Chapter Text
He hadn't built a nest in any memory he'd recovered, and he hadn't built a nest since he'd been freed. Hydra certainly never allowed him to have one. Now here he was in one of those stupid fucking stores that sells Scent Blocking candles, Scent enhancing candles, ScentED Candles, Ultra Plush Nest Pads, every kind of blanket and pillow anyone could imagine, battery operated candles, soy candles, body oil candles, and why in hell were there so many types of fucking candle!? Does every other Omega in America just make their nest look like a fucking Catholic Church? Is it the accepted trend to have a bonfire in the nesting room? What do Omegas do? Roast Marshmallows all day and night? Not a bad thought, really, since he had no clue himself.
Bucky was staring at one spot, stock still in the aisle so long that he attracted the attention of the Beta who was stocking shelves. She approached with a chipper smile, "Is your Omega getting close to their heat?" she asked, smile not fading until Bucky turns to her.
He's got armfuls of stupid stuff, a blanket that has glow in the dark stars on it, several plush pillows shaped like crescent moons, meant to cradle the Omega form. Bucky turns his head, wide-eyed, bewildered, moreso than he could even realize. Of course the Beta doesn't know he's the Omega, who would guess he was one? He was as big as any Alpha, bigger than some, really, he certainly was no Beta. Time ticks on as Bucky stares at the Beta and the Beta stares right back.
"Yes." Bucky finally squeaks out. "I've never uh, bought nesting stuff for anyone." that ain't a lie, he never has, let the Beta keep assuming he's just some idiot Alpha, somehow that's easier to stomach than admitting that he's an Omega who's never nested.
"Oh well we sell beginner kits but they're meant for teenagers, really-- Oh! there are ready nests for travel but the reviews online aren't the best." She's talking a mile a minute while looking over all the things in Bucky's hands. "Let me get you a cart, it looks like you've got a good start with what you have." she's not listening to any protests as she grabs him a little pastel pink shopping cart, it looks stupid in front of Bucky in his leather jacket and combat boots, hair long, uncombed, brushing at his collar. He takes it though, dumping his armfulls of items into it quite unceremoniously, staring down at the little imprints of greenish stars on the deep blue backrgound of the blanket. "thanks" he says softly, trying to smile but it just looks like he's in pain. "What uh-- what else do you recommend? For a uh, a nest?"
The Beta considers for a moment then grabs for her earpiece, "let me get the Omega on call--"
She doesn't get her finger to the button on the earpiece before she's got her hand encased in a huge metal one. "no, sorry, i'm----" he has to think fast, she looks so shocked and scared. It has to be a good excuse-- he can't tell her that he doesn't want someone to scent him out, that an Omega would clock him immediately and he wants to stay in the company of a nice safe Beta. "I'm sorry, I just, an Omega when mine at home is in such a state is-- not a good idea."
The Beta immediately gives Bucky a knowing, relieved look. Of course! He didn't want another Omega near, how considerate. She's seen this a hundred times before.
Bucky can't help but feel awkward now--- especially since she's being so gracious with his behavior.
"Of course, sir, I can continue to try and help you. I do know all the best reviewed items." she smiles, and pats Bucky's metal hand with her free one, it reminds him that he's still got her trapped in his metal grip. He lets her go with a sheepish smile. "Thank you." he says softly.
In under an hour he's got his cart overflowing with items, pads and blankets, draperies, a canopy for creating an enclosed, dark place, pillows that have rechargable heating elements in them. He has a few things he absolutely doesn't need like soft headphones with no hard bits to hurt delicate Omegas, and a toy that has a knot that fills with warm water to simulate the real thing. . . and five of the goddamn candles. He also has more than a couple of boxes of snacks the little complete nurtition packets meant for Omegas in heat who can't move much to go to the kitchen. That was a scary thought for Bucky. . . was a full heat really that bad? that a person couldn't do more than writhe around and maybe open packets of slushy berry, flavored nutrition? The thought of that made him shudder as he waited for the Beta working the till to ring his purchase up. He didn't even listen to the total before tapping his card on the shiny surface of the card reader. He couldn't get out of the store fast enough, legging it with his huge bags full of nesting materials and nonsense.
Steve isn't home when he arrives, thank fuck. Bucky would have died of shame if Steve saw him coming home laden with pink and yellow striped bags and five goddamn fucking candles. He scurries into his bedroom and slams the door, locking it-- the lock doesn't work, as per the agreement with the government and his therapists and Steve fucking Rogers, but it not working doesn't matter, its the habit that does, what chance would any burglar have against the Winter Soldier?--- He tosses his bags onto the corner of the yoga mat he sleeps on. He doesn't know where to start so he just starts with getting out of his Outside Clothes. He had always been particular with that, not keeping on the clothes he'd worn outside on in the house. He slid into pajama pants, pulled his hair up with an elastic and secured it into a little bun. That done, he sighed, it was a smaller task than he'd imagined it was, not one to really help him put off the. . . nesting.
As he stood there he wondered if he really wanted to nest. Twice he'd started out the door to go to one of those stupid nest stores, and twice he'd decided against it, but now--- he felt like he almost needed it. Seven weeks ago he'd stopped taking the pills the doctor had given him the-- the heat suppressants. The doctor didn't advise it with him unmated and enhanced as he was. . . as broken as he was. The doctor had said that whatever Hydra had done to him over all those years had left scar tissue inside his womb-- he didn't like to think of it. He didn't like the way the suppressants made him feel, he ---goddamnit he deserved to be an Omega for once, be what he was meant to be. He stood now, in his plaid pajamas looking at all the crap he'd bought-- no, Bucky, don't think of it as crap, it, it's your nest. Well, it's gonna be your nest. Whatever.
It takes him twenty minutes to even touch the first bag (he timed himself. Habit.) He dumps it out onto the floor beside his yoga mat/bed. Its the blankets and nest pads.
Those things always seemed the most repulsive to him, ever since he'd read about them--- Imagine making so much slick you had to have something under you to absorb it! So much slick that you had to change the pad out once or twice a day! It was enough to make Bucky reconsider suppressants. . . But no, no he was determined to do this and do it properly. . . the government, hydra, whoever, couldn't keep him from his own body , not any more. And look, yeah it was an extreme decision to go cold turkey on the meds, most Omegas take something it isn't unusual, it isn't stigmatized. He sees commercials a hundred times a day for light suppressants for teenaged Omegas and Alphas alike so that they can go to school and get used to being among mixed company because society was polite like that these days. There used to be a weird amount of seperation between the designations, Omega only restaurants, social clubs. . . he liked this new way better, he decided.
Now he'd stared at the emptied contents of Bag 1 for ten more minutes thinking about the Olden Days. It's about that very minute that he decides he cannot fucking do this right now. He stalks out of his bedroom and into the shared living space and to the kitchen to make himself some lunch. He could do that, make lunch, do the task that he felt like he had the spoons for. Spoons, yeah, group-therapy talk. They said he could absolutely not say knives instead of spoons, pissed him off 'cause he was just as deadly with a spoon as a knife. He's half way through microwaving a bunch of cheap corn-dogs before he even realizes he's made the choice to even have corn-dogs for lunch. He is still on the fence about them microwaved but they're a good food, calorie dense, have protein and they're on a fuckin' stick for crying out loud, whats better than a food with a handle?
He's got this plate, see, it's the perfect plate--- perhaps the most perfect plate to ever exist---- it's got compartments in it, it has a main tray for the bulk of the food and smaller sections for condiments and side dishes. And it's got a cartoon of Steve's face on it, what could possibly be better than that? He smiles as he squirts mustard into one of the little compartments and throws a few grapes into another.
The corn-dogs are half exploded when the microwave dings but it's alright, they'll taste the same. Nat's place has an Air Fryer anything tastes good out of one of those fuckin' things. He keeps pestering Steve to get one but the tech frightens the fossil. He was reluctant to have the damned microwave. One day he's gonna get one and Steve can fuck himself. He plops the corn dogs out onto his Perfect Plate and takes said plate to the breakfast nook so he can sit and eat in the shaft of sunlight filtering through the kitchen window, bask and eat like a goddamned cat. He thoroughly enjoys his shitty microwaved lunch. He's vowed to never ever have another meal of plain white rice, boiled chicken and several pounds of steamed or raw vegetables. Hydra wouldn't control the bullshit he shoves down his throat anymore, he did his own damn grocery shopping. He'd never eat anything that wasn't a modern marvel of processed-to-fuck-pure-American-Trash. Delicious.
While he eats, he makes a list of things in his head of what he's gonna buy without Steve knowing. A game boy--- he used to play one of those back in the nineties, when he was good and had downtime while on missions. Do they still make Game Boys? he'd find one. . . and play Mega Man all day. Pew Pew Pew. Then he was gonna have a fucking air fryer, one of those big ones he could put a whole bag of dino nuggets into. One of those big, big, big barrel-shaped containers of Cheez Balls from the wholesale store--- the one that Steve always says "Do you really need one that big, Buck?" about. Yes Steve, I do goddamn need it, he thinks; I burn through more calories than even you do. Your fucking enhanced marble-statue body is Perfected, mine's shitty Soviet/Hydra/Nazi crap Off-Brand, Generic, Great-Value.
After the argument he has in his head with Steve he decides firmly that he can hide a Tilt-A-Whirl in the back yard.
He's thinking about the bulk-size food he could get, making a full grocery list when it hits him, the first weird feeling. Weird Feeling. It starts in his chest, shivers down his stomach and settles somewhere above his pubic bone. It's not a strong feeling but decidedly different than the usual feelings of Bucky's body. He knows, he catalogs everything his body does. Old habits, assess the body to see if it needs maintenence. The feeling spurs him to rush to his bedroom and lock the fake lock. Maybe he does need to nest or whatever. He tears into the other bags and begins, to just follow his instincts, which aren't the best, but hey, he's new to this.
The canopy-thing startles him, it pops up practically on it's own. . . it's blue which is a godsend, the other choices were baby pink and some weird almost taupe colour, unattractive to say the least and not for nothin, but the blue was the same color as Steve's eyes. So here he was staring at a thing that looked like a goddamned tent in his bedroom. It wasn't very sturdy and had no bottom to make room for the nesting materials, to fit over pre-existing nests--- it's not made of that rip-stop nylon that tents tend to be made of, it's made of cotton and fleece, not an inch of the tent is rough, nothing to snag hair or skin or scrape any delicate part of an Omega.
Bucky scoffed as he entered into the canopy-thing, he didn't need softness, he was a--- oh fuck it was nice in there. . . it was dark and soft and the materials muffled the sounds outside the tent. Bucky Barnes' brain which was already a thick soup as it was, short circuited and he went into Omega Mode. Within moments of being in the canopy-thing, he was into all the bags, pushing items into the darkened space. He arranged pillows and blankets, everything he'd bought. He even put the goddamned fucking candles, all five of them on various surfaces around the room.
Soon, it wasn't enough, there weren't enough things for his nest and so he went sniffing. Literally sniffing all around the house. Nothing was safe from him, nothing. He took a towel from Steve's bathroom that had Sam's scent on it, he took the hoodie Nat had left in the hall closet, all the cushions off the couch, the entire comforter set from Steve's bed.
Soon there was hardly any room in the canopy-thing.
Bucky was inside it, marking it up with his scent, rearranging it, mushing things around, laying down, getting up, rearranging--- when Steve came home, swinging the front door open, making as much noise as possible so he wouldn't scare Bucky.