back with confidence he doesn’t quite feel. “I won’t be doing that.”

The Dictator reaches over, pressing a small button on a panel embedded in the desk. “You will,” he dismisses with a note of finality.

Tony jerks at the sound of the metal doors reopening. A few soldiers pouring into the room and standing at attention, awaiting their orders.

“Herr Stark will be placed on fortification duty until further notice,” the Alpha informs them. “See that he gets there.”

With a collective salute, the soldiers march over to release him from the cuffs, prompting a shout to escape him. The fiery agony in his shoulders and neck flare as the tension slackens, granting him momentary relief before his arms are ensnared by vicelike grips.

“Go easy on the merchandise, fellas,” Tony hisses in pain as they escort him out into the corridor. The soldiers paying little mind to his major injury as he limps along, barely able to maintain his footing.

He’s half-pushed through the building devoid of windows, past multiple cell blocks marked in alphabetic sequence. The confinement facility designed to hold a significant number of prisoners, of which he earlier witnessed being herded like cattle somewhere to perform forced labor. Leaving him to wonder where Rogers and the others are being kept.

I need my Alpha, the voice within whines before a flood of distressed pheromones emanates from him. Yet, the scent does nothing but intensify the soldiers’ aggravation.

As they enter through a set of doors into what is essentially a mudroom, a soldier thrusts a yellow coat, pair of boots, and a canteen against his chest. Nearly causing him to drop the pile as his arms remain restrained by his guards.

“Put them on,” he’s commanded while being shoved unceremoniously onto his knees, the lower part of his pant legs immediately saturated by the layers of grime covering the floor. “Hurry it up.”

Grudgingly, Tony repositions himself and grits his teeth at the slippery, slimy texture beneath his palms. Albeit accustomed to having dirty hands from working hours in his lab, the random substances now coating them unsettles him. It could be as innocent as mud and oil or something worse like bodily fluids, for all he knows.

After struggling into the equally filthy coat, Tony then slides his soiled, socked foot into a boot with some effort. The sizing of it snug but manageable—until the moment comes to squeeze his bound and swollen ankle into the other. Dark spots dance in his vision as searing and stabbing pain rockets through his foot and shoots up his leg. Bringing him close to hyperventilating once it’s wedged inside, the sturdiness providing some much-needed support despite the torture.

A couple of errant tears streak down his face as he shakily rises to his feet. And favors the injury by putting the barest of pressure on it for balance as a soldier secures a metallic collar around his neck, the small click indicating the locking mechanism activating.

Satisfied, a soldier brushes past him to unlatch the secondary set of doors leading outside. Allowing the sunlight to flood in, glaringly brighter in comparison to the indoor lighting.

Tony’s roughly nudged, causing him to stumble forward. “Walk, Omega.”

The soldiers tail him as he steps out and begins a painfully slow trek down the fenced passageway towards an idling covered truck. His thoughts racing as he recognizes the layout, realizing the facility once served as a penitentiary but has now been repurposed as a Hydra prison. Suggesting that security measures are far stricter than a civilian jail, with a thorough surveillance system and an increased presence of armed guards.

His boots sink deep into piles of slush as he’s led to the rear cab, where another prisoner is seated and sporting an impatient scowl. Tony catches a whiff of her floral, Omegan scent as he shakily hauls himself up to join her. The delicateness of it sharply contrasting the hardened look he receives and the “fuck off” signals he interprets from her stiff body language. Specks of dirt cling to her slightly tangled, black hair, and her pale face bears smudges of the same muck caking his hands.  

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he jests, settling onto a creaky, wooden bench across from her. The soldiers shutting the split doors behind him. “Nice to get out of the house once in a while. I was feeling a little cooped up.”

The Omega doesn’t respond, downright snubbing him as she turns to stare off through the gap over the doors.   

A sudden hiss from the air brakes startles him before the truck lurches forward. And with no chance of friendly conversation, Tony opts to take in his surroundings as they depart from the prison, travelling into the denser part of the massive, Hydra controlled city. Some buildings remain in ruins—echoes of artillery strikes—while those that are mostly intact have been seized for Hydra usage. The sheer volume of soldiers staggering as they turn into a residential area, where—

Tony blinks hard, scarcely believing his eyes. Children. Actual children, ranging from roughly five years of age to the upper teens, are parading down the street in red uniforms bearing Hydra’s emblem. Appallingly marching along with practiced discipline; their steps synchronized, postures ramrod-straight, and expressions blank. Not a trace of youthful exuberance to be found.  

His heart clenches at the sight.

Had Rogers also been recruited and indoctrinated in his childhood? Tony wonders, swallows thickly and feeling his throat constrict against the collar. What are they doing to him now? Is he all right?

“New to the war?”

Tony’s head snaps around at that, and takes a second to process the Omega had been the one to address him. “So, you do speak?”

She pins him with a flat stare. “Judging by the Bambi’s-mom-got-shot look, I can only assume you just learned about it.”

“Because the bombs are awfully easy to miss?” He scoffs. “You think I’ve been living under a rock this whole time?”

“Maybe,” the Omega monotones. “People that have led sheltered lives tend to be shaken up while facing horrific truths. The grim realities of the world are often too much for them to bear, and they’ll delude themselves into becoming rigid optimists to counteract it all—even to their own detriment.”

“Speaking from experience, Lydia?” Tony asks, though he can hardly disagree.

“Not mine,” she answers.

“Not mine, either,” he states before she can speculate.

The corner of her lips pull into a taut, incredulous smile.

“Though, I’m a little less ‘rigidly’ pessimistic as you,” Tony clarifies. “Optimistically pessimistic, I’d say. Best of both worlds.”

“It sucks, but at least the glass is half-full, right?”

“Just happy to have the glass at all.” His own mouth quirks into a sad smile. “Could fill it with anything. Whiskey, preferably.”

“Fuck,” she exclaims with emphasis, surprising him with the first real hint of human emotion. “I wouldn’t mind a few fingers of that myself.”

A tire hits a pothole with a thunderous bang, almost causing them both to topple over as the cab jolts violently.

“So…Strucker experimented on you, too?” the Omega perceives as she rights herself, gesturing at his chest where the loose jumpsuit has shifted, unveiling the top of his reactor.

“Not this. But, yeah…” he confirms, hastening to pull the fabric over it self-consciously. “He certainly gets around, huh?”

The Omega gifts him a commiserating look. “He turned me into a mutant.”

“I heard that’s the chef’s specialty,” Tony shoots for levity.

“How about you?” she prompts with an obvious undercurrent of morbid curiosity.

Tony gently brushes his fingertips over the healing burns at the nape of his neck, remembering the intense pain. “Generic lab rat and target practice.”

She makes a show of wincing sympathetically.  

“At least we understand each other.” Reaching out, she finally decides to introduce herself. “Jessica Jones.”

“Tony,” he returns as he accepts the handshake.

“All right, Tony,” she emphasizes his name, evidently noticing the omission. “You look like chewed up shit, so I know your sorry ass will be useless today—”

“Oh, you were admiring it?”

“—And that means,” Jessica blatantly disregards the bait, “I’ll have to pick up the slack to save us both from punishment, considering I’ve been assigned as your labor buddy. Which is kind of like being ‘gal pals’, except we’re slaves.” Pointing a finger at him, she asserts, “You owe me for this.”

Tony chuckles helplessly. “Other than being eye-candy, there isn’t much I can offer you.”

She titters at that. “You’ll figure it out.”

The truck comes to a halt, eliciting Tony to flinch at the clamor of shouting and dogs aggressively barking.

“Chill,” the Omega reassures, giving his knee a pat and emitting calming pheromones. “There’s only 9-ish hours of grueling work to go before dinner.”

Tony barks a laugh. “Back home, I'd pull 48-hour shifts without dinner.” As the Omega raises her brows in bewilderment, he shrugs and assures, “Just saying. I can handle it.”

“Sure, Buddy,” Jessica indulges him, then swiftly stands in preparation to exit the vehicle as the soldiers approach them. “Just keep your head down and follow my lead, okay?”

Tony takes a deep breath and rises. A stray thought of his Alpha calling out for him crossing his mind before he clambers after her, wondering if he’ll ever see him again.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

Everything hurts.

From the crown of Tony’s head to the soles of his feet, and from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes. The labor has, in fact, been grueling as he toiled the hours away by hacking at the frozen ground with a weathered pickaxe and clawing out clumps of soil with his numb, unprotected hands. It’s probably the most tedious and strenuous method of trench-digging—but, Tony supposes, that is the point of it all. Hydra deliberately sacrificing efficiency in favor of inflicting misery and physical exhaustion until there’s barely enough strength left to drag themselves back to the trucks. A sadistic yet effective strategy to deter any thoughts of escape, and something he’s sorely misjudged.

Tony staggers, trailing behind the throng of Omega prisoners as they reenter the fortress gates enclosing the city. His ankle screaming, stomach rumbling with hunger, throat parched, and the reactor in urgent need of recharging. Jessica, meanwhile, slows her pace to match his while casting uncertain glances towards the guards and their aggressive dogs pulling aggressively at their leashes. And although dirty and fatigued, she’s far more energetic than he’s expected; especially in comparison to the rest of the digging party, who sluggishly move ahead of them in a zombie-like stupor.

The reactor emits a stuttered whir as shooting pain causes him to stop in his tracks, his knees buckling as he crumples to the ground. Tony desperately clutches at his chest before another wave of agony washes over him, feeling white-hot electricity coursing through every nerve as the collar activates. His vision blurring and teeth accidentally biting down onto his tongue.

“Get a move on!” a soldier barks once the pain subsides. Tony’s senses gradually returning until he realizes he’s still upright, being supported by Jessica’s arms.

“Hold your horses! We’re going!” Jessica shouts over his head before releasing a pained cry, collapsing to her knees beside him. Tony barely manages to catch her as she pitches forward, her body writhing in agony.

“Move it!”

“Motherfuckers,” the Omega hisses through gritted teeth, wriggling out of his grasp. “C’mon...” Wobbling as she stands, she breathlessly urges, “Get up or we’ll be flagged for punishment.”

Tony doesn’t need to be told twice, his boots skidding on compacted snow as he rises with the Omega’s assistance. Her strength surprising as she effortlessly pulls him up by the arm, steadying him when he nearly loses balance again. Then, summoning the last bit of energy, he heads for the nearest truck, gesturing for her to climb in first, where she secures one of the last seats on the bench, leaving just enough room for him. His foot slips off the metal step as he attempts to follow, causing him to pitch backwards, but his fall is quickly aborted as Jessica snatches the front of his jumpsuit. Allowing him a chance to recover and clamber inside.

As the doors slam shut, Tony chastises her foolishness to defend him, “You didn’t have to do that. I was fine.”

“Sure, you were,” she returns sarcastically, casually picking at the dirt beneath her fingernails.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Tony snaps, glancing sidelong at the other prisoners observing their interaction. Lowering his voice, he demands, “Next time, don’t help me. Just leave me there.”

The Omega rebukes, “I wasn’t only helping you. What happens to you out here also happens to me, remember? Or is your memory failing you, old man?”

“Old?” Tony echoes with a snort. “What are you, a child?” Stopping short, he takes a proper look at her, easily recognizing the softness of youth in her facial features. “Oh, god. You really are just a kid. Probably 12 or something.”

“I’m 15,” Jessica deems to correct with an irritated huff. “But, so what? Doesn’t change a fucking thing, does it?”

“Language,” he automatically scolds, eliciting the Omega to roll her eyes hard.

The prisoners seem to lose interest in their conversation, turning away to mutter among themselves.

“You’ve just solidified your old man-ness.”

Tony scoffs. “And you’ve just solidified your teenager-ness,” he lamely fires back, rubbing at the growing ache over his heart. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be in school, making some poor teacher want to quit?”

The Omega crosses her arms defensively.

“Not like I chose to be.” Lips pressing tightly together, she briefly appears to mull over something, then elaborates, “After my parents died a couple years ago, I was taken in by this asshole Alpha, who forced me to do…things…” Jessica exhales shakily. “So, I ran away. But I needed to make money to survive—as you know—and any intel on Hydra is worth a fortune.”

Fidgeting uneasily, she continues, “I happen to possess good investigative skills. So good, in fact, I uncovered a group of Hydra agents lurking about New York City. And I was about to turn them over to the authorities for the reward when they caught wind of me.” She drops her gaze. “The rest is history.”

A sudden pang Tony feels has nothing to do with the draining reactor.

“Anyway, I should tell you that we can get penalized for using our real names,” she abruptly informs. “I suggest calling me 933-P when the shitheads are around.” She cocks her head towards him. “What’s yours?”

He swallows nervously. “I wasn’t given one.”

The Omega’s head snaps back in alarm. “Why not?”

Shaking his head, he responds with equal bewilderment, “Beats me, kid.”

Averting his eyes, Tony chooses instead to take in the glow of the city lights as the trucks rumble through it. Finding himself at a loss for a plausible explanation regarding the Dictator’s obsession, and hesitant to divulge the specifics of his arrival—let alone fully acknowledge his emotions towards Rogers.

“Fine, old man, if you don’t want to talk, that’s cool,” Jessica says with a heavy note of suspicion. “But secrets don’t really stay hidden for long. We’ll all find out eventually.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he denies. “Still trying to figure out what’s real.” That, at least, is true.

The Omega makes a soft noise of comprehension. “Well, once you do know, you’ve gotta make a decision.” That draws his attention, finding the white ring markers gleaming in the semi-darkness of the cab. “One, keep denying it. Or two, do something about it.”

That strikes him in a way he can’t describe, sinking deep into the core of him.

But what can be done? he wonders as the trucks slow to a stop. What can I do?

Complete sensory deprivation is Hell.

Steve’s heard rumors of Hydra implementing white room torture, but never imagined it would be used on him. Therefore, dismissing it as being absurd compared to other, more effective methods of breaking a person. And ultimately believing the whole thing to be a waste of time and nothing but a financial strain.

His opinion on it has since changed.

White surrounds him. The walls, ceiling, floor, bed—even his newest jumpsuit—all devoid of color. Which had been, at first, a minor irritant, but has become an unbearable sight that causes his head to throb.

The interior of the cell is soundproofed, amplifying every bodily function. He listens to the rush of blood in his veins with every rhythmic beat of his heart, each groan and churn of acid in his gut, and the expansion and contraction of his lungs. His joints emitting pops with every movement, along with the scratching of fabric against his skin.

This is far worse than an isolation pod, Steve concludes. And it’s only been a week.

Well, he thinks it’s been that long.

Certainly feels like it.

It’s difficult to keep track of time when there’s no temporal cues and the intervals between meals are purposely inconsistent. Having differing levels of hunger every time he collects the intolerably white rice served in paper bowls, where every bite is bland on his tongue.

Shadows are chased away by the all-encompassing fluorescent lighting. Steve’s eyes aching from its constant presence—unable to escape it, even in sleep. The brightness practically searing his corneas, exacerbated by his heightened senses. His voice is also lost to the anechoic chamber whenever he speaks aloud, seeking to break the overwhelming quietude but to no avail.

Bedding is a missed luxury, leaving Steve with only the cold, unforgiving floor to rest upon without any form of comfort. Its chill seeps deep into his bones, numbing him to the slightest of touch. The lack of sensation unusual and annoying.

His own pheromones seem to have dissipated, as well. And he finds himself gradually forgetting even the most cherished scents: the crisp smell of freshly laundered clothes, the invigorating aroma of mint, the zest from a lemon, and…

Tony.

With nothing else to preoccupy him, he fixates on the Omega. Etching his face hundreds of times in his mind, desperate to retain every minute detail. Yet, no matter how hard he analyzes it, he can’t discern Howard’s features. The visage of his enemy is rejected entirely—almost as if offensive to associate the two.

And that, in itself, frustrates him.

What exactly sets Tony apart from his father? he ponders. The Omega most likely had a hand in designing and building the weapons used for needless war, with Howard grooming him to inherit the family enterprise. Yet, instead of society implicating Tony for the countless lives lost, his reputation remains untarnished by faking his own death, thereby dodging responsibility and granting him free rein to do as he pleases.

Regardless of the conservation efforts being made, Tony is still a Stark. The proof is in his decision to board that plane with the intent to either reunite with Howard or—maybe even more concerning—assume his father’s place.

Maybe Steve’s been duped by the bleeding heart, Omega act. Which wouldn’t be the first time—given his own mother—but how did he believe it so easily?

Or maybe this isn’t what it appears to be, the subconscious thought breaks through his musings. Recalling to mind Red Skull’s involvement and the hint at something suppressed in regards to the Starks.

Steve gasps as his revile clashes with his affection, eliciting him to rub miserably at his temples.

Red Skull’s tormenting voice rings in his head: “With the effects abating, I assumed your memory had returned. Perhaps I was wrong.”

What is it that he can’t recollect?

He clenches a fist.

And what the hell did Red Skull do to him?

Unexpected rustling fills the room, jolting him from his thoughts. Steve glances around, fleetingly considering the possibility of auditory hallucinations until he spots a piece of paper poking out from the crevice of the food slot.

Jerking up, he races towards it with a desperation he hasn’t felt since his youth. And after snatching it, nearly tears it in two as he shakily unfolds the note. Temporarily ignoring a photograph that drops from it.

I have a plan.

Tension eases at the simple reassurance that Bucky hasn’t turned against him entirely.

He reads on.

But in order for this to work, you also need to remember. –B

With nothing else written, Steve curiously turns his attention toward the photograph. He stoops to retrieve it, feeling a wave of trepidation as he pinches the Polaroid between his fingers. His eyes watering as they take in colors he’s no longer accustomed to, compelling him to blink until his vision adjusts.

“March 1980” is written at the bottom, followed by Tony’s full name. Which prompts him to flick his gaze up to study the still image printed upon it.

There’s a young boy staring back at him with familiar brown eyes and Omegan white ring markers. He’s seated at a table outside of a restaurant between Howard and his mate.

Steve needs no more than a glimpse at it before something sharply rips open within his mind. The world spinning on its axis as he falls, slamming hard onto the ground.

Losing himself to the haunts of something long forgotten.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One

The routine settles in after a while.

Tony drags himself out of bed at the crack of dawn to collect the pitiful breakfast in the slot, finding not even a drop of coffee to help keep him awake. Scarfing down what little there is before he’s herded out with the other Omegan prisoners to labor under freezing weather conditions—their collective groans and sighs a dismal symphony of hopelessness.

In the late afternoon, he’s removed from the group and driven to Hydra’s weapons and bioengineering facility. The acrid smell of chemicals mixing with the aroma of metal and oil a sharp contrast to the body odor and coppery blood from the work yard. There, time seems to crawl to a standstill with every second ticking by becoming slower than the last. His stubborn refusal to create a single weapon leaving Tony bored and restless—having only the delivery of his meager dinner to look forward to.

Hours past nightfall, Tony’s escorted back to his cell. The guard’s grip always steely, edging on bruising while she attaches the long connector cable to both his reactor and an electrical outlet outside the cell bars. Its length enough to allow Tony freedom to stumble inside to the slab bed, where his exhaustion wins out over his chronic insomnia.

Then rinse and repeat.

Tony stares at the blank blueprints on the worktable, mentally marking the fourteenth day of his ongoing tech strike. While he can’t put down a pickaxe or shovel for Jessica’s sake, it appears he can resist lifting even so much as a pen in the lab without consequences towards anybody else. The guards marginally more hesitant to harm the scientific minds behind their victories versus the prisoners building their empire brick-by-brick.

And doesn’t that just piss him the hell off.

A throat clearing draws his attention to his newest lab partner, who stands beside him with a pinched expression and arms folded over his chest.  

“They’ll probably punish you for this at some point,” 070-P warns.

He lets out a harsh breath through his nose. Not really in the mood for such a conversation.

“Not that I really care,” the Alpha quickly adds, as if recalling his disdain. “After everything SI has done, you’d definitely deserve it.”

Tony groans softly, taking the bait. “I really didn’t have much to do with any of it.”

“Yeah, right,” 070-P scoffs. “As if I’m going to trust the word of a Stark.”

That ruffles Tony’s feathers a little. “And who are you?” he snaps. “Mister Perfect?”

The Alpha postures by puffing out his chest, eliciting Tony to roll his eyes skywards.

“Scott Lang. Apprentice to Dr. Hank Pym. You know, Howard’s old partner? The guy he stole research from in the 70’s, then tried to recreate and credit Pym Particles as his own innovation.” He chuckles. “Didn’t go so well for him, huh?”

Tony’s mouth curls into a smile as it all rings a bell. “Oh, right...” He shifts around on his seat, propping his bad ankle onto another stool close-by. “You’re that convict he exploits.”

Immediately—and rather pathetically—the Alpha defends, “C’mon, man. Ex-convict—as in used to be.” Scott releases a frustrated sigh. “He saw potential in me. There was nothing to exploit.”

Yikes, Tony thinks, inwardly grimacing. Delusional much?

Then again, the words are practically an echo of the ones Tony once used to defend his father during his upbringing. So, really, who is he to judge?

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” Tony mutters, his tone tinged with sympathy, as he picks up a piece of paper and begins folding it into a familiar shape. “Plankton isn’t as honorable as you think he is, Karen.”

Scott laughs derisively. “Pym has more honor in his pinkie finger than you Starks do in your entire body,” he fires back, then turns away. Effectively signaling the end of the conversation by gifting Tony the cold barrier of his backside while he resumes assembling the fusion reactor of an ion cannon.

Tony ignores the silent treatment, focusing instead on completing the construction of the paper airplane. Then haphazardly launching it into the air, watching it soar past a mess of wiring and scattered equipment until it crashes into a heap of heat-treated metallic scraps—the still smoldering alloy igniting the little glider on fire almost instantly.

“Goodbye, Mr. Stark.”

The sound of the door buzzer gives Tony a jolt. His hands trembling as he automatically presses them flat on the table, vaguely sensing Scott doing the same beside him.

Tony’s heart skips a beat as Strucker’s guard dog strides inside, clad in the typical uniform sans the intimidating mask. The soldier’s presence unchanged, wordlessly commanding their collective attention and respect, sending chills racing down Tony’s spine.

“Dismissed,” the soldier commands the other prisoner, implying the need for privacy. Scott wastes no time—eager to escape the impending confrontation as he hustles past the soldier and straight out the open door, allowing it to slam shut behind him.

Gripping the edge of the table, Tony struggles to remain calm. The realization he’s unconsciously risen to his feet hitting him belatedly as the soldier begins to pace back and forth. Assumingly contemplating whatever torture is in store.

As their eyes lock, there’s a moment of fragile stillness. Tony feeling the weight of the soldier’s stare, assessing. Then, in a strangely soft yet roughened voice, the soldier speaks. “You don’t have to be afraid, Omega,” he endeavors to soothe. “I have no intention of harming you.”

“Yet,” Tony hears himself saying, his mouth moving of its own volition.

The soldier nods, accepting Tony’s correction.

“Sit down.” Although it isn’t quite an order, Tony detects the Alpha command as it compels him to submit. And unsure of what’s happening, decides it’s in his best interest to comply, slowly lowering himself onto the stool.

With a heavy exhale, the Alpha decidedly stands there awkwardly as though at a loss, his gaze darting around the room.

Tony can’t resist tempting fate. “Cat got your tongue…whoever you are?”

That seems to shake the soldier from his obvious unease as he takes up his own seat, the stool legs scraping against the concrete. “Call me Barnes.”

“Barnes?” Tony echoes, the name striking a chord. And furrowing his brows in concentration, tries to place where he’s heard it before.

The soldier seems to catch on. Briefly pressing his lips thinly, he bluntly asks, “Do you remember the events that occurred the night of May 25, 1980?”

Everything lurches to a halt.

“Tony…”

The world caves beneath Tony’s feet and the facility fades into the background.

“Tony…” Maria repeats, gently shaking him.

He stirs, blinking groggily and rubbing at his eyes. “Mom?” Tony mumbles sleepily.

“Wake up, dear,” she urges quietly. “We’re going on a trip. Just you and me.” Through half-lidded eyes, Tony blearily observes her cast a quick glance over her shoulder in the semi-darkness, as if concerned somebody or something might be there. “Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

The blankets bunch up around his legs as he sits upright. “Where are we going?”

Picking up a duffle bag from the floor, Maria hurriedly opens his dresser drawers and commences stuffing clothes into it.

“One of our vacation homes,” she answers vaguely. “You’ll be able to swim in the lake, hike a mountain, and many other outdoor activities. It’ll be just like the summer camp you always wanted to go to. Won’t that be fun?”

Tony’s not sure what to think, far too drowsy to question her as he’s guided from the comfort of his bedroom through the darkened hallways of the mansion. The sense of secrecy hanging heavy in the air as they sneak out the back doors, then navigate through the moonlit gardens to the detached garage.

A pungent stench of gasoline overpowers his mother’s flowery Beta scent as they enter, his untied shoes scuffing over a tiny pool of motor oil as they rush to climb into the idling Cadillac. Maria twists to stow the bag in the backseat before shifting the gear into drive and speeding away from their home, leaving a trail of dust in their wake.

As they pass city by city, the urban landscape gradually gives way to open highways, flanked by sprawling fields. Tony feels mildly disoriented as they eventually veer onto an exit ramp, then immediately onto a deserted, sparsely lit backroad—the asphalt cracked and weather-beaten underneath the tires.

After another mile, Maria worriedly checks the rearview mirror, then breaks the silence. “I need you to keep something safe, in case anything happens to me,” she says ominously, leaning over to pop open the glove compartment, its hinges creaking loudly. Tony watches with confusion as her fingers sift through its contents until they find what she’s searching for—a large, sealed mailing envelope with ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamped on its front.

“Take this, dear,” she holds it out to him. “Hide it under your clothes and don’t tell anyone.”

Respecting his mother’s wishes, he obeys without hesitation, tucking it under his shirt and into the waistband of his pants.

Headlights suddenly flash from their left side, immediately followed by a jarring crunch of metal and shattering glass as something collides with the car. Pain rockets through Tony’s head as his temple cracks against the window, his vision flooding white. Tires screech, Maria gasps, and then another impact jerks him against his seatbelt as they come to an abrupt stop.

What he becomes aware of next are his mother’s desperate pleas for him to run, her scream of terror rising above the hissing of the engine, and a metal hand gripping her throat.

Tony chokes on a quiet sob, hot tears brimming. The Alpha remains still and silent, waiting patiently for him to recover from the haunting tableau.

“It was…” Tony’s voice cracks, his throat tightening as he recalls Barnes’ name plastered over the news for weeks on end. “It was you.”

“Yes,” Barnes confirms, bowing his head slightly.

“Why?” the word escapes Tony’s lips in a broken whisper, his heart heavily burdened by decades of misplaced anger and blame. Raw grief gnawing at his insides as happier memories of his mother overwhelms him—reminiscing her warm embrace, her laughter, and unconditional love. “Why did you do it?!” he shouts, his voice reverberating.

Barnes’ face is inscrutable, his eyes betraying nothing as they bore into Tony’s as though searching for something—maybe forgiveness or an opening for understanding? Tony can only guess as the Alpha looks away.

“In the 1940’s,” he starts, “Hydra was hell-bent on seizing control of the United States while its military were engaged overseas with the Nazis. The Skull set his sights on your country’s advanced technologies, particularly from that of Stark Industries.”

Tony shakes his head, his outrage surging. “What the hell does—?”

“Let me explain,” the Alpha curtails him sharply. Then, in a kinder tone, adds, “Please.”

Balling his hands into fists, Tony barely resists the urge to lash out. Aware this is likely his only chance to receive answers.  

Picking up on Tony’s hostility, Barnes scooches his seat for space before continuing on. “Dr. Abraham Erskine and your father created a serum to enhance the human body and mind. They intended to administer it to the Armed Forces, creating divisions of ‘Super Soldiers’.”

“Steve received the first and only injection,” Barnes states, and at Tony’s puzzlement, clarifies, “Captain Rogers.” Tony’s mind bursts with a slew of new questions, but the Alpha seems to have already anticipated it as he elucidates, “His mission was to steal the formula for Hydra’s use, but he failed. Your military intercepted him over the arctic, where he crashed and froze in ice until Hydra located him in 1977. The serum being the only factor that kept him alive.”

“Were you in a coma?”

“Guess you could call it that.”

Tony doesn’t respond, processing the information.

“Shortly after he was declared MIA, Operation Phoenix was initiated to spy on American enemies and to make another attempt to retrieve the formula. With it being top-secret and highly reputable, it’s the most coveted position in Hydra.” He smirks. “Steve was smart to lie to Strucker about you being one, since operatives are bound by Hydra law to maintain anonymity, and Hydra members are obligated to safeguard them.”

A rush of warmth spreads through his chest hearing how his Alpha protected him before the ache of loss returns.

“So, how does any of this relate to what happened,” Tony’s breath hitches, “that night?”

The Alpha fidgets with the hem of his uniform jacket. “An operative was dispatched to infiltrate Stark Industries in 1953,” Barnes informs somewhat hesitantly, as though bracing himself. “Her birth records were destroyed. But...” he pauses, “it is documented that she assumed the name Maria Carbonell—later changing it to Stark.”

Tony blanches as the world appears to narrow into a tunnel with Barnes at the end. Swallowing hard, he can’t quite choke down the lump forming in his throat. And as his lips part, finds nothing comes out—his voice lost somewhere in the tempest of his thoughts as the upending revelation crashes down on him.

Maria—who kissed his scraped knees and sung lullabies to soothe his nightmares—had been a Hydra agent all along?

“What…?” Tony’s voice finally emerges, frail and barely audible. “What did you say?”

Barnes gives a pitying look.

“No." He barks an incredulous laugh, trying and failing to dismiss the notion. “Liar!” He stands up abruptly, the roaring pain in his ankle be damned. “You take that back.” Tony points an accusing finger at the monster. “My mother was not Hydra!”

The Alpha shakes his head sadly. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

“No,” Tony repeats, shoving several of Scott’s blueprints off the table. “I don’t believe you!”

Barnes doesn’t bother to argue. Instead, he retrieves a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and sets it onto the tabletop, then wordlessly slides it over to him. Leaving Tony to stare warily down at it, comprehending that whatever evidence it contains will likely be irrefutable and world shattering.

But curiosity killed the cat, after all.

Tony’s breath catches as he unfolds it, finding the younger yet unmistakable face of his mother staring back at him from a slightly faded and creased sepia-toned photograph. She’s clad in a crisp but outdated Hydra uniform and stands rigidly with her hands clasped at her waist. Beside her is a sharply dressed Alpha that Tony doesn’t recognize; his arm draped around her shoulder possessively, practically radiating pride.  

With a trembling finger, Tony traces her image, uttering in disbelief, “Mom…?”

“She was one of the Dictator’s most esteemed soldiers,” Barnes proclaims. “And his only child.”

The ground pitches as a wave of dizziness washes over him. Tony’s stomach threatening to invert itself as bile shoots up his throat, giving him mere seconds to limp to the nearest chemical sink, where he violently vomits his dinner. After enduring several minutes of retching, spittle dripping down his chin, Tony fumbles for the tap to rinse his mouth and scrub at the sick clinging to the scruff on his face. Only to jerk away when a hand unexpectedly settles between his shoulder blades, as though intending to comfort.

“Don’t touch me!” he hoarsely cries, stumbling to the other side of the table, effectively placing ample space between them. “She…can’t be. I…” He sobs, a flood of tears streaming down his face. “I…c-can’t be his…”

“Maybe you should sit,” he hears the Alpha suggest.

But Tony doesn’t move—can’t move.

It’s all too much.

“The Skull commanded she deliver the formula to a rendezvous point that evening,” Barnes decides to press on. “Maria had finally exhausted his patience, so he issued her an ultimatum: accomplish her mission or die.”

Knees weakening, Tony reseats himself, and drops his head into his hands. He doesn’t want to hear it—can’t hear it.

“Unfortunately, she chose to flee.” The clank of metal is unnervingly loud as the soldier rests his arm on the table. “Her intention was to make it to a safe house. I was tasked with terminating her before she reached it.”

Tony feels his rage simmering just beneath the surface, contending with the numbness and shock.

“The formula wasn’t the only thing the Dictator ordered her to hand over,” he says matter-of-fact. “He also wanted—”

“Me,” Tony guesses easily with a hysterical laugh. “He’s always wanted me.”

I’m his special package.

“Why didn’t you take me, then?”

“You don’t remember?”

Tony digs fingers into his hair, scratching roughly at his scalp. There are only a few pieces of his memory left, making it difficult to assemble a complete picture.

He shakes his head.

“Steve stopped me.”

Tony hazily remembers crawling through the dirt. Sobbing and crying for help. Gravel crunching under boots as Barnes tails him.

Then, Rogers’ voice: “I don’t care what Red Skull commanded. This…this isn’t right. We’re taking him to a hospital.”

Tony’s throat tightens again, fresh tears threatening to fall. “Why would he do that?”

The Alpha thinks it over. “Steve wasn’t the same after he came out of the ice. He was…softer…and less inclined to blindly follow orders. It’s as if he were an entirely different person.”

Through his blurry vision, Tony regards him with surprise. “What changed? Why didn’t he recognize me or my scent?”

“After Howard publicly declared you and Maria dead, Steve started having nightmares. He became obsessed with your well-being, paranoid the Skull would learn the truth.” His lips quirk slightly. “Seems nothing has changed, despite the reprogramming.”

“Reprogramming?”

Barnes nods affirmatively. “Once the Skull discovered you were alive, he sent Steve to have his memories wiped and mind altered as punishment for his betrayal,” Barnes explains. “He was lucky to be one of the Skull’s best assets. If he hadn’t been, he would’ve been condemned to be tortured to death at The Wall.”

“And after that?”

“Steve came out believing he’d just been thawed from the ice,” the Alpha clarifies. “And has since set forth as the perfect soldier the Great Dictator desired him to be…”

“Until now,” Tony finishes for him.

“Yes.” Barnes pins him with an amazed stare. “Because of you. Somehow, you’ve broken through the control. Changed him, again.”

Rubbing at his aching temples, Tony questions suspiciously, “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know what you are to each other.” Tony huffs—as if he has a clue either. “But I do know you share a unique connection.” A pause. “And I think you care about him, too.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, unable to refute any of it.

“Steve needs your help.”

“Did—” he shakes his head, “Did you just ask me to save him?”  

“No.” Imploringly, the Alpha corrects, “I’m begging you.”

His head swims.

“If you don’t, Steve will die,” he warns. “He’ll be executed in a few weeks.”

Tony flinches at that. His chest aching at the thought.

“I thought he was one of Hydra’s best assets?”

“Was,” Barnes stresses. “Now that the Skull has you to enhance his military, Steve’s services are no longer needed.”

No…

Tony wobbles to his feet. The large facility suddenly feeling too small and confined, and the air suffocating. “I think I need to lie down.”

Barnes rises also, cautiously approaching Tony like he were a frightened animal. “I’ll escort you to your cell,” he offers, extending a hand in assistance.

Recoiling, Tony wants no part of the murderous Alpha touching him. “I can walk,” he snaps. Grateful when Barnes moves away to open the door.

Tony staggers several shaky steps out of the facility before he collapses. His knees hitting the ground first, rocketing pain up his legs, followed by darkness creeping in as he pitches forward—a pair of arms catching him before he hits the pavement below.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two

He remembers.

Bucky escorts him from the isolation pod into a barren, low lit building. The air stale and thick with the scent of bleach, and the walls and floor stained with dark patches. His father and the Great Dictator stand in the center, illuminated by a single overhead light. Their eyes gleaming with emotion as he crosses the short distance between them.

“Your son has passed every level of his training, and far quicker than his peers,” Red Skull addresses Joseph proudly. Then, turning to Steve, his expression hardens. “Now it is time for the final test. Are you ready?”

Steve snaps to attention and salutes. “Hail Hydra.”

“Good.” Red Skull gifts him a pleased grin before inclining his head towards Bucky, who instantly moves to a storage locker at the other end. And with a grunt, retrieves a rolling rack of weapons from inside. The task evidently strenuous as he strains to wheel it over before hustling out the main doors to guard them.

“Cadet Rogers,” Red Skull demands his attention with a dark stare. “To be officially admitted into our ranks, you must be willing to sacrifice something you love most.”

“Sir?” Steve’s brows knit together, not quite comprehending.

Red Skull’s gloved hand gestures towards his father as he orders plainly, “Kill him.”

He remembers.

Steve pins him to the wall, knife poised for the fatal strike. Joseph’s pheromones filling his nostrils at the close proximity, evoking the comforts of family, home, and protection. The Alpha’s heart beating wildly against Steve’s arm as he presses harder into the juncture of his throat. Each of Joseph’s shortened breaths cooling the sweat on Steve’s face.

“Go ahead, son,” Joseph urges, his voice a strained, harsh rasp. “Make me proud.”

That only causes him to hesitate. Steve’s resolve wavering as he pictures the Alpha who raised him buried underneath several feet of dirt. His determination faltering, along with his grip on the knife—the blade clanging loudly as it hits the floor. “No…” Steve quickly adds space between them. “I…I can’t.”

The golden rings in his father’s eyes flash—all the pride within them bleeding away into concentrated malevolence. Before Steve can react, his father lunges for his knife, slashing at him with abandon. Pain explodes in his left eye as he stumbles away, instinctively reaching up to cover it and feeling warm, sticky blood dripping over his fingers.

“DO IT!” his father’s voice reverberates around them. The Alpha steps closer, leaning in to whisper in the shell of his ear, “Or I’ll kill you—just like your mother.”

Steve’s vision blackens with rage.

He remembers.

Joseph lies lifeless, a dark red pool oozing from beneath his unrecognizable body. The metallic smell cutting through the chemical aroma.

Steve sits back on his knees, panting from the exertion as he presses a trembling hand back over the wound on his eye. His vision a shattered kaleidoscope of color and shape, and his mind a whirlwind of conflict.

I…murdered someone, he realizes, clutching at his chest where his heart hammers mercilessly. …My own father…

Red Skull’s boots echo ominously as he approaches, every step driving home the nightmare unfolding. He crouches to Steve’s level, causing Steve to flinch when the Alpha grips his shoulder supportively.

“Congratulations,” Red Skull says, voice dripping with triumph. “You are now Hydra.”

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, the word “No…” escaping his cut lips in a choked whisper.

Gloved fingers dig mercilessly into his uniform, likely leaving bruises. “Wie bitte?”

With a surge of defiance, Steve wrenches his shoulder free from Red Skull’s grasp and staggers to his feet. The truth of what is happening crashing down on him, shattering the illusion of a better life. “I…I don’t want this,” he stammers hoarsely.

Red Skull rises slowly, eyes narrowing into slits and nostrils flaring with barely restrained anger. His pheromones flooding the room, tempering Steve’s confidence.

“It seems there’s a bit more work to be done,” the Alpha snarls. “A few rounds in the neurotransducer should do the trick.”

He remembers.

“I am disappointed you intentionally kept the young Stark from me, Captain.”

The metal restraints clamp down with brutal force, biting into his naked flesh—each click of a lock like a death knell in a sterile chamber. The electrodes subsequently placed on his temples only amplify his dread.

“Your dormancy must have affected the initial programming,” Red Skull speculates, dissatisfied. “Surely this time, it will be more permanent. And you will finally become the masterpiece I have meticulously molded you into being.”

Steve grits his teeth as the machine activates. A searing pain pierces his skull, ripping his long-term memories from their moorings and plunging them into a yawing abyss at the back of his mind. In their place, a relentless torrent of vivid, idealized images of Red Skull and Hydra fill in the empty spaces, drowning out his sense of self—arising within him blinding rage, bloodlust, and an unquenchable thirst for power.

Steve comes to abruptly, blinking away a bright white haze until the features of the cell gradually come into sharp focus. His throat burns as he swallows dryly, raw from screams lost to his soundless confinement. And pulse roaring, overwhelming his frayed nervous system.

With a groan, he turns his head and recoils at the unpleasant wetness of vomit against his cheek. The vile stench churning his stomach, prompting dry heaves as he weakly rolls away from the puddle and gingerly sits up. His temples throbbing as the relentless white encasing him spins and sways nauseatingly before him.

Lies, he thinks, slowing his breaths to calm the dizziness. It’s all been nothing but lies.

Splitting pain cuts down the middle of his skull, followed by intense pressure. Gripping his hair, Steve gasps as he’s besieged by visions of Red Skull leading his army, the Hydra emblem blazing brightly, and his hands drenched in blood and entrails while a chorus of "Hail Hydra! Hail the Red Skull!" rings in his ears.

An unexpected touch startles him, eliciting him to sharply look up. And is stunned when her face comes into view; blond hair framing her gaunt face, the Omega white ring markers softening the green in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth slightly downturned in a compassionate frown.

Steve blinks hard, unsure if what he’s seeing is real or not.

“Ma’?” he asks, voice trembling. Not daring to blink again.

“A leanbh,” Sarah says endearingly, her voice as gentle as he remembers. Her fingers carding through his hair, nails lightly massaging his scalp. “My poor boy. What’s happened to you?”

He shakes his head, unshed tears blurring her face.

“You can’t be real,” he whispers, denial creeping in. “Da’…he killed you to join Hydra.”

A veil of sorrow shadows her features. “Yes.” Steve swears there’s warmth as her ghostly hand cups his cheek. “But just because this is all a projection of your mind, it doesn’t necessarily mean the comfort I’m giving isn’t real for you.”

Steve can hardly argue, which unsettles him more.

“I hated you for abandoning me…” Steve confesses, hoping it’ll be enough to push her away—feeling unworthy of the kindness she has to offer. “Couldn’t even bear the thought of you. I was glad you were gone.”

Sarah’s features convey her heartache, but she stubbornly stays put. “You couldn’t have known, so I forgive you.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “No, you don’t. You’re an illusion, and just saying what I want to hear.”

She exhales softly to convey wry amusement as she says, “I guess I should tell you what you need to hear, yes?”

Steve’s lips quirk slightly, the familiarity of her strong personality reassuring. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then listen closely,” Sarah starts, gripping his chin firmly for emphasis. “No matter how many times you’re knocked down—no matter how bad the odds—you always get back up.”

He experiences a pang in his chest. “I get back up?” he mumbles, confidence returning.

Smiling proudly, she repeats, “You get back up.”

After wrestling with sleep for nights on end, Tony is barely standing on his feet as he once again drags himself from the work yard and through the heavy facility doors. His senses dulled, thoughts drifting far away—until his arms are seized in a vice-like grip. Panic snapping him out of his haze as he’s shoved roughly forward, almost losing his balance before he’s forced down onto a stool, the guards swiftly chaining his wrists to the metal hook embedded in the center of the worktable. The length of his restraints woefully short, forcing the table’s metal edge to dig into his ribs.

“Good afternoon, Anthony,” the Dictator greets, calmly circling the table. “It’s been a while since our last talk…”

“Hey, Gramps,” Tony returns without thinking, earning a startled look from the Alpha. He debates on whether to play it off as a coincidence, but decides he might as well double down now that the cat is out of the bag. “Oh, should I not call you that? Would you prefer ‘Pops’? ‘Old Geezer’? ‘The Ancient One’?”

The Dictator eyes widen in shock for another protracted moment before his lipless mouth curves into a chilling smile. In one fluid motion, the Alpha sits with perfect posture, and crosses a leg over the other with an air of authority.

“So,” he begins, gracefully folding his hands on the table’s surface, “you have learned of our relation.” He pauses. “How long have you known?”

The tone isn’t threatening—more curious than anything. Still, Tony’s aware he’s walking a tightrope.

“It’s actually a recent discovery.” Tony sniffs, attempting to mask his unease. “Seems I’m always the last to know.”

“Not in this case. That information has been privy to a select few.” The Alpha cocks his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Who told you, mein Kind?”

Now there is the malice Tony expected, albeit the underscore of possession was definitely not. He suppresses a shiver, striving to maintain composure.

“I figured it out,” Tony lies, his voice surprisingly steady. “And I’m not your anything—except, well, a prisoner...obviously.”

The Alpha’s smile broadens to reveal teeth. “Did you now?” he humors. “How ever did you come to such a realization?”

Oh, Tony isn’t fond of this game. A voice at the back of his mind practically screaming: “Danger, Will Robinson!”

“Could it be our striking resemblance?” the Dictator taunts when Tony fails to respond, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Tony’s lips twitch in a cheeky smirk. “Not sure if that was meant to be an insult towards me or you.” The Alpha’s smugness vanishes. “I get it. If I looked like a sunburnt Imhotep, I’d be jealous of my dashing good looks, too.”

He falls unnervingly still. Studying Tony with a coldness unlike any other.

“I didn’t always appear this way,” the Alpha defends. “This version of me is owed to an anti-aging serum I injected myself with.” Slipping off his glove, he admires the red color of his skin. “It’s but a small price to pay for immortality.”

Curiosity piqued, Tony pries, “Exactly how old are you?”

Red Skull slides the glove back on, flexing his fingers to test the fit. “I was born in the German Empire in 1901.”

Tony easily does the calculation in his head. “Guess I’m sticking with The Ancient One,” he says impudently.

The Alpha features tighten. “It’s a shame I didn’t acquire you when you were young. I would’ve taught you some manners, unlike your parents,” he says venomously.

That strikes a nerve. “I think I turned out just fine,” Tony growls.

“I disagree.” At Tony’s glower, the Dictator elaborates, “Your natural talents were not cultivated as they should have been. Instead, you were relegated to the role of Howard Stark’s visionary in a subsidiary manner. Your constant search for validation through good deeds reveals a deep-seated fear of how others perceive you—something I suspect stems from your father’s harsh criticisms and his overbearing reputation.”

Well, shit. Tony nervously licks at his chapped lips. That’s…not exactly wrong.

“Had I raised you…” the Red Skull carries on, rising to his feet and moving to stand directly behind him, so close Tony can feel the aura of his body heat. “I would have encouraged your creativity, bolstered your confidence...” Tony jerks at the sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder. “And given full credit to your genius mind.”

He tries to swallow past a lump forming in his throat as the Alpha leans in, mouth hovering inches from the shell of Tony’s ear. “It is still possible to achieve the greatness you deserve if you join me.”

Tony’s hands ball into fists, the bite of the cuffs grounding him. “Uh, yeah, I’ll have to pass on that whole car salesman pitch, no matter how shiny the convertible is.”

Straightening to full height, the Alpha also grips Tony’s other shoulder, his fingers digging in painfully. “Don’t be stupid, Anthony,” he warns, continuing to squeeze until Tony gasps. “What you fear lies in front of you, but so does what you seek. You know as well as I do that you were meant for more.”

Through gritted teeth, Tony musters every bit of defiance within him and rejects every poisonous, sugar-coated word with a vehement, “Go fuck yourself.”

Tony’s vision explodes in bright sparks, his head rocking to the side from the blow.

“I am the head Alpha of the family, Anthony, so you will not speak to me so disrespectfully,” he states flatly, belying his anger. Then turns to pull off the sheet covering a skeletal, metal frame—the beginnings of a weapon Tony’s secretly developing. “Your disobedience will no longer be tolerated. Continue to do so, and you will learn quickly that I have no qualms about making an example out of you.”

Like Maria, goes unspoken.

And with that, his fear dissipates, allowing explosive outrage to surface. “You really are as cruel and evil as they come. She was your daughter,” Tony practically snarls as a single tear escapes, tracking down his face. “And my mom!”

“Indeed, she was.” The Dictator returns, indifferent, and puts the partial glove back to its proper place. “But she made the choice to betray me. Forced my hand.” He sighs. “She had no one to blame but herself.”

Tony trembles, his ire boiling over.

“Shut up…” it comes out as a raspy whisper. “Just…SHUT UP!” his voice cracks as he screams, but fuck if it doesn’t feel good. “I don’t want to hear your bullshit about her or anyone else! You killed her! And I will never join your Party of Doom or even accept I’m related to the likes of you. Nobody will ever see me scribble down your fucking name on the family tree because you mean nothing to me!”

Tony pants, trying to catch his breath. Warily watching the Alpha for a reaction—anticipating more physical abuse, some sort of torture, or even revoked basic needs. Instead, he receives a hearty laugh as if he’s just delivered his best joke.

“I was beginning to wonder when I’d see her in you.” The Dictator moves to perch on the edge of the table, then grips Tony’s face, forcing his attention. “You bear many hallmarks of your father with exception of you presenting as an Omega,” Red Skull says somewhat peevishly. “Yet, here she is—speaking through you. Alive again.”

He feels queasy as the Alpha all but beams at him with unadulterated pride. Clearly seeing the ghost of Maria rather than Tony himself.

The Alpha thumbs away another errant tear. “Now, now. No more of that,” he chides. “You must behave and get to work.”

Tony growls, remaining resolute. “I’m not doing shit for you.”

“Yes, you will.” The Alpha exhales, giving Tony an unpleasant whiff of halitosis before relinquishing his face. “Or I’ll have my operatives kill those you do have ‘scribbled on the family tree’,” he adds, leaving no room for misunderstandings. “Pepper Potts and Colonel James Rhodes, correct?”

He chokes back a distressed whimper.

No, no, no, no.

“Your disappearance led to a complete overhaul of security at your company, enabling my men to be hired on,” he informs, figuratively tightening the noose around Tony’s neck. “They have access anywhere and to anyone, including your friends—who will be completely unaware, unprepared, and alone at any given moment.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tony begrudgingly yields. “Please…don’t,” he begs softly, baring his neck submissively. “I’ll work. Do whatever you want.”

The Dictator strokes his hair with humiliating gentleness. “A wise decision, my foolishly brave and gentle-hearted boy.”

Defeated, Tony hangs his head, the shame burning hot on his cheeks. Red Skull slides off the table and strides past him towards the outer doors. “I expect a perfect replica of Howard’s Super Soldier serum or something equivalent,” he says. “If you fail to produce results in two weeks, I will reconsider my leniency. Understood?”

“Yes, Alpha,” he mutters pathetically, the words feeling like grit on his tongue.

The doors hiss shut, prompting Tony to release a shuddery breath. He senses another headache coming on as he rests his forehead on his arm, contemplating how he’s going to put this brand new plan of escape into action without jeopardizing his best friends, too.

“Holy shit,” Scott’s voice startles him, causing Tony to twist his neck to search for his lab partner. Restrained in a chair in a corner, Scott’s eyes widen as he blurts out, “That guy—the fucking Ruler of Evil—is your grandfather?!”

Tony chuckles despite himself. “What can I say? Being me is loads of fun.”

“A few days ago, I might’ve agreed, but now, I’d feel like a dick if I did,” Scott returns sympathetically. “I don’t envy you, man.”

“Thanks,” Tony mutters with a sigh.

A heavy silence weighs upon them before the Alpha strives to lighten the mood. “Not much of a ‘bonding fishing trip’ type, is he?”

Tony breaks out in a fit of laughter as the guards reenter. He can't stop, even as they remove his restraints and strike him with their batons, the stings jolting down his backside.

No, he thinks as he jots down half-hearted ideas to meet Red Skull’s demands, deciding to use their lack of bond to turn the tides in his favor. And isn’t that just my luck?

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Three

Steve’s arms tremble as he powers through the last rep of a thousand push-ups, the exertion sending a fiery ache through his muscles, filling him with renewed vigor. As he finishes, he flips over to begin several sets of crunches, savoring the tightening burn at his core. The workout fuels him and clears his head, permitting him the chance to sort out the real pieces of his childhood from the false ones drifting in and out of conscious thought.

He remembers his hardworking mother—how he admired her as she balanced the demands of her full-time nursing job, the roles of an Omega housewife, and the exhausting task of being Steve’s main caretaker. Despite the hardships of the economy, she pushed through any obstacle to afford his medications and schooling—only to never be thanked by her poor excuse of an Alpha mate. A belligerent drunk, who’d stumble in after imbibing countless drinks at the bar with the guys from the labor yard—draining their pitiful savings along with his mother’s will to live.

Yet another part of his life twisted by his father and Hydra to fit their agenda.

The fact Steve fell for such a heinous lie stings, along with the awareness that he’s indiscriminately projected blame onto any Omega he’s encountered.

Including Tony.

Until, that is, he looked past the gender marker to the man underneath. Even after Tony’s true identity was revealed and their pretense of being mates ended, he came to find these softer feelings unchanged. The question gnawing at him, even now: Is my Omega all right?

My Omega…

Mine…

He struggles to grasp the depth of his attachment to Tony—the relentless urge to protect and care for him, and the ease the Omegas presence brings. Almost as if they were…

“What is it like to have a soulmate?” Steve asks.

“It feels like home,” his mother responds. “I hope you experience it one day.”

Steve recalls the schoolyard talks of “soulmates” or “true mates”, where kids huddled together to discuss and dream of finding such a rare connection. Even with Peggy—whom he adored—he had never felt anything akin to what was described. She was incredible, embodying everything he thought he wanted, but a niggling doubt took root at the back of his mind—not that it would’ve stopped him from bonding with her, of course.

But Tony is different—embodying every trait Steve believed repulsive in a mate. Yet, he’s irresistibly drawn to him. The almost kiss lingering, a testament to the undeniable pull between them, so powerful that neither of them could resist. More than just lust, there’s something Steve had been ready to embrace the moment their lips touched. And after spending weeks reflecting and yearning, he’s come to the startling realization of what that something is:

Soulmates.

Tony is meant to be his.

Steve allows the feeling to settle as he collapses onto his back, the ground unbearably hard against his spine. Beads of sweat trickle down his face, his throat screams from thirst, and his body aches. But even as the inactivity triggers traces of Hydra’s conditioning to creep back in, his new purpose shines brighter.

Bucky will help get both of them out of here, and when Steve does, he’ll fucking burn this place to the ground.

He sits up as part of the curved wall unexpectedly begins to slide downwards into a slot in the floor, revealing a barrier of thick glass. Behind it is Red Skull, bathed in partial lighting and with his hands clutched behind his back. The grey walls encasing him giving Steve the impression there are several more layers of security to his prison dome.

Rising to his feet, Steve tenses—more than ready for a fight.

“Guten Abend, Rogers,” the Alpha says with obvious annoyance, his voice filtering through an unseen speaker. “How are you enjoying your accommodations?”

“Probably as well as you’d like me to,” Steve sneers, moving closer to the glass. “You better hope,” he points to it, “that I’m not able to break this. I’m prepared to pay you back for everything.”

Red Skull frowns. “So, it has worn off…again.” He moves his arms forward, loosely grasping his wrists at his waist. “What I initially thought was a fluke is actually the result of the serum,” he surmises. “I should’ve known with its healing properties that it could also reset your neurological pathways—albeit slowly.”

“What the hell did you do to my head?” he demands, balling and flexing his hands.

“Fixed it to my liking.” At Steve’s glower, he explains, “I used my neurotransducer machine to rewrite your memories. Implanted a Hydra indoctrination sequence like data on a computer, which subdued your inherent weakness towards heroics.”

Steve punches the glass, his fist smarting as it bounces off the reinforced barrier. “You’re lucky I’m trapped in here, Skull, or I’d show you just how ‘weak’ I really am.”

Instead of fear, Red Skull steps closer with a glint of excitement in his eye. “Release the barrier,” he commands to whoever is monitoring their interaction from a separate area. “I’m curious to see what the once-great Captain Hydra plans to do.”

A buzzer sounds as the glass slides away, causing Steve to hesitate as he processes his unexpected freedom and the chance to destroy the very Alpha who ruined his life.

“What are you waiting for?” Red Skull goads. “Show me.”

Steve inches his way out. “Didn’t think you were this stupid,” he mocks, discovering them well and truly alone. “You’ll regret letting me loose.”

“I doubt that.” The corner of the Alpha’s mouth curls upwards. “In fact, I’m sure I will walk away without so much as a scratch.”

The ticking bomb of his pent-up rage finally detonates. Steve charges forward with a shout, aiming a punch straight at Red Skull’s smug face. But as his fist arcs through the air, a searing pain explodes in his head, causing him to abort the attack as he collapses to his knees. His screams scraping his throat raw as his brain burns, every cell seemingly melting down into a pool of molten lava. The pain so intense that he claws at his hair, nearly ripping it from the scalp.

Then, it stops.

A flurry of white dots dance in his vision and a ringing invades his hearing. He becomes aware of something warm and wet trickling from his nose and ears, and raising a trembling hand, wipes under his nostrils—finding red streaked across his knuckles.

“Seems you are incapable of showing me,” the Alpha brags. “You are, indeed, weak.”

Through gritted teeth, Steve demands hoarsely, “Why?”

“Because you are my slave,” Red Skull says simply, looking impassively down at him. “I ordered Herr Strucker to insert a behavioral correction chip in your brain during the neurtransducer procedure, in case the reprogramming failed. It will stop you from harming me, no matter how much the serum heals you.”

Steve briefly squeezes his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rolls over him.

Fuck.

The Alpha kneels, bringing his face level with Steve’s own. And grabbing Steve’s chin firmly, he forces their eyes to meet. “I made you in my image,” he says with an air of God-like superiority. “You received my personality as part of your programming. Every thought you ever had, every desire you chased—I conditioned it.” Steve winces as the grip intensifies. “Your recent ambition to take over Hydra? It came from me.”

Every muscle in Steve’s body goes rigid. His mind blanking as he processes—the fine line between himself and Red Skull blurring heavily until he can’t determine where he ends and the Alpha begins. Steve’s sense of self suffocating under the weight of Red Skull’s influence.

Rising to his feet, Red Skull commands with a sharp tone, “Now, return to your cage.” Heaving a sigh, he adds almost as an afterthought, “Between you and Anthony, I’ve endured enough disappointments for one evening.”

At the implication of Tony being punished, a fierce growl rumbles from Steve’s throat. The need to protect his Omega overpowering the lingering effects. “What did you do to him?”

“Simply reminded him of his place,” the Alpha answers, habitually straightening the wrist cuff of his uniform. “He understands it now.”

Tony’s agonized screams replay in Steve’s head, picturing his Omega tied down and tortured beneath bloodstained hands. With a guttural roar, he launches himself a Red Skull, who gives a surprised shout as Steve slams into his legs—the momentum taking them both to the cold floor.

Steve’s vision dims as the molten fiery pain returns, but he pushes through it to pin the Alpha beneath his body and rain down punches onto his red, leathery face. Every strike fueled by instinct, determined to rid the direct threat to his Omega. The keen ringing in Steve’s ears muffling the crunch of bone against bone and the Alpha’s pained yet hysterical laughter, only leaving the warm, sticky blood on his fist to sate him.

Yet, the adrenaline spike doesn’t help Steve for long. What feels like a white-hot explosion occurs behind his eyes, greying out the world. Steve’s muscles lock, his back arches, and he’s barely clinging to consciousness as he convulses uncontrollably. He knows he’s falling, mind slipping away into static before he even hits the ground.

“I need your help.”

Jessica turns around, swinging the pickaxe a tad too widely—the blade narrowly missing Tony’s arm as he jumps back.

“What the hell?” he hisses, confounded by her blank expression. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Oops,” the Omega says, remorseless, and raises the tool again with the intent to continue working.

“Oh, oops? Just a clumsy mistake, was it?” Tony returns sarcastically, taking another step back for good measure. “Is there a problem?”

She stabs at the ground with impressive force, the metal tip sinking deep into the thick layer of ice.

“Yeah, I’d say there is.” Leaving it there, she bends down to collect her canteen and unscrews the lid to take several sips of partially frozen water. As she wipes off the excess droplets from her mouth, she confronts him, “Why should I help a Stark?”

Tony swears his stomach drops to his feet.

Great. Just great.

“How did—?” he begins, but the kid cuts him off with a harsh laugh.

“I told you; secrets don’t last long around here. Especially when somebody doesn’t have a number in the system.” Jessica says, her white Omega ring markers flaring with mistrust. “People wonder. People talk.”

Tony swallows hard, his throat unbearably dry and scratchy after hours of labor. “I’m still a prisoner,” he protests weakly. “And I’m not a—”

“A double agent?” she accuses. “A sellout?”

Tony scrubs a dirty hand over his sweat-streaked face. “You caught me,” he says irritably. “I chose to rot in a freezing cell and dig trenches with you while Hydra plays war with all the Stark tech I can provide.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Or maybe you’re just stupid?”

“Hey.” He points a teasing finger at her. “Show some respect for your elders, young Omega,” he light-heartedly chastises and reaches for his canteen for a much-needed drink. Taking a quick survey of the guards overseeing another group of prisoners several yards away, Tony’s relieved to see they have yet to draw any attention to themselves.

“Oh, I do,” she argues. “But not to those who’ve contributed to genocide.”

That hits him like a proverbial punch to the gut. Although he’s always known his father’s company revolved around weapon manufacturing, Tony’s tried not to dwell on how many lives were lost due to his childhood inventions. Deluding himself into believing his current ethical business practices could somehow erase the past. 

She gauges his reaction intensely.

“I’m trying to correct what SI has done—what I’ve done,” Tony admits, the guilt returning. “And I never wanted to hurt anyone, but I was raised to believe it was the right thing to do.”

Silence hangs heavy between them as she weighs his words. “Well,” Jessica sighs, her tough exterior softening, “it’s not like I haven’t been forced to do terrible things myself.” Throwing her hands up in frustration, she asks, “Why are Alphas such bastards?”

“Some aren’t,” he defends, surprising himself as his mind flashes to Rogers. The Alpha that defied orders to save his life and seems to be against the very organization he works for.

“Oh, yeah?” Jessica returns, utterly unconvinced. “Like who?”

“My…” Tony hesitates to say, the word sticking in his throat.

“Your…mate?” she helps fill in.

He clears his throat. “Yes?”

The Omega’s eyes narrow. “What? You’re not sure?”

“It’s complicated,” he deflects, not wanting to invite more probing questions. “But he’s on Hydra’s chopping block, along with a few other people I care about.”

Jessica’s eyes flick over his shoulder, a look of panic crossing her face before she drops to her knees and shovels out the loosened dirt with her arms. Taking the hint, Tony quickly joins her—the hair at his nape rising as he hears boots tromping through the snow.

“What’s in it for me?” she whispers once the guard passes by. “Whatever it is you’re asking me to do.”

“I hear freedom is nice,” he returns in an equally quiet voice.

The Omega stills, her eyes growing wide. “Are you planning an escape?”

“Not so much ‘planning,’” he corrects. “More like ‘already in the works.’”

“And you can’t make it happen without me?” she deduces, shaking her head at him before shoving a large mound of dirt aside. “Fine, I’ll help,” she agrees quickly. “But, you need to give me your word that you won’t leave me behind. I’ll turn your ass over to them so fast, they’ll be on you before you ever see the border.”

Jessica gives him a hard look to emphasize her toughness, but the dread in her eyes unveils the frightened child beneath it—begging him for protection and care. It triggers his Omegan parental instincts, prompting him to pat her arm gently in reassurance as his pheromones activate to soothe her distress.  

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid,” he swears. “We’re in this together.”

Visibly swallowing, she tentatively accepts his promise, “Okay.”

Relieved, Tony resumes scooping out the soil beside her.

“You mentioned that you have investigative skills,” he starts, catching her nod out of the corner of his eye. “I need you to find out where they’re keeping Captain Steve—Steven?—Rogers and two others by the names of Barton and Romanoff. They’re somewhere in this hellhole, so I need every bit of information you can dig up.”

“That means I’ll have to gain access to their system,” she mutters.

Tony clenches his cold hands into fists and tries to warm them with his breath. “Can’t you hack a computer?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s getting my hands on one that's the problem.” The Omega falls silent, seemingly lost in thought before she reveals, “They do have me on cleaning duty every Sunday night, which includes their offices. Their laptops are usually sitting on the desks.” With a groan, she tacks on, “But I’m being constantly monitored.”

He dares feel a flicker of hope. “Create a diversion?”

Jessica thinks about that. “I’d have to pull a few strings, but I might be able to swing it by tomorrow.”

“Perfect.”

“Anything else?”

“You also need to get into Carbonell International’s database,” he continues. “I can give you my login credentials to access my files.”

“And then?”

A dog barking off in the distance gives Tony pause. Glancing up, he spots his usual entourage approaching, ready to collect him for his other duties.

Time’s running out.

His throat clicks as he swallows. “Locate a prototype AI labeled JARVIS,” Tony instructs her. “He’s not fully operational but he does handle basic tasks. All you’ll need to do is command JARVIS to warn Pepper that Hydra agents are posing as security detail and tell Rhodey to keep an eye on the border for me.”

“This is a lot…” Jessica says wearily, not entirely keen on the plan.

The guards are almost within hearing distance. “But you’ve got it, right?” he seeks confirmation, urgency creeping into his voice.

She releases a harsh breath through her nose. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Omega!” a guard shouts.

“Yes, dear?” Tony turns around, flashing a cheeky grin that earns him a sneer. “Is it time to go already?” He exhales dramatically, inconspicuously sliding a scrap of paper from inside his sleeve into Jessica’s hand before he stands. “And here I was having tons of fun.”

Long accustomed to his snarky mouth, the guards don’t bother entertaining it as they roughly grab his arms and shove him to the truck. Jessica, thankfully spared from their attention, doesn’t give so much as a glance his way as he clambers inside. Knowing she’s smart enough to check the information on the paper where watchful eyes aren’t present.

As the truck bumps along the road toward the facility, Tony’s thoughts stray to Rogers. What are they doing to him? It bothers him more than he realized it could.  

What if he’s already dead?

His breath hitches, a cold fear gripping his chest.

No, Tony dismisses the notion. Barnes probably would’ve said something.

But how much time does his Alpha have left? What if he’s too late? And what if Red Skull catches wind?

At least the lack of familial bond is working in his favor. Evidently, Red Popsicle believes he’s too weak and easily controlled to bother placing more than a couple soldiers in the lab, who barely keep tabs on his activity, allowing him relative privacy to build his weapon without any interrogation.

It also helps that he’s adept at playing the part of a defeated and obedient Omega. After all, he’s had years of practice.

Tony exits the vehicle and enters the building as usual to see Scott hunched over his workbench, too absorbed in a task to notice his arrival. Even the guards at the door lack awareness—one slumped in his chair, dozing, while the other is engrossed by a stream of online videos playing on his phone. 

Why pay attention when the prisoners hardly pose a threat?

The screaming pain in Tony’s ankle has dulled to a manageable throb, letting him walk without the pronounced limp that’s plagued him for weeks. It makes him quieter as he saunters up to Scott to peer over his shoulder at the glowing purple liquid inside a vial the Alpha’s tampering with. Recognizing the eerie concoction as the one Tony saw back at the outpost’s facility.

“I like how it sparkles,” Tony remarks, causing the Alpha to jump.

“Jesus, Stark,” Scott says breathily, clutching his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, man.”

“Oh, sorry,” Tony says insincerely. “Was just admiring your witchy potion here. What is it, by the way?”

Scott hesitates to answer, rolling the tube between his fingers for a minute before reluctantly admitting, “It’s Strucker’s serum mixed with Pym Particle shards. This one, in particular, enhances Alphas. The others,” he gestures to the multicolored vials on the table, “are for mutant transformations.”

A knot tightens in Tony’s stomach. “And you’re okay with him pumping these into people?” he snaps. “Do you have any idea how many people have died?!”

The Alpha’s expression hardens. “You ever heard of not throwing stones in glass houses?” Scott bites back. “What about that war suit you’re working on? Do you think it won’t be used for mass murder?”

“I’m not planning to hand it over,” he argues, moving away to his workstation located behind a large piece of machinery. His fingers tenderly brushing the edge of the metal mask lying there. “It’s more of a personal project.”

Scott snorts. “For what?”

Tony glances warily over towards the guards but still finds them preoccupied. And with a mischievous smile forming on his lips, he answers, “Let’s just say I’m a fan of surprise parties.”

A light, tinging sound breaks the silence as the Alpha fumbles and drops the vial. His gaze nervously darting over to their babysitters before scurrying over to Tony. Leaning in close, Scott whispers, “I don’t know whether you’re crazy or brilliant, but I’m not about to miss an opportunity to get the hell out of here. I want in.”

He arches a skeptical brow at that. “I thought you didn’t trust me?”

“I don’t. Not really.” The Alpha’s lips form a taut line. “But at this point, I’m willing to go along with anything if it means I can finally get home to my daughter.”

Tony doesn’t say anything momentarily, letting that information sink in. “How old is she?”

“10,” Scott says, voice much softer now—almost fragile. “She was so little when they captured me. Thank god she was at her mother’s house when it happened.”

“I’m sorry...”

Folding his arms over his chest, as if attempting to hold himself together, he requests, “If this doesn’t… If I don’t make it out, could you find her? Make sure she’s okay?”

“What’s her name?” Tony asks, a deep sense of reasonability weighing on him.

“Cassandra Lang,” Scott provides. “I call her Cassie.”

Tony nods solemnly. “I will, but I swear it won’t come to that.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees with a hint of uncertainty.

The tension between them seems to dissolve, replaced by this new, precarious partnership.

“So,” Scott clears his throat, “which parts aren’t finished yet?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Four

“That’s the power source you’re using?”

Tony secures the last of the cables to his reactor, pleased as they fit snugly into place. “Pretty much,” he mutters. “It’s the best we’ve got.”

Scott looks hardly convinced. “I don’t think this is such a good idea. It’s in your chest, man. Isn’t it—I don’t know—important?”

“Critically,” Tony confirms, stuffing loose wiring between his teeth as the Alpha partially attaches the clunky armor over Tony’s torso—allowing him enough range to test for kinks that may prevent power to the internalized system. “Only thing keeping the old ticker ticking,” he explains around the mouthful.

“And you want to risk draining all its energy?!” the volume of the Alpha’s voice rises, but he restrains himself from shouting.

Tony disregards his concern, focusing on flipping switches and hitting buttons to engage the weaponry. A whine rises above the beeping machinery as the suit powers up—igniting preliminary flames for the flamethrowers, the rocket launcher locks into position, and the turbines of the jet boots automatically prime their settings for flight.

Combat-ready.

But the victory comes with a cost. The light fluctuates as the reactor drains rapidly, struggling under the demand after a shortened charge from the late night in the lab and another day of grueling labor. Tony groans as a sharp ache spreads in his chest, eliciting him to shut the suit down to begin the tedious task of removing the bulky pieces. Scott seems to sense Tony’s flagging strength and immediately offers help until every metallic layer is laid out on the worktable beside them.

Stepping out of the boots, Tony slumps onto a nearby stool, massaging the skin over his heart.

Scott exhales anxiously. “You really are out of your mind.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Tony returns with a wry grin while one-handedly assisting the Alpha as he drapes a sheet over the armor.

A strange, sudden pressure squeezes the space between his shoulder blades, stalling Tony’s breath before a deafening, somewhat muffled boom rips through the air. The facility shudders, shaking a thick veil of dust from the ceiling beams which cascades down to cover their heads like ash. Overhead lights flicker and sway madly before the electricity fails, followed swiftly by an eerie silence.

Flashlights immediately click on, the harsh beams cutting through the gloom as the guards rush over. Tony squints against the brightness as they round the clustered machinery, pointing the light directly at him.

“Hands up!”

Without hesitation, Tony raises his arms, noting Scott already doing the same.

“What the fuck did you do?” the Alpha guard accuses as he inches closer, clicking the safety off his gun.

Scott shakes his head jerkily. “It wasn’t us,” he says, words tumbling out in a rush.

“Yeah, our hands are squeaky clean,” Tony quips while giving a playful shake of his hands, shedding dust from his fingers.

A muffled wail of an emergency siren suddenly seeps through the walls. And before Tony can process it, the guards are barking orders for them to move. Tony stumbles to his feet, swaying momentarily before tailing Scott at his heels as they’re hurriedly ushered from the facility.

Large snowflakes immediately accost Tony’s face and the siren blares into his ears as he steps out into the night. A deep orange glow emits from the power plant several blocks away, flames licking the horizon as a thick column of smoke curls into the sky.

“GET IN THE TRUCK!”

The shout snaps Tony back, and realizing he’s stopped dead in his tracks, picks up the pace and clambers into the cab where Scott sits waiting. His face pale and drawn, appearing to be fighting the urge to be sick.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we?” the Alpha asks as the truck’s engine turns over and shifts into drive. “This is the end for us.”

“I don’t think so,” Tony attempts to soothe his distress, though his voice comes out a little shaky, belying his confidence. “But, in case we do, I’d like you to know it’s been fun working with my father’s rival’s ‘ex-convict’ stooge.”

Covering his face with his hands and leaning his head back, the Alpha mutters with vexation, “Oh, shut up, Stark.”

The city remains in total blackout but is swarming with soldiers, who are scrambling to reach different locations. Tony swallows thickly as he witnesses the chaos, wondering where the attack came from and what plans are in store. A tiny piece of hope that the cavalry has arrived at last fluttering around in his stomach.

As the truck grinds to a stop outside the prison, Tony is greeted by a cacophony of angry shouts, relentless barking from dogs, and cries of terror. Stepping down from the metal step, Tony lands close to a large crowd of prisoners—their grim expressions harshly illuminated by emergency floodlights as they’re corralled toward the prison yard.

Scott’s hand clamps down on Tony’s shoulder. His fingers digging in slightly to keep them tethered as the Alpha guides him into the shifting, restless crowd. The opening in the barbed-wire fence looming ahead as they shuffle along, following the others with mounting trepidation.

One of the dogs charges as they pass through the entrance, snapping its jaws at several people’s legs, and eliciting Tony to yank away from Scott’s grip to gain safety within the group—only to collide with another prisoner. The Beta snagging his arm to steady them both while Tony murmurs an apology.  

“Iron Man?”

Tony snaps his head up. “Baby Bear?”

A flicker of relief passes over Barton’s face before quickly maneuvering Tony to join one of the lineups. Scott managing to fall in beside Tony, sandwiching him between them as the prisoners squeeze together, shoulder-to-shoulder, and face the soldiers waiting at the front.

“Hell of a time to run into each other, huh?” Tony jests with a nervous laugh, his attempt at humor falling flat as the soldiers close in, their drawn guns arousing fear from those closest to them.

Barton nods, focusing on the encroaching threat. “Have any idea what’s going on?” he asks quietly.

“Something went boom,” Scott interjects, “and now we’re all probably about to be blown away.”

Catching the unfriendly glance aimed at the Alpha, Tony reassures Barton, “Relax, he’s on our side.” Then adds as an afterthought, “And he’s just as much of a fan of mine as you are. You could form a club and flip a coin to pick the president. I’d personally choose heads—better odds.”

The Beta shakes his head slightly. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually missed that annoying mouth of yours.”

Tony’s smile barely forms as he tentatively wonders, “Have Rogers and Romanoff missed it, too?”

Barton inhales and exhales deeply. “I haven’t seen them in weeks,” he says morosely. “They kept me in isolation before tossing me in with the Betas.”

A high-pitched, trilling whistle cuts through the sobs and murmurs, instantly silencing them and only leaving the sound of snowflakes softly piling on the ground. Although Tony’s view is partially obstructed by the people in front of him, he manages to see a portion of the Dictator’s menacing entrance. And even while being several rows back, the Alpha’s presence makes his skin crawl.

Red Skull paces slowly, his searing gaze sweeping over the prisoners. Tony notes the odd marring of bruises healing on the Alpha’s face as he sneers. Nothing but sheer disgust and anger for those he deems inhuman.

“Do you believe you have won?” he addresses them bitingly. “Did you think you would get away with it?”

Tony’s heart skips a beat. His mind racing, assuming this is somehow connected to his secret weapon.

The Alpha’s mouth curls into a snarl. “I will give the culprits a chance to claim responsibility,” he announces, pausing to let the words sink in, “and spare innocent lives.”

A ripple of unease moves through the prisoners, their heads turning towards each other. Yet, nobody steps forward.

“Very well,” the Alpha says, voice laced with frustration. “Then it is to be a collective lesson.”

Red Skull gives a single nod, and several soldiers begin moving down the rows. The fresh powder crunching under their feet sends chills racing down Tony’s spine.

The first shot shatters the silence, followed by a sickening thud of a body hitting the ground. It rattles Tony down to his core, amplifying his terror as another gunshot cracks through the air. Then another. Each victim appearing to be picked at random, leaving everyone tense and uncertain of the next target.

Helpless.

Tony’s unable to look away as a prisoner a couple rows ahead takes a bullet to the skull, their blood and brain matter spattering those within range. The sight of it causing Tony’s throat to tighten around his hammering pulse while a sense of buzzing lightheadedness steals over him.  

Pressure around his wrist jolts Tony’s nerves. He jerks, heart lurching, only to calm marginally when his wild gaze lands on Barton’s hand. The Beta’s thumb rubbing small, soothing circles on Tony’s skin.

“Don’t watch,” Barton whispers, exuding his pheromones to settle Tony. The gentle mixed scent of autumn leaves and rain extremely odd juxtaposed with the coppery smell of blood.

With a stuttering breath, Tony drops his gaze and stares absently at his mud-crusted boots. He continues to flinch at the gunshots, the bangs like daggers piercing his aching chest.

It isn’t long before he picks up footsteps tromping down their row. His stomach dropping as the soldier’s shiny pair of boots come into view, halting directly in front of him. Against his better judgment, he flicks his gaze upward, immediately locking eyes with the Alpha soldier—her gold gender markers flashing with malice.

Tony realizes his mistake a second too late as she raises her pistol, leveling the barrel at his forehead. The buzzing in Tony’s head intensifies and his limbs lock up with shock in response. But just as she pulls the trigger, something metal coils around the end of the gun, emitting a loud ping as it effectively shields Tony from the bullet.

She snarls viciously at the interloper. “Why did you stop me?”

“He’s off-limits,” growls the other soldier, his metallic arm glinting in the floodlights as he keeps his hand firmly clamped on the pistol. “You know that.”

After a tense moment, her jaw ticks, and she shoots a glare at Tony before turning away to continue her lethal browsing. Barnes lets her go but shifts to act as a barrier between them as three more rounds are fired in rapid succession, so uncomfortably close it causes Tony’s body to jerk involuntarily. The constant pressure on his wrist the only reassurance that Barton has barely dodged execution, as well.

The world blurs at the edges, and the haunting sounds fade to the background as the static consumes Tony’s mind entirely. His breaths are shallow and ragged, and his chest burns from the low battery of his reactor. His distress is noticeable enough for Barnes to gift him a worried, sidelong glance, but offers no further comfort as the horror continues to unfold.

Tony swears an eternity passes before an eerie silence descends over the yard. Only the ringing in his ears and the soft, relentless howl of the wind remain.

“Let this be a reminder that I am in charge of your fate, and you are nothing,” Red Skull’s voice thunders over them. “Any further subversion will be met with something far worse than death.” Scanning the survivors with visible rancor, the Alpha growls out the command, “Now, kneel!”

A torrent of white-hot fire rips through Tony’s body as the collar activates. An agonized moan escapes him as he falls rigidly onto his hands and knees, having little choice but to ride out the waves of electrical shock. Eventually, it releases him, causing him to collapse face-first into the snow, wheezing pathetically until his lungs regain their normal functions. Around him, he hears gasps and choked cries as the other prisoners are similarly freed from their torment—all of them hunched in forced submission to their tyrant.

“You will return to your cells,” the Dictator orders. “Which is where you will remain for the next 3 days without your daily rations,” he adds with finality, then turns his back on their suffering, leaving them to the mercy of his militant henchmen.

The prisoners wearily stagger to their feet as the earlier clamor of shouts and barks ramp up again. Tony groans, still not quite recovered as something metallic curls gently around his arm and hauls him unsteadily up onto his feet. Instinctively, he tries to wrench himself from the Alpha’s grasp but is pulled towards him instead.

“Stay close to me,” Barnes warns in a hushed voice, his attention then shifting to Tony’s companions. With a jerk of his chin, he adds, “Get to your assigned groups.”

Scott is already brushing past them towards the segregated clusters of prisoners, not daring to defy an order. However, Barton hesitates, seemingly on the fence about disregarding it.

“Don’t worry,” Tony rasps. “We’ll find each other again—maybe,” he strives for optimism.

The Beta huffs softly. “You better not die on us, Iron Man. I’d rather not deal with the punishment from a certain Alpha.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” comes Barnes’ quiet response, earning a suspicious look from Barton.

Tony rushes to cut the Beta off before any questions come pouring out of his mouth. “You should go before somebody notices.”

Barton seems to yield to the situation but still casts a dark glare at Barnes before spinning on his heel and marching off to join the other Betas.

“Come on, Stark,” Barnes ushers him forward, gently steering him by the arm. Tony finds he’s begrudgingly grateful for the support, his legs wobbly and weak, hardly able to keep himself standing.

The path ahead is littered with dozens of bodies and streaked a deep shade of red, bleakly standing out against the pristine white snow. Tony’s gaze locks onto the closest, nausea burning up his throat as he takes in the grim sight. Half of the Beta’s face is gone—torn apart by gunfire—leaving a gaping, jagged socket where the left eye should’ve been. The Beta’s blood seeping from the exit wounds at the back of his skull and pooling around his lifeless frame. Tony holds his breath as he’s forced to step over him, the bodily fluids coating the soles of his boots.

“Oh, god,” Tony whispers brokenly.

I’m going to be sick.

As they leave the yard, they trail behind the Omegas slowly being herded into the prison. Everything around him feels hazy and surreal, his mind swimming in fog until a jolt of recognition cuts through his daze as he spots somebody familiar.

Tony moves before he realizes what he’s doing, forcing Barnes to relinquish him as he desperately begins weaving through the throng of people. His sights set on her until she’s close enough to reach out, and grasping her by the shoulder, he spins her around to see her fully.

“S-Stark?” Jessica gasps, wide-eyed with a pale and dirty face. The weight of everything crashing down upon them as he brings the Omega into a tight embrace.  

Still alive, he thinks, immensely thankful. She’s still alive!

“I-I got i-it done,” she stammers, voice trembling. Then, adds tearfully, “But I didn’t think this would—that anyone else would—” She sobs into his chest.

Tony hushes her, his hand smoothing over her hair to gentle her. “What happened?” he whispers into her ear, noting the group gradually thinning out.

“A d-diversion,” she answers quietly. “I was assigned to clean the offices at the plant, so I-I had an opportunity to use a computer.” She clutches the fabric of his jumpsuit. “One of the workers…they owed me. So, th-they overloaded a transformer.”

He clenches his eyes shut and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “That was risky, kid.”

Barnes clears his throat softly. “Move along, prisoners,” the Alpha commands half-heartedly, simultaneously reminding Tony of the current states of things and causing Jessica to startle.  

“It’s okay,” he soothes her. “We’re going to be okay.”

But as they press on with her clinging anxiously to his forearm, Tony wonders if they’ve literally blown their chances at escape.

And if he’ll be too late to save his Alpha.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Five

“It’s a weird system,” Jessica whispers to him as they near the point where they’ll be split into separate cellblocks, which leaves Tony isolated for the next several days. “So I got help from a prisoner who used to be a Hydra soldier, and she managed to figure out Barton’s and Rogers’ serial numbers. Unfortunately, she couldn’t find one for Romanoff. Neither of us have any clue what that could possibly mean.”

Although the ache in his stomach has grown beyond discomfort, Tony finds the thirst even more unbearable. His raw and parched throat dominating his every thought, causing him to yearn for the half-filled canteen left behind at the facility nearly 48 hours ago. Futilely, he tries to swallow what little moisture remains in his mouth as he awaits the once-daily water delivery that comes just before lights out. The cup always tiny, holding a mere six ounces of life-sustaining liquid, but Tony isn’t about to risk losing it by voicing a complaint.

Meanwhile, the nausea refuses to subside, fueled by the relentless replay of the grisly prison yard scene. Tony’s almost grateful for the current starvation, unsure if he’d be able to keep anything down, even if the temptation of a decent meal presented itself.

“Barton’s been assigned to agriculture and kitchen duties in the main mess hall at the center of town. They’ve placed him in cellblock M, on the other side of the prison.”

A constant hum from the electrified bars fill the perpetual silence. Still functioning thanks to backup generators. And of course, they’d have them handy. Slaves escaping would certainly be bad for business and be a major blow to Hydra’s impervious reputation.

He presses a palm over the reactor, feeling the heat of it radiating against his skin. At least with the generators running, he doesn’t have to worry about dying yet. A mutual benefit for himself and Grandad Crypt Keeper, he supposes.

“As for your ‘mate’, he’s been moved from the torture facility to Redemption 7—temporary holding cells near the border where they detain military and political prisoners before their execution at The Wall.”

Tony shifts onto his side; the cold, unyielding metal slab offering no comfort. Evoking a sense of longing for the creature comforts of a bed, laundered clothes, and a proper shower. Missing the simple feeling of being clean so much it hurts. The mixed stench of sweat, grime, and his own pheromones utterly intolerable.

As is the low-grade fever that crept in overnight, refusing to ease even with the biting chill of the air. The rough fabric of his jumpsuit also beginning to irritate his skin more than usual. And sharp twinges of pain shoot through his lower abdomen at irregular intervals.

Pre-heat, his subconscious whispers, the thought instantly filling him with dread. Knowing well enough there’s about a week before he’s fully hit with it. And after decades of taking black market blockers, it’s bound to be a doozy.

What’ll happen to me, then? Tony wonders anxiously. Especially with my Alpha gone—

Unoiled hinges screech, interrupting his mental spiraling as footsteps echo down the corridor. Tony remains facing the wall. Whoever it is, he knows they haven’t come to kill him. The bitter reminder of his “privilege” as the Dictator’s descendant only worsens the nausea churning in his stomach.

“I disabled the monitors, so it’s safe to talk,” the soldier says without preamble. “But it won’t be long before somebody notices.”

Tony huffs softly, his heart aching. “Didn’t you hear? I’m too late to save him.”

The sudden cut off of the electric bars causes Tony to glance curiously over his shoulder, finding Barnes in the process of releasing him from his confinements.

“Not yet,” the Alpha says. “The Skull wants to check on your progress and expects you to work through the night.” His eyes sharpen with determination. “Steve’s scheduled for execution at sunrise. You have until then to complete whatever you need to, then break out of here.”

Sitting up with newfound hope, Tony weighs the list of tasks left to finish the suit and the sheer difficulty of putting it on. “I can’t do it alone,” he reluctantly admits.

“They’re putting me in charge of you,” Barnes returns evenly. “I can help.”

Tony pushes himself to his feet, and sways unsteadily as a dizzy spell overcomes him. Forcing him to shut his eyes and press fingers to his temples to will the room to stop spinning.

The Alpha sighs sympathetically. “You’re barely even able to stand right now.”

“I’m fine,” Tony snaps unintentionally. “Have survived a lot worse.”

Barnes looks hardly convinced, but turns to lead them out of the prison, expecting Tony to follow.

As if he has any other choice.

~*~

“Your two weeks are almost up,” the Dictator starts, voice laced with impatience. His aura menacing as he enters Tony’s personal space, wordlessly promising to follow through with his threats. “What do you have to show for it? Certainly not the formula, judging by the progress reports I received.”

Tony’s throat tightens, causing him to swallow hard—the sound audible within the tense silence.

“I’m working on it,” he replies meekly, fidgeting with a loose thread at the cuff of his sleeve. “Something this complex—it takes time and—”

“What exactly have you been doing?” Red Skull cuts him off, his tone colder. The furrow in his brow deepening as he narrows his eyes, staring Tony down. “Show me.”

Nervously, Tony flicks his gaze to Barnes, who stands at attention, and is steadfastly looking past them—not up to intervening.

“Anthony,” the Alpha warns, catching onto his stall.

He hesitates to consider his options: either he reveals the suit or takes the heat for a half-baked solution to appease. At least dear old Grandfather remains oblivious to his true plans. The lack of a familial bond definitely working to his advantage, keeping the Dictator from believing his ‘broken’ Omegan grandson is even capable of orchestrating an escape.

Clearing his throat, Tony adopts a wobbly casual demeanor as he moves away to gather a stack of blueprints and the decoy model—a crude assembly of scrap metal hastily pieced together to resemble a mechanical device. It’s hardly passable for over a week’s worth of work, but it’ll do.

Dumping the pile onto the table, Tony presents it with a sweep of a hand and an unenthusiastic, “Ta-da.”

Red Skull seems less than amused, but remains curious enough to pick up the scattered blueprints. His gloved fingers meticulously smoothing the edges as he scans the pages with a sharp, calculating gaze before setting them aside to take a good look at the model.

Grabbing it with an air of skepticism, Red Skull examines it from every angle—turning it over as though searching for some kind of hidden significance. The thorough analysis loaded with silent judgment, eliciting Tony’s heart to pound with anticipation.

Finally, the Dictator cuts through the tension hanging heavy in the room. “Explain what this is and how it will replicate the effects of the Super Soldier serum,” he demands.

“I call it EXTREMIS,” Tony starts hesitantly. “Nanotechnology combined with Strucker’s Serum and targeted radiation. It has the potential to enhance human abilities, repair traumatic injuries to the body and mind, and even regenerate severed limbs.” He gestures to the model. “That will be reduced down to the size of a cell and multiplied, allowing them to circulate through the bloodstream.”  

The Alpha studies him with visible intrigue. “And what are the risks?”

Tony shrugs, offering an honest answer, “Unknown at this stage.”

Especially since I have no intentions of executing it, Tony muses, the whole idea more of a pipe dream for the Dictator than anything else. Just giving you enough razzle dazzle to keep my friends alive.

Red Skull’s attention lingers on the decoy invention a minute longer, his face unreadable as he places it on the table. Slowly, his hand grips the opposite wrist before he breaks the unnerving silence again: “What else have you created?”

His heart skips a beat, and his stomach twists uncomfortably. “What…what do you mean?”

The shift is instant—Red Skull’s expression darkening with anger. “Do you take me for a fool?” he barks. “This is not the kind of labor that requires two sets of hands, yet you had assistance.” He steps dauntingly closer. “I will ask you one last time—what else have you created?”

Tony’s mind races, fear infiltrating his thoughts. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“N-no. I—uh,” he stammers, the words tangling on his tongue as a bead of cold sweat traces down his temple. “I was just helping Sco—, uh, 070-P with the mutant strains.” The excuse is flimsy and delivered poorly. His exhaustion and shock making the lie impossible to sell—and they both know it.

Swiftly, the Alpha’s hand clamps firmly around Tony’s throat before he’s hoisted clear off the ground. His body dangling defenselessly, gravity and his own weight conspiring against him as he gasps for breath. Sheer panic overcoming him as he claws at the unyielding grip, his nails scraping uselessly against the leather shielding the Alpha’s skin.

The pressure only intensifies, as though punishment for fighting it. Pinpricks of white dot his vision as his airways are entirely constricted. Red Skull remaining an immovable force against Tony’s frantic, weakening struggles.

Just as he teeters on the brink of unconsciousness, the Alpha unceremoniously drops him. His legs too limp to support him, buckling once his feet hit the floor, and sending him crashing hard onto the concrete. Searing pain radiates through every nerve as he battles to draw in air, managing only a shallow, ragged inhale at first, followed by a wheeze. The constriction in his throat gradually loosening until he’s able to fully fill his starved lungs—lightheadedness stealing over him as oxygen steadily returns to his brain.

Tony doesn’t get more than a few seconds to recover before the steel toe of Red Skull’s boot brutally catches his right eye. Immeasurable pain flares across his face like wildfire, causing him to press a trembling hand over it. His screams mixed with the ringing in his ears drown out the world around him as he instinctively curls into a ball, protecting himself from further assault. Hot, stinging tears leak from beneath his eyelid while the tender skin begins to throb and tighten, swelling rapidly against his palm.

Over the roaring pulse in his head, Tony can hear only snippets of the conversation between the Dictator and the soldier.

“Perhaps I should bring him to witness the execution,” Red Skull floats the idea. “Seeing his mate die might be the key to destroying that defiant spirit of his.”

Tony lets out a soft whimper, unwilling to move or respond in any way. Barnes’ reply is a muffled sound, almost placating by the tone.  

The Dictator huffs. “You may be right,” he returns, taking a moment to deliberate. “But I know he is up to something. Report to me the second you figure it out, then lock him in solitary. I will arrange for him to watch the live feed from there, instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time the Dictator slams the facility doors shut, Tony’s world blurs with unshed tears—feeling distant and unreal. An unrecognizable scent of coconut wafting through the air soon after, soothing him slightly as Barnes settles beside him. His pheromones offering Tony a modicum of comfort in spite of everything.

“Are you all right?” Barnes asks so softly, Tony wonders if he’s even spoken at all.

Tony barks a manic laugh that quickly dissolves into gut-wrenching sobs. The emotional weight finally crashing down on him, leaving him too drained and shattered to muster any resistance when Barnes lightly grips his arm. A touch meant to ground him, but it’s barely effective against the raging storm inside.

~*~

The torso plates slide neatly into place, connecting effortlessly to the hip and shoulder joints. But even with the smooth assembly, Tony still feels the need to strain his neck to glance down at the suit, double-checking the fit with his only functioning eye. And catching sight of the Alpha’s tense shoulders and taut expression in the process.

“What’s eating you?” Tony rasps, each word scraping against his raw throat. “We’re almost there.”

“Yes,” Barnes agrees, his movements stiff as he secures the first hex bolt with a drill. The whine grating against Tony’s ears, exacerbating his headache. “And it’s almost dawn,” he clips.

Tony opens his mouth to reply but freezes, his attention snared by movement at the edge of his vision. A soldier peeks around the wall of machinery, spying on their activities. The Beta’s realization of being spotted flashing across his face before he reaches for his sidearm, intending to put a stop to them.

But Barnes is faster.

In a blur of motion, the Alpha pivots sharply, then draws his pistol and aims with honed precision. The crack of the gunshot explodes through the stale air of the warehouse, reverberating like a thunderclap. And with a groan, the soldier collapses immediately to the floor, falling into a lifeless heap.

“We need to hurry,” Barnes says urgently, holstering his weapon. “The Skull clearly sent him to monitor us. And once he fails to report in, more will undoubtedly show up to take us down.”

Tony exhales shakily as Barnes repositions the drill for the next bolt. “Hold on,” he says, causing the Alpha pause. “Initialize the power sequence first.”

Barnes abandons the task without argument and swiftly moves to the serum machine Scott recently retrofitted for the suit’s initial startup.  

“Ready,” the Alpha says over his shoulder, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

“Function 11,” Tony instructs, listening to the distinct clicking of the keys as Barnes dutifully obeys. “Tell me when you see a progress bar,” he adds. “Come on, talk to me. There should be—”

“It’s up,” the Alpha confirms.

“Good.” The rest comes rushing out, tinged with anxiety, “Now press control ‘I’, then ‘enter’. Got it?” More clacking of the keys. “Got it?”

“Done,” Barnes assures, the machine emitting a verifying beep.

“Okay,” he returns with a thankful nod. “Now come button me up, Buttercup.”

Tony attempts to refocus on what’s to come as Barnes hurries to complete the suit up. The Alpha tightening the last bolt just as the roar of truck engines and the shouts of soldiers penetrates the walls of their sanctuary.

“They’re here,” Tony states breathlessly, fighting to suppress his rising panic.

Barnes remains unfazed, calmly finishing the job and discarding the drill. Without a word, he walks over to the fallen soldier, bends to retrieve the pistol, then disappears around the machinery.

“Wait!” Tony calls out worriedly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m buying you more time,” he replies loudly. “Do me a favor, Stark. Tell that punk it’s time to finish what he’s started.” A chuckle feathers over the cacophony from outside before he tacks on, “And it’s his chance to take all the stupid with him now, so don’t blow it.”

Tony is left with the vague impression of an inside joke as the doors squeal, then slam closed—the locks engaging with the sound of the buzzer. A muffled burst of gunfire follows almost immediately, punctuated by more shouting and the aggressive barking of attack dogs.

Swallowing hard, Tony darts his gaze towards the progress bar.

67%...

Agonized cries rise above the chaos.

84%...

Fists and objects bang against metal as the soldiers desperately attempt to breach the facility.

98%...

The generators die, drained of every last ounce of energy.

100%...

With a succession of metallic clanks and a deep, resonant hum, the suit comes to life. Its systems initialize, seamlessly transferring the energy draw to the arc reactor. The device glowing fiercely, its heat intensifying as it bears the strain, casting a bright beam of light through the oppressive gloom.

Tony snatches the helmet from the nearby table, fumbling slightly as he fits it over his head. His lips curling into a feral smile as the soldiers manually override the locking mechanism and storm in with weapons at the ready.

“My turn,” he mutters coldly as he shifts into the shadows, awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Don’t give me that look,” Steve says, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “The kid’s so damn small and fragile, he wouldn’t last two seconds in Hydra. This… this is the right thing to do.”

Though he’s aware the Winter Soldier lingers in the subconscious, it’s actually Bucky’s concerned sidelong stare that cuts through the dim interior of the car. His quiet judgment evoking a sense of guilt and uncertainty, making Steve long for the detached stoic company of his friend’s alternate personality.

The streetlamps cast a fleeting dance of light and shadow across the Alpha’s face, deepening the furrow in his brow and underscoring the dread in his eyes as he retorts, “Have you forgotten that we won’t last two seconds once the Skull realizes we’ve failed?”

Steve sighs and glances in the rearview mirror to where the young Omega is sprawled across the backseat, drugged into unconsciousness. The faint rise and fall of the boy’s chest hardly easing the tension in Steve’s shoulders.

“Red Skull trusts me,” he staunchly defends his decision. The turn signal’s rhythmic clicking drilling into his nerves as they near the exit ramp. “We just need to come up with a convincing story.”

A heavy silence fills the car as he merges onto the exit and slows to a halt at the red stoplight, feeling the weight of it press in from all sides.

“You know he'll find out eventually, Steve.”

He growls at that, a mix of frustration and reluctant agreement. Of course, his word will be contested once the young Stark’s face dominates every news station, recounting the harrowing ordeal in redundant interviews. Inevitably condemning them both to a horrific fate—

Unless…

“Give me your burner,” Steve commands.

Bucky’s hesitation is brief but telling, clearly dubious of Steve’s intentions as he detaches the brick phone from his tactical belt and warily hands it over.

The number comes easily to mind, but the consecutive ringing thereafter is a terrible exercise in patience. Steve’s thumb drums relentlessly against the steering wheel while he mutters repeatedly under his breath, “Come on, answer.”

Finally, a click is heard as the line connects.

“Who is this?” a disgruntled voice demands on the other end, raspy from sleep. “What’s your business calling at this hour?”

Steve draws in a deep, fortifying breath, then begins: “I need you to listen closely.” His own voice is measured—unnervingly calm—belying the rapid pounding in his chest. “Your wife is dead, and your son is injured.”

A rustling sound feathers through the receiver, evoking the image of the Alpha bolting upright in bed.

“Excuse me?” Howard growls out in disbelief. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No,” Steve replies flatly, easing the car forward as the light turns green, then turning onto the main road. “And if you don’t want your son to die, too, you’ll shut up and do exactly as I say.”

Howard releases a choked laugh in shock. “Who the hell are you?”

“Do you want him to live or not?!” Steve snaps.

The line falls silent, long enough for Steve to dent the steering wheel out of frustration. Then, Howard responds tightly, “I’m listening.”

With barely a thread of patience left, Steve calmly continues, “Hydra placed a hit on her because she betrayed them,” he chooses his words carefully, omitting Maria’s initial objective. “They’re also after your son and won’t stop until they get him.”

Howard audibly swallows. “What are you telling me to do?”

“Fake his death,” Steve answers simply. “Keep him out of the public eye, indefinitely.”

No response.

“Did you hear me?!” Steve growls.

He weakly clears his throat. “How do I know any of this is true and not some kind of trick?”

“I’ll send you the coordinates to Maria’s body,” Steve offers irritably. “Maybe that will be enough proof for you.”

There’s another sound—something small and broken. “You’re serious?” the Alpha whispers.

“Unfortunately, I am,” Steve returns with a sigh. “Make sure the boy stays safe, Stark,” he warns, an unexpected surge of protectiveness overcoming him. “He’ll be waiting for you at Rosewood Valley Hospital.”

A distant clanging startles him from the depths of his recovered memory.

“Oh, fu—” Steve rasps as pain lances through his pounding head. Remnants of the chip’s effects leaving his brain a smoldering pile of ash, its burning ache radiating outward to over-sensitize his teeth and gums. The coppery tang of blood still on his swollen tongue, tender from where he bit it.

Squinting into the pitch darkness, his enhanced vision adjusts just enough to make out faint details of his new cell. Reinforced metal walls and concrete flooring enclose him without a light source—no windows, no lightbulbs, not even a slot in the knob-free door. Another kind of deprivation chamber, albeit far more bearable than the White Room.  

Attempting to sit up is a mistake. White-hot pain slices through every nerve, forcing him to drop back to the floor with a strangled groan. Defeated, he opts to not push himself too hard. No one’s coming for him—at least not yet. Might as well rest.

No longer resisting what needs to be remembered, he lets his mind drift back to that fateful night.

Steve didn’t pick this hospital by chance. Rosewood Valley has a notorious reputation in the underworld and is often whispered about among local law enforcement—who are far too intimidated to conduct any investigations. It’s owned and managed by the mafia, and operates under strict rules: no questions asked, no records kept, and no prying eyes. The absence of security cameras only solidifying Steve’s choice as they pull up to the emergency bay, confident his identity will be well hidden.

He gingerly lifts the young Stark from the backseat, cradling him securely in his arms. The blood seeping from the gash on the Omega’s temple smears against Steve’s jacket as the boy’s head rests limply against his chest. There are undoubtedly other injuries—given the violent impact the boy endured—but Steve isn’t educated enough in medicine to properly assess them. So, he strides through the sliding automatic doors, and beelines it through the empty waiting area, straight for the receptionist’s desk.

She casts them a dispassionate, borderline annoyed glance. The open romance novel in her hands and the way she loudly gnashes her chewing gun suggesting disinterest in assisting them.

“Just the kid?” the Beta asks flatly.

“He was in a car accident,” Steve confirms. “His father is footing the bill and should be here soon.”

The Beta lets out a skeptical hum, obnoxiously blowing a large bubble with her gum and popping it. Returning her attention to the book, she gestures lazily to a set of double doors with a single, manicured finger. “Room 213. Pediatrics.”

Steve’s footsteps echo as he enters the corridor, navigating the confusing layout by the worn-out signage on the walls. Several stressful minutes passing before he locates the room, finding it slightly larger than a storage closet with peeling paint and some outdated equipment—but fairly clean.  

Slowly, Steve lowers the Omega onto the child-sized cot, which creaks under the weight. He stirs at that, eyelids fluttering open to reveal an unfocused, glassy gaze; seemingly struggling to register anything as he scans the room and Steve’s face with apparent disorientation. The sedative in his system still in effect.

“Mom…?” the Omega calls out with a soft whimper, evoking memories of Steve’s own days spent lying in hospital beds—alone and scared, much like him.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Steve’s hand moves of its own accord and gentles him by brushing fingers through the boy’s dirt-speckled hair. The Omega responding almost instantly, his eyes drooping as he relaxes into the cot.

Why am I saving him? Steve wonders, finding himself unable to leave the boy’s side as an unhealthy amount of time passes. And startling when an inner voice emerges from his subconscious to answer: Because he needs you.

Steve mentally returns to the present, recalling this one selfless act had been enough to crack the meticulously constructed walls of Hydra’s conditioning. Forcing him to question everything—from their doctrine to his purpose in life. And as the storm raged within himself, protecting Tony became his anchor; keeping him steady as Red Skull’s control faded into the distance.

The very same thing that’s happening again.

All this time, I thought I was the one saving him, Steve reflects, huffing a quiet laugh at the irony. But it was actually Tony saving me.

Something metallic shifting and banging jolts him out of his thoughts, drawing his attention to the wall opposite the door. With a grinding rumble, it begins to slide upwards, sending a stream of sunlight into his dark cage. The stark change eliciting him to raise an arm to shield his eyes against it.

“Get out here, Rogers,” a voice sternly commands once it’s fully open, “before we make you get out.”

The shock collar around his neck gives a beep, as if in warning, pushing him to feebly rise up from the floor—only for him to quickly realize that he’s been stripped of every piece of clothing. A humiliation ritual to drive home Red Skull’s point of authority.

Fucking asshole.

The freezing, early morning air bites at every bit of exposed skin as he steps outside. His teeth gritted as his bare feet sink deep into the freshly accumulated snow, toes already numbing and flushing red. One of the guards grunt impatiently as he uses the butt of his AK-15 to roughly shove Steve forward, causing him to stumble.

“Move it!”

Shooting a glare at the Beta and the rest of the soldiers, Steve grudgingly trudges on, his arms wrapped tightly around himself in a futile attempt to stay warm. He takes in his surroundings, recognizing it instantly as a somewhat dilapidated, outdoor sports arena. The once-active stands now host to a ghostly audience, save for the luxury seating area where the Hydra elites now sit. Their view from the slightly elevated platform aligning perfectly with a large, metal wall stretching across center field.

As he nears, Steve notes its surfaced is coated so thickly with dried blood and globs of other unidentifiable things, he almost swears its eating through to the other side. His sluggish mind finally piecing it all together, bringing him to halt dead in his tracks.

This is an execution—my execution.  

The thought of fighting enters his mind, but before he can do anything, a searing jolt of pain surges through him as the collar activates. Next thing he’s aware of is being dragged forward by the guards before he’s slammed face-first against the wall. His wrists then forced into reinforced shackles and manually yanked high above his head, leaving him balancing precariously on the balls of his feet with his backside entirely vulnerable.  

Without further delay, Red Skull’s voice emits from a speaker, echoing across the field: “Steven Rogers. You stand before us, condemned a traitor. For your treason, you shall face The Lash—strike by strike—until deceased. May your suffering serve as a lesson to all who dare try to defy Hydra.”

Steve shakes his head with wry grin. “A lashing? That’s all?” he mutters, honestly surprised by Red Skull’s restraint. The Alpha well aware the serum coursing through Steve’s veins guarantees this kind of torture won’t kill him. It’ll hurt like a bitch, sure, but he’ll certainly survive it.

The crunch of snow beneath heavy boots elicits Steve to crane his neck to get a good look at the approaching executioner. His enhanced senses zeroing in on the eager thrum of the Alpha’s heartbeat and acrid tang of vodka lingering on his lips. The Alpha’s unkempt hair whipping around his face as the wind picks up, stray strands tangling at the edge of his neatly trimmed beard.

Strapped securely across the Alpha’s broad chest is an intricate harness made of reinforced leather and steel plating. Thick, insulated cables coil outward from a disturbingly familiar, luminous power source at the center of his breast, and snake down his muscular arms to connect through the pair of whip handles to the metallic cable strips.

Noticing Steve’s scrutiny, the executioner responds with a low, amused chuckle.

“You are mate of Tony Stark, yes?” the Alpha wonders apropos nothing.

Steve growls, instantly suspicious of any Hydra soldier who knows his Omega by name. “Who’s asking?”

“My name Ivan Vanko. Son of Anton,” he introduces himself in a heavy Russian accent. “My father—he worked with the Starks for many years. Created life-changing inventions for Stark Industries. A genius, a visionary for the company—until fired for bullshit accusation.” Vanko snarls. “Howard Stark is full of lies!”

A high-pitched whine slices through the howling wind as the harness powers on. Glowing cables pulsing faintly, humming with ominous energy.  

“After, they arrest my father for attempted murder. Made me orphan, poor, and exiled from hometown—all for him avenging the good Vanko name,” the Alpha continues. “He deserved to be paid back fairly for suffering, so it was his right to kill Tony Stark.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat as the memory of his and Tony’s conversation at the cabin resurfaces:

“And who was this drunkard, Soviet scientist?”

“He wanted to exact revenge on…somebody else. But he couldn’t reach them, so he decided on another, more personal approach.”

“Because you were an easier target.”

“It’s a curse.”

The device embedded at the center of the vest flashes before white lightning burst through the whip handles, crackling loudly and dancing wildly over the cables. Steve’s stomach knotting as genuine fear washes over him.  

Oh, this…this he would not survive.

“I want whole Stark family to pay for what happened to mine,” Vanko growls, taking slow, deliberate steps closer. His dark eyes hungry, golden markers gleaming with malicious intent. “And Great Dictator allowed me to start with you.”

As Vanko draws back his whips, Steve instinctively defends himself. Restricted by the taut chains, he awkwardly twists his body with hope to present a smaller target, placing an immense strain on his shoulders. His feet struggle for purchase, the pads of his toes slipping and sliding on the icy ground.

Steve flinches at the thunderous crack of the electrified whip before excoriating pain blossoms across his right side. Every nerve igniting in a fiery torrent, forcing his mouth to open in a silent scream—the sound trapped inside. As time stretches endlessly, he remains paralyzed, feeling only the warmth of fresh blood cascading down his flank. Then, summoning what little resolve he has, Steve gasps for breath until a raw, agonized cry escapes him.

Losing his strength, Steve rotates back to face the wall again. Tears welling in his eyes as the sting from the wound intensifies.

“Big baby, that only practice swing,” Vanko mocks coldly. “I do not see what Tony Stark sees in you. Hopefully, he puts up more of fight, yes?”

Steve trembles from shock. Sweat already beading on his forehead.  

“Don’t you dare touch him,” Steve snaps, his voice faltering. “You can do whatever the hell you want to me, but leave him alone. Torturing me and taking my life makes you even. Understand?”

“No,” the Alpha replies tersely. “I no longer want even.”

Two more sharp cracks ring out, each accompanied by unbearable pain as the whips carve a vicious X into Steve’s back. His vision dims, fading to a dull gray as agony consumes him. Given mere seconds to recover before the strikes resume without mercy. The whips landing indiscriminately across his back, ass, and legs; shredding skin with ease and leaving an alarming amount of blood to pool at his feet.

Eventually, the relentless onslaught blurs into a haze of pain that drains him of all willpower. Unable to stop himself from sagging heavily in his restraints as the lashes come to an abrupt stop, leaving him teetering at the edge of unconsciousness.

A faint, rumbling roar fills Steve’s ears, growing louder and more insistent. It takes him a moment to comprehend the sound isn’t an effect of the torture or his hearing failing him, but something else entirely.

Finding Vanko’s attention turned toward the heavens, Steve blearily follows his gaze to a dark, unidentified flying object. The thing barreling straight for the stadium, streaking the sky with thick plumes of smoke. And before he can process what he’s seeing, it crash-lands—metal screeching and the ground exploding in a flurry of white as the thing tumbles uncontrollably for several yards.

The thing finally comes to a halt a few meters away, and as the snow settles around it, the battered figure slowly begins to rise up. Steve’s eyes widening as the bulky, metal human stands at full height. The dented and somewhat charred armor marking it a survivor of a recent brutal battle, imposing strength and resilience.

“Seems I’m a little late to the party,” the metal man remarks, his head swiveling from Steve to Vanko. The faceplate uncanny as it stares down his executioner. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to touch other people’s stuff without permission?”

That voice strikes a chord of recognition within him, prompting Steve to rasp through swollen, cracked lips, “Iron…Man?”

The metal man’s head tilts slightly, regarding him almost playfully. “Hello, dear,” comes Tony’s unmistakable sass, laced with surprising notes of warmth. “Sorry to be such a fun-sucker, but it’s time to go home now.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tony honestly tried to make it before Steve became a bloodied mess at the hands of an off-brand Ringling Brother, but he isn’t the type to break promises to other people—at least, where it counts.

He was just delayed…

~*~

As the lead soldier’s flashlight sweeps across the warehouse, they eventually catch the first glimpse of him, inciting Tony to surge forward. Feeling practically invincible as he catches the soldier with a powerful swipe of his arm, launching the Beta clear across the room and smashing into a stack of wooden crates.

The commotion alerts the others, whose shouts and barked orders blend with the staccato cracks of gunfire. Their bullets ricocheting safely off the suit’s crude plating, causing sparks to dance around him.

Tony doesn’t flinch.

With a flick of a switch, twin streams of fire erupt from his arms, painting the warehouse in a violent orange glow. The flames nearly stretching the length of the room, forcing the soldiers to scatter and scramble for the exit. One of them becoming caught in the fiery onslaught and letting out a bloodcurdling scream as he’s fully engulfed, his burning body collapsing to the floor.

Pivoting, Tony sets sights on the research equipment and the stockpile of SI weapons. Without hesitation, he unleashes another flaming torrent, leaving nothing for Hydra except the smoldering ruins of an evil dream.

The warehouse creaks and groans as it begins to buckle under the escalating blaze, its inferno bathing the night. Tony steps outside, bracing for another fight—only to find half of the squad have run for the hills while the rest lie strewn across the ground, dead. Amid the carnage stands Barnes; his broad shoulders rising and falling with labored breaths, the enemy’s blood streaking down his metal arm and dripping from his fingers, painting the snow red. Other than the fresh cut on his cheek, he appears unharmed.

Barnes turns his head at the sound of Tony’s heavy, clanking footfalls. Their gazes locking as an explosion rattles the ground beneath their feet, a blast of heat rushing outwards to brush harmlessly over his armor.

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag now,” Tony quips. “Still need me to deliver that dramatic farewell message?”

“Maybe.” The Alpha huffs a mirthless laugh, wiping the sweat from his brow. “We need to keep moving,” he returns seriously. “It’ll begin soon.”

Tony shakes his head. “I’m freeing my friends and the other prisoners first. We’re not leaving anyone behind for Hydra to slaughter.”

Frustration passes over Barnes’ face, appearing to be considering the use of an Alpha command, but decides against it. “I’ll take a truck and grab whatever weapons I find. You can meet me on the south side of the city by the fortress wall. Don’t take long.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Tony retorts automatically, already turning in direction of the prison.

The walk is longer than he prefers, but the road winds through a stretch of critical infrastructure. Tony comes across several key buildings—warehouses packed with munitions, storage facilities packed with essential cargo, and office buildings that hold valuable intel. One by one, he methodically erases their existence, leaving behind utter destruction in his wake.

It’s definitely not enough to bring Hydra to its knees, but every great downfall has to start somewhere.

By the time he arrives at the prison, the soldiers have regrouped and are fully prepared. More than a few dozen of them lined up with guns at the ready, steeled for the confrontation ahead.

“Halt!” one of them shouts, fearful.

With a tiny smirk, Tony presses the switch to load one of the three rockets into the chamber and deftly aims it at the center of their formation. He fires on them ruthlessly, sending many careening in various directions from the force of the blast. The billowing screen of smoke and dust gifting him a perfect cover, allowing him to move with relative stealth as he mows down anyone left standing in his way.  

Once inside, he breaks into the master control room and overrides all the door locks to release the prisoners. And although they initially hesitate to leave their cells, their minds change quickly the moment Tony announces their freedom over the intercom. The sea of yellow jumpsuits overwhelming him as they storm the corridors, effectively jamming up the exit while desperately vying for the chance to escape.

Tony easily spots Jessica in the crowd, and Scott eventually runs into them, but tracking down Barton proves to be a stressful and time-consuming task. The three of them forced to contend with the pushing, shoving mass of people, while Tony’s one good eye strains to pick out the Beta’s familiar features among them.

“Of course you’d take the whole ‘Iron Man’ thing literally.” Barton’s voice cuts through the disorder, the Beta leaning against the threshold of the M cellblock. “Really couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

The metal creaks as Tony shrugs. “If you’re that jealous, I could have Igor here,” he points to Scott, who scowls back at him, “help turn you into a soft, cuddly, little bear cub.”

Barton rolls his eyes, but can’t quite hide the smile spreading across his face.

As Tony leads them to the meeting point, they encounter no further resistance. The freed prisoners and burning buildings effectively diverting Hydra’s attention to the center of town, leaving their path safe enough for Tony to catch them up about the plan’s next phase.

Barnes, too, made it out in one piece, and is pacing by the covered truck just outside the fortress wall. Only stopping once they’re within a few feet of the open gates, then hurries to climb into the driver’s seat.

“Time to saddle up, kids. Papa Bear needs rescuing,” Tony quips in a terrible southern drawl. A new sense of urgency tugging at him as he motions them into the truck bed, now partially filled with an assortment of weapons.

Barton quickly perks up when he notices it, sliding down the bench to browse the selection. Only to let out a curse when Tony awkwardly positions himself on the steps, shifting the truck in the process and nearly causing the pile to topple onto the Beta.  

The truck lurches forward once Tony manages to gain a good hold of the flap’s frame, barely steadying himself as Barnes floors the accelerator and races away from the city. And just as they’re about to turn down the highway, traveling at speeds the vehicle is hardly built to handle, the sun crests the horizon.

~*~

The landing was far from graceful, but in Tony’s defense, he’s never piloted anything before—much less a suit of armor. But the outer perimeter of the arena had been crawling with soldiers, and patience wasn’t a luxury he could afford—not with his Alpha holding onto life by a thread. So, he took off before his team could stop him and before he could figure out how to actually steer his bulky, metallic ass.

Still, his comrades are well-armed, and his armor is mostly intact.

He’s counting that as a win.

Until, that is, he gets a good look at his Alpha. Rogers hangs limply in chains, his entire backside a mass of raw, bloody welts—the wounds so deep, Tony can make out parts of bone. So devastatingly gruesome, Tony feels utterly sick before the feeling morphs into overwhelming rage as he takes notice of the executioner regarding him without an ounce of remorse.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to touch other people’s stuff without permission?” Tony says through gritted teeth, the muscles in his throat tightening around the words.

A raspy, nearly unintelligible question pulls his attention back to Rogers. And, god, seeing him this pitiful and frail compared to the strong, invulnerable Alpha he once knew is gut-wrenching.

It’s enough to break his heart.

Tilting his head slightly, Tony’s Omegan instincts kick in, compelling him to make an effort to provide some familiar comfort as he replies, “Hello, dear. Sorry to be such a fun-sucker, but it’s time to go home now.”

The initial shock of Tony’s unexpected arrival finally wears off as multiple soldiers on the field snap into action. They quickly close in around him with their weapons drawn, prepared to shoot without orders.

“Hold your fire!” Red Skull’s voice crackles through the loudspeaker. The Alpha gripping the handrail as he leans over it, striving to gain a better view. “Who the hell are you? Reveal yourself!”

Tony is more than happy to oblige, a petty satisfaction bubbling up as he slowly lifts the helmet. And grins smugly as the Dictator’s angry expression falters to a mix of shock and disbelief.

“I...,” he returns as loudly as possible, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect, “am Iron Man.”

With that, Tony drops the helmet into place and raises the rocket launcher—aiming directly for the luxury seating box, but more specifically, Red Skull. And just as he hits the switch to fire it, a glowing cord wraps around his elbow and yanks hard, causing the rocket to veer off course and penetrate the stands just below its intended target. The resulting explosion shaking the foundation violently, causing splits in the concrete of the platform but stopping short of complete collapse, gifting Red Skull and his minions the chance to scramble to safety.

Tony curses emphatically under his breath as Red Skull flees into the concourse, and the soldiers unleash a hail of gunfire. His failure stinging, but not as much as the whip cord cutting through both the metal plating and rubber lining, biting deep into the vulnerable skin beneath. A shout escaping him as white-hot pain flares up his arm, feeling as if his very bones were melting.

It’s going to take my arm clean off! Tony panics, his vision hazing white. Clenching his teeth, he struggles against the onslaught of bullets and the tautness of his muscles as he reaches across with his free arm. Then, using the sharp edge of the forearm plate, he severs the cord with one jerky motion—and nearly falls forward at the sudden release of tension.

“Стой!” an Alpha command booms over the noise. The gunfire abruptly ceasing, leaving only a faint ringing in Tony’s ears. “I will deal with him myself,” the executioner decides, and Tony watches as the soldiers retreat, seemingly more out of prudence than obedience to rank.

The suit feels heavier than usual as Tony unsteadily pushes to his feet. Feeling warm blood gushing down his arm as his entire body trembles from the aftershock.

Why was that so intense? he wonders. And stills as he beholds the glowing device attached to the harness. His breath hitching and his pulse quickening.

There’s no mistaking it—that’s an arc reactor.  

“Tony Stark,” the executioner coolly addresses him. “You come from a family of thieves and butchers, and like all guilty men, you try to rewrite your history—to forget all the lives the Stark family has destroyed.”

“Oh, I’m a thief? Whoever you are?” Tony returns sarcastically, shakily pointing an accusing finger directly at the device. “Where’d you get this design? Not exactly something you’d find in a SEARS catalog.”

He sneers. “My name is Anton Vanko.” Tony inhales sharply at the name, a cold realization snaking up his spine. “The design was stolen by Howard for his own selfish purposes, and now they tell me it is keeping your heart beating. My father is the reason you are still alive.”

“No,” Tony argues, “the reason I’m alive is because he took several shots at me—and missed.”

The golden markers in Ivan’s eyes flash angrily before his lips curl into a cruel smile. “Unlucky for you, I do not.”

Ivan strikes mercilessly, the whip slicing through the air with a resounding crack, its speed almost too fast to track. Tony lurches sideways in a desperate attempt to avoid the blow but fails to dodge it entirely as it grazes his left shoulder plate, sheering a chunk straight off and ripping flesh. The unbearable pain briefly consuming the entire area in comparison to the deep, throbbing ache of his swollen elbow.

“Okay, rude,” Tony says sarcastically, trying to conceal the absolute terror coursing through him at the incredible display of power. Then, ignites the flamethrowers, forcing Ivan to back up toward the boundary wall and creating a much-needed gap between them. “You were supposed to give a three-second countdown before shouting, ‘Fight.’”  

The Alpha drops and rolls as Tony crosses the fiery streams, skillfully keeping the whips from dicing himself up in the process. Tony tries to pursue the Alpha with the torrent, but the flames sputter as the fuel runs dry, effectively causing both nozzles to flame out.

Shit. His thoughts are a whirlwind of strategies as Ivan rises to his feet. And picking his best bet, Tony barrels for the Alpha—using the weight of the suit to his advantage as he bulldozes into him, driving Ivan to the ground and pinning him beneath the crushing force of a massive boot.

As he feels Ivan squirm beneath him, the thought of his Alpha’s own helpless struggle during the torture enters his mind, causing Tony to see red.

“This one’s for Rogers,” he growls, raising his boot just enough before slamming it back down onto Ivan’s chest, eliciting a pained, guttural noise from him in return. “And this next one is for me.”

Tony lifts his foot again, but before he can stomp the bastard, Ivan seizes it. With enhanced strength, the Alpha shoves upwards, sending Tony stumbling backwards—slipping and sliding on the icy ground until he regains his balance.

The arc reactor on Ivan’s harness flickers wildly, now too damaged to sustain power. The electric current to the whip cords failing, granting Tony an even playing field.

With a click of his tongue, Tony remarks, “Your reactor is just a sloppy knock-off—not built to withstand any real stress.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Like most Stark tech copycats, it could use some serious fine-tuning.”  

He roughly chuckles at that, then spits pink-tinted saliva onto the ground. “Or…I take yours instead.”

That’s not good.

Ivan charges, the soles of his boots gripping the snow effortlessly as he rapidly closes the space between them. Tony braces himself for the incoming collision but is caught off guard when the Alpha suddenly veers and darts around him, then leaps onto his back before Tony can react. The force of it nearly toppling them both over, but Tony manages to keep his balance just as Ivan’s fingers invade the helmet’s eye slits. A frigid gust biting the sweat on Tony’s face as it’s unceremoniously wrenched off his head, only to be followed by a muscular arm snaking around his throat.

The bulk makes it impossible to reach and pry the Alpha’s arm away—leaving him desperately gasping for air as Ivan claws at the edge of the suit’s chest plate, ripping it and peeling it away as if it were nothing but putty in his hand. And as he grasps the reactor, Tony hardly considers the consequences as he fires the last rocket at the ground mere feet from where they’re standing, striving to dislodge him with the blast.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s airborne, and another to register that the sinking sensation in his gut is a symptom of falling. The brutal impact snapping off the entire upper half of his armor and rattling his bones before he slides erratically for some distance across the field. An unpleasant shower of frozen dirt and rocket fragments raining down upon him seconds after he skids to a halt.

Tony lies still, waiting for the blinding roar of pain to abate. His miserable groan and the shouts of soldiers is muffled by the pile of snow covering his face.

Mustering the will to move, he winces as he slowly rolls over, every inch of him screaming in protest. The cold only worsening his condition as it seeps through the thin layers of the jumpsuit, no longer shielded by the armor.

“Yep,” he mutters to himself as he clumsily gets up again. “Definitely going to feel that in the morning.”

Despite the current hearing loss in his right ear, Tony still picks up the popping of gunfire and quickly spins around to survey the field. Then smiles broadly as he spots his team taking cover up in the concourse, fully engaged in a heated firefight with the arena guards.

Several yards beyond Rogers’ side of the wall, Ivan lies motionless. Whether he’s unconscious or dead, Tony isn’t sure—but at this point, it doesn’t really matter.

Trying to walk with nothing but the lower half of the suit is difficult, but it doesn’t prevent him from reaching the large crank on the backside of the wall. And gradually, so as not to cause Rogers further injury, Tony turns it until the taut chain goes slack. Then, hurries back to Rogers, who is now sprawled on the ground, the snow beneath him darkening with blood.

“Hey,” Tony starts with a cracking voice, wobbling as he crouches down beside him. His hand—jittery from adrenaline—hovering uncertainly for a heartbeat before it gently settles on Rogers’ arm. “So you can survive decades as a popsicle, but you can’t handle a bit of kinky foreplay?”

The natural flush has drained from his Alpha’s face, his complexion appearing almost waxen. And his eyes are dull and glassy—what life remains behind them is fading incrementally. But, the faintest trace of a smile Tony receives from him is enough to spark hope—until it falters and disappears.

“To…ny,” Rogers slurs weakly, but with urgency, “behind—”

A whip lassos tightly around Tony’s chest before he’s yanked clear off the ground, watching the world tilt and fly past him as he’s thrown violently. The wind is knocked out of him in a rush of air as he slams into the boundary wall, a sea of stars erupting in his vision as his head connects a second later.

Ivan’s triumphant laugh chasing him into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Tony comes to.

He catches a bleary glimpse of a person stalking towards him with a noticeable limp, the ground and the sky have changed positions, and there’s a cacophony somewhere in the distance.

Several pops rise above the noise, and the person jerks several times before they fall.

Nothing is connecting.

Nothing is making sense.

So, he allows himself to slip away again.

~*~

There’s a steady thrum filling his ears, effectively drowning everything out with a relentless whop, whop, whop, whop.

“—ony!”

A muted report of gunfire cuts through the noise, yet it doesn’t break the rhythm.

Whop, whop, whop, whop.

“Tony!”

A cough rattles his chest as he pries his eyes open, the world spinning briefly before he’s able to focus on a figure looming over him, silhouetted against a hazy sky. With a heaving chest and widening eyes, the Alpha’s lips part as if to call his name again. His green, brown, and tan combat uniform a welcome sight compared to Hydra’s black and red fatigues. The Alpha’s iris scent with a hint of jet fuel floods over him as a breeze picks up.

He can’t be here. Tony blinks hard. Has to be a hallucination caused by dying brain cells.  

“I swear, if you don’t say something soon—” the Alpha’s voice wavers with worry, muffled as if Tony is submerged underwater.

“You’re not real,” Tony manages, his voice cracking under the strain of speaking while hanging upside down.

The friendly ghost leans down, close enough for Tony to smell the bad aftershave he gifted him at Christmas the year before as a prank. Unable to comprehend what’s happening until fingers pinch the skin at his cheek.

Letting out a surprised shout, the invisible bubble around him bursts, allowing sound to rush in with piercing clarity. Realizing what he’s been hearing is the chopping of helicopter rotors, the blades producing a powerful wind that whips against his face.

“How about this?” the Alpha asks with a quirk of his mouth, increasing the pressure until Tony’s cheek smarts. “Real enough for you?”

Tony’s swats his friend’s hand away, and hisses as painful twinges travel up his arm. “Where’d you—” he hacks a cough. “Where’d you come from?”

“Neverland,” Rhodey deadpans. “You’re not happy to see me, Wendy?”

“Of course I am,” he returns. “Just wondering where your tights are, Peter.”

Rhodey doesn’t miss a beat. “They’re hanging in the closet beside your dress.”

With a mirthful huff, Tony shifts his head and strains his neck to take in the scene around them. Ivan lies a few feet away, his torso riddled with bullet wounds that are weeping blood while his chest feebly rises and falls—stubbornly still clinging to life. Beyond Ivan are downed Hydra soldiers; their bodies littering the field in all directions.

The Black Hawk has landed in a patch of open space, far from the torture wall. Near its bay door, a flash of familiar red hair catches Tony’s eye before Romanoff emerges and leaps down to aid Barnes as he carefully loads an injured person onto a stretcher.

“Steve!” Tony gasps, flailing with the intent of moving closer, but finds he remains completely stuck. A glance upward reveals the reason—his legs are ensnared in the twisted rebar, snapped armor, and debris of the crumbling boundary wall; keeping him suspended inches above the ground.

“Hold on.” Rhodey reaches for the broken seams of the metal plating, adjusting the pieces and his limbs until he’s freed. Holding Tony’s weight, his friend lowers him until he’s flat on his back, then offers a hand to help him up.

“We need to get out of here,” Rhodey urges as Tony unsteadily finds his footing, lightheadedness stealing over him. “It won’t be long before they send a convoy—and we’ll be outgunned.”

“Di’you get my message?” Tony slurs, tightening his grip on Rhodey’s arm as his shaky legs threaten to buckle. The relentless pounding in his head sharpening with every heartbeat. “How did you…find me?”

“Yeah, I got it.” The Alpha adjusts his hold, looping Tony’s arm over his shoulder as they unsteadily begin walking toward the awaiting chopper. “I’ll fill you in with the details later,” Rhodey assures him. “But you should thank Romanoff—and somebody called ‘Barnes’—for arranging my daring rescue.”

Tony barely processes that, too fixated on the motionless form that is his Alpha. Romanoff efficiently attaches the stretcher to the lift cable before clambering into the hatch to begin hoisting Rogers up and maneuvering him inside.

As they near the aircraft, Barnes turns to face them. His expression like stone, yet his eyes are haunted and his posture is rigid. Something about it makes Tony’s stomach twist with unease.

Is he…?

Barnes easily perceives his thoughts and shakes his head—dispelling Tony’s fear of the worst possible conclusion.

Tony exhales sharply, his breath visible from the rapidly dropping temperature. “So, you had a plan all along,” he accuses, raising his voice to be heard over the rotors. “And I was just a game piece?”

The Alpha meets his stare evenly.

An answer in itself.

He would almost feel used, if not for the fact the execution of it revealed certain truths and saved their asses.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Tony angrily decides to say in lieu of showing gratefulness, though the words do lack their usual bite.

Barnes’ expression softens as his gaze drops to the blood freezing on his boots. Visibly contrite as he returns, “I wasn’t seeking forgiveness.”

It strikes Tony harder than he anticipated, leaving him stunned until Romanoff shouts from the hatch: “Tony! Get in here!”

Stepping back, Barnes yells, “Take care of him for me, Stark.” Then adds quickly as the engines begin to whine, “And don’t forget to give him that message.”

Tony gives a perfunctory nod and turns for the ladder, which appears to duplicate before his eyes. With a nauseated groan, he swipes a hand at it, missing it twice before he finally manages to grasp a rung. And gritting his teeth, forces himself to climb despite the weakness in his body and the sudden wave of dizziness. Rhodey’s steadying grip on his waist keeps him from falling until he flops down safely onto the cabin floor.

“Come on, we’ve got to go!” comes an anxious voice from the cockpit, drawing Tony’s attention to the Omegan pilot glancing over his shoulder at him. “There’s hostiles incoming, roughly 15 miles from us and closing in fast!”

As if on cue, two people converge on him, grabbing hold of his upper arms and hauling him upright. Through his double vision, he barely registers Romanoff and Barton as they half-drag him to a bench and dump him onto it. Barton makes swift work of fastening the lap belt and donning him with ear protection before Tony can even think to complain, then beelines it over to his own seat positioned at the machine gun near the open bay door with Romanoff mirroring him at the other side.

At the same time, Rhodey is scrambling into the co-pilot seat. Situating himself mere seconds before the helicopter lurches upwards, commencing its takeoff.

“Think we can outrun them, Wilson?” Rhodey’s voice crackles over the headset, sounding slightly winded.

“It’s not looking like it,” Wilson answers grimly. “But I’ll sure as hell try.”

Across from him sits Scott and Jessica, both slumped over in exhaustion. And at the center of the cabin is the stretcher, the frame shifting slightly from the motion despite the straps securing it.

His vision swims and the pain in his head spikes as he bends forward, but Tony needs to check on him—must know for himself that his Alpha isn’t gone.

Rogers lies on his stomach, teetering on the edge of death judging by his slow, uneven respires and his worsening pallor. It prompts Tony to strain against his seatbelt as he reaches out to grasp the Alpha’s hand, squeezing his cold fingers tightly with a small amount of hope that it’ll keep him fighting.

The intrusive concept of a world without Rogers hits him like a ton of bricks. They barely know one another—hardly even like each other—but Tony would trust him with his life. In fact, he already has, given the fact Rogers saved him at great risk, not only a lifetime ago but every day ever since.

His Alpha even going so far as defying his standing with Hydra for him, just like his mother. Both brave enough to do the right thing in spite of starting their lives on the wrong foot. His mother choosing him and humanity over her father and everything she knew. And Rogers, who could’ve delivered him to Red Skull or allowed Strucker to end him, demonstrated a strong set of underlying principles instead by protecting Tony, healing him, and placing a claim on him just to shield him from further harm.

Rogers’ warning before Ivan’s attack only cementing his choice of mate.

Don’t die on me, Tony internally begs. I need you. He swallows thickly as the feeling, that he previously squashed into submission, rises from the depths. I think I…that I might…lo—

The aircraft violently jolts as it rapidly decelerates, causing Tony to automatically grasp the stretcher’s railing to prevent it from jarring his Alpha.

“Where the hell did he come from?” Rhodey nearly shouts over the comm as they settle into a tight hover. “Radar didn’t pick up on him.”

“Has to be some kind of cloaking device,” Wilson considers, his tone laced with irritation. “Possibly thermal masking tech?” He growls. “That means they screwed with our scanners to redirect us into his flight path.”

“Another’s approaching at your 3,” Barton calls out, lining up the gun with their newest target. “They’re boxing us in.”

“Copy that, but hold your fire—something’s off,” Rhodey orders. “Why aren’t they attacking us?”

Tony curiously looks out the side window, blinking until the blurry, dark outline of the Hydra aircraft becomes clear. The hybrid chopper slowing down to hover a safe distance away, yet close enough to intimidate.

“What do you think they want?” Rhodey wonders, glancing at his partner with visible apprehension.

Wilson blows out a harsh breath. “Not sure.”

The gears in Tony’s mind turn sluggishly, processing every detail, including what he’s learned during his captivity. A soft curse spilling forth from between his teeth as it all clicks. “They’re—” His throat constricts, forcing a few coughs as he struggles to finish speaking. “They’re stalling!”

“What—?”

“It’s me they’re after,” Tony interrupts his friend. “They’re trying to figure out how to capture me before finishing everybody off.”

The pilot’s suspicious gaze flicks over to him before he readdresses Rhodey. “You think that’s really it?”

As Rhodey mulls it over, Romanoff snaps to attention and hurriedly aims her weapon out her side of the aircraft. “We’ve got the third French hen inbound, guys,” she warns.

Without letting go of his Alpha, Tony looks over his shoulder at the newcomer, who holds his position at the same range as his comrades.

“Hostile transmission on our frequency,” Rhodey informs Wilson, who gives a permissive nod. Then, accepting the communication, Rhodey starts sarcastically, “Let me guess—you’re not here for a friendly escort out of town?”

A brief burst of static crackles over their collective headgear before a soldier replies: “Surrender Stark, and you’ll be allowed to leave unharmed.”

“Well, that answers that,” Wilson mumbles.

“It sure does,” Rhodey agrees, thoughtfully rubbing a finger over his mouth. “And we’ve got the advantage.”

Tony blinks owlishly. “What?”

“Trust me,” Rhodey mutters before responding to the soldier. “Here’s our counteroffer: let us leave with Stark, and we won’t light your ass up.”

More static fills the receiver, followed by a menacing growl that painfully grates against Tony’s ears. “Don’t test your luck.” The soldier threatens, “You’re surrounded, and we will shoot you down if you don’t comply.”

Rhodey ignores it, making Tony’s chest swell with pride: “I’d like to see you try.” He cuts the transmission, clearly set on ignoring further attempts at communication.

Wilson shoots Rhodey a look of concern but otherwise keeps any disapproving comments to himself. Tony’s chest aches as the deadlock continues, stretching unbearably on and causing tensions to mount until—nothing. No strike, no movement. Nada.

“Knew it!” Rhodey exclaims with a giant grin. “They won’t chance killing Tony.”

Wilson releases a scoff. “I can’t believe you just gambled all our lives on a game of chicken.” He chuckles with sheer disbelief. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

The Alpha turns his head and winks. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“You’re all absolutely insane,” Jessica chimes in, utterly unimpressed.

Tony flashes her a frail, teasing smile. “I prefer ‘eccentric,’ thank you very much.”

She drastically rolls her eyes but can’t quite hide the amused tug at the corner of her mouth.

Wilson shatters the fragile respite with a solemn: “Wait—something’s up.” Prompting Tony to refocus on the aircraft just beyond Jessica’s shoulder and finds it slowly peeling away from formation before it veers off entirely. The others following suit, sweeping past them as if conceding the battle.

“I don’t like this,” Barton says, leaning slightly out of the hatch to track their retreat. “There’s no way in Hell they would just let us walk out.”

“Or fly out, in this case,” Wilson concurs.

Even while distracted by the roaring pain inside his skull, Tony also recognizes the ploy for what it is. But with a few miles left before the border and no alternatives, there’s little choice but to keep moving forward.  

And Rhodey seems to be on the exact same wavelength. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he decides. Then, making the hard call, orders, “Move out.”

Tony lets his head droop against the railing and squeezes his eyes shut as he wills the dizziness to subside. The hum of the rotors and quiet static the only sounds next to the rhythmic pounding in his ears. As they push onward, a frigid blast of air hits them mercilessly through the open doors and nearly freezes him. But he isn’t the only one feeling it—sensing the stretcher quiver as his Alpha trembles from exposure.

Fighting his stiffening fingers, Tony fumbles for the mylar blanket bunched at Rogers’ waist. With considerable effort, he manages to wrangle the fluttering material and drape it over his Alpha’s body—careful to not let it brush against his ravaged back as he tucks the edges under Rogers’ arms.

“All clear ahead,” Rhodey reports after several minutes of anxious silence. “Anything on our flanks?”

Romanoff and Barton respond in unison: “Negative.”

Oddly, Tony finds himself more stressed than relieved to hear that—not liking the uncertainty of where the soldiers are and what Red Skull might be up to.

Scott’s voice is hesitant but optimistic as he asks no one in particular, “We’re really going to make it, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Tony answers. And albeit unsure where this certainty is coming from, he asserts, “We’re going to make it.”

Wilson makes a skeptical sound. “Yeah, well…everybody, still cross your fingers—and maybe your toes while you’re at it. We’re on final approach to the border—60 seconds.”

Almost there, Tony dares to hope. Almost there.

A feeble, pained groan feathering through the receiver causes Tony’s head to snap upward. Even as Rogers’ face blurs beyond recognition, Tony can still make out the almost imperceptible shake of his Alpha’s head—as if trying to say ‘no.’

Using his thumb to trace circles over Rogers’ knuckles, Tony gently urges him to speak, “What is it?”

Rogers mumbles something, too faint for any of them to comprehend.

“Did Timmy fall down the well again?” Tony lightly teases, but it sounds more choked up than intended.

Seemingly drawing strength from his Omega’s presence, Rogers weakly clutches Tony’s hand as he forces the words past his lips: “Border…trap…” Tony’s heart immediately climbs into his throat. “Magnetic…containment…f-field,” he struggles to continue. “Am... Ambush—”

A high-pitched feedback loop pierces Tony’s eardrums just before his body is whipped about harshly as the aircraft grinds to a halt in midair. The rotors emitting a strained whine as the cabin fills with the droning undertone of a magnetic pulse.

Slumped over and reeling, he catches fragments of panicked voices around him:

“—disabled flight controls!”

“—unresponsive!”

“—being held in place!”

With a shudder, the aircraft jerks sharply, as if yanked by an invisible rope. Another jarring drop occurring soon after, causing Tony’s stomach to flutter.

Amidst the screeches and groans of a machine under stress, Barton yells, “They’re dragging us down!”