Work Text:
Psycho Momma and Big Dumb Daddy
By Eileen_R
Tony peered through the bars of the dog cage, head swiveling to keep track as Dr. Idiot (self-named by Tony. Hey, it wasn't like secret crazed mad-scientist lairs were hot on formal introductions) monologed his way around the lab. "At last my day has come. One final step, and they will all be forced to recognize my genius! Brain-mapping to an extent and detail never before realized in this mundane, drab work-a-day world!"
Normally Tony would have done his best to break up the insanity vomit with his own patented brand of cheerful repartee, but the scientist had the shock baton in one hand, slapping it carelessly on the rows of cages as he paced, and Tony had learned through hard-won experience to be (fucking terrified) careful of that thing. "--any day now. Just one final step before I can proceed. No more hiding out in a disgusting subterranean lair in a flea-bitten third-world nation; no more cleaning out filthy cages like some half-witted janitor--" The electric baton banged across Tony's cage and he jumped, reflexively. The shock stung his left foot and right shoulder like bees.
He crouched, shivering, and watched.
"--just one more delivery of the liquid nitrogen and finally, finally--" The buzzer that marked an outside entry to the facility sounded. "Finally!" Dr. Idiot rubbed his hands together, eyes shining with a perfect, mad happiness. He strode for the door, his dingy, patched lab coat swirling. The door slammed shut behind him.
Tony counted off the seconds. One one billion, two one billion..., three hundred one billion. He retrieved the handmade lockpick (a shard of toenail, as long and thick as he could manage, tied to a cord made from braided hairs he'd pulled out by the roots) from behind his ear and wiggled his fingers through the narrow cage bars. It seemed to take hours, struggling to find the right angle, the correct pressure, just the proper wiggle-- The keyed lock snapped open.
Tony gasped for air. Sweat trickled like ice down his back. His fingers, his wrists, both arms hurt from the contorted posture he'd been forced to use. He stowed the make-shift lock-pick back behind his ear for safety and shook his arms out quickly. One lock down. One more to go. He wriggled his right hand through the bars as close as possible to the keypad. It was nearly out of reach, but if he stretched his fingers to the utmost, his little finger could, barely, reach the farthest corner. He skimmed over the pad, reading the numbers by touch. It was a shame the angle was so bad; he'd never been able to tell more about the pass-code than it was a four digit combination.
No time like the present for the scientific method.
Zero zero zero zero, he tapped. Nothing. Zero zero zero one. Noth-- The buzzer for the outside entry rang again. Then two more times in quick succession, before breaking off mid-buzz. That had never happened before. Tony waited, breathing hard. He cast an unconsciously longing glance at the empty water dispenser to his cage. He licked his lips and continued.
Zero zero zero two. Zero zero zero three. Zero zero-- An alarm whooped, so loud, so LOUD, and cut off before Tony could even wrap his arm around his ears. Yeah, this wasn't good. Maybe he should try and hurry it up a little? Zero zero zero nine. Zero zero four seven. Zero three two--
What was that sound? Were those door slamming in the distance? Drum beats? Or shots fired-- He wasn't imagining it, there was a haze gathering in the air of the lab. It smelled funny. Dust, and, and smoke-- Zero seven four nine. Two five eleven. Nine nine nine nine--
The lab door burst open like a bomb going off.
The man standing in the middle of the lab was dressed in a Hydra uniform. But he wore a mask on his face, and the blotches on his armor appeared to be blood.
He saw Tony. Frozen, trapped, guilty hand outside the cage.
He moved, body blurring, arm blurring, *BANG* cage door clattering onto the floor, Tony snatched out and dangling underneath the man's arm. "Any more in here, little bit?"
"No," Tony said in a very tiny voice. "The dog died last week and he killed the mice two days ago. I'm the last lab rat left."
"Any more prisoners? Do you know?"
"I do-- I don't think so? They never-- He never really talked to me, you know, but it seemed like this was the only lab, if you could even call it a lab."
The man smelled like gunpowder and blood, sweat and dust and death. Tony stayed very still, not wanting to unbalance the man's hold, though the arm wrapped firmly enough around him as its owner paced through the lab, squinting into each cage, pulling off a few more of the doors.
"'Kay. Hang on tight now, little bit." And he strode out of the lab, down the hallway, still carrying Tony dangling under one arm. Shooting as he went. And it was more than a little embarrassing, but the fact of the matter was, once Tony started talking, it was like he just couldn't seem to stop.
"--he was going to dip me in liquid nitrogen, head first, so he could do thin slices across my brain. You know, for a brain mapping thing? But honestly, that whole visual cellular identification, it's so 1970's. I just don't think he had the chops for any real science, tell the truth. Right, check right! Ok, good, you got him.
"Frankly, I don't know why they didn't kill me along with my parents. At first they just didn't have any orders--I wasn't supposed to be there, I guess--and then there was this whole ransom thing, but we don't pay ransoms, so then I just got traded around from one base to another. God, I am so glad to be out of that cage--
"Woah, way to clothesline the bad guy, dude! Is he dead? Oh, yeah, he is most certainly dead. Wait, is your left arm made out of metal? Completely out of metal? That is so cool! And it explains the whole ripping off metal cage doors thing. I can't wait to see the specs on that thing!
"--just a normal, ordinary drive, that's all. Back road of the estate. There was something in the road. Howard slowed down. He must have stopped, I don't know, there were shots. Two shooters, both sides of the car. There was blood all over my face. My mom's blood. Parts of her b-brain in my mouth--"
The man stopped at a juncture between two crossing corridors, taking a long, assessing look around. No one around but the dead. Smoke still tainted the air, but it hadn't grown thicker. Far off in the distance, Tony could still hear shots.
"Gonna wait here a second, little bit. You thirsty?" Then there was a water bottle in his face, and Tony grabbed at it, even as he was turned, lowered to the floor, and oh, my god, the feel of floor underneath his feet, it felt so odd, so wonderful, floor (!), and the rest of his body dropping all the way down because those two feet weren't holding him up, no no no. But there was still floor underneath him, not the bars of a cage, and he was pulling the water bottle open and pouring it into his mouth, over his face, swallowing and choking and someone was taking the water away, no--!
"Just a swallow. Don't want to choke, hm? There you go, here's another swallow. One more. You hungry?" The guy passed him a ration bar of some kind. Looked like military issue. Tony had always heard the rat bars were terrible, but this was great! Sweet, savory, full of texture-- So much better than kibble!
"So good," he said, trying to drink and chew at the same time.
"Here," the guy said, holding out a lab coat. A very familiar, patched and dingy lab coat, with a blackened hole in the front, and a large, bloody splatter in the back.
"Is Dr. Idiot dead? Really, really dead?" Tony asked.
"Yep."
Tony gasped. "This is the best day of my life!"
"Put it on." Put it-- Oh. He meant, Tony should put it on. Wear it. As clothing. So he wouldn't be naked, like they'd kept him since he'd been taken, all those uncounted months ago. Because people wore clothes. And he was a person, not a thing, a prize, an object, an experimental subject, a lab rat. A person.
He didn't know if he could remember how to be a person.
Gingerly, he slid the coat over his arms. The sleeves hung way past his hands. The bloody splotch clung moistly to his back.
In the instant while the thoughts, the feelings flickered through his mind, the guy had turned away, assessing their surroundings. He let out a low, unearthly whistle. A moment later, a different whistle sounded. The guy picked Tony up and slung him onto his hip. Before Tony had time to do more than hang on, legs and arms and hands and feet all clutching (while not letting go of the water or the delicious, delicious rat bar) they were running. The facility was mainly empty; bodies strewn here and there. The guy moved fast. Corridors blurred. Whistles traded back and forth, twining in eerie non-melodies. Tony was hanging on right over the guy's neck scent-glands. Military-grade blockers blanked out most of it, but Tony's nose had always been good. Underneath the gunpowder, the blood and the death, Tony caught the merest whisp of omega. Mama, something deep inside himself mourned.
Then they stopped, bam, and there was another person right there, an enormous person, a Hydra uniform, shoot, shoot him--!
"Steve," his guy said. The two adults hung on to each other hard for a moment. Tony was squeezed between them. His heart banged with the emotional whiplash.
"Bucky," the big guy, an alpha, said. Tony's omega was named Bucky? What kind of a name was Bucky?
"What the hell? They had a child as a prisoner?" Steve said, looking at Tony.
"In a dog cage."
"What is he, nine? Ten?"
"I'm twelve! And a half! What month is it? Twelve and a half!" Steve shook his head. Dumb alpha.
"The charges are set in the munitions depot."
"--just because I haven't had my growth spurt yet--"
"'Kay. Let's go." Then they were both running, fast, fast, Bucky leading, Steve taking the six. They swerved through the corridors like they knew where they were going, which at least made two of them. Up one, two, three flights of stairs, Bucky climbing the stairs as if they were flat ground, even carrying Tony. Then they were bursting through a wall, except it wasn't a wall, it was a concealed door, and one last flight of stairs and they stepped into a different world.
Everywhere was green. The sounds of insects and birds and air and thunder beat down on him like a waterfall. Air was thick and hot in his lungs. It felt like breathing soup. And the scents; of humus, flowers, rot, fruit, rain-- Tony gagged and thrust his nose into Bucky's neck. It was all too much.
"Where are we?" he asked, muffled.
"Costa Rica. A couple of hours outside San Jose."
They were still moving, at speed, away from the concealed exit.
"Buck, on the count of three."
"Go."
A very large and completely muffled 'whomp' trembled through the ground behind them. Tony's skin shivered under the sub-sonic vibrations. Looking back over Bucky's shoulder as the omega ran, Tony could see acres of ground collapse behind them like a souffle.
"One underground lair down. Good work, Buck," Steve said, stopping about a half mile into the jungle. Bucky nodded solemnly. Neither of them were even breathing hard. Tony was panting like he'd been the one running. Steve casually pulled apart a screen of vines--no, camouflage netting--to reveal a motorcycle and two backpacks concealed beneath bushes. Bucky looked from the motorcycle to Tony several times, a crease between his brows.
"That's Bucky. I'm Steve. We work for Shield, taking Hydra down. What's your name, child?" Steve asked.
"Tony. Tony St-- Tony. Just Tony. Is there going to be room for me on that thing? I could, I could ride on the handlebars?"
Both adults scoffed. "No need for that. Stick your feet in here, little bit." Bucky held a pair of adult-size trousers open below Tony's bare feet. Tony slithered somewhat gingerly inside, forcing strength down in his legs so he could stand, leaning against Bucky for balance. The trouser legs trailed a foot below his own feet, and there was enough room in there for two of him. Bucky wrapped a length of rope around his middle to hold the trousers on. Steve changed out his uniform for something less blood-spattered and Hydra-ish; Bucky did the same for his shirt; they both stowed their weapons, or, at any rate, many of their weapons, away in the backpacks.
Then Steve was rolling the motorcycle through the jungle, and Bucky was carrying Tony on his hip again. Tony hadn't been carried this much since--since--well, ever. He should probably insist on being set down. Walking on his own two feet. Like a Stark. Soon. He would do that. Soon.
The jungle opened up into a semi-sort of clearing and a barely there dirt track. Steve swung onto the bike and Bucky hopped on behind him, Tony squashed flat between the two adults. Steve kicked the bike into life. The vibration thrummed through Tony's bones. Then they were moving, slow, faster, fast.
Steve's alpha scent curled back from his wrists to twine around Tony. Bucky's omega body surrounded him, held him safe and secure and immovably there. Cautiously, Tony unwrapped his arms from around Steve and held them out to either side, feeling wind whip through his fingers. Fast, fast, fast. Away.
"Wheee---"
He fell asleep sometime on the winding journey down to San Jose. He spent the next few hours alternately sleeping and, oddly, crying, although he was not aware of feeling particularly sad or afraid or bad, or anything except exhausted. The Shield facility they took him to in the capitol city was concealed behind a public bathhouse, which was convenient. The two adults scrubbed him and dried him and dressed him in clean, soft, new clothing while tears flooded soundlessly down his face. He woke up briefly in a medical facility, breath hitching with sobs. Steve rubbed his back while the doctors took blood and a cheek swab. He woke up again on board a plane, tucked between the two of them, head in Bucky's neck, and managed to blow his nose and wipe his face before falling inevitably asleep again.
They were back in the States before he finally woke up clear-headed and dry-eyed.
Somewhere in the past lost few hours Shield had put the pieces together and discovered who he was. Tony Stark. Lost heir to the Stark Industries, blah blah blah, parents' assassination and mystery kidnaping, blah blah blah, untold millions left in limbo, blah blah blah. Blah.
"Much of your pod is still alive," Steve told him in a private room at the airport, kneeling, face grave. "They've sent someone to bring you home."
"Oh. They have?" Tony said uncertainly. "It was really more of a work pod, really, not really a family pod. I was the only kid. Um. Who came?"
"Tony!" Obediah Stane's big alpha voice boomed out. "My god, pup, I thought you were dead! Come here, pup!"
Tony knew this scenario. Tony would run to Obediah, be scooped up in his arms, be carried away back to (the remnants) of his family, live happily forever after.
Tony didn't move.
"Come here, now, pup. Come back to Uncle Obie!"
Tony's hands twined into the material of Bucky's jeans, clutching hard. He would walk to Obediah-- He didn't move.
Bucky's hand fell on his shoulder. "I'm afraid he's still a little overwhelmed, after everything," Steve said.
Obediah was getting smaller.
"Unfortunately, there's still some debriefing to do, back at headquarters. I'm sure you understand."
Obediah was disappearing behind Steve.
"Paperwork. Bureaucracy. What can you do."
Bucky was taking Tony back out of the room, away from Obie.
"We'll be in touch," Steve concluded cheerfully, over Obediah's sputtering. Then Tony was safe, behind a locked door, with Steve and Bucky kneeling around him.
"What's up, Little bit?"
Tony swallowed hard. He forced himself to remember the thing he'd tried to forget.
"After, after they killed my parents. They tossed me in the back of their car, while they were arguing over whether to kill me or not. There were papers there. Maps of the back roads. Pictures of my parents. Instructions from Hydra. I looked at them. They made me feel better. I couldn't figure out why they made me feel better. Then I realized. The papers smelled like Obie. Like they'd come from his hands."
Bucky cursed. Steve said, "His own pod?" in a voice higher than usual. Big dumb alpha.
"Obediah was VP of Stark Industries," Tony explained patiently. "He'd be running it now. Obidiah likes running things."
Their hands closed tight around him. Then Tony was up on Bucky's hip again. All of his tears were gone, but he just felt so tired.
"He wasn't Hydra, I don't think, but he worked with them. Are you going to kill him now?"
"Oh, Little bit," Bucky rumbled. "We're going to do worse than kill him. We're going to set lawyers on him."
*
*--so the way it looks now, half of your pod will be testifying against the other half," Steve explained much later that day, ushering Tony out of the car and into a quiet, tree-lined suburban neighborhood. "Until the whole mess is sorted out, it was thought best to place you in a secure, licensed foster pod. So, for now--"
"We got ya, pup," Bucky smirked.
"If that's all right with you?" Steve asked. "You do have a say in all this, you know."
"Nah," Bucky said. "You're ours. Deal with it."
"Bucky!"
"Um," Tony said softly. "Um." He stepped behind the two adults into a bright, sunlit space, full of people he didn't know.
"This is Bruce," Steve introduced an older omega with graying curls, eyes weary and patient. "Jane," a teenager in a custom wheelchair with racing rims. She rolled her eyes and went back to her book. "Darcy," a toddler in a poof of ruffles who looked at him with interest. "And the twins are hopefully down for their nap--" A baby's squall interrupted him. "Whoops, spoke too soon. No, Bruce, I'll get it." He disappeared towards the back.
"This is Tony," Bucky patted him on the top of the head. "He lives here now."
Bruce hummed, Jane scoffed, Darcy made grabby hands at him. The room smelled like green plants and sunlight, cotton sheets and pot roast, flowers and baby milk and contentment. It smelled like something he'd never smelled before.
It smelled like home.