Tony shifts in his seat.
He hooks his right foot behind his left shin, willing his fingers to stop trembling in his lap, or worse, from grabbing a pen from the bunch on Fury’s desk and starting to click it a million times a minute. He focuses on his breathing instead—breath in, hold, breath out—but, Good God, Fury is taking his sweet time keeping Tony waiting while he reads the million-page document.
“Huh,” Fury says, going back a couple of pages, narrowing his eyes. “We’ll get him to clarify this, needs to be airtight,” he mumbles to himself.
Tony scratches his beard. He knows, almost certainly, that it's finally time, but he can’t help but wonder: why would Fury want Tony’s termination papers to be airtight? Sure, he did get a little too drunk at the party on Friday but they all knew it was going to be his very last so—so what if he had let loose a little bit? Fury was not even there—he never goes, like ever—and Tony didn’t even make a scene. No one from HR would be that petty, to file a drunk and disorderly omega report, because what would be the point? Tony is a goner anyway.
Get a grip, omega, he thinks, trying to imagine that he’s yelling at himself. He can’t start to beg Fury to just tell him he needs to pack his things now, just—
“Alright,” Fury announces, as he puts the document down on his desk—face down, God—and looks up at Tony. “You know that the extension of your extension is almost over.”
Right into it. “Yes, sir.”
“And you know that we can’t get another one under any circ*mstances.”
“I—” Tony swallows. “I do.”
“I sent an inquiry on Friday, to General Ross himself, explained your value to your team, enclosed a brief summary of all your intel projects, your app, how you’re virtually irreplaceable to SHIELD—”
Tony watches Fury as he recites his own account of how awesome Tony actually is and despite the flippant tone and the airtight comment, something swells in his chest.
“You know what I got from his office this morning in response?” He reaches into his desk drawer. “This,” he exclaims holding up a pink booklet that Tony doesn’t need to read the title printed in gold to feel the bile coming up his throat; to feel the bottom of his stomach drop right down to his feet. “The Omega Regulation Act for the Workplace,” Fury says, voice slightly raised. “Not a letter enclosed. Not even a note. You know what that means?”
Tony sucks in a breath. That General Ross is a dickhe*d alpha, he does not say.
“That we are out of options,” Fury answers his own question, punctuating every word with a shake of the booklet. “Do you understand?”
“Sir, of course—”.
“Nuh uh.” Fury smacks the booklet against his desk. “Think hard before you answer. Because you said you understood the direness of the situation when you turned down Barton’s offer to claim you—”
“Sir, please,” Tony says, half-aware that he is interrupting Fury which no one should do even on a good day. “I’d teach people how to turn their computers off again and on again, rotting in a smelly cubicle at the back of Radio Shack, before I become someone’s second—”
“It was going to be on paper only, just for—”
“—someone’s second omega, sir, even on paper. It’s a matter of principle, the first omega’s dignity—”
“Romanoff is your best friend and she suggested this!”
“Sir.” Tony rubs his hands down his face. “I appreciate everyone’s best efforts to help me keep doing the job I love, but in the face of a humiliating law, in a situation I have zero control over and a problem I cannot fix—sir, please, just don’t ask me to give up the last shred of dignity—”
“God, Stark, just stop,” Fury says, raising a hand. “Is taking customer service calls in the smelly cubicle part of holding on to your last shred of dignity? What happens when what’s-his-face decides to incorporate the Workplace Regulation Act voluntarily to butter up the president, or Ross, or some other higherup knothead and sends you the ‘you have 45 days to provide your updated mating status or hand in your resignation’ email?”
“Then I’ll hand in my resignation and go flip burgers at BGR,” Tony retorts, even though the words come much shakier than he’s hoped. “And if BGR decides to kick me out for being unable to find a damn alpha who’d be willing to mate a male omega, I’ll clean houses for a living.” He swallows the lump forming in his throat. Damn it. He is not going to tear up in this office ever again.
“So you’re admitting that if you could find an alpha who’s willing to take you as their first mate—”
“With all due respect sir,” Tony says, as firmly as he can manage, “are you throwing hypotheticals at me? I might need to pack my things and be gone by the end of the day and you’re bringing up the near-zero possibility of an alpha wanting to take me, a male omega they will never be able to breed, as first mate? It’s just—you’re being a little cruel don’t you think?” He trails off and wets his parched lips.
Fury sits back. He tilts his head and considers Tony as if it’s necessary to let Tony stew in his misery for a moment longer. “And what if it’s not hypothetical?”
“Excuse me?” Tony blurts out, feeling very still all of a sudden. As time stretches into eternity, Tony’s brain runs through possibilities like a little Raspberry Pi4, and yet he cannot come up with a single plausible scenario. He rubs his forehead. He blinks. He rubs his forehead again. The input is running through the compiled code but Tony’s processor is incapable of creating credible output. “Sir,” he says, miserably, “what’s going on?”
“This.” Fury slides the document he was reading before toward Tony. “An alpha has officially offered to claim you.”
Tony reaches for the document, hesitant fingers clutching before finally flipping it. He reads through the title page and the entire first section, and yet not a single word makes sense. His gut churns and his heart rattles in his chest, and maybe his vision is blurring a bit too, and he reads all the way to the end of the million pages, but he doesn’t understand anything.
“Who is—” Tony flips to the second page “—Steven Grant Rogers?” He looks up at Fury. “I don’t—is he—who—”
“Son, I’ve been told that you’d left the party on Friday night pretty drunk, but I figured HR is being HR about omega behavior. Are you telling me that you don’t remember the hour and half that you spent with Captain Rogers? I have an account—” he reaches for a page on top of a pile and starts to read “—from the outdoor area of the bar, the omega and the alpha talking extensively, omega keeps drinking, more talking, more drinking, the omega laying his head suggestively on the alpha’s shoulder—”
“Oh,” Tony says before his mouth hangs open for a beat. “The alpha—” he tries swallowing a few times “he just—we—he—that alpha? That cannot be right, sir, it must be a mistake. He probably meant someone else—” He flips through the pages feverishly but his own name is everywhere on the official claiming document, right through to the title page. “How can that be true? Why on earth would this Captain Rogers wanna—”
He then goes quiet, not because he has fully lost his ability to form sentences, even though he actually has, but because there is a knock on the door, and then the door opens, and then—is Tony seeing things that are not there?
Did Captain America just walk into Fury’s office?
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, taking a few steps forward to shake Fury’s hand who’s standing up to greet him, before turning around. “Hey, Tony.”
Now, Tony knows that Captain America has been back in the land of the living for a while, and, yes, Tony’s seen him quite a few times at Triskelion—mostly due to Tony wandering about on the 22nd floor in front of the STRIKE lounge to sneak a peek—but that’s about it. Tony has never talked to him, and his attempt at getting more information has been blocked as his personnel file is still fully confidential.
How on earth does Captain America know Tony by name?
Captain America comes a few steps closer, towering over him, close enough that his scent fills Tony’s nose: intense pinewood that’s vaguely familiar somehow. He draws one hand toward Tony, fiddling with his cowl with the other one. “I came right after we got rid of the drones, didn’t even stay for cleanup.”
Tony rises to his feet, staring at his fingers wrapped around Captain America’s stretched hand. He looks up, with a spinning head as Captain America finally removes his cowl, still holding Tony’s hand. “Good to see you again,” he says with a smile so bright that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
Oh.
Steven Grant Rogers.
***
“You’re sure it was him?” Nat says, shoving the second bottle of water in Tony’s face before sitting down on the armrest of Tony’s chair.
“No, Nat, I’m not sure—” Tony grabs the bottle and drinks half of it in one gulp “—maybe it was his double? In full star-spangled uniform with the cowl and all, and he’d rubbed himself in a bit of dirt and grime, and, oh possibly some blood, just to make it more believable.”
“Alright, champ, we get it,” Clint says, taking the water bottle from Tony and placing it on Tony’s desk. “It was Captain America himself.” He sits on the edge of the desk and turns to Nat. “Who happens to be the same alpha sticking by Tony’s side all night at the party on Friday.”
“That alpha looked really good,” Nat offers thoughtfully.
“Oh did he?” Clint says with mock annoyance, reaching to ruffle Nat’s hair. “Have a thing for the hot superhero alpha?”
Nat giggles and bumps his shoulder to Tony’s. “Objectively,” she says, throwing a playful punch at Clint’s stomach.
“Will you two love birds stop it for one second?” Tony reaches between them to break up their friendly wrestle. “I’m losing my sh*t here, and you two—hic—sh*t—hic. Gah.”
“Ah, babe, what happened?” Nat says, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulder.
“sh*t, Tony, hold your breath,” Clint orders, sliding down Tony’s desk and striding toward his own. “Here,” he says rummaging through his drawer, “here, here—uh huh, bingo!” He rushes back, hands a brown bag to Tony and sits back on the desk. “Breathe in this,” he instructs, and Tony does, taking in the old fried smell of whatever used to be in this old bag that’s been in Clint’s drawer for who knows how long. “Slowly out, there you go.”
Tony keeps breathing in and out of the bag, hiccuping with every other inhale.
“This is not gonna work, Clint, and now he can’t even tell us anything.” Nat reaches for the water on the table. “Here, have some more—”
“Nah, stop with the water!” Clint says as he snatches the bottle out of Nat’s hand. “That’s why he’s hiccuping in the first place, you made him drink too much.” He sets the bottle back on the desk. “Are you feeling a little better, buddy?”
Tony considers him for a moment, breathing, hiccuping, and breathing again. There is an ocean of emotions bubbling inside, but it’s too deep to reach through, too dark to even take a peek. It’s like riding a rollercoaster but the wagon is falling instead of gliding over the rails, or riding a lazy river but it’s a flood that’s taking him along like a flimsy piece of debris.
“It’s alright, babe, it’s alright. Let’s start small, okay?” Nat wraps his fingers in hers and squeezes gently. “You’ve never met him, the good looking alpha, before Friday Night?”
No, Tony shakes his head, still breathing into the bag.
“And had you ever talked to Captain America before today—or, well, Friday Night?” Clint asks.
Definitely not, Tony shakes his head so hard that he makes himself a little dizzy.
“Alright, alright, talking to him before or not, doesn’t really make a difference at this stage,” Nat muses. “Now, did Fury set a date?”
Yes.
“Is it soon?”
Tony tries to take the bag away to answer, just as his whole body shakes through a big hic. Clint rolls his eyes and pushes the bag right back to his mouth.
“Just yes or no,” Nat instructs gently before facing Clint. “He has to do the pre-mating medicals but if they go through SHIELD they can do that in the morning and then officiate here too so it can all be—” she turns back to Tony “—tomorrow?”
Tony nods. Tomorrow. He’ll be mated to Captain America —Steve, please call me Steve—tomorrow. There are 30 hours left, give or take, from the sh*t storm of life he’s known, and then…he has no clue what will happen after that.
“So you’ll have to move in with him?” Clint asks.
“Oh God, Tony,” Nat says, eyes wide. “You're moving in with him tomorrow?”
Tony doesn’t bother nodding this time. His eyes prickle a little, and he sucks in a long breath that deflates the bag enough to almost get sucked into his mouth. He has no choice but giving up his own place, not unless he is willing to have HR raise serious concerns about the legitimacy of this mating process. The timing might raise some eyebrows, coming the last day of Tony’s extension period, Fury had explained. It’s gotta be airtight considering Tony is…Fury had stammered a bit at this part (mostly due to Captain America—Steve, gah, Steve, had made a throaty sound, like a wounded animal hiding in a body of civilized human), but the truth remains unchanged: Tony is a male omega finding an alpha mate, and that happens, well, never. The last official bonding of a male omega was registered over 70 years ago.
“But it’s Captain America, right? He is supposed to be a great man,” Nat offers, sounding a little hopeful.
“He shows up out of nowhere, doing tequila shots with Tony on Friday as this innocent civilian alpha, and then offers to claim Tony while we all learn that he is actually Captain America?” Clint says animatedly. “Doesn’t it sound a little odd?”
“But he is offering to claim Tony. That’s really something, isn't it?”
“But why?” Clint turns to Tony. “Why on earth is he doing this?”
Tony takes the bag away and this time, no one tries to stop him. “I—” he tries, as he starts to crumple the bag in his palm but it’s a little damp and doesn’t scrunch up. “Maybe—” he tries again, hiccuping, as he flattens the bag between his palms.
Why is he doing this? Tony doesn’t remember all the details of Friday night, f*cking tequila, but he knows enough to be certain that he’d been the opposite of attractive. He remembers a lot of rambling about how f*cking unfair everything in life is, and especially the stupid omega workplace act, how Tony is going to lose his apartment if he loses his job, and maybe he would move into an omega house, or a brothel—
Oh, f*ck.
Holy f*cking sh*t.
“He’s Captain—hic—America, folks,” he says, voice watery, barely a whisper. “Guess, he’s just—” he looks down at the paper bag, and then pulls with all his force. “I guess he’s just being a great guy.” The bag rips apart and Tony’s hands fly in opposite directions, one almost hitting Nat in the chest. “He’s just being a great guy.”
***
“Oh nice, Tony,” the nurse says, glancing inside before stepping into the exam room. “You’ve already changed?”
“Yeah.” Tony looks down at his bare knees the way the thin paper gown barely covers the upper half of his thighs. “I figured I’d get started,” he says, smiling as brightly as he can. The beta lady Tony’s never met before and doesn’t know the name of does not need to know that Tony’s brain is going a million miles a second, or that the chair was shaking with his fidgeting so much that he’d decided to get up and do something to keep himself from bolting out of this room, the building, and maybe even the proximity of the DC area before she’d come in.
“Do we need to wait for—” the alpha? Captain America—ah Steven Grant Rogers? He’s not yet Tony’s mate so he can’t say my alpha but—excellent. Tony is staring at the nurse with his mouth hanging open.
“For the claimant?” she offers generously as she grabs her tablet from the side table. “I can get started with your base vitals.” She taps at the screen, looks up at Tony, and back at the tablet. “Huh. There’s only a female version of the pre-mating exam sheet for omegas.”
“Of course,” Tony says with a grimace, something twisting in his gut. God, isn’t he supposed to be used to this by now?
The nurse tilts her head, considering Tony for a moment. “It’s okay. We’ll just attach an amendment of the medical information form to it. If you could go ahead and sit down, I'll be right with you," she says, smiling reassuringly as she points to the exam table. “There’s a blanket for you to cover yourself when you lie down.”
The blanket is small. Tony folds it into a little bundle as he sits on the edge of the bed and holds it tight in his arms. He breathes in and out as the nurse instructs and opens his mouth to hold the thermometer dutifully. He doesn’t even wince when the pressure machine cuff digs into his skin; it’s nothing compared to what’s inevitably coming next.
“So, we do have to wait for, uh, the claimant, for the, uh, you know—” he says as soon as the cuff is off his arm.
“Yeah,” the nurse mutters apologetically. “I’ll leave you to get ready while I gather the requirements, okay? I'll close the curtain, to give you some privacy," she explains before stepping away, closing the curtain around the table.
“Alright then,” Tony mumbles to himself as he lies on the bed. The blanket barely reaches his knees, even with his feet curled on the bed, and he looks away from the stirrups at the end; there is no way he’ll stick his ass out a moment longer than it's absolutely necessary. The air conditioning vent is blowing a chilled current right onto his bare feet, and Tony listens to drawers open and close, objects rustle and clank, and focuses on his breathing (in, hold, out) not the things the nurse is collecting and what they'll be used for when the claimant arrives.
It’s the forty-fifth breath—or forty-sixth Tony can’t be sure. He just knows that he's trying to hold his breath one second longer, when all the noise from the other side of the curtain comes to a halt; there is the distinctive sound of a door as it opens heavily, scratching against the rough floor. Tony forgets to let his breath out altogether.
Oh God.
The claimant.
“Hi. I’m Captain—”
“Yes, Captain Rogers, come on in,” comes the nurse’s voice, mixed with the sound of the door being shut. “My name is Sheila, I’ll be performing the pre-claiming medical checks today.”
There is a stretch of silence, and all Tony can hear is the way his heart seems to be beating right in his ears. He’s shivering—f*cking aircon vent—but he’s thankful for the strong flow of air keeping his stupid distress from stinking up the place.
Calm the f*ck down, he yells at himself in his head. He knows that he has to go through this before the bonding can become official. He’s been reassuring himself, with every shaky steps between Fury’s room and their office, and in every waking moment of the past 18 hours or so, not that he's slept at all. You can do it, he’s been repeating to himself downing the small sandwich Nat had bought him from the cafeteria, riding in their car with his head against Nat’s shoulders in the back seat, with every piece of clothing he’d stuffed into plastic bags, every book that he’d shoved into a small cardboard box.
“Is Tony—”
“Yes, yes, he is here, all ready for you—" a beat, she must be gesturing to the curtain where Tony is most certainly not ready for what’s about to happen “—I’ve collected everything we need, so if you can perhaps sanitize your hands—”
“Uh, so he’s already—”
“Oh yeah, he is right there. I’ve done all the pre-checks so—” there is a squelch and then another, followed by hands rubbed together “—perfect, now if you can put on the gloves—” more rustling and movement about, and then the curtain opens with a woosh.
“Oh, hey, Tony!” comes Captain Rogers’ sunny voice. He is in civilian clothes, looking a lot like the alpha in Tony's fragmented memories from Friday night, and he is waving a gloved hand, smiling bright like he’s just meeting Tony for a picnic. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Um, hey,” Tony forces out, painfully aware that there is no picnic going on. “It’s okay, we just—”
“So if you lift your leg for me,” Sheila says, grabbing Tony’s shin and Tony’s head jerks to the foot of the bed with slight resentment, mostly because of the way the unexpected move pushes the blanket off his feet, and only a little for finally learning her name now that she has introduced herself to the alpha in the room. “He’s all ready for you,” she announces as she puts Tony’s other shin in the stirrup, turning to the side table she’s left her supplies on. “It’s much easier if you apply some lube before entering.” She turns back with a bottle that must be the damn lube and holds it out. “And then I’ll supervise as you enter with two fingers, one by one, then go all the way in before crooking your fingers to—uh, Captain Rogers? Everything alright?”
Tony glances back. Captain Rogers—Steve, for f*ck’s sake, Steve— does not look alright: ears pink, nose flaring, and despite the aircon doing its best to blast away all and any scent traces, Tony can smell the sharp citrusy tone of his scent wafting in the air.
“Uh,” he tries, in the pained constraint of someone who’s doing his best not to growl. “Why—” he gestures toward Tony’s bottom half “—why—” and then he stops, hand frozen in the air, mouth hanging open.
“Oh,” Sheila drops the hand that's offering the lube. “I’m very sorry, did you prefer him to be on hands and knees?”
Tony bites his bottom lip to hold back a shriek. Hands and knees?
“I’m aware that that’s the more traditional way but SHIELD's Omega Dignity Code has a specific clause for virginity tests and that’s actually why almost all of our omega workers do the pre-mating checks here with us, but—” she looks at Tony, eyes narrowed in concern “—I suppose if you insist and the omega consents—”
Tony doesn’t consent. He doesn't consent at all, but he also has no intention of ruining the deal now that he’s come so far. The alpha’s gonna stick his fingers into his ass, and there is no f*cking dignity preserved no matter how Tony’s placed when it happens. “It’s fine," he forces out finally, "I’m—”
“No, God,” comes a groan and Tony’s head snaps to the side, to watch the alpha near in terrifyingly quick strides. He rips off the gloves and then looks around, presumably to find somewhere to toss them politely, and then shoves them in his pants pocket in lieu of a trash bin. It’s kinda anticlimactic, Tony thinks, amused despite his utter confusion, as Steve takes off his jacket and places it gently so it sorta helps cover Tony’s thighs, before turning around his full body a barrier between Tony and the world. “No. I don’t prefer it that way,” he says in a tight voice that deliberately not a growl. “I don't prefer it at all. I can’t believe we’re still doing this, I just—for God’s sake.”
Something shakes loose in Tony’s chest; tears he didn't know he was holding back burn down his cheeks. He is hearing right, right?
“Um, sir. I’m sorry but that’s protocol. The officiant will not perform the ceremony—”
“So you’re saying we never got rid of the test but the alpha’s right to forgo it has been repealed?”
“I,” Sheila says, exasperated. “I’ve never heard of that, I’m sorry, but if it exists, we should have a form for it.”
"Great, please look for it. Now," he orders, firm, and Sheila scrambles toward her desk, tapping frantically at her tablet. "Now, Tony," he says without turning around, "could you please sit up for me? I need to turn back and speak with you, but not before you, uh, just let me know when it's fine for me to turn back, okay?"
He is hearing right.
The alpha is waiting to sign a form to forego his f*cking right to look for traces of being knotted in Tony’s ass, and is waiting for Tony to make himself decent before turning to speak with him, which—yup. Tony can yank his feet out of the stirrup and cover himself with the blanket and the offered jacket in a heartbeat.
Sheila is still tapping away at her tablet when Steve finally turns back. Tony braces himself for the angry alpha show down, the smokey scent and the fiery eyes that don’t come. The alpha is smiling again, and it’s not the happy, let’s-go-on-a-picnic smile from a few minutes ago, but it calms the rawness of Tony’s nerves anyway. “Are your clothes in this room?”
Tony swallows to stifle a sob and, ugh, god f*cking damn it, starts to hiccup. “They’re—hic, ah, hic—” he tries, and then decides to nod instead, pointing to the chair by the desk.
“Okay. If I bring them to you, are you good to put them on on your own while I sort out these pre-mating forms?”
Tony nods, unable to produce words as tears keep running down and the hiccups continue on; as if the situation was not humiliating enough to begin with. Steve nods back and then gathers all of Tony’s neatly folded clothes, placing them in a bundle next on the examination table. He then reaches into his pants pocket, pulling out an honest-to-god handkerchief, and holds it out to Tony. “I’ll fix this,” he says gently, before closing the curtain behind himself, and there is something in his tone, in his scent that’s stubbornly stuck in the space behind the curtain despite all of the aircon’s efforts, that tells Tony that he actually will.
***
“I didn’t want this to be the first cup of coffee we have together,” Steve says as he sets two paper cups on the table and slips into the chair closer to Tony. “I’m sorry.”
“Nah.” Tony pulls one of the cups closer to himself and pushes one toward Steve. “The coffee here isn’t that bad,” he says with an expression that hopefully resembles a smile. “You should drink some from the coffee pot in my lab in the middle of the night which is really, truly terrible.”
“Is that so?” Steve says with a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “They don’t have 24/7 attendants on the 8th floor?”
Tony blows his nose in Steve’s handkerchief, what a sexy first cup of coffee indeed, and shakes his head. “They only have 24/7 attendants for the operations floors. You know, the fancy lounges and the rooms with actual beds. The number of times Nat has come to the lab on Monday morning to find me curled up under one of the tables—”
“Oh, that sounds awful,” Steve says, crunching his nose before taking a sip of the coffee.
“Again, not that bad. I have a pillow and a blanket stacked in one of the larger cupboards. I do even wash them from time to time so—”
“But if you wake up on Monday in the lab, that means you spend your Sunday in the lab.”
“And Saturday. We do have showers on the Tech Intelligence floor, even a tiny omega room, so I sometimes take showers before I start my week.”
Steve tilts his head to the side and considers Tony with narrow eyes, for far too long, as Tony gulps down half of his coffee and pretends his mouth is not burning at all and then burst into laughter, loud enough that a few people turn back to glance at them from around the cafeteria area. It’s pretty deserted, thank God, as it’s after the morning rush and before lunch, and people don’t stop to gawk, because no one really knows who Tony is, and Steve, well. Tony knows for a fact that he is one of the very few privileged people in the entire building who knows the alpha grabbing his own chest with his head thrown back is actually Captain America.
“There are so many red flags in this story, Tony, I can make a long list,” he finally says, tone light and Tony doesn’t worry about any items on that list. “But I’m glad that you do take a shower before you start the week.”
Tony smiles despite himself. “I’m glad that you find my efforts and my dedication to this organization amusing, Captain.” The same organization that was ready to let me go before your charitable offer to claim me, he doesn’t say as he downs the rest of his coffee.
“That is actually admirable, Tony,” Steve says, face suddenly sincere, eyes sparkling. “I knew you worked hard, but had no idea that it was this hard.” He smiles, the same sad, reassuring smile, and nods. “And I’m really sorry, not for the coffee, which I'm glad doesn’t suck by the way, but for—” he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, which he’s finally put on after asking Tony if he still needs it at least four times “—for all of this nonsense.” He puts the envelope on the table, right between their coffee cups. “I should’ve known—I should have been there earlier to stop it.” He rubs his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry for everything.”
Something prickles Tony’s eyes again, as he holds the envelope, brushing a finger tip over its seal. SHIELD Medical Department, he reads slowly, fighting the urge to hide it away from the danger of coffee spills; there is no chance in hell that he will live that nightmare ever again.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
Tony looks up a little confused at the abrupt change of subject. “Uh, what?”
“You look a little, a little pale, and your scent—I just—maybe something sweet? The muffins look really good, so, can I get you one? Please?”
Tony watches the alpha for a moment, gesticulating as he points back to the display by the counter. “Sure,” he says, feeling a little funny inside. He is not hungry, hasn’t been for a long time but he will eat whatever this alpha is flying to the counter to buy for him.
He’ll at least try.
***
The officiant office is full to the brim.
Carol has cut her air mission short to get back to DC and Rhodey has flown overnight from Belgium just to be here for this mere resemblance of a bonding ceremony. Fury has given Tony’s team the rest of the day off, but he’s also taken the time to be there for the officiation in a personal capacity. Nat FaceTimes Jarvis and it only takes him a few moments to finally hold the phone far enough from his face to show more than the top of his forehead.
Agent Carter, or Sharon as Steve introduces her while she shakes Tony’s hand with a bright smile, produces a navy tie and fixes the knot around Steve’s neck, and Captain Wilson—Sam, as Steve insists on Tony calling him—smoothes Steve’s jacket and slicks back his hair.
The officiant has a bit of a hard time hiding his bewilderment that morphs into genuine amusem*nt as he goes through all of their forms, and fills out his own share of amendment attachments; there are of course no options for male omegas in the official mating forms.
Steve smiles apologetically, and grabs both of Tony’s hands at the officiant’s instruction, holding Tony’s eyes as he promises to provide and protect. Tony stares back as he vows to obey and respect, too distracted to dwell on how they’re making very different promises to enter one same life. He’s getting married, who would have thought, and except of course for his mom, he’s surrounded by all the people he could have wanted by his side on this day; not that he’d dared to ever dream of it happening.
Steve opens the box that Sam hands him to get out the ring. It’s a simple gold band, warm and solid around Tony’s finger and Tony’s hands are steady enough to get the silver band out of the box Nat’s holding.
People cheer when the officiant pronounces them alpha and omega. Nat claps and squeezes herself to Clint’s side. Rhodey wraps his arm around Tony’s shoulder and Carol kisses Tony’s cheek. Sharon shakes Tony’s hand again before hugging Steve and Sam claps Tony firmly on his shoulder.
Fury nods and smiles—which happens only once every 200 years.
People are happy.
Despite life beeing a mixture of wild dreams and dark nightmares these past days, it’s still an official bonding ceremony that’s taking place.
****
“Sorry for the mess,” Steve says as he walks in and holds the door open for Tony.
“Mostly my boxes,” Tony says as he passes Steve by and sets foot inside the small living room. “I am sorry.”
“I have a storage space downstairs, almost empty,” Steve says as he catches up to Tony and takes a few steps ahead to stand right in the middle of the room.
“Yeah, of course,” Tony says, taking off his backpack and dropping his duffel bag on the hardwood floor. He starts for one of the boxes, God, this must be books because it’s so f*cking heavy. “I can move everything down there, just show me—”
The box is taken out of his hands and it takes Tony a few seconds to realize that it’s just Steve showing up in front of him at his now-familiar superhuman speed. “Oh for lord’s sake, this is too heavy,” he says, mildly annoyed, and puts the box back on top of a stack where it was. “I didn’t mean it—not for your boxes, Tony, I meant that I should move things down there to find space for your stuff—” he gestures around “—in here. Okay?”
Something swells in Tony’s chest. There is 200 pounds of alpha with the combined strength of 20 alphas, at least, obviously annoyed with Tony, and still, all Tony feels deep down, besides all the butterflies jittery in his chest considering the circ*mstances, is amusem*nt. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Steve says, taking a step back, all the annoyance cleared out of his face and out of his scent. He picks up Tony’s duffel bag and backpack. “Here,” he announces as he opens a door at the other end of the living room and walks in. Tony follows inside as Steve turns on the light, and Tony has to stop and hold the door frame to keep steady; the thick scent of pinewood is so intense that’s setting his head into spin.
“We’ll clean up and move things in the morning,” Steve says, turning to him. “I’m so beat, don't think I’ve slept much in the past 3 days.” He sets Tony’s stuff down by the foot of the bed. “I was hoping to go straight to sleep just after I fixed something for you to eat—”
“No, God, no, I’m stuffed,” Tony says, stopping himself from rubbing his belly as soon he realizes he’s doing it. “There was too much food and it was all delicious, and then you went ahead and ordered cake too!”
“It was such a small affair,” Steve says, “but at least we had cake.”
Tony smiles. “I didn’t expect there to be any affairs, and yet, there was food and drinks and even flowers, and all of my friends were there," he says, finally finding his bearings to walk inside. “I’d say it was a very right-sized affair.”
“So you never dreamt of a fancy ceremony, with doves and carriages and all that?”
“No,” Tony says, shaking his head, swallowing the lump he does not want back in his throat. “That’s not something I’d dream of.”
“Yeah, of course, I mean you’re are an independent and progressive omega, and I understand that a lot of these traditions are actually considered predicaments of patriarchy—”
“Not like that, no.” Tony cuts him off, only a little amazed. After what went down in the medical room this morning, it shouldn’t be surprising to hear Captain America use bonding traditions and patriarchy in the same sentence. “I—I never thought I’d get married. At all.”
Steve tilts his head, smiling, the moonlight from the night sky out of the window dancing in his eyes. “I’m glad we got that sorted, then.”
The moment stretches and stops; Tony gets lost in Steve's smile, his scent and the warmth of his words. It doesn't makes sense, and yet, it feels like the first ray of dawn after a dark stormy night.
***
From the list of unexpected things that’s happened since Tony set foot in the bar on Friday evening, being left to sleep alone in the alpha’s bed on their mating night has got to be the most disconcerting.
Tony’s mouth is hanging open as Steve opens and closes a drawer and slips in and out of the bathroom, and explains that Tony is welcome to anything in the bathroom, stressing a couple of times that they can shop for whatever Tony needs tomorrow. He stares at the closed door for far too long, as if waiting for things to somehow shift back into place.
Tony sits on the double dark wood bed, a little dizzy with the swirl of disappointment mixed with relief, and empties his duffel bag on top of the neatly-made beige comforter.
Nat has packed him the old folder of his most precious things, a toothbrush, his shampoo and conditioner, and the product that keeps him from turning into a sheep when he goes to bed with wet hair. A pair of jeans, a pullover, a button-down and a couple of t-shirts, and—
when did she even get a chance to buy this? She was glued to Tony’s side the whole time. She’d even stayed the night, mostly packing Tony’s stuff to be ready for the movers first thing in the morning and yet—she seems to have finally worked out how to be in two places at the same time. Tony picks up the delicate garment and holds it up carefully. It’s a sheer, deep red fabric with gold embroidery and a tasteful opening at the rear with tiny bands so it doesn’t need to be removed at all while—
Tony shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He knows that Steve can find omegas to knot at the drop of his cowl without the trouble of tying himself to any. He also knows, from painful personal experience, that it’d be even easier for Steve to hook up with male omegas if that was his thing. Tony has known from the start of this mad show that Steve had not claimed him for that. It’s just that Tony has been hoping that Steve’d be interested in that, at least a little.
He feels the threads between his fingers. Heat swirls in his spine and coils low in his gut. He can’t stop thinking about it all of a sudden, wearing this, sprawled on this bed, Steve’s broad hands roaming over his body, tracing the golden embroidery lines gently with those strong fingers, and Tony, biting his lip, digging his nails, to keep from moaning, his slick soaking—
God f*cking damn it.
Tony throws the damn thing like it’s burning his fingers and shoves it under the pile of his clothes.
He is hard and leaking through his jeans on his mating night, but what else is new? Steve is Steve, he is Captain frigging America; he is of course not interested in the only thing that Tony has to offer.
***
Tony wakes up to an empty apartment.
There is a note on the fridge letting him know that Steve is out for a run and will be back shortly. Tony reads the note a few times, tracing the O’s that look like tiny teardrops and musing: he has no idea when Steve has left and and doesn’t know what shortly exactly means.
Is he still supposed to make the ‘morning after’ breakfast, even if nothing has happened the night before? He should call Nat, probably, but the idea of explaining things as they happened last night makes his stomach churn.
It’s just breakfast right? Just an omelet.
Tony should just make the stupid omelet.
Thing is, that he never had a reason to pay any attention in the omega finishing school. Howard was so adamant that Tony goes despite the fact that he was never going to use the knowledge. Male omegas can’t get pregnant, the teacher, whatever her name was, had explained to the whole class, pointing to Tony, so they’re not the most desirable mates. Tony can still remember the bitter taste of the bile down his throat when every single omega in the class turned to look at him.
And yet, he is here, despite all odds, standing in his alpha’s kitchen, and hoping that he could turn back time to listen to the teacher’s monotonous voice as she was explaining the damn recipe for the morning after breakfast.
He doesn’t have the password for the wifi, and wow, AT&T has received a notice that Tony’s now bonded, so they’ve kindly disconnected his phone until they receive his alpha’s letter of consent.
Using his creativity for cooking has never resulted in success even with full-proof recipes Nat has given him from time to time, and this time is no exception. The mixture of eggs and milk is too runny and adding flour to it turns it into a disgusting goo. The butter burns and smokes up the kitchen and the white goo turns into black pieces of brick as soon as Tony deposits the mixture into the frying pan.
“Son of a bitch,” he shouts as he turns off the stove, opens the window and dumps the frying pan with all its content right into the sink. The water thins down the brick pieces slowly filling up the sink, and Tony breathes in the terrible fumes, holds, and breathes out, just to keep from crumbling into a pile right by the kitchen sink.
“Tony?” comes Steve’s voice from the door. “Are you in the kitchen?”
Tony braces himself on his elbows at the edge of the sink. As the door shuts and the footsteps near, he tries to go through all the scenarios that might unfold from here on. He will take it on the chin if Steve gets annoyed with the mess, and he’ll just clean everything up, maybe sort out the internet access and try again—but what if Steve holds back the wifi password? What if he gets angry, what if—
“Good morning,” Steve says from the other side of the counter. “Did you sleep well?”
Tony straightens his back. There is no way out, so he’ll go through, with at least his head held high. “Morning,” he says, and of course his damn voice betrays him, trembling like he’s about to burst into tears. I slept for five minutes, he doesn't say. “The bed was very comfortable, thank you.”
“Great!” Steve puts the water bottle he is holding on the kitchen counter, and leans his side against the dark stone. “Alright, now, I know we didn’t have time to plan a trip to the Bahamas for our honeymoon, and have, you know, the perfect morning after breakfast, but—” he says, running his hands through his sweaty hair, and God, it’s impossible to miss— even with the way Tony’s heart is hammering in his chest and his throat is so f*cking dry—how beautiful he is. “If you give me five minutes to take a shower, I’ll take you to the next best place. What do you say?”
He then waits, in silence, eyes glued to Tony’s lips, and it takes Tony many mesmerized moments to finally figure it out: he’s offering to take Tony to breakfast and he’s actually waiting to hear what Tony has to say.
There is no way, none in hell, that Steve can’t tell what’s been going on in the kitchen mere moments before he walked in, and yet he looks sincere, a little anxious even, as if Tony is going to decline getting out of his obvious entanglement.
“Um—sure,” Tony says, sounding anything but sure, but it’s apparently enough, as Steve’s face lights up and sparkles shine in the blue of his eyes.
“Oh, perfect,” he says as if he’s hit the jackpot and discovered a new element at the same time, and then just turns around and disappears in the bedroom, leaving Tony in the middle of the kitchen with a spinning head and a reeling mind.
This must be the weirdest dream of his life: the alpha coming back from his run, taking a look at the mess Tony has made in the kitchen and asking to take him to breakfast—the next best place after the honeymoon in f*cking Bahamas that he haven’t had a chance to plan.
Tony squirts some detergent over the sponge and breathes. This is not the weirdest dream of his life; the burnt butter stinks and the mess in the sink is disgusting, and Tony will clean up this sh*t before Steve comes out of the bathroom, if it’s the last thing he ever does in his whole damn life.
***
It’s a cold February morning but the sun is out and the wind has no chill.
They walk a few minutes, a little awkward at first before Steve starts to point out every interesting thing on the way, and Tony’s roaring heart slows down like the ice at the edge of the pavements that’s starting to melt under the sun.
The breakfast place they step in is not the next best thing, it’s simply the best: a specialty science bookshop, with an adjacent diner and potted plants on every empty surface. It has a comics section of course, and first editions of old books that are not locked away in glass displays. Tony sits in a bean bag right between artificial intelligence and astrophysics and is deep into the third chapter of An Introduction to Modern Astrophysics when Steve taps him on the shoulder, holding out the coffee-stained menu for him to choose from. He would be happy with whatever Steve chooses, but he picks something anyway as if he can predict the way Steve’s smile grows three sizes bigger just for that.
The pancakes are fantastic and the French toast tastes superb. The donut comes with pulled beef and the fruit salad has things that Tony doesn’t recognise but taste heavenly anyway. Tony eats more than he remembers doing, well, ever, partly because he feels hungry after what must be a week, and partly because of the way Steve lights up with every bite he offers that Tony opens his mouth for.
There are no omelets on the menu and everything is alright, at least for a couple of hours.
***
There is enough space for another two people in the bathroom even after Tony unpacks his things, and an entire empty drawer at the bottom of the dresser other than the two Tony empties all of his socks and underwear into. His books find their place on the bookshelf next to every book ever published about WWII, and if the disaster in the kitchen this morning was not telling enough, the lack of kitchen supplies in all of his belongings leaves no room for speculation about Tony’s culinary expertise.
“Here, look,” Steve says, pulling at the fabric of a t-shirt. “This one is definitely not white.”
“Uh,” Tony says out of breath. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and it’s only partially metaphorical, because Steve’s pressed to his left and the closet door frame is an inch away from his right. He needs oxygen to go down his burning throat, right now, but he doesn’t know if he can manage to take in another whiff of Steve’s scent before doing something completely embarrassing like pawing at his stupidly solid chest that’s constantly threatening to rip out of one of those very white, very small t-shirts. He takes a step back, pretending to allow in some light. “What color do you say this one is?”
“Blue?” Steve turns back to him, taking the t-shirt fully out of the closet and holding it in front of Tony’s face. “See, it’s clearly blue.”
Tony narrows his eyes, takes a step further, a step close. “Nah,” he says, fully aware that it’s unwise to argue about something so trivial with an alpha who’s capable of breaking him in two in every possible way under the sun. “I’m sorry, but it seems to be your enhanced powers giving you the ability to see colors the rest of us can’t.”
Steve is studying the shirt with utter precision. “Are you messing with me?” he asks, with a playful smile. “You really don’t see it?”
Tony shrugs and smiles back. “Maybe you should consider some colors that are distinguishable by us common mortals? Navy, for example, or, I don’t know, yellow. And I’m sure there is no law at least against wearing t-shirts with designs, or a henley or oxfords, you know, shirts that you can wear when you’re not meeting the president.”
“I did meet the president wearing this one,” Steve says, pointing to a white ironed dress shirt hanging right at the end, next to a coat cover that must be the tux that goes with it.
“I bet you looked amazing,” Tony says, unable to stop from picturing Steve’s perfect shape sculpted in the perfect fitting pants of a tux, and the vest, and the bow-tie.
“Yeah?” he asks, and there is something raw and genuine in his tone that blends into his scent. “I can wear them when I’m not meeting the president,” he perks up, so boyish, so young. Tony’s heart skips a couple of beats.
“I’d love to see that,” he hears himself say, and maybe that was a very stupid thing to blurt out, but Steve’s smile reaches his eye and Tony thinks that he’ll do things way more stupid to see that happen again.
***
“Here’s where I keep my, um, things,” Steve says, opening what Tony thought was a wooden bench. He fishes out an old cookie tin, removing the lid before sitting on the floor, spreading the things around, and gesturing for Tony to join him. “This is the first time I saw a colored movie at the theater.” He holds up a printed receipt and hands it to Tony tentatively as if Tony would refuse to take it. “It was three months ago, and they don’t do tickets in cinemas anymore.”
Tony reads the name of the movie, and feels something pressing down on his throat, imagining Steve going to the cinema all by himself to see his first colored movie 75 years in the future.
“This is how they do baseball cards these days.” He passes a card to Tony, Babe Ruth. “I got a bunch of Dodgers cards but they don’t—uh,” he holds up some obviously vintage cards but doesn't hand pass them, he puts them in his lap, keeping one in his palm, tracing the signature. “They looked like these, the ones I had. I had one just like this one, signed by Babe Ruth himself. He came to Brookdale Hospital a bunch of times, and I was there, well, always. He signed my baseball too—” he drags a ball out of the tin “—just like this one.”
Tony takes the ball, but keeps his eyes on Steve, a little too focused on not reaching over to wrap his arms around those hunched shoulders. “I used to keep them all in a cookie tin, just like this one. I still remember the taste of the cookies. My ma had bought them one time I was out of the hospital after a long stay. To make you stronger, she said when she handed the whole box to me. I ate one a day, trying to eat the white part of the pinwheel separate from the chocolate part. It was a whole thing.” He smiles, staring at something in the distance that’s not there. “Now you can buy all of this from the internet—so helpful. And everything looks exactly the same, so I mostly get away with pretending that there is something left from the life I used to know.” He turns fully to look into Tony’s eyes. “Oh well. This was not supposed to turn into a pity party,” he says, clearing his throat, straightening his back. “What I was trying to say,” he says, flashing a toothy grin, “is that you’re welcome to put your, uh, stuff, in here as well. If you want to.” And then because Tony doesn’t respond right then and there, trying to analyze the magnitude of everything Steve’s just said, “or not. It’s fine. It’s actually—”
“No, I want to,” Tony rushes to say. “Please don’t rescind the invitation just yet,” he adds, standing up and wincing. He limps toward the bedroom, his foot asleep, a thousand needles pinching him with every step. “I’d love to put my stuff right next to your things.”
It’s just halfway through the bedroom to grab his backpack that he realizes the implication of what he’s said but Steve’s laughing with his head thrown back when Tony sits back down and pulls his ‘stuff’ folder out, so it’s all worth it.
***
Tony falls asleep, right after Steve leaves him in the apartment to take the empty boxes down to the storage room and wakes up to the aroma of seared garlic and soffritto. He follows the smell into the kitchen and watches the muscles of the alpha’s back flexing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and his heart does this unexpected swoon with the way he wipes his hands on a white towel before throwing it over his shoulder.
He volunteers to set the table—or the kitchen counter—and struggles only a little to find where things are, as Steve stirs the sauce and cooks the pasta. Tony sits at the counter, arms under his chin mesmerized as Steve chops the parsley and grates the cheese, as if he’s performing magic tricks and burns his mouth with the first forkful because he can’t take the wait one moment longer.
“This reminds me so much of my mom,” he says, absently in the middle of taking a gulp of wine and shoving another forkful into his mouth. “It’s like how our kitchen used to smell, at least before Howard hired Jarvis.”
“I, uh,” Steve blushes again—God he really has to stop doing that before Tony does something he’ll regret for as long as he lives— and rubs the back of his neck. “Ms. Romanoff might have mentioned that I should make sure to make you some Italian food, a sure way of keeping Tony fed—her words not mine.”
“I do eat.” Tony drops the fork and places the wine glass down. “I ate a ton of breakfast and nothing was Italian. I’ll kill Ms Romanoff as soon as I’m back in the office, I must say, or better I’ll just walk over to their place—” Tony shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I do love Italian though. This… It's perfect. I love it.”
“I’m glad,” Steve says gently.
Tony downs a bit of wine, tracing the warmth as it passes his throat and reaches his stomach. “My mom was Italian. I remember her making ragu with fettuccine just for me because for whatever reason I didn't like the wider pastas. She didn’t cook much after Anna took over the kitchen, so eating Italian food is definitely a core memory.”
“And Anna, what about her? Did you like her cooking?”
“Oh, yeah, I loved her food too, so in case Nat has not elaborated as much, anything with potatoes is a go.”
“Oh, I have eaten potatoes a lot, because my ma was Irish and we were poor and they were cheap. I must be about 20 percent potatoes.” Steve then laughs at his own joke, throwing his head back, grabbing his chest, and Tony laughs too, so much that he almost chokes on a mouthful of pasta.
“So Italian, anything with potatoes, and, what else?” Steve asks as he reaches into his pants pocket to pull out a tiny notebook; the same one he was reading his shopping list from earlier in the grocery store. “So I know what I should cook, it’s easier when I plan ahead.”
“I can cook,” Tony says, sounding what must be the opposite of convincing.
“Of course,” Steve says, unfazed.
“I can,” he says stubbornly. “I’m not good at it, well, I'm sh*t at it, but I can get better.” Because he can, he absolutely can. If Steve, for a reason pretty unfathomable, can be such a decent, giving, stupidly kind alpha, Tony can get better at cooking. He can’t change his insides and can’t make himself more attractive but this should be achievable even if it would need a lot of effort.
“I’m sure,” Steve says with a wide smile as if he’s dealing with a stubborn child. You’re smart, and I’m sure you’ve followed a million instructions when putting things together, developing things I’m not smart enough to understand. I’m positive that you’d be a fantastic cook if you wanted to. But—” he takes a sip from his glass, slowly, as if he’s waiting for his words to become less outrageous “—why would you? Why would you spend the time when you can build something to save someone’s life?”
“I’m not building stuff at home—”
“Then you better be resting, right? So you don’t make a mistake when you are building stuff. Everybody wins, right?”
Tony stares at him for a beat. Not everyone, he can’t explain. The words burn in his mouth, and he swallows them with the wine Steve’s just poured. “Cheeseburgers,” he says instead. “I like cheeseburgers.” The bubble will burst some day but Steve is smiling and scribbling in his notebook, and that’s good enough for right now.
***
“I bet you can’t wait to get back to work,” Steve says, sounding too upbeat for six in the morning. He’s already been on his run before waking Tony up by knocking on the bedroom’s door and is now making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“Mmm,” Tony mumbles mostly into his coffee. He actually is in no rush to go back; he’d stick around and watch Steve make food and show him his mockup childhood memories for another hundred days if he could. “You?”
“Uh,” Steve says, placing a plate of too many sandwiches stacked on top of each other in the middle of the counter top. “I was asleep for 75 years and the business of saving people does not stop.”
It’s too early to think about everything Steve’s mentioning only in his last sentence; too many red flags in Steve’s own words, and Tony reaches for a sandwich before he can reach for Steve’s hands. “Do you like your team?” he asks instead, taking a big bite. “They should be thrilled to be able to be working with Captain America.” I’d kill to be working with you, he of course does not say.
“Eh,” Steve says, still too upbeat. “I don’t know. They’ve been working together for years and their captain kinda got demoted when I joined so—” he takes a small bite from his sandwich and drinks a bit of his coffee “—they’re fine. We’re an effective strike team, we get the work done. The rest doesn’t really matter.”
“I mean, it kinda does. Natasha is my best friend, and Clint is like the dumbass, goofy, super-protective brother I never had.” Tony puts his mug down and grabs another sandwich. “I love working with them, to be honest, they’re—they’re family. I was so lucky to get this tech internship just as my guardian disowned me and kicked me out of my own house.” Oh well. Steve was the one who started the too-serious-for-6-in-the-morning talk.
“I—I read about that.” Steve says, both palms flexing around his mug. “I still can’t believe he got away with keeping your parents’ wealth without honoring his duty to look after their omega child,” he adds with that strained sort of anger Tony’s now learned to recognize in his voice.
Tony shakes his head, and eats half of his next sandwich in one giant bite. “He controlled the money, and he spent a good chunk of it on the most expensive lawyers to argue his case.” He shakes his head again, forcing a smile. “I got the internship, thanks to Fury knowing my dad, through his extensive work with SHIELD. I found Nat and Clint along the way, and got to keep Anna and Jarvis, because they got kicked out as well. Howard probably expected that one because he left them a house, but anyway—It’s just money, and I don’t need it anyway.”
“It’s good. I’m glad you had people to care for you before—to care for you.” Steve smiles, one of those sad little smiles that Tony is beginning to hate. He feels the itch in his fingers to reach over the counter and caress the sadness away. “I have a bit of money, and it’s legally all yours now, so if you—I don’t know—if you wanted to fund a personal project or something—”
Something goes down the wrong pipe and Tony starts to cough. Is Steve humoring him? He must know that anything Tony owns belongs to Steve now, but not the other way around, and Tony wants to explain it to him, just to be on the safe side, but he forgets to as Steve has to hit his back a few times and then rub it gently, as Tony sips water to soothe his burning throat.
***
Nat wraps her arms around Tony and squeezes him hard. “I missed you, babe, it’s awful without you here.”
Clint rolls his eyes. “I’m glad to know having me around is so awful.”
Nat chuckles and steps back so Clint gets his turn to squeeze Tony to himself. “You know what I mean, alpha, of course I love having you around all the time,” she says with a sweet smile but then makes a face at Tony that makes him laugh. “How are you, babe? How was the mini moon?”
“It was—” Tony says, as he takes his jacket off and sits behind his desk. “It was surreal. It is surreal.” He turns on his desktop and watches the SHIELD logo blink at him as the computer starts up. “Last Thursday I was positive that I’ll be gone on Monday and now I’m married. To Captain America.”
Nat sighs and sits at her desk. “Surreal is an understatement.”
“So how is he?” Clint says, sitting on the chair between the desks. “What happened when he realized what he’s gotten himself into?”
Tony turns to him with mock annoyance. “And what is that exactly?”
“The fact that you can’t boil a potato if your life depends on it, for example, or sew a stitch even if it’s my ripped chest.”
“Ewe, Clint, not the ripped chest metaphor again, come on,” Nat scolds. “Tony can do whatever he sets his mind to, if he sets his mind to it. Right?”
“He doesn’t seem to care.” Tony rolls his eyes at both of them. “Who knows. Maybe he decided he didn’t want a mate who could cook or clean or produce an heir for that matter.”
“I don’t know,” Clint says. “I wanted all of that and I still ended up with this thing,” he adds pointing to Nat, and ducks down as Nat charges for him, holding him in a headlock with minimal effort.
“Say you’re sorry,” Nat says, tightening her hold around his neck, knocking gently on his head. “Now!”
“Never!”
Nat’s in the air one moment, squealing, half-surprised and half-giggling. Then she’s sitting in Clint’s lap, secured in place with both of Clint’s arms for one long moment before she frees herself and jumps off.
“This is a nice dress, you animal,” she pouts, smoothing down the folds of her skirt.
“sh*t, sorry, sweetheart,” Clint says, closing the space between them. “Let me see, did I ruin—ugh!” And he’s in a headlock again this time flat on his stomach, with Nat kneeling on his back. “You sneaky little omega, I never learn ugh—easy, easy—ah—”
Tony stands up to see the proceedings properly, laughing so hard he can’t really hear if Clint finally says sorry before Nat lets him go, and he’s not distracted at all with everything Steve should want that Tony is not and what it will mean when Steve comes to his senses about them.
***
“You really would sleep here if no one comes looking for you,” comes a voice from the threshold of the lab.
“Hello, stranger,” Tony says, eyes fixed on the board he is trying to fix. “It’s only, what, 4:30?”
“No windows and no clocks on the wall, I can see.” Footsteps come closer. “But it’s actually 6:53 and I was hoping to take you home for dinner sometime before midnight.”
“Is it really?” Tony takes the soldering iron out of its stand and starts to solder the IC socket. “The prototype for my drone enhancement kit is being sh*tty with me and I need to fix it before the showback tomorrow.”
“It’s okay,” comes from somewhere right in front of his station. “I’ll just wait here, if that’s okay.”
“If you don’t want me to sleep here, I guess that’d be your only option,” Tony says, as playfully as he can, before he finally finishes soldering and looks up.
“Never again,” Steve says simply and smiles, a good, full smile that reaches his eyes and Tony’s heart does a weird flip-flop that he didn’t know it was capable of.
He stares at Steve for far too long, as Steve finds an empty spot on the desk to place his bag and pulls out a notebook with a leather cover and a pencil. “Oh, and this is for you,” he says as he sets down an envelope before sitting on a stool at the other side of Tony’s desk. “I fixed your phone, unblocked your bank account, and filed a general release consent with the Department of Omega Affairs that should apply to all of your social media accounts within the next three business days. The receipt is in the envelope, but I’m happy to give people a call if everything is not back to normal next week.”
Tony reaches for the envelope and holds it between his fingers. “How did you—How did you know?” he says quietly, the envelope trembling in his hand.
“I figured you didn’t have access to the internet yesterday morning, so I did a little research. We didn’t have mobile phones back then and omegas didn’t have bank accounts.” Steve says, voice even, not lifting his eyes from the notebook. “The password of the wifi was on the fridge by the way. Sorry I didn’t give it to you before I went out.”
“I—uh—thank you,” Tony forces out.
“Don’t mention it,” Steve says, casually, still busy sketching, as if it was not a broken piece of Tony’s life he just handed back in a thick yellow envelope.
***
It’s a blessing that no one is at the parking lot at half past ten.
“What a beauty,” Tony squeaks, as he rushes to the Harley-Davidson parked in the corner. “Oh my god, look at the curve of this seat, whoa.” He takes a step back, trying and failing to keep any sort of composure. “This is the one you go on missions with, right?” he asks and kneels at the front wheel. “Oh f*ck me, this spoke is kicking, this will give you so much flexibility!” He stands up and walks around the back. “Holy sh*t, blackout lights! Is this right out of the comics or what!”
Steve smiles. “Not quite, I had a Liberator back then—”
“Oh I know, this is a soft tail but the lights—and the ammunition compartment,” he keeps going, fingers caressing the hard metal and soft leather with fervor. “You can take her home?”
“It’s mine, so, yes, I think I can.”
“Then why were you here, young lady?! Did you have a hot date with Mister Mechanic? Was he fixing your scratches and tightening your screws?” He keeps caressing the gas tank gently. “I’d kill to get my hands on your beautiful engine, I’m not allowed in the transport workshops.” He straightens up looking back at Steve. “Can we ride her?”
“Of course.” Steve takes off his bag, then his jacket, before putting his bag back on wearing the strap over his chest. “Here, put this on over your jacket and then put your backpack on.”
“Wha—no, no you put it on. I’ll be fine.”
“No, I will be fine. It’s 30 degrees outside, you will be very cold.” He presses the jacket right into Tony’s hands. “Now be a good omega for me and put it on.”
Something rings in Tony’s ears and he feels a squeezy unfamiliar sensation in his heart. Everything goes a little blurry, as Tony puts Steve’s jacket on and pulls himself up the bike.
The island is dark and quiet and the wind bites into Tony’s face as they go over the bridge. The streetlights pass overhead, blinking in and out of Tony’s sight, and the cars feel far far away, as if their bike—them—are the only beings on the street this late at night. Be a good omega for me, echoes in his head, louder than the wind, than the cars, than the bike itself, and all Tony can feel is Steve’s solid form pressed to his front, his shirt soft against his cheek.
And it hits him like a revelation, clear, all-encompassing, as they ride into the apartment’s car park: despite all his shortcomings, and everything he can’t ever give, all Tony wants to be is a good omega for Steve.
He just doesn’t know how.
***
Tony puts the yellow envelope in the ‘‘things and stuff’ chest just as Steve’s taking off his shoes. Steve doesn’t say anything, only smiles, and his scent turns a little chocolaty as he passes by.
Tony insists that he can warm up some of last night’s pasta, but Steve is more insistent: they should sit down and watch something instead of puttering about in the kitchen and then having to deal with the dishes.
“So what have I missed?” Steve asks, sitting on the couch before handing Tony an opened beer. He is smiling, but it’s a sad distant one that breaks Tony’s heart a little.
“Well, let’s see,” he says with a bit too much glee. “We gotta go through Star Trek, Star Wars and Doctor Who, ten to twenty essential omegaflicks, Die Hard movies, The Good Place, Good Omens but that’s only 12 episodes—”
“I’ve read Good Omens!” Steve lights up as he finishes a bottle and reaches for the next.
“Oh, the show is a little different but the book rocks definitely.” He reaches for his beer, and takes a drag. “Oh, oh, Lord of the Rings, maybe we start with those!”
“Those I have seen. I read The Hobbit when it was published and caught up on all the other books and then watched all the movies just after—you know. When I moved here.”
Damn the melancholy that passes over Steve’s face. Tony’s fingers curl hard around the bottle to keep from reaching forward and pressing Steve’s sadness to his chest. “Alright, then let’s start with Star Trek. It’s old-timey like you, so I guess it’s a good way to ease you into pop culture.”
Steve smiles and his eyes brighten up again. “Old-timey like me, ha?” He reaches forward and ruffles Tony’s hair, before turning back to the TV and flicking it on.
Tony’s frozen in place for too many moments after that, the phantom feeling of Steve’s touch bruning through his hair seeping through his skin, long after Captain Pike is captured by Talosians, and it takes him even longer to focus enough to explain that what they’re watching is not even a first episode but a rejected pilot.
It’s in the middle of his usual rant about how the network hated the omegas and alphas of the starfleet wearing the same uniform and his second—or third—beer that he finally feels like he’s not pinned to the couch any more, but the buzz stays with him all the way through, as he stuffs his face with pizza, his heart swelling with each of Steve’s thoughtful comments on how Star Trek is an exploration of human nature through power and morality.
It’s somewhere between The Naked Time and The Enemy Within, maybe, that he nods off. He’s vaguely aware of what’s happening on the bridge and the fact that he must be lying his head against Steve’s broad chest, but it’s warm and cozy, and he falls asleep breathing in Steve’s scent.
***
He wakes up tucked under the beige duvet.
It’s still dark outside but SHIELD loves to throw their all-hands on Fridays just at dawn. He throws his clothes on while washing his face with one hand and brushing his teeth with the other, in a frenzy to free up the bathroom for Steve’s post-run shower, but it’s too early, and they’d have too late of a night that even Steve has foregone his morning run.
Tony puts on another jacket on top of his own and makes Steve put on his.
“We have 15 minutes before the meeting starts,” Tony shouts from behind as Steve pulls over at the 24/7 diner.
Steve stops the engine, and looks over his shoulder. “Then you have to eat really quickly.” He smiles at his own wit and hops off. “Come on, just have a donut for me.”
Fury hates it when Tony’s late to things. It’s his least favorite thing, even worse than insubordination when Tony changes the initiative and develops what’s best instead of what he’s been asked. But in the face Steve asking him to do something for him, well. Tony will deal with an angry bear—which is arguably slightly more scary than Fury. Tony will have all the donuts in the world if Steve asks him to.
“Only if we get our coffee to go,” he retorts, reaching out to clutch at Steve’s hand drawn to help him off the bike; it’s like Steve can tell that his words are making Tony weak in the knees.
***
Tony’s fingers are trembling a little when he presses the button for Operations floor. His feet are shaky when he walks to the Strike Team lounge. He finds Steve on one side of the large dining table, busy with his pencil and leather notebook; the rest of his team, big scary alpha dudes on the other side, laughing loudly at a joke one of them must have just finished telling.
He walks in, slowly, carefully, and thanks all the gods in all the skies for Steve sitting at the near side of the table. He probably would have chickened out and run back to his office if he’d have to go past the circle of cackling alphas in tac gear before getting to his own.
“Hey there,” Tony says in a hushed tone.
“Tony?” Steve says before looking up and his whole face lights up as soon as his eyes catch Tony’s face.
“Sorry, I should’ve waited to talk to you at home—” Tony mumbles apologetically, subtly pointing to the group on the opposite side. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” Steve says, with a little too much force, and he straightens up a little too abruptly, enough that everyone at the other end of the table goes quiet and turns to look back at them. Steve pushes his chair back, the legs scratching loud against the wooden floor and grabs his notebook. “Come on, this way,” he says, pointing to a door to his right, fully unbothered by the group of eyes now following their every move. He ushers Tony inside, turns on the light and closes the door. “Here, this is my little sleep-in room.”
“Oh my god, you have your own ready room!”
“It’s not that fancy, Tony, it’s just a bed and a small closet space.”
“Bigger than my old closet, I’m telling ya,” Tony says.
“I’m glad you like it then.”
“It’s awesome, I love it.” Tony smiles. “Okay, what I wanted to talk to you about—” he pauses to catch his breath “—Fury called me to his room an hour ago.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He first asked me to let you know that, even though he does not appreciate you making excuses for my tardiness, he has no desire to take any disciplinary action against Captain America. And then he mumbled something about not having the power either but I didn’t acknowledge that for my own safety. “
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Oh, no, no, don’t be sorry,” Tony says, walking a few steps to the bed. “You saved my ass, so thank you.”
“But it was my fault—you—”
“Look, that was not even why he’d asked me into his office.” Tony sits on the bed, examining the give of the mattress, the softness of the sheets. “Can you hazard a guess on what the actual reason was?”
“Um—well—” Steve says, locking the door and leaning his back against it.
“I just collected this from B3,” Tony says, pulling out a distinct red badge from his pants pocket. “Restricted Access—only Transport Department,” he reads out loud from the back of the badge. “They’ve offered my department—well, me, they’ve offered me the chance to lead a partnership program developing a fuel consumption improvement module for the entire SHIELD motor fleet. Can you believe that?”
“Of course.” Steve shuffles on his feet, pink coloring the bridge of his nose, the tip of his ears. “Everyone here knows that you’ll be brilliant—”
“Everyone, ha?” Tony says, voice trembling a little. “You know what’s the first thing I’ll start developing for?” He stands up, flexing his fingers, wiggling on his feet. “2014 Slim Tail Harley-Davidson.” He turns to face Steve. “I’ll start on Monday.” His voice breaks finally and tears prickle at his eyes. “You know they are officially exempt from the Equality Act, right?” he asks, walking toward the door. “They’ve proudly paraded their no-omegas rule around here for years.” Why is he standing so close to Steve? And why, God, why is he crying? “And I’m going to walk into the motorbike workshop on Monday, wearing their stupid red badge and get my hands on—”
“Shh, it’s okay.” Steve’s arms wrap around him and pull him in. “You’ll show them how it’s done, I’m sure.”
“How did you do this?” Tony says, his tears staining the front of Steve’s white t-shirt. “How—and why would you do this for me?” He pulls back, staring into Steve’s eyes. “Why are you doing any of this for me?”
Steve smiles, reaching out gently to brush the tears off Tony’s face. His fingers linger for a moment, blue eyes dark, sparkles shining like the sun going down in the sea. He cups Tony’s face, slow and soft, and Tony’s heart flutters in his chest, his eyes locked into Steve’s as Steve looks down at his lips and leans in.
Tony’s blood is roaring in his ears as he closes his eyes and tilts his head.
Then Steve is kissing him.
Warm and firm and, oh, so gentle. Tony clings to him, fisting the fabric of Steve’s shirt, the press of Steve’s lips like fire against his. Steve’s fingers run through his hair, angling his face to deepen the kiss and Tony opens his mouth, letting Steve in. Steve hums into Tony’s mouth, licking gently, and he tastes like chocolate and a bit of heaven as he slides a hand down Tony’s spine and pulls him in, as if there is an inch of space between them to close. Steve’s fingers run under the hem of Tony’s shirt, and it’s like fire, catching through Tony’s core, his fingers leaving blazing trails on Tony’s skin.
Tony moans into Steve’s mouth, and that’s all the permission Steve needs to pick Tony up, lifting him with one hand like he weighs nothing, one hand still cupping Tony’s face, running through his hair.
He presses Tony against himself, and—
Oh.
Oh.
Steve is hard.
He is so hard as he is kissing Tony within an inch of his life, and, f*ck, oh, f*ck, his scent is all smoked pinewood. Tony’s body responds, of-f*cking-course, sweet caramel and coconut filling the air, and Steve lets out a growl, muffled into Tony’s mouth.
Then a few things happen right after the other: something shrills in the narrow space between them, many times, and Steve growls again, eyes dark and hungry locked into Tony’s, as if he can outwait the damn deafening sound.
“f*ck,” he finally says, and “I’m so sorry,” before he eases his hold and lets Tony back on the floor.
Tony sways back, unsettled, unbalanced, and watches Steve pull something out of his pocket, a f*cking beeper going off like it’s announcing the end of the world, and fumble with it a few time before he manages to turn it off.
“I’ve gotta—,” he says, smoothing down his t-shirt, running a hand through his hair, as he walks past Tony to the closet at the other end of the room. “I have to—” He pulls his uniform out of the closet, and puts it on with an agility that Tony still can’t believe is possible. “I gotta go, I’m sorry, I gotta—” He shoves the beeper into a compartment of his belt, lowering his cowl, pulling up his boots. “You can stay here for as long as you like,” he says as he opens the door and steps out. Then he steps back in, one foot inside and considers Tony with anxious eyes. “I’ll see you back home, okay?”
Tony opens his mouth to say something, but there are no words in what feels like an empty, empty head, so he just nods, his mouth hanging half-open as Steve nods back, and then leaves, this time for real, closing the door and leaving Tony alone in the small space.
Tony’s mind is reeling.
He breathes in, holds, and breathes out.
What the f*ck just happened?
Did he throw himself into Steve’s arms and did Seve’s pager go off right when he was about to—
Steve was going to take Tony, right here, in his ready room.
He was, right?
Tony lifts his fingers and touches the tips to his lips. He can still feel the warmth of Steve’s body against his, he can still breathe in his desire right in the air.
He was interested, right?
He is interested.
Tony sits on the bed. He’ll just wait here for a few more minutes before they’re all gone, and then he’ll catch the subway…home, Steve had said.
Tony’s going home.
***
“Tony?” comes Steve’s voice a tic after the door of the apartment opens, before he takes off his shoes, or drops his bag, before even closing the door behind himself, and Tony listens to his every move, punctuated with his name in every step.
Tony's heart is hammering in his chest. His throat is dry, his nails digging deep into the beige comforter. He is interested, he repeats to himself, as he’s done so many times in the past hour since Steve’s last phone call, with every piece of clothing removed before he'd stepped under the shower spray, every stroke of the hair brush through his hair, every pat of the towel against his skin.
His hands had been trembling reaching into the bottom of the drawer, his pulse beating in his ears as he’d put the garment on. He doesn’t know how he looks but that must be for the best; the chances of looking at himself wearing a lace bodysuit with tasteful golden embroideries around the nipples and keeping it on would not have been that promising.
He’ll like it, Tony reassures himself one last time, as Steve’s silhouette appears at the threshold, and then his heart stops, altogether, when Steve stops just one foot in the room.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Steve says, eyes wide, lips parted. “You—you—wow.” He steps in, slowly, and Tony’s heart flips with every step. “Tony, you—” he pauses before the bed, eyes trailing up and down Tony’s body. “May I?”
There is a mere heartbeat between Tony nodding, and Steve being all over him on the bed. He kisses Tony, hands in Tony’s hair, tongue delving into Tony’s mouth, like he means it, like he’s hungry for it. He kisses Tony’s jaw, his ears, the soft spot where his neck meets his shoulder. His stubble scratches against Tony’s skin, and it’s good, it’s so good, the way he’s holding Tony down with his weight, firm and grounding, the way his palms run up and down Tony's sides. He moans against Tony’s skin, his tongue finding the neckline of the bodysuit, and trailing further down. He licks Tony’s nipple through the fabric, tiny strokes of tongue over the sensitive skin and Tony cries out with the delicate pain pleasure of the threads digging into his flesh.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Steve says, suddenly off Tony’s body, kneeling on the bed. “Did that hurt? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Tony says, and he should feel at least a bit ashamed the way he’s pawing at Steve’s t-shirt. “No, no, you didn’t hurt me, and I’m not gonna break if you do, just—” he hooks his fingers under the hem of Steve’s t-shirt and pulls, and Steve gets the message, thank God, and takes the damn thing off. “Just, please—” Tony says, running his hands against Steve’s perfect abs. “Please.”
Steve lowers on the bed, lying next to Tony, carding his fingers through Tony’s hair as he pulls him into a kiss. His other hand finds Tony’s nipple again, massaging, rolling, pinching, pressing the fabric into Tony’s flesh, and he doesn’t stop, kissing Tony harder with every whimper, every moan, every cry.
“You’re so beautiful, Tony,” he says, voice low. “You smell so good, so wet for me, look at this.” He runs a hand down Tony’s spine, over the crack of his ass. Tony parts his thighs, trembling as Steve’s fingers find his hole, pressing gently and getting Tony's slick over his fingers through the lace, smearing it between Tony’s thighs, his other hand running down Tony’s belly, teasing a bit before cupping Tony’s co*ck.
The lace is digging into Tony's co*ck. It's pressed into Tony's hole. Steve’s kissing him again, tasting, biting, nibbling, and Tony’s writhing against him, nails digging into Steve’s back. Steve’s scent is maddening, sharp, and smokey, and it’s just heaven, perfect, so amazing Tony could—
His whole body shudders as he comes into Steve’s hand.
The org*sm crashes into him, his brain blissfully blank. He's all wrapped in Steve’s scent, flushed against Steve's body, held, safe, as Steve keeps stroking him all the way through, kissing him, those mighty, tender fingers still pressing gently at his hole.
“’m sorry,” Tony mumbles into Steve's chest as he comes down from the high. He’s suddenly aware that Steve’s still in his jeans, his hard-on still pressing against Tony’s thigh, and Tony, finally given a chance to do something so small for Steve, is still the one taking something from him. “I wanna—” he says, reaching between them, pawing at Steve’s jeans. “I—please, Steve, I’m sorry—please—”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve pulls back a little, lifting Tony’s chin so Tony can see his beautiful blue eyes. “Shhh, I know,” he says, pulling Tony’s hand away before shimmying effortlessly out of his pants and underwear. “I know what you want.”
He maneuvers them in one swift move so Tony’s sitting in his lap, straddling his groin. The sudden change makes Tony gasp, his sensitized dick trapped between their bodies, as Steve’s hold tightens around Tony’s hips, rocking him in place, and God, oh, f*ck, Tony’s hole is rubbing against the length of Steve’s co*ck. “Ah, Steve, I—” he tries, unsure of what it is that he wants to say. He can’t see Steve’s co*ck, but it’s big, it’s obviously big, and Tony’s body has apparently forgotten that he just came, because he is leaking more slick, and he wants, wants, more than he knew was ever possible.
“Yeah?” Steve groans, pressing Tony’s hip firmly down over his length. “This is what you want?”
Tony nods, too eager, clasping his hands behind Steve’s neck. Steve reaches around undoing the tiny bands, and then the tip of his co*ck is touching Tony’s hole, no barrier in between.
“Do you want it like this?” Steve says, tilting his head to suck on Tony’s bottom lip. “Do you—” he says against Tony’s mouth, as he finally lowers Tony enough so the tip of his co*ck goes past Tony’s rim.
It doesn’t hurt.
It’s not even uncomfortable.
Tony is loose, wet, and loose, and so ready, and Steve’s big, even bigger than Tony's imagined, but it’s like Tony’s hole was made for Steve's. It’s like Tony's hole is just right, just right to let Steve in.
“All—ah, all good?” Steve asks, searching Tony’s eyes. Tony’s heart swoons in his chest. He had not expected Steve to be anything but considerate, and gentle, but this is beyond what Tony thought any alpha was capable of: to stop and check-in midway into an omega’s ass.
“Yeah—” Tony nods, “yes, please, yes.” He buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, nibbling at the skin. “I’m good, just, please, Steve—”
“I got you,” Steve says, lowering Tony the rest of the way in one go. “I—” he licks Tony’s neck, kisses Tony’s hair. “I got you.”
Time loses all meaning and stretches on. Everything feels hazy, unclear. Tony holds onto Steve, fingers, nails, teeth, as Steve lifts his hip and lowers him down, slowly at first, gentle, careful, before he picks up pace, fingers digging into the flesh of Tony’s ass, pulling Tony up just to slam him back onto his co*ck, over and over and over again. It’s good, so f*cking good, and Steve—God, Steve is so beautiful, blushing all the way down his belly, hair mussed, sweat dripping down his neck.
This is the best thing Tony’s ever felt in his life.
Best thing ever.
“So tight,” Steve says, out of breath. “So beautiful, so good for me,” he says against Tony’s lips before a firm, bruising kiss, and then he’s coming, hot come throbbing in Tony’s hole, holding Tony down tight so Tony can feel it: every drop, every tremor, every amazing throb of Steve’s co*ck.
Steve lowers them both onto the bed so he’s lying back on the pillows, and Tony’s lying on his chest. He caresses the line of Tony's spine, massaging the back of his thighs, wiping the sweat off his forehead. Tony closes his eyes, listening to Steve’s heartbeat, breathing in Steve’s scent, and it’s fine, it’s all good, it doesn’t even hurt that much, the way Steve’s knot’s inflating slowly, stretching him impossibly full.
They hold each other, just like that, Steve’s chest heaving against Tony's, his palms roaming over Tony’s back. “You did so good,” Steve whispers into the crook of Tony’s neck, “so good for me.”
It’s just Steve, rubbing Tony’s back and calling him good, but it’s apparently everything Tony’s ever wanted, without having had a hint himself. Something is simmering inside, growing, a sensation he can’t quite name searing through his veins. It’s fantastically overwhelming, like two broken pieces coming together and becoming one, the tender, aching way that he wants Steve and the way he's close to him right now, closest to him as he can ever be.
“My good omega,” Steve whispers, "come for me."
And that’s all it takes, Tony’s coming again—he wasn't even hard, but he's shuddering through a dry org*sm, clenching around Steve’s knot, leaking impossibly wet. His head is full of white noise, his vision blank, soaring, like he's been pushed off an edge he didn't know existed and flying into the sunshine against all odds.
He’s done good.
He’s Steve’s good omega.
And that’s all that matters.
***
Tony wakes up curled against Steve’s side. The apartment is dark, save for the table lamp on Steve’s other side. Steve is leaning against the headboard, the leather notebook in one hand and he's sketching again.
It’s Steve’s scent, maybe, calm, pinewood with a hint of chocolate, or the fact that they’re both naked under the covers, that makes Tony feel bold enough to co*ck his head and look at the open page. “Is that me?”
Steve turns to him with an amused smile. “Who else would it be?”
“But this dress—” Tony pulls himself up the headboard and sits next to Steve, leaning his head against Steve’s shoulder. “Oh, I love this dress.”
“I know,” Steve turns to his sketch. “You told me that night at the bar and I figured it’ll look something like this.”
“I told you what?”
“Well, I asked you to dance, and you said you’d love to if you had a proper dress. You stared at the couples dancing for a bit and then you went on describing the dress you really wanted and because you couldn’t find the right words, you looked it up and showed it to me on your phone.” Steve rubs his chin against Tony’s hair. “And then you went on a tangent about how all omegas were allowed to wear dresses historically and—”
“Alright, alright, I get the picture,” Tony says, feeling a little funny. “I really don’t remember any of that.”
“Yeah, well. I think you were too many tequilas in at that stage,” Steve says light-heartedly. “I’m glad that you like it even sober.”
“Dancing, ha?" Tony glances at the sketch again. “What's the special occasion?”
“First anniversary. I was thinking that we didn’t get a proper bonding ceremony so we should have a destination anniversary.”
Why on earth would you do that, Tony doesn’t say. “Those things are crazy expensive, Steve,” he says instead, “even for the total of our ten friends.”
“I told you, Tony, I have a bit of money.”
“Yeah, well—you should buy a house, a car, maybe? A bigger TV—”
“Tony.” Steve turns to him. He caresses Tony’s cheek, pushes his hair off his forehead. “We’ll buy a house if you like. We'll buy a car, and a couple of bigger TVs. I have enough money for all those items. And if we run out, well, my new omega is a genius, I’ve been told, with groundbreaking ideas that his employer doesn’t appreciate much. I bet he’s going to make millions for us.”
Tony hides his face in his palms and laughs out loud. He does have ideas that could make millions, and it’s just nice, kind of awesome, that Steve’s saying it out loud so matter-of-factly, as if he actually believes it—as if he actually believes in Tony.
“How are you real, Steve,” he finally says, leaning his head against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. “How can you be like that with me, I—I’m—”
“Don’t,” Steve says, wrapping his arms around Tony’s body pulling him close. “Don’t say it,” he says, dead serious, holding Tony’s eyes. “There is nothing wrong with you, you hear me?”
“But there is.” Tony shakes his head, defiant. “Don’t you—don't you want kids?”
“Maybe.” Steve shrugs, fingers caressing Tony’s hair. “Do you?”
“Steve, come on, I can’t—I—”
“So? There are half a million kids in the system. We can adopt half a dozen if you want—”
“Steve! You hear yourself? Alphas do not adopt, because alphas mate omegas, and omegas' most important capability—God. And you specifically? Captain America's name dragged through the mud because of a nobody omega—what would everyone say?”
“Hey, hey, Tony, look at me." Steve cups his face. “I don't care. We'll adopt if we wanna adopt. If you wanna adopt. You are all that matters to me, do you hear me?”
“But why,” Tony presses his forehead to Steve, eyes prickling, “why would you get yourself into so much trouble for me?”
“In case you haven't noticed,” he says against Tony's lips, “I've got it pretty bad for you.”
***Epilogue - five years later ***
“Dada,” Peter squeaks, jumping up and down. “Pops and Dada, Pops and Dada!”
Steve straightens the frame, and takes a step back. “That’s right, buddy,” he says, lifting Peter with one hand, holding him against his side. “See how beautiful Dada is? You see that?”
“Dada booteefoo,” Peter says merrily turning over Steve’s shoulder. “Dada,” he points to Tony, “so booteefoo!”
“I don’t know,” Tony says, unable to take his eyes off the painting. “I think your Pops is too darn handsome too.” He takes a few steps closer, leaning against Steve’s other side. “He looks all tan and glorious from all the Bahamas sun.”
“Bobamahs—” Peter repeats, nodding thoughtfully. “Dada and Pops, dancing in Bobamahs.”
Steve chuckles and kisses Peter’s cheek, wrapping his arm around Tony. “Yup. Dada and Pops dancing in the Bahamas, on their first anniversary. Can’t believe I finally managed to finish this one.”
“And about time,” Tony says, arm sliding around Steve’s waist. “Happy fifth anniversary to me, I guess.”
Peter giggles and wraps his arms around Tony’s neck as Steve places a kiss on the top of Tony’s hair. “Happy fifth anniversary, my love.”
