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The thing about the future is everyone's quick to tell you that your dynamic doesn't matter, but then it's all they want to talk about. Steve certainly won't deny that great things have happened while he was in the ice. Life is, all around, a lot easier no matter what your dynamic is. But he can't deny that he misses the polite silences of the past. He knows that according to the modern world he's at best charmingly old-fashioned and at worst a hopeless fuddy-duddy, but in his day, some things were private.
He feels like he's used to it. He has the right responses for how does it feel to order around alphas and betas ("Out in the field, ma'am, we're all just doing the best we can. No one's thinking about that.") and do you have any advice for omegas interested in a military career ("Just do your best and work hard. That's all you can do."), but he's on yet another live morning show when the host turns to him and says, "You obviously don't look like an omega. How do you feel about that?"
Steve's tongue feels thick in his mouth, and after a too-long awkward pause, Tony leans over and says, "You've got eyes, right? How do you think he feels about being an inappropriately gorgeous specimen of manhood?" Everyone chuckles, and they start talking to Tony about when wedding bells will be ringing for him and Pepper. Steve still feels sick when the cameras turn off. He shakes hands and smiles, poses for a few pictures with crew members on his way back to the dressing room, but he begs off Tony's lunch invitation.
At home, he strips for a shower, trying to keep his eyes up, his mind off of it. But he catches his reflection while he's waiting for the water to heat up, and he can feel the ache in his chest sharpen.
After Dr. Erskine was killed, the rest of the scientists still tested him. They wanted to make sure the serum wasn't degrading in his system, made him do all kinds of strength and agility assessments in addition to stranger things he still doesn't quite understand. During some kind of test meant to gauge his sleep, he was stretched out in a hospital bed and overheard some of the scientists in the hallway.
"You've seen his file, right?" She let out a low whistle. "What a shame. To do that to such a pretty omega."
They thought he was asleep. She didn't mean anything by it, and if she knew that he'd heard he's sure she would have apologized. But it's her voice that he's heard whenever he feels out of place, uncomfortable in his skin. What a shame.
It's too late to shake it off now, so he faces the mirror properly. He's huge, tall and broad except for his hips, which are still painfully slim. His eyes skim over his pecs, the hard ridges of his abs - every inch of him rock hard. Growing up, he'd wanted to be healthy. Maybe he'd even prayed to be strong, but this was never what he pictured. It was worth it; of course, it was worth it, but that moment when Bucky looked up at him and said I thought you were smaller...it didn't feel like it.
Steve sighs and tries to hunch his shoulders in, slouch and fold in and make himself smaller. It's impossible; he's just too big, and even if he could make himself shorter, there's a firmness to his jaw now that will always mark him as different. Ultra-masculine in a way that alphas covet for themselves, not in a mate.
Bucky's never complained, but he wouldn't. He's a stand up guy, never said a word about his mate showing up looking like some kind of alpha daydream. But Steve could feel the change, feel it every time Bucky touched him, and he ended up flinching away more often than not. He was bigger than his own mate now.
The shower's been running so long now that the mirror is steamed up, and Steve gives up and climbs in. The water is practically boiling, each drop hitting his skin like a brand. After years of rusted, leaky pipes, icy water out in the field, he's a little addicted to hot showers. He doesn't get too clean this time around; just stands under the hot water, letting it rush over him.
After the shower, he changes into soft, slumpy lounge clothes. He prefers loose-fitting clothes in his free time; with the uniform, at least, he feels like he's wearing armor. Like maybe when he takes it off, all the bulk will go with it.
Since he's feeling nostalgic, Steve settles with some reheated takeout in front of Turner Classic Movies. It feels a little like home, movies that he saw with Bucky or just heard about. He tries to lose himself in the black and white world. Everything is a little more glamorous in there. All the alphas wear hats and smirk around their cigarettes, and the omegas are pretty and impetuous.
Bucky shows up halfway through The Philadelphia Story. A moment ago, the living room was empty, and now Bucky is standing there, pulling off leather gloves.
"Did you climb up the fire escape?" Steve has to smile. "We have a door, you know."
Bucky tugs his mask off and crosses behind him, reaching over to ruffle his hair as he passes. "Old habits."
"Sure, sure." Steve shifts to watch him strip off the rest of his gear. "Our neighbors probably think you're a cat burglar."
Bucky snorts. He disappears into the bedroom and emerges a few minutes later in sweatpants and a soft t-shirt. "If our neighbors saw me, they're probably highly trained operatives so we've got a bigger problem than gossip on our hands." He flops on the couch next to Steve, then he frowns. "What's wrong?"
Steve is pretty sure he'd been smiling. "What? Nothing."
"Something's wrong." Bucky squints at him, and Steve hates feeling like he's being studied. He's had enough of that. "Did evil happen while I was gone?"
"No." Steve tips his head back against the back of the couch and sighs. "Just...stupid stuff at an interview. It rattled me a little bit."
He knows Bucky hates how much media SHIELD makes them do, and he's hoping that will be a distraction. As expected, Bucky grunts. "You're not their fucking show pony. When are they ever gonna just let you do your work?"
"I dunno, Buck. This is part of the work now, I guess."
"It's bullshit." There's a long pause, and Steve almost believes he's gotten away with it. Then Bucky speaks again, a little quieter. "It...was it about me?"
That really makes Steve ache. Bucky's been through enough, and to make him doubt himself, doubt them over Steve's own stupid issues. "God, no. No, it was. It's just stupid; it's not worth talking about."
Bucky prods his shoulder hard. "It upsets you, it's worth it. That's what the shrinks say, right?"
"Sure." Steve has never talked about this with any of the psychiatrists SHIELD has assigned him to. It feels too indulgent, too ridiculous to even say out loud. He takes a deep breath through his nose. "They just asked how I felt about not looking like an omega."
Once the words are out, he feels suffocated. His stomach is twisted up in nervous knots, and he has to remind himself to keep breathing steadily. He can practically feel the frown in Bucky's voice when he says, "So?"
When they first brought Bucky - the Winter Soldier - in, Steve insisted on coming to see him. Bucky gave him a long, slow look and sniffed. "I do not know what kind of American ploy this is," he said, in heavily accented English, "to send a man wearing a bitch's scent. I am not ruled by my urges. Even if I were, a shoddy trick such as this would not fool me." He doesn't remember saying it; it wasn't him saying it, really, but that's all Steve can think about now.
"So I hate it." Steve gets up from the couch and goes back to the bedroom, closing the door behind him with enough force that it rattles a little. He knows better, but he doesn't really care right now.
He gets under the covers and curls up on his side, tight around his anxious stomach. He wants Bucky to come after him. He wants Bucky to stay away. He wants to close his eyes and be home, back in the apartment he and Bucky shared in 1942 before any of this happened, when he was small and pretty and they looked like they belonged together.
It takes a while, but the door opens, and he feels the mattress depress when Bucky sits down. There's another moment of hesitation, then Bucky's hand is warm on his ankle. "I didn't know."
Steve huffs, eyes still closed. "Have you seen me?"
The hand on his ankle squeezes. "Every damn day, and last I checked, you're fucking gorgeous."
Steve groans and opens his eyes, shifting a little so he can look down the bed at Bucky. "For an alpha, sure. But I'm not an alpha. I'm a freak." He knows he's got a lot of nerve, calling this body freakish when so many would be grateful for it. When he should be grateful, to be alive and healthy and strong. But if Bucky wants him to talk about it, he's not going to shy away. He's held all of this inside him for too long. "Don't act like it's not...different."
Bucky makes a face. "Sure it's different, shit, but I don't care. If I ever made you feel like I did, I'm fucking sorry. Because I really don't."
"You looked at me like you didn't even know me." Steve's voice cracks a little, and he has to speak around the tightness in his chest. "It was never the same after, Buck."
"I was surprised." Bucky huffs out a harsh laugh and drums his fingers against Steve's ankle. "There's no way I wasn't gonna be, but you're the one who didn't want to get close, Stevie, not me."
Steve flinches and turns back to his side. It's true; he never felt quite right, and maybe he'd imagined hesitance from Bucky when really it was his own. Since he got Bucky back, they've fallen back into a pretty close approximation of before the war; he's gotten used to the constant thread of wrongness in his belly. It's easier to push it all down and do his job, smile for the cameras, keep on going. But now it's got its hooks into him, and he doesn't know what to do to make it let go.
Bucky is quiet. He stands up, and Steve's stomach lurches at the thought of him leaving, of lying here in bed alone with his vicious thoughts, but he can't bring himself to ask him to stay. But Bucky climbs back into bed, settling behind Steve, and then, slowly, molding himself against Steve's back.
It makes Steve's breath catch in his chest. This was always the way it was, back in Brooklyn, but after the serum, they switched places. It makes sense; Steve is bigger, of course he ought to be on the outside. But he'd forgotten how good it feels, to have someone curled around him, holding him. Bucky's arm settles across his stomach, and his nose meets the back of Steve's neck where his hair is buzzed short.
"This okay?"
"Yeah." Steve resists the urge to turn around, to stretch to his full height, destroy the illusion. Because Bucky is warm and close, wrapped around him, and somehow, they still seem to fit together. "Is it...is it good for you?"
"S'all good for me," Bucky says, soft enough that Steve can feel his breath more clearly than he hears the words. "Always was."
*
Steve wakes up warm and pleasantly turned on. Bucky was hard, grinding vaguely against his ass, and Steve's own dick was half-hard in response, getting harder now that he was conscious. He reaches back behind to rest his hand on Bucky's hip, encourage him closer.
"Mmm. Hey, pretty," Bucky mumbles against his neck.
It's like a splash of cold water on Steve's heart. He starts to flag, and pats Bucky's hip a little harder. "You're dreaming, Buck."
Bucky nips at his throat, sharp and decisive. It's enough to get Steve moaning, despite his fading erection. An unmistakable promise that he's awake, that he's here and not back somewhere with the Steve from before. "Get on your belly for me."
Steve obeys, even though he hates to free himself from Bucky's grip. Bucky straddles his hips as soon as he's settled, dick still riding against his ass.
"Couldn't do this before," Bucky says. He cups his hands around Steve's hips. "You were always so small here. Still are. Perfect handful."
"Yeah?" Steve flushes, pressing his cheek against the pillow. Bucky can still get a perfect grip around his hips, even if one of his hands is metal now. They still fit. He arches back against Bucky's touch.
"Fuck yeah." Bucky shifts on top of him, stretching out to nose behind his ear, suck the lobe into his mouth. "Still my pretty blond, too. Blond hair, big blue eyes, those rosy fucking lips. You remember the fights I got into over you?"
Steve chuckles, despite the fire building in him. "Don't think most of those were over how pretty I was."
Bucky bites, and Steve whimpers. "Enough were. You never let me fight for you, though."
Steve grins against the pillow while Bucky tugs his sweatpants down and out of the way. "I can fight my own battles."
"Sure." Bucky pulls back and slides his fingers down the cleft of Steve's ass, teasing at his hole. "And these days, you even win a few."
They aren't actually going to fuck tonight; Bucky doesn't make a move for the lube, just keeps petting and teasing Steve, grinding against him. It's easy and dirty, just like they used to do on nights he was too sick for much exertion. But he always liked to lie there and feel Bucky on top of him, making him feel useful in a way that only bringing pleasure to your mate ever can. It touches the most basic, primal part of him; it reminds him that deep under all the muscle, he is still an omega.
That's the thought in his mind when he comes with a surprised gasp against the covers. His stamina is usually better than that, but he let everything go tonight. Bucky groans, leaning in to kiss his neck while he thrusts harder against him, until he comes too, painting Steve's lower back.
Bucky rolls off of him and starts rubbing the come into his skin. It's very old-fashioned, even by his standards, and they don't do it often. But it feels just right. He'll smell unmistakably of Bucky, even after a shower, and he likes that idea. In case anyone forgets he has a mate, an alpha who loves him no matter what. He could use the reminder himself sometimes.
"I know it's not gonna fix things," Bucky says, his hand resting warm and heavy on Steve's back. "But I hope it helps."
Steve shifts onto his side again so Bucky can spoon him. "It helps," he promises.