Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been for protection at first. He swears.

An instinctive part of Bucky saw that blond, skinny, quiet boy and thought, "He won't last a week."

Bucky is an alpha, a born leader, he is used to taking care of his people and protecting them; so giving Gale a name and a bit of his own scent wasn’t something weird for him. He had done it with his sisters and friends since he was little.

Even so, Buck's reaction upon finding out was anything but happy.

Everyone on base was under strict use of suppressants. A mandatory requirement for enlistment. Given the circumstances, the USAAF couldn't afford to have only beta pilots; it needed everyone, but more importantly, everyone with a clear mind. There was no room for pregnancies, fights, heats, or any behavior that would jeopardize the objective they were fighting for.

Suppressants stabilize hormones, preventing heat and ruts, but in normal doses they don't affect the production of normal pheromones, it just makes them almost imperceptible to the nose of someone under the effects of suppressants.

No one at the flight school could smell much more than a beta could.

That morning Buck had gone out. He had a weekend pass to see Marge, but when he returned, instead of that calm energy and shy smile, he brought with him a storm of fury that Bucky had never seen before.

"What the hell are you doing, Bucky?" Buck had yelled at him when they found themselves alone in the empty dorm. "Do I look like one of your girls? What were you thinking, have you lost your mind?" Bucky had tried everything to get a reaction out of Gale—always so serious and collected—just for fun and with almost zero success. The only activity that provoked anything more than a smile from him was any kind of "noble" competition and flying.

Nothing affected him.

Nothing, except for two things: Marge and being underestimated because of his omega status.

Bucky couldn't defend himself. He tried to explain it by saying it was an instinctive alpha reaction that got out of control because he couldn't smell what he was doing either.

According to Marge, Buck reeked of Bucky so much that she had stopped Gale two meters away before greeting her. He had to go from the station—alone—to shower, change his clothes, and put on cologne before she would let him near. It had been embarrassing, for both of them.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Buck," Bucky couldn't face him. The shame of being caught like this was only rivaled by the primal pleasure his inner alpha felt knowing anyone could smell his presence on Buck. "Let me talk to Marge and apologize. It was my mistake."

Gale remained standing, hands on his hips, huffing with contained anger. After a moment, as if all his energy had faded in an instant, he sighed and shook his head. "Is better not, Bucky," and before Bucky could insist, Gale looked up, almost giving a silent command, and made him shut up. "I'll explain to her. Marge was very upset. I don't think she'd react well if you contacted her, even with good intentions."

Bucky frowned and lowered his gaze. He knew how to read between the lines, and Gale was telling him that he wasn't going to let an unmarried alpha get close (even if it wasn't face-to-face) to his omega girlfriend. It was understandable. He didn't want to continue arguing or make Buck even angrier with him, so he agreed without a fight. He was already tired of talking about it anyway.

It had been one of the first fights they'd had in flight school. After that incident, every time Buck had to go out, he made sure to shower and avoid Bucky until he returned.

Chapter Text

Buck stares at the bike for what seems like a long time. 

The bike Bucky gave him as a practical welcome-to-base gift. The bike Gale didn't even know he needed.

It's been a few weeks since he arrived at Thorpe Abbotts with the boys, and he hasn't used it once. Bucky always managed to materialize out of thin air with the jeep and drive him wherever he needed to go. Not that he minds; it's faster in that way, and on wheels, there's less chance of someone stopping him and getting caught in a trivial conversation. Bucky's good at those; he's not.

The bike rests in the rack on one of the walls of the barracks. No one has touched it and, in all this time, no one has even asked for it; to Gale’s surprise. He knows it's a coveted item here, and yet...

He should give it to someone who could use it more than him. He can recall hearing at least two officers complaining about the mud in the mess hall. It's been raining, and some roads are difficult to navigate on foot. Mud is a constant here.

Gale reaches into his pants pocket in search of his toothpick case when his finger grazes something with a paper-like texture. He snorts when he pulls out the two-dollar bill.

Two bucks…

Another gift… of sorts. John's lucky deuce, for Gale’s first mission.

He doesn’t believe in any of that, but Bucky does; his faith is as unwavering as his appreciation for the pleasures in life. Gale stares at the bitten corners. He put it back in his pocket.

Suddenly, he remembers he still has to reply to a letter from Marge. She signed it with a lip print, using the same lipstick he gave to her as a courting gift. Marge had been dreaming about that particular color since she saw it in a magazine, and it was difficult to find it in their small town. It had been hard, but Gale liked challenges

Thinking about his clumsy attempts at courtship makes his skin crawl. He still feels bad for Marge. If he had been an alpha it would have been easy: any gift, preferably made of soft material, and a little of his scent would be enough to prove to anyone she was being courted. But the reality was different. 

Buck makes a fist with his hand and accidentally crumples the bill. He immediately releases it, grabs the toothpick case, and puts one in his mouth.

His mind tries to remember what else he gave Marge... a book? Perfume was out of the question. He thinks it was a book and a pair of gloves.

The sky is starting to darken, and the air smells of ozone; a storm, for sure. Gale’s eyes return to the bike. An insane thought assaults his mind when he thinks that the rain will erase Bucky's scent.

What scent!l?

The bike has not been scented, that is crazy. Not even the most knothead alpha would do something like that. 

Not that Buck has any proof of the contrary, but it’s been weeks and even if Bucky was insane enough to do it instinctively, it would have vanished by now.

That is why courting gifts are usually objects that can hold the scent better.

Jesus, what I’m thinking.

Gale shakes his head. A small drop falls on the bridge of his nose and before he can turn around he hears the frantic sound of a jeep coming at a high speed.

“Buck, what are you doing?!” Bucky yells a few meters away on the gravel road. “It’s going to rain, come on!” 

Gale smiles to himself and then turns around. “I have a bike,” he says, nodding at the metal-wheeled vehicle behind him.

Bucky frowns and turns his head to the side as if to have a better look. A grin spreads on his face, jeep still on and hand relaxed over the steering wheel. “This is faster,” he says, still smiling.

Gale chews on his toothpick and huffs. He can't argue about that. “All right.”

Chapter Text

His jaw aches where Curt landed the punch. He looked miserable complying with Bucky's request, but he still managed to hit him good. 

It worked. The pain feels alive every time he takes a sip of coffee, and he's still affected by the alcohol. All things considered, he is in his best condition to meet the new CO. Another boss who will order him to put the discipline back into the crews, as if they hadn’t just returned from watching planes go down and explode next to them. Planes full of boys.

Fuck the top brass.

Fuck him. He should have been up there.

Bucky never gave suppressants much thought, but he's glad he took them, because even with a less sensitive nose, Harding's imposing alpha stance makes it hard not to react. Being drunk helps, if he is honest.

Neil “Chick” Harding isn't as bad as he thought. At least he has a better sense of humor than Huglin. He seems abundantly confident and relaxed; probably, if he wasn't a CO, he'd be good company at the pub, joking, smoking, and taking the ladies to dance.

Bucky takes another sip of his bitter coffee and his eyes fall on the shiny metal lighter, its surface so clean and polished that it reflects the writing underneath.

Gale's signature.

He contains his reaction, aided by his slowed and dulled senses. His alpha screams at him. Bucky ignores it. Harding is looking at him when he lifts his eyes. The Colonel takes his time as he holds a cigar, grabs the Zippo, and lights it, briefly breaking eye contact.

Bucky doesn't take his eyes off him. He won’t back down. Whatever he sees on his face, he won’t cover it.

"Well, I'm not Colonel Huglin," Harding says, with a smile that borders on an act so fatherly and friendly that it seems like a mockery.

"No, you're not," Bucky replies.

He had no expectations of anything, so everything went well. He got demoted. Which was exactly what he wanted. He asks to write letters to the families of the boys who died, and Harding quickly agrees with a knowing smile. Bucky realizes that having an alpha CO may have its advantages.

Or so he thinks before Harding mentions Gale.

"Tell me, Major Egan," he says casually, taking a deep inhale of his cigar and blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Not everyday an omega comes to me to ask me to demote an alpha,” he continues, while Bucky narrows his eyes, trying to decipher Harding's intentions.

There is a long pause in which both hold themselves back, waiting to see how the other reacts. Circling each other in a symbolic way. Bucky doesn’t give him anything. He doesn't want to talk about Gale with Harding; he has nothing to tell him about Gale.

A small smile and then a chuckle. "From flight school to both Majors in the 100th. Quite a journey, huh?"

"Buck's my friend," Bucky says tightly, his gaze falling to the letter on Harding's desk. He wants to snatch it away. His alpha demands it; Harding can't have it. Gale typed it and signed it, maybe even retains a hint of his scent still.

The cup is rapidly losing temperature, the taste of lukewarm coffee runs down his throat, and Bucky prays that the mix of dull pain and caffeine keeps his irrational thoughts at just that. Thoughts.

It seems Harding has been staring at him, because he barks a short laugh.

"Glad to know you have your restrictions, Major. Despite how you look."

Bucky wants to bare his teeth.

"LeMay thinks the 100th is the most undisciplined bomb group," Harding says. "I don't care about that. My only concern is discipline in the air. The fights," he clarifies. "I don't care what the crews do on the ground, as long as it doesn't affect the missions." The tone changes; it's an alpha command, and Bucky feels his body react. "Be careful, Major, or you'll be degraded to the kitchen," Harding threatens.

"Careful about what, sir," Bucky challenges, starting to get pissed off as the pleasant effect of the alcohol begins to wear off.

Harding grins around the cigar. "Cleven is a good-looking fella."

The growl Bucky lets out is so sudden, a guttural sound as if it's coming from the depths of his soul, that it catches him off guard. Not to Harding, who laughs openly. "Easy boy, I'm mated," he replies.

He doesn't show his neck, Bucky can't smell it, and Harding makes no attempt to pull out a photo or expand with a comment about his mate.

Damn possessive alphas, Bucky thinks with a snort.

It takes one to know one, he supposes.

"Nothing to worry about, sir," he settles for, finally. He doesn't want to talk more about this. He's tired and wants to see Buck; he is probably up and having breakfast. He wants to see him and watch his face as he tells him he's been demoted to squadron commander thanks to his help.

He chuckles to himself, thinking that Buck will probably act like it's nothing. As if he hadn't saved Bucky’s sanity with the smallest of actions.

No matter how this war ends, it'll always be him and Buck.

Bucky will make sure of that.

Chapter Text

The pub is slowly filling up; the smoke, the chatter, and bodies leave little to no room, and he and the rest of the airmen are crowded into a space by the fireplace. Only three of them, as the others decided not to enter when they saw how many Americans were already inside.

Emerson doesn't mind, he finds their cultural differences interesting. One of the few positive things about this war is the number of men of different backgrounds and statuses in the same place. He always felt a bit isolated; not many omega men make it to a position like his in the RAF, an ancient institution that doesn't share, at least not willingly, the same approach that other air forces have towards omegas.

The conversation is pleasant; the beta there, Curt, if he remembers correctly, is an intriguing fellow. He has the physique of an omega but the boisterous personality of an alpha, and he says the most unexpected things.

He is the one who informed them that the majors were held up in a meeting, but that they would arrive shortly.

"Hey, here!" The beta Curt suddenly shouts, and Emerson turns around to see the dark green-uniformed men walk towards them.

A dark-haired Major, an alpha, he presumes, arrives first and is about to sit next to Curt when the beta chases him away. What unusual behavior! A beta lieutenant speaking to an alpha like that? Emerson thinks with shock. He was a lieutenant himself and he would never even dream of speaking to Captain Bryan like that.

"Veal, go over there, this is Buck’s," Curt explains, waving his hand at the other chairs.

Major Veal says nothing, just huffs tiredly, and instead of sitting next to "Buck’s seat," he sits in the next chair, leaving two empty spots.

Quickly, the rest of the Americans arrive and take their seats, each avoiding the two chairs next to the beta. They introduce themselves, but names are forgotten as soon as they're spoken.

Finally, a blond man, another Major, arrives and sits next to Curt without uttering a word. No one makes any comments either. Emerson assumes he is Buck. "Boys," he says in a deep voice as a way of greeting, and pats Curt on the shoulder. The cheers of the Americans playing at a nearby table and the clinking of glasses drown out the Major's words, but the beta smiles at what sounds like praise.

Emerson feels his face light up with realization. An omega! Another omega and one with the rank of Major, what a joy! He thinks excitedly but quickly composes his face. The Captain is right next to him, so he must be careful not to behave inappropriately.

Before he can attempt to start a friendly talk with the Americans, hoping to get some word from the omega Major "Buck", his fellow airmen begin a conversation that, by the tone alone, Emerson knows will lead to trouble. Why can't his Captain talk about lighter topics?

Just then, another Major arrives, a tall, impressive man; an unmistakable alfa. He sits down in the only available chair, apparently reserved for him, next to Major Buck. He slumps down with his full weight, his frame much broader than the others. Even for an alpha he's quite a unit, Emerson thinks. Then he feels his eyebrows rise to his hairline when he watches the Major casually rest his hand on Major Buck’s leg. No one reacts, and no one seems to have noticed either.

He swallows. If Captain Brayn makes an unkind remark about the omega, this alpha Major won't sit still. A fight will be the least of their problems if they get to that point, Emerson thinks pessimistically.

"I can see more than one of you too. Pretty sure I could knock all of you out."

Emerson sighs deeply, feeling that the chances of this evening ending well are rapidly diminishing.

His eyes fall on the blond Major—Buck. He has barely said a word this entire time, but his eyes haven't rested, alert to everything happening around him. He's especially focused on Captain Bryan and Emerson, to be honest, feels a little jealous.

The Americans seem to take the alpha Major’s comment as a joke, or at least try to act as if it was one. Emerson is grateful that they, too, don't want to ruin the evening with unnecessary violence.

The drinks arrive, and fortunately, it's enough of a distraction to ignore the building tension in the air.

Everyone rushes for a glass of whiskey. Everyone except Buck. Emerson tries not to stare too hard, afraid that the dark-haired alpha at his side will notice. Or any of the men surrounding the Major. Lieutenant Crosby, who brought the drinks, personally hands a ginger beer to Major Buck, who doesn't even turn around, just grabs it. His blue eyes are fixed on the three of them—well, not the three of them; they're primarily focused on Captain Bryan, and from what Emerson senses, not in a friendly way.

He tries to change the subject to lighten the mood and steer the conversation towards something that won't end in aggression.

"How about a song? I heard you sing, Major."

It works.

For a brief moment.

The Americans are more openly affectionate than they are. It's a well-known fact. But there's something else about this particular group, and Emerson squints his eyes trying to decipher what it is. Everyone there has a kind of beta sense of smell, so it's hard to say for sure, but he senses something beyond the sole fact of sharing a rank between those two majors.

Suddenly, his blood freezes when he witnesses the alpha Major grab Buck's face. A huge hand, very close to the most sensitive part of an omega. Emerson feels his throat go dry and dares to look at his Captain. There's the look he'd been dreading. He can almost hear his thoughts about inappropriate behavior, about how omegas can't be in charge of men, about how Americans have no shame, and so on.

Everyone seems very comfortable with Major Buck. They're used to affection, and it goes both ways. Emerson feels a pang of envy and longing. How nice to have the comfort of being led by one of your own, to be seen and understood by your fellow airmen.

Curt speaks of him with admiration, as if Buck were some kind of comic book hero. A perfect example of a soldier. A man who could be the face of one of those recruiting posters.

"No Engine Cleven!" They cheer. Buck seems shy, but accepts the praise from those he knows are friends and brothers in arms. Emerson swallows his emotion at such a public display for an omega.

He has no doubt that Major Buck Cleven is the omega of the pack. He leads the boys in the air and watches over them on the ground.

The moment of tenderness doesn't last. As he expected, Captain Bryan couldn't let it pass. He addresses Buck directly, but, to no one's surprise, the alpha is the one who responds. Bucky is his name, as another American calls him, and Emerson finds a thread to pull on to calm the growing animosity between them.

"So let me get this straight. You’re Buck and he’s Bucky?" he asks, waiting for Major Buck to speak again and fill the space with his calm, velvety voice.

There's no opportunity for them to answer, as it is Captain Bryan who talks, and Emerson immediately loses all hope of ever being able to speak to Buck.

Pity, Major Bucky repeats like a chant, and even with their lack of sense of smell, Emerson notices the alpha is getting restless. But it is Buck, with his quiet demeanor, the one that frightens him the most. He doesn't understand how Captain Bryan doesn't sense it.

"You’d have more if you flew your mission at night." 

The air is sucked from the table. Emerson grimaces, praying internally to find a way to turn back before it is too late.

"Well, perhaps I was getting bored of all of the heavy petting going on at your end of the table."

His prayers go unheard. He decides to stare intently at the glass in his hand. No wishing to make eye contact with the majors. To be fair isn’t the worst thing Captain Byan has said. If Bucky wasn’t an alpha perhaps he would have alluded to Buck directly, but it seems even he has some sense despite all his prejudice.

After that, everything escalates quickly, quietly, for they are gentlemen and no one in the service of His Majesty the King would dare to behave like an animal.

"Let’s make a bit of sport ourselves. How about it?" Captain Bryan says. "Any of you will do."

There's no turning back now, Emerson realizes.

"I think it's an excellent idea."

That voice makes him raise his eyes in surprise.

He won't do it, Emerson thinks with panic. An omega won't participate in this, will he? He's a Major, but...

When the alpha Bucky quickly stands up, Emerson breathes a sigh of relief. No one in the pack flinches. But then Buck pulls him down, and suddenly everyone starts to fidget in their seats. 

Even so, the rest of the pack restrains themselves and don't interfere, to Emerson's astonishment. All except Curt, who stands up almost at the same time as Buck.

Emerson can't hear what they're saying, but it seems the beta is asking for something. Buck considers it and agrees. The pack visibly relaxes when everyone realizes Curt will be the selected player for this "sport".

The fight has the duration of a blink. The beta, Curt, shamelessly plays with Bryan and Emerson can't find the sympathy to care for him. Still, he is their Captain, so he helps him as soon as the fight is over. He briefly glances at the majors, pressed against each other, with Bucky hanging off Buck's shoulder—too close to his neck—and putting all his weight on the omega; who doesn't move and neither takes his eyes off them, like a cat stalking its prey before pouncing on it. Emerson has to support Bryan's barely conscious body, but he still feels Major Buck Cleven’s gaze above the cheers and jeers of the Americans.

He's still not sure if they're a mated couple, since he doesn't have much knowledge of what the USAAF allows, but from the looks of it, the pack doesn't care.

Buck and Bucky, he thinks with amusement. 

Chapter Text

The first time it happened, he didn't even register it. Why would he? It was such a simple favor.

They had been up since 8 a.m. practicing flying maneuvers, and now, with the adrenaline wearing off, they were like rag dolls, with barely enough energy to move, wash, eat, and fall into bed.

Bucky was growling like a frustrated pup trying to untie his boots as they both rushed to undress themselves fast enough to get to the showers before the best ones were taken.

"Buck, can you help me untie this?"

Gale was in the middle of taking off his shirt when he turned and saw Bucky hunched forward, wrestling with the laces and making a knot bigger than the original.

He is a child.

Buck sighed, without thinking—too tired and too sun-exposed—crouched down and untied the impossible knot with his slender, skillful fingers in a second.

“Thank God,” Bucky exhaled, as if the laces had been suffocating him.

Without waiting for him to get up, Bucky gave him an enthusiastic pat on his shoulder, a warm, strong hand that almost made him lose his balance. Immediately afterward, he took off his shirt, and Buck quickly stood up as soon as the expense of John's chest was in front of his eyes. 

He remembers feeling very warm and a little dizzy, similar to the feeling of stepping on solid ground after flying for the first time.

Texas summer wasn't easy on anyone, but it was particularly hard to endure inside a cockpit for hours, so he assumed the heat really got into his head.

But it kept happening. 

Buck, can you hold this for me?

Buck, help me fly this plane?

Buck, can you help me tie my shoes?

Buck, does this smell good?

And so on.

Bucky was a good friend. His first friend since he enlisted, so he saw no problem with helping a friend. Although he still used that name, which wasn't his, but that quickly spread to the point where everyone began to know him as "Buck" Cleven.

Then it wasn’t just Bucky, specifically as he rose through the military ranks, suddenly more and more cadets and fellow airmen were asking for his help, his advice, his support. 

It felt good. Helping. Something about being needed and being useful always felt good.

We take care of others.

That was what his mama used to say, and he hated it. Always hate it. Every time he asked why she kept doing nice things for a person who was so inconsiderate and ungrateful like his father. Why was she kind when the only thing he gave back was coldness, indifference, debt, and, in the worst cases—when alcohol blinded his already clouded mind—violence?

That's what we do, we take care of others.

We.

Omegas.

Gale didn’t understand and didn’t want to. He thought it was stupid. A stupid instinct. Something that would get him killed.

Then he met Marge, and wanted to do things for her. The time he fixed the family radio in her house, it felt like a great achievement. He even earned some approval from Marge's father, who began to look at him with less contempt and gave him a few words in the form of "old alpha advice."

Still, he didn't understand it. He didn't feel anything that justified doing certain things, as if driven by an inner desire he couldn't ignore. Maybe it was because he and Marge weren't mated yet.

It didn't matter.

Enlistment changed a lot in his life. Suppressants lifted a weight off his shoulders; he began to feel more normal, more comfortable in his skin. It was nice, not having to worry about his smell, about the hellish heats. He was more in control, his mind over his nature.

His nose felt less overwhelmed, but more sensitive to some scents.

The first time he smelled it on Bucky, it felt like someone had punched him right in the pit of his stomach, as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. That familiar mix of alcohol and cigarette smoke. So ingrained in Gale's mind that if he had been a little more sleepy, he would have recoiled from it. But he didn't, because it wasn't the same. Bucky smelled awful, but it was Bucky; Gale could recognize it on a deep, instinctive level he didn't know was possible.

Especially since his alpha pheromones weren't noticeable. 

Maybe that was the difference: his father's pheromones were nauseating. Too intense.

Bucky smiled at him that night. “Sorry, Buck. Did I wake you up?” he asked, grinning like a loon. Gale wasn't sleeping, but he wasn't really awake either. He was stuck inside his mind thinking about useless things. Like Bucky's whereabouts.

“It’s okay. I just turned off the lights.”

The small room quickly filled with Bucky's body odor. Gale should have felt sick, should have asked Bucky to take a shower or open a window. He did neither and instead fell asleep right away, surrounded by Bucky's presence, his mind calm for once.

He realized that helping Bucky felt different. Having a pack and taking care of them felt different. There is no weather or strenuous activity that could explain what he felt every time some of the youngers flyers flashed him a smile with a very enthusiastic “Thank you Major Cleven” or everytime Curt exclaimed a “You’re my hero Buck,” when he'd just handed him a bottle of Irish whiskey he'd found on his weekend pass.

“Go to Cleven,” Brady would say whenever he didn't have the patience to deal with someone.

“Better ask Buck,” Benny would suggest when they couldn't come to a decision.

“He is just good at everything, isn’t that crazy?” Bucky liked to shout into the table every time Buck won at some kind of game.

There are some things you can't escape. Omega or not, he is a Major, a Squadron Commander. A leader.

“Buck, give me a hand with this sheepskin,” Claytor says the morning of their first mission in Thorpe Abbotts. Gale pulls the lapels of the jacket, freeing them from the life preserver vest. He takes the opportunity to scent them a little. He's been doing that since he took over the 350th. It settles his mind, helps him to focus better. 

“Scenting your ducklings, huh?” Bucky teased him the first time he caught him in the act. “That way they won’t get lost,” he chuckled at Buck's glare and red cheeks.

He can't smell it, others can't smell it unless they're too close, but it helps.

Especially today. He doesn't know what he will find there in the sky, Bucky has been unusually tight-lipped about it, and Gale doesn't have a good feeling about it. He needs to be focused, he needs a tight formation. He needs his boys close and ready.

“I like your aftershave,” Claytor says suddenly and Buck smiles sincerely. 

It took him a while to retrain his brain to stop drenching himself in cosmetic aromas. Cologne, aftershave, hair pomade—anything that would delay the perception of his natural scent.

His mama always complimented him, saying he was sweet. Sweet as candy, she said.

He never knew what he actually smelled, which only made things worse. Marge used to tell him it was soft but masculine, and Gale had a suspicion she was just being nice. Marge is a nice, smart girl. She probably knew why Gale wouldn't step foot outside his house without first showering and putting on cologne.

“Good. This is how close I want you on my wing today.” 

He is now a leader, first and foremost, so he's going to do just that. Lead his boys through it.

Chapter Text

It’s as hot as he had expected. A striking contrast when you're returning from flying high in the sky with temperatures that can freeze your own bodily fluids in a second.

Bucky squints, staring at the horizon as if he could materialize the cold beers and the welcoming committee.

There's no such thing. Just battered, ragged planes, dirt, heat, and the shivering feeling of having survived another mission at the cost of other men’s lives.

Luck.

At the end of the day, it’s just luck he is here. 

He looks at Buck and snorts. In his case, it's an insane amount of confidence in himself. Sometimes, Bucky thinks that, for someone who doesn't gamble, Buck likes to play with odds too much; he pushes and pushes fate with the force of his skills.

He doesn't believe in anything but what he can do, his own abilities.

Bucky hopes he believes in him, too. That they'll get through this.

He catches himself sniffing the air again. His alpha is a little restless; he hasn't felt this way since he shared a bunk with Buck in flight school. Maybe it's the unforgiving sun, the uncomfortable feeling of sweat dampening his clothes, and the fact that Buck is shirtless, sunbathing like a lazy cat.

He doesn't need the ice-cold beer, Bucky thinks with amusement and envy at Buck’s endurance under the sun. He already feels his skin reddening with warmth just from watching him.

They’re going for Buck. Shit. They’ve hit Cleven. Shit! Buck's hit. Hell with it. I’m going down to the nose. They’re going for Buck—Bucky shakes his head. He needs to do something before he goes crazy and commits some impulsive and stupid act.

He knows what might soothe his alpha, but Buck would knock him out before letting Bucky scent him in front of the men.

Maybe a walk will help.

Bucky decides to wander around the makeshift camp that the men have set up. He checks out all the crews, asks what they're doing, chats casually, and exchanges a few jokes and words of encouragement—anything to help his men, and himself, take their minds off things after returning from hell itself.

On the way back, after making a few rounds, his eyes recognize a pile of clothes, neatly folded, resting on one of the many wooden crates scattered around. Buck's clothes. Everyone had removed most of their layers, leaving only the bare essentials to cover themselves, as soon as they touched solid ground. The "blue bunny suits" were carefully packed in zippered bags, but the uniforms and personal items were placed everywhere.

Bucky notices something blue in the folds of the clothes.

The men are trying to keep themselves busy by doing what they can while they wait for the 12th to arrive; the heat has left most of them in a slowed-down state, so no one pays attention to him.

He walks to the crate and lifts the clothes, pretending to look for something. Before he can think about it too much, he grabs the blue scarf and quickly stuffs it into his pocket. The bunched fabric sticks out obscenely, so Bucky puts his hand in his pocket to cover it and give the impression that his hand is balled into a fist. As casually as he can, he strolls calmly towards one of the forts.

“Sir?” A lieutenant, who was resting under the shadow of the plane’s nose, quickly sits up when he sees him.

“Relax, just checking on something,” Bucky lies.

He's too exhausted, but he manages to push himself inside the damaged fortress. If it was hot outside, it's like being inside an oven in there. But at least it's empty.

Wasting no time, Bucky pulls out the scarf and brings it to his nose. The smell hits him immediately, and for a moment he even loses his balance, having to hold himself with a hand on the warmed metal. The effect is indescribable. All his limbs relax, his mind feels like a cloud, and his alpha howls with energy.

Sweet.

Beneath the sweat and cologne, Buck's scent is as clear as a bird against the blue sky. He smells sweet and woody.

Bucky inhales deeply. He feels drunk, can't stop smiling, and the need to sing fills his veins. He could howl for real right now.

"Major?" a voice calls from below him.

"Yes?" he yells back, the scarf still covering his nose.

"Major Kidd is looking for you."

He can't stay there. He doesn't know if it's the concentrated heat gathering inside or Buck's scent, but he's getting dizzy.

This time he folds the fabric more tightly and hides it, tucked into the hem of his pants and covered with his undershirt; he has to return it before Bucks notices it's missing.

It's very good quality. Bucky wonders if it was a gift from Marge; it looks like something a beautiful woman would give as a gift.

Maybe I should keep it.

“Bucky?” Kidd calls him this time.

Instead of answering, Bucky jumps out of the plane, landing roughly onto the desert ground. When he straightens, Kidd is staring at him, brows furrowed slightly, eyes studying his face. For a moment, Bucky panics, thinking that Jack has noticed he has one of Buck's belongings with him. His alpha growls protectively, expecting Kidd to try to snatch the scarf away.

Bucky smothers the feeling with a cocky smile. “I'm gone for two seconds and you already miss me?”

Jack huffs unimpressed. “Officers' meeting,” he says, both as an explanation and an order. Without waiting for him, he turns around and walks away.

Bucky is left alone with his thoughts. He should return the scarf before the meeting since Buck will be there.

Will he notice I have it?

Without deciding anything, Bucky starts walking following Jack’s shadow.

Chapter Text

It's been over a month.

Buck hasn't asked about the scarf, to Bucky's bewilderment.

He just showed up one day with another one around his neck, same color and pattern. So similar that Bucky ran to his drawer and searched for the hidden place where he kept it—the scarf he shamelessly stole was still there. Buck was wearing another one.

After the Regensburg mission everyone returned to Thorpe Abbotts in different ways. Buck insisted on waiting until DeMarco's plane was patched and flew back with them. 

Buck didn’t mention it, nor did Bucky, but they lost many. Especially from the 350th. So many that the absence was felt in the silence it fell on the mess hall, in the numbness of the crews at the Officers’ Club. The first days the men spoke in whispers or didn't speak at all, still trying to regroup themselves despite the missing pieces.

It didn't last much longer. The noise slowly returned with the replacements, the crews filling up once again with unknown faces, devoid of the familiar warmth and stories of camaraderie, but good enough to carry out the missions.

Losing pack members was never easy, especially those who had been with them since basic training. Buck kept everything tight, not a single gesture out of the ordinary, his voice steady when he spoke to his men, ready for the next battle. The only change was that he didn't scent-mark the new boys like he used to, and Bucky’s alpha whined in sympathy. He was, too, losing bonds and the will to make new ones.

As long as you're with me, he thought deliriously on those nights that it was harder to fall asleep. He would grab Buck's scarf and hold it under his nose, trying to remind himself that Gale was still there, breathing, alive. He and Buck were whole and together, and that's what matters, even if he wanted more.

He knows he can’t ask for more; Buck won’t allow it.

“Yeah, maybe next time,” he replies to his invitation to London.

Bucky presses his lips in a tight line. He knew the answer, but he asked anyway. He'll keep asking until Buck tells him not to.

Or he gets married.

Maybe even if he gets married. 

Bucky doesn't know how not to get addicted to the things he likes.

He stares as Buck makes his way across the dance floor carrying a very relaxed and heavy Meatball. At one point, Chick intercepts him, and Buck releases the dog, who obediently returns to DeMarco's side. Bucky locks eyes with the husky, and a spark of jealousy hits him hard in the chest.

He growls at Meatball, who flinches at the sudden aggression and whimpers in response, hiding behind DeMarco's legs.

“Fighting with dogs now, Bucky?”

“Just saying hi,” he replies with a wolfish smile. 

Buck is still talking to Harding. His back is to him, but Bucky notices his posture is relaxed. He wonders about what he is talking so much with the CO. Buck doesn't like to talk too much to anyone.

Just going with everyone but me, huh?

Harding's gaze suddenly lands on him.

Right… the weekend pass. 

Distracting himself in London is as easy as finding someone to share a shot of vodka with. His senses are drowned by the bustle of the people, the conversation, the music, and the alcohol coursing through his veins. By the time he meets Paulina, his skin is tingling with excitement. She is a beautiful, intelligent, and funny alpha woman who makes his heart beat like the first time he tasted combat.

Despite the bombs falling from the sky and the conversations about fairness in a war, or maybe thanks to that, they continue having sex through the night. There's something animalistic and liberating about letting go. Paulina sets the pace, gives orders without raising her voice, and guides him in bed as if she were used to commanding men. He simply follows her; he doesn't want to think, he obeys her commands, and his alpha, for once, doesn't protest.

Even in close quarters, Bucky can't detect her scent well, not until he buries his nose in her neck. She growls. A warning. Bucky smiles before lifting his head. "Nice perfume," he says, lying through his teeth.

She watches him with her clever, dark blue eyes, and Bucky's unfocused mind sees another face for a moment. His alpha suddenly whimpers, seized by an unexpected sadness at remembering something he knows he can't yearn for.

"We can't do that," Paulina says softly but sternly, misinterpreting Bucky's reaction.

Nothing new to me, he thinks with a rueful smile.

The night comes to an end, morning rises and gives way to noon. With its light, it displays the evidence of their actions. His head struggles with the familiarity of a hangover, but it doesn't bother him particularly. He plans to keep drinking until reality forces his mind back to business. War business.

Paulina is getting dressed and, unsurprisingly, rejects his proposal of another night of fun. He doesn't understand why it sounds so complicated to others. It's just fun.

Just before she closes the door, something stops her. Bucky looks up and, for a hopeful moment, thinks she has changed her mind.

She hasn't.

Something on the floor catches her eye. Bucky can't see it from his position on the bed, but after she bends down, his eyes fall on the blue scarf dangling from her fingers.

He can't think of a lie; he's too tired to make up a story. But there's no need, she smells it instantly.

Buck’s scent. An omega scent. Probably mixed with his too, now that he had the scarf with him for so long.

"I didn't know you had someone," she says, her tone dry, but Bucky detects a hint of aggression in it. Jealousy? Anger?

“I don’t,” he replies, swallowing a snarl. 

Drop it.

Paulina frowns in confusion, but then a realization crosses her face and her expression softens. “Another pilot?”

Bucky doesn’t give an answer. His alpha is agitated; he tenses his muscles to prevent any involuntary movement.

Another alpha is touching Buck’s scarf. Our scarf. Our omega.

He exhales sharply. “Give to me,” he orders, trying not to use his command voice. He doesn't want to provoke her alpha.

Paulina lets out a small chuckle but acquiesces, placing the scarf carefully on the bed. Without touching him. “So you do understand,” she adds with a sad smile.

It isn’t the same, Bucky wants to say. Buck is at the base, and he's not his; not like Pavel was Paulina's. He was her husband.

“Good luck, sweet man.”

Bucky reaches for the scarf as Paulina gently closes the door.

Chapter Text

Bucky stares at the small container of tablets.

One of the privileges of his rank is that he doesn’t have to personally go to the nurse to get his daily dose of suppressants. They give him a month's supply and trust his judgment as a high-ranking officer to be responsible and take them daily. That, and the threat of immediate suspension if he fails to comply.

We have to go and find him.

He’s there.

We have to go.

Bucky drowns the voice with another sip of whiskey. He has to leave the hotel in an hour to take the train that will bring him back to base. His suitcase lies on the bed, barely touched.

His leg twitches uncontrollably, and he can’t stop his mind from racing through what-if scenarios.

I should have been up there with you.

He makes a self-deprecating sound. It was Buck who sent him here, to London.

Next time I won’t leave you.

“No one touched anything,” the first sergeant tells him, trailing behind him, as soon as he bursts into the 350th officers’ quarters.

And it’s true, Buck’s things are exactly where they were before. It’s easy to spot any changes because Buck is a freak who likes things in their “right” place—as he scolded Bucky the time he left a book in the “wrong” place when they shared a room back in flight school.

Bucky exhales deeply and gives a curt nod. They probably didn’t have time, with all the chaos brought on by the loss of so many officers. Or maybe Harding knows more than he lets on.

“We have to pack his things, Major,” the beta sergeant says timidly. “We need to clear the bed…”

“I’ll do it,” he replies sharply.

Thankfully, he is left alone to put Buck’s things in his locker. He doesn’t feel particularly sociable, so it’s better this way. He doesn’t want to lash out at some poor guy trying to help.

He grabs the first piece of clothing off the hanger and it takes all his restraint not to bring it to his nose, even when Buck’s scent floats in the air when he moves it. His alpha groans. Bucky forces his eyes shut, pushing his emotions back down. I need to focus, he says to himself; he can’t fall apart now. He continues emptying the shelves, mostly filled with well-worn books, some of which Bucky has already read. Marge’s portrait rests on the nightstand, and Bucky pauses for a moment to look at the photo, then carefully places it on top of the rest of the things so it doesn’t get crushed.

His chest tightens at the thought of someone having to write her a letter.

He’s there, we have to look out for him.

He’s there. He’s waiting.

Bucky swallows and before closing the footlocker lid, he places his lucky deuce inside. Buck has returned to him after the Regensburg mission. He still doesn’t know why.

He should have kept it. It brought him back safely, after all.

His vision is getting a little blurry, and he wishes he had a cup of coffee with him like the first time he met Harding. The similarities don’t escape him, but now, instead of a deep sense of unease and frustration with the situation, he’s simply furious.

Harding doesn’t let him sit down, as if he knew that Bucky hasn’t stopped drinking since he left for London. He hasn’t stopped drinking since the war started; he doesn’t know why it matters.

“I want to lead the next mission,” he demands aggressively. Too aggressively, even for a conversation between alphas.

The eyes of the CO narrow on him, and Bucky knows Harding is suppressing the instinct to sniff the air, to assess the damage. Even if he could smell it, Bucky wouldn’t cover it. He’s angry, he wants revenge, and he will get it.

“Your lead crew got shot down.” Harding throws at him like a dart to Bucky’s pride. You lost your men, you lost your man, that’s what he hears, but he’s not going to give him the satisfaction of showing any reaction.

I’m not presenting you my neck, Bucky’s alpha growls.

His mind is fixed on one thing. “I’ll get another one,” he replies.

Pleasing an alpha always involves a mixture of feelings of self-satisfaction and irritation. When Harding barks a short laugh, Bucky can’t help but give a small, crooked smile.

He was right, Harding and he are on the same page on some things. LeMay would have grounded him as soon as he returned prematurely to the base, drunk to the bone. But Harding won’t; he understands.

The sun has already fallen when he hears the news of Blakely’s crew return. The knot in his chest loosens a little, but the ache lingers. It’s okay, he’s going to let his men celebrate; it’s not every day that a friend you thought was dead walks into the bar as if nothing had happened.

He won’t bother them with questions. He’s already interrogated the ones who survived, and everyone said the same: no one knew when it happened or quite knew how, amid the chaos of the fighting. Even trembling with anguish, Bucky is certain the men hadn’t lied to him.

He’s there. Buck is there.

I know his scent. I can track him from anywhere.

I’ll find him.

We’re going to find him.

The celebration freezes as soon as they spot him. He only came to fill his flask and tell Croz that Harding was looking for him. He doesn’t know why it stops. No one should be feeling sorry for him. There is nothing to feel sorry about.

I just have to find him, Bucky thinks.

His nose is recovering its normal sensitivity and right now it’s itching. There’s too much pity in the air; it smells acidic. It pisses him off.

“No use wondering gentlemen. You can all do the math as to why I came back early.”

Conclusions are quickly drawn, and soon defeat and exhaustion fill the air of the Officers’ Club. Bucky sniffs, getting used to smelling everything again will give him a headache before the alcohol has a chance.

I need to see him again, he thinks as he tucks the blue scarf under his flight suit. Both ends run parallel across his chest and frame his dog tags and the rosary hanging around his neck.

Buck, I still have to return the scarf.

As the time for the mission approaches, Bucky struggles to contain his anger. Thinking about those bastards who dared to shoot down Buck makes him gum itch with the need to bite.

Who are they to touch him?

They can’t take down Buck Cleven without suffering the consequences. They will pay. Paulina’s voice echoes in his head: The Germans deserve every last one of your bombs. Bucky presses his lips together and breathes deeply.

Brady and Crank go back and forth.

“We’re hitting it right when everyone’s coming out of mass.”

“And?”

Two different opinions about the mission, it seems.

“They’re all part of it,” Brady replies, with the same tone he uses to talk about anything. And yet, Bucky’s nose detects the change in his scent. He is angry too.

Bucky gets tired of the pointless argument and barks at Crank, forcing his obedience with his command voice. He has no time for men with doubts. The rest of the boys get the message quickly, and they all finish getting ready without voicing any complaint.

“Trade in your sheepskin, Major?” Brady asks nonchalantly when Bucky gets into the co-pilot’s seat. The captain still hadn’t said a word, about the losses, about the absence of DeMarco, but behind the perpetual scent of annoyance he carries, Bucky recognizes the smell of Meatball.

You can’t say anything to me, he thinks with a scoff.

“Buck always hated that jacket.”

He’ll see him again, and Bucky just doesn’t want the first thing Gale says to him to be a complaint about the cleanliness of his sheepskin.

I’m going to see him again. In hell or heaven.

Hope is the desperation of a fool.

And Bucky has always been a fool.

Chapter Text

Bucky is making it very hard to focus on what's important: the mission.

It wasn't unusual for the Major to want to go on a mission, even when he wasn't required to fly, but everyone knew what it meant when he returned early from his leave after Buck was gone.

At least Brady knew immediately what it meant when Bucky came to his bed that morning. “John, I’m flying with you. We’re leading. We’re going out to get the bastards that got Buck.” He doesn't know if it was for worse or better that Buck and Bucky had never been a mated couple.

An alpha like Bucky was the worst type to deal with after such a significant loss, and Brady was already dreading having to fly with him, in that state, on his first time in the lead position.

He catches Bucky sniffing the air several times, and the suspicion that he has stopped taking his suppressant doesn't shock him.

No lucky jacket either.

Brady has a bad feeling.

And it seems the entire crew does too.

Bucky uses his alpha command voice again with his co-pilot and Brady feels his skin react. The tingling sensation annoys him, but not as much as Bucky's behavior.

Yes, Buck went down, along with Benny and so many others. The war doesn't stop because men are missing, and they shouldn’t either. No matter how they feel about it.

He barks at Bucky, and something in his words makes the Major relent, calming down a little.

Once they approach the IP and the Thunderbolts can’t go any further, the gates of hell open. Planes burning and exploding with the relentless attack from the Luftwaffe. Black smoke trailing from the damaged Fortress like a flare signaling death. Their own M’lle Zig Zig going down in an uncontrollable dive. They have to bail out.

Brady knows he's in hell and apparently his punishment is having to deal with a stubborn Major with a death wish. “It's my ship! You jump!” he shouts using his command voice. 

You aren't the only one hurting, Brady would have liked to say. But he’d rather make sure Bucky uses the parachute. If he happens to run into Buck, he doesn't want to be the one to tell him he's not sure whether Bucky jumped or not.

He doesn't know if it’s the alpha voice or the thirty caliber punctuation marks just under their feet, but Bucky finally jumps, and Brady breathes in relief before following him.

I'll see you Bucky, he thinks as he freefalls.

Chapter Text

Gale's back hits the cold, solid wall of the cell. He tries not to make a sound, but a grunt escapes his throat at the impact.

The breath of the German soldier is repulsive even at this distance. He must have been drinking a lot, Gale guesses, when he recognizes a particular sour, pungent odor.

"That pretty mouth shouldn't be doing that." The soldier speaks in German, but Gale can assume he didn't take well the fact that an omega spat on him in response to the soldier using the German word for omega like it was an insult.

You get any closer and I'm going to bite your ear off, Gale thinks with anger bubbling under his skin.

It's been nine fucking days of solitary confinement. He had made marks on the wall with the metal of his zipper when he realized they were feeding him once a day. The cell was full of marks, and Gale traced them with his finger as if they could give him a clue as to whether any of his men had been there. 

Are the boys alive?

The lines on the wall didn't talk. Neither did he.

The interrogation has been harder than he expected. He had imagined it more barbaric and physical, but it was nothing like that, and the first question almost threw him off balance. You’re planning to marry your girlfriend, Marjorie Spencer. Aren’t you, Major?

He didn't give any reaction. Not even when the German interrogator mentioned Bucky—he was prepared for that.

After the third time he refused to give any information other than his name, rank, and number, they stopped, and a small part of him started to fear the worst. 

No one knew what they did with omegas, but Gale wasn't going to find out with his hands tied behind his back.

He hears the soft sound of a knife being unsheathed, and before he can react, the cold blade is pressed against his cheek.

Gale keeps his breathing slow and even, trying not to move his body, every muscle tense. The German soldier is around his height, a little more muscular, and he uses his forearm against Gale’s chest to keep him pressed against the wall.

"Those blue eyes..." The soldier watches him very intently, and a shiver runs through Gale's body. He still doesn't know what he's saying, but he recognizes that look. "You could have my pups and no one would know the difference," the soldier continues. Gale clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes in defiance. 

They won't get even a hint of fear from him.

Miraculously, the suppressant tablets not only survived the rough landing after the jump, but the officers allowed him to keep them after the strip-search procedure. I'm a beta—the interrogator said—but I understand how important these are to omegas. They both know what awaits Gale if he stops taking them, and he only has a few tablets left. We could provide you with more if you feel... cooperative.

He’ll have to find another solution after that, if he's still alive.

"You know they take pregnant omegas to another place?" Gale's eyes widen at the word, that word again. Omega. Why does he mention omegas so much? 

This whole game seems to excite him so much because the soldier keeps talking, not relenting the pressure on Gale's cheek or his chest. "They'll keep you there until you give birth to a beautiful blond baby boy," the German lets out a hideous laugh, apparently finding his own joke hilarious.

You're a clown and not even a funny one, Gale thinks, frowning with disgust.

He hates this situation and, not for the first time, regrets not having asked Bucky for his scarf back. Not that it'll make a difference whether the Nazis think he has a mate or not; but by now, the scarf must smell more like Bucky than him, and maybe the strong scent of alpha pheromones would have repelled this bastard enough to stop him from bothering him with useless threats.

Gale knows he's a low-ranking soldier, the one who brings him the food, and that the Germans won't execute an Air Corps major, but even so, knowing that doesn't make the situation any more tolerable.

The door of his cell is slightly open and the sound of approaching boots distracts him for a second. He doesn't notice the German soldier has placed one of his legs between his own. The feel of the fabric moving alerts him before the soldier has a chance to move forward. Even without his sense of smell, he knows what's going to happen.

Gale moves on instinct.

There's no sound, no light. His mind goes blank for what it feels like a blink of an eye, but when he returns, an overwhelming metallic taste—blood—on his tongue makes his head spin.

The German soldier is screaming, a few steps further away from where he was before, desperately clutching his hand. He's bleeding, Gale notices, trying to focus his vision. He's almost certain that the imprint of his teeth has been left in the German soldier's palm, a curved line of indentations with four holes where his canines broke the skin. Blood leaks from the wounds and slowly falls to the floor.

The satisfaction only lasts for a moment until Gale feels the sting of pain in his cheek.

The son of a bitch had cut him. He doesn't know how deep, but it seems that in the rush of getting away from Gale, the blade had pierced the soft flesh. He feels a warm liquid running down his face. Gale spits the remains of the soldier’s blood in his mouth before using his own saliva to clean his wound.

His breathing has accelerated, but he hasn't moved from his position. His eyes follow every movement from the soldier, who continues cursing him in a fit of uncontrolled rage. Gale considers the possible scenarios and calculates the steps necessary to grab the knife lying on the ground, right next to the soldier.

Too risky.

He isn't going to use it.

He can't kill me or he would have done it by now.

The German soldier finally recovers enough awareness and picks up the knife immediately. To Gale's relief, he sheathes it with quick but uncoordinated movements.

I could have used that to shave, his starving mind thinks for an instant. He hates the stubble on his face.

"Fucking crazy omegas." The soldier keeps using that word, but not with the same tone as before. So Gale knows he isn't referring to him specifically.

The German spits at him, a childish retaliation that forces Gale to suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

He's left alone again, the piece of bread and something liquid that mimics coffee marking his ninth day in this hole. He doesn't know how much longer he’ll be able to hold out. Maybe if he knew where the rest of the boys are, or if they're safe...

Gale shakes his head. 

He should have kept the two-dollar bill.

Bucky is going to be insufferable when they see each other again, pestering him with the knowledge that the only time Gale didn't have it in his pocket, he got shot down. And Gale won't have any arguments to defend himself.

A small smile grows on his face. It may take a while, but they'll see each other again. After all, John said it would be the two of them.

Chapter Text

When Bucky crosses the barbed wire to the West Compound, the first thing he notices is that the men of the 100th are gathered together; a bunch of excited boys huddled together to keep warm. They smile at him even before his ears can reach the sound of enthusiastic cheers and jokes. 

The rest of the airmen walk behind him, but as soon as the distance shortens they start to pass him to meet with familiar faces. Hugs, pats on the back, and shouts of "Welcome to the Ritz!" fill the chilly air of the camp.

Bucky doesn't run. He walks calmly, greets and receives all the affection from the group with a good face, but as soon as he finishes, he turns to DeMarco, who is standing suspiciously close to him. As if he's waiting for the welcoming celebration to end.

"Where's Buck?" Bucky asks.

"Follow me, Major," DeMarco replies, thankfully unable to contain his smile, so Bucky's alpha relaxes. Buck is fine. For some reason, he's not there to greet him, but he's fine.

They walk toward one of the barracks. Except for a few guards, it's almost deserted since all the men are busy with the new-old arrivals.

"Here." DeMarco stops at the entrance steps, and Bucky looks at him, confused. "We live here, Buck told me he has to talk to you and to keep the boys away," he explains, still smiling despite the seriousness of his words.

Bucky nods and starts to climb the stairs, not knowing what to expect. Buck had seemed to be doing well during these four months in which they found themselves on opposite sides of the fence. A little exhausted, like everyone else, but in good spirits and focused like a squadron commander should be.

Even though no one here is on suppressants—they barely have any decent food—Bucky heard from the senior officers that heats and rut are rare. Everyone is messed up, hormones aren't working like they should because of the unknown circumstances, the lack of nutrients, and a bunch of other factors, according to the Doc. So Bucky knows that, at least, neither Buck nor any of the boys from the 100th went through any of that.

Something about that fact pleases his alpha. Buck had been fine, and now Bucky is here.

"First door!" DeMarco informs him before walking away.

As soon as he steps inside, a familiar strong scent assaults his nose. The place is too small and is saturated with the boys’ mixed scents, but overpowering all of them is Buck's. He must have been there for a while, or he intentionally filled the air with his.

"Major," Buck smiles at him. He's sitting at the small table in the middle of the room, right in front of the door.

"Buck," Bucky exhales with relief. "I don't get a ‘welcome home' from you?" he asks, trying to ease the oppressive atmosphere. He can't read the situation; he doesn't know what is going on with Buck.

It's cold, even inside. Buck is wearing a heavy coat that hides most of him. He walks toward Bucky, circling the table with his hands in his pockets, looking even smaller than Bucky thought he was. He stops when he's an arm's length away. "What happened to your sheepskin?" he asks, pointing at Bucky's leather jacket, not very appropriate for the freezing weather they were experiencing.

"With Jack," Bucky answers easily.

"With Jack?" Buck frowns. "Why Kidd has your jacket?"

Bucky could laugh at his tone; he sounds like a mom annoyed that his kids forgot his jacket at a friend's house—or like a jealous girlfriend. Bucky has never had anyone jealous of him. "I didn't need it," he decides to answer with a shrug.

I didn't need luck, I needed to find you. And I did.

Buck says nothing. His hand, still out of his pocket, rises again; this time to grab the knitted hem of Bucky's jacket. He gently tugs at the fabric, and Bucky involuntarily takes a step forward. Buck tugs again. Another step closer. Bucky feels his body moving on its own, but he doesn't want to stop it.

"It took you so damn long," Buck says in a whisper. 

They're close. When Buck looks up, and under the dim light of the only lamp in the room, Bucky notices how huge his pupils are. 

There's something hidden there—he doesn't know what exactly, but there is something. It's like staring into a void, feeling like you could jump and something is going to catch you, but you have no certainty. 

Buck's scent spikes; the smell hits him like a slap in the face, being so close.

"Buck..."

"Sorry, I—" His eyes look at the floor, but his hand is still holding Bucky's jacket.

There's a moment of silence in which neither of them speaks; the sound of the outside reaches them muffled as if they're isolated from everything, and in a way, they are. They're here for who knows how long, with few to no options. Gale is the only thing he has. Here and outside.

"Buck, what do you need?" he asks as his own hand moves to cup Buck's face, lifting his head. He needs to be sure, needs to see it in his eyes.

The blue of Buck's eyes has never been so deep, so full of meaning, holding so many words together. Bucky would love to immerse himself in and discover every single one. He's never seen Buck so open and unguarded, and Bucky is scared; scared because there's no path to follow, no role to play. No bridge to cross to get to the other side. Here, he has to dive in and pray he doesn't drown.

"Can I?" he says softly and feels Buck nodding into his hand.

He'll dive in, but not by jumping off a cliff. He'll get in slowly, without disturbing the water.

At first, it's a shy, slow touch. Bucky leans forward and connects their foreheads, gently rubbing his own against Buck's. There's a deep, content sigh, so Bucky continues. He raises his free hand and presses the inner part of his wrist to Buck's face. He has lost weight, and his prominent cheekbones feel hard against his skin, but Bucky is careful and moves slowly, rubbing with purpose. He does the same to the other side of Buck's face, where he sports an ugly scar, already healed but uneven. He lingers there a moment longer and notices how the tension in Buck's shoulders starts to disappear.

The grip on the jacket doesn't loosen or tighten, but Buck moves intentionally seeking the contact against Bucky’s hand, and after a moment, he tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck. Bucky has to swallow a whine. His alpha is ecstatic; he feels he could lose control at any moment.

He won't. Buck has placed so much trust in him, and he won't break it.

Bucky continues to scent under Buck's jaw and ear—his nose overwhelmed by the cloying sweet smell gathered there. He knows his own pheromones must be stifling the air in the room too, and he must be careful not to provoke an incident they will both regret.

Buck has his eyes closed, a soft purr rises in his throat and the pleasant vibration reaches Bucky's ears. He continues lowering his nose to the chin with Buck's head almost completely tilted back. He rubs, leaving his scent, and carefully avoids the spot where the mating bite would go.

"Bucky…” Buck’s voice is a rough plea, and Bucky doesn't know what he is pleading for until his free hand opens the collar of his coat. Bucky smiles to himself and nods, his nose still buried in Buck's neck. He continues down his long neck, scenting every patch of skin until he reaches Buck's collarbones, covering all the exposed skin.

When he finishes, Buck's face feels warm to the touch and he's completely flushed. "Are you okay?" Bucky asks, and receives a soft affirmative hum and a nod.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't know what; too many words clash in his tongue, and nothing comes out clearly.

"Buck, can you—"

A knock on the door interrupts him. Bucky grumbles in frustration as he hears Brady's voice coming from the other side of the door.

"Majors, Colonel Alkire is asking for Bucky.” 

When he feels Buck release his grip on his jacket, Bucky's gaze turns to his face. The blue is calm and bright like the sky on a clear day, no depth remains. Buck looks at him with the familiar eyes of an old friend. His smile is small but sincere, and he whispers a thank you before answering Brady in his normal tone.

Bucky wants to make a joke, tell Buck he can't just leave him like this, say something to ease the intense feeling that’s eating him from the inside. But once again, when he needs it most, words fail him. So he chuckles. "Any time," he says. And he means it. No matter what, he'll always be there for Buck. He doesn't need anything in return. He'd give and give everything until he had nothing left of himself, and until he reached that point, he wouldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

Brady stares. There is not much to do here, so he stares. Benny shifts slightly on the ball of his feet, cigarette in his mouth and unable to drop that easy smile of his.

"Are they done?" Brady asks to no one in particular.

"I don't know," Benny replies blowing out the smoke. "Maybe? Why?"

Brady gives him a side glance. "The Colonel is going to want to talk with Bucky," he answers confidently. "They're gonna ask for him and it'll be a problem if he doesn't show up because he got his head somewhere else."

DeMarco finally looks at him. "Buck wanted to talk to him," he explains.

Brady snorts. "As long as this don't bring more problems… We're already in a Stalag."

"You know Buck would never do that," Benny chides, returning his gaze to the barrack entrance.

He's right. Even during the brief time they weren't sure if Bucky was alive or even if he would be put in this same camp, Buck kept the moral high, never wavering and never letting the boys think of the worse.

A pack without a leader is destined for disaster.

Brady hated to think about it, but the possibility of losing their pack leader had been high and it would have been awful for everyone involved. Buck could have led them without problem, but they were used to have both of them. It was hard to imagine them—him, without Bucky.

"I think he was afraid," Benny says suddenly. "Here, everything is more difficult and we are without suppressant and for—" His lips curl into a grimace. "It's hard."

Biology sucks, Brady adds to himself. He understands what DeMarco means, there are thing unavoidable no matter how strong, smart of determinate you are.

They all heard about a pregnancy in the East Compound. Young boy, rumored it had been a rape. Pregnant kriegies shouldn't stay in the same camp as regular POWs, according to the Geneva Conventions, but as usual, that matter little to nothing here. Still, the boy was send directly to a German hospital and the camp leaders had to intervene to dissolve the pack before they killed each other or a goon put a bullet on their heads. 

Heats where a problem too, but to avoid any trouble they have built a place where the omegas could stay during those days and, most importantly, not accidentally trigger a rut in a nearby alpha. Brady hasn't seen it; as an alpha, he had forbidden to go near it. But he knows it's attached to the barracks that served as an infirmary. Buck checked it out, Benny said. Apparently, it wasn't much different from their rooms, but instead of triple bunks, there were simple beds separated by roughly made wooden walls and curtains instead of doors.

Not much privacy but more than they currently have anywhere else in camp.

Buck had been fine, until now. But if something happened…

Bucky presence here weighted more than just having a high ranking officer. A pack without a solid leadership will crumble into fights—for food, matting, territory. Lack of discipline is dangerous when you have so many men in the same place, and thinking about Buck holding that leadership alone makes his alpha sick.

Brady grumbles, feeling annoyed at their situation.

Suddenly, he feels his muscles relax, his mind clouded with Benny's calming pheromones. "Don't get into your head too much. Everything is fine," he says, taking another drag.

Yeah, they have both majors with them. Maybe Benny is right, maybe they'll be fine.

"Mail call!"

The floral scent of a female omega bursts into the room like fresh spring air as soon as Buck opens the letter.

"Who's your from, Buck?" Benny ask as Buck buries his nose the piece of paper.

"Marge—"

"Maaaaaaaarrge." Bucky echoes with a mocking tone.

Brady stares at the back of the Major's head and simultaneously feels Benny's eyes on him—so, he smells it too. Faint, but unmistakable, a sour scent makes his nose itch.

Buck hadn't turned or said anything. Completely absorbed by the letter. Reading every word, running his fingers over the ink and inhaling every drop of scent still attached to the paper.

It wasn't a surprise, given the circumstance. The only contact they had with the outside was letters and the radio. Almost every man on the camp was desperate for both, any news that would give them hope of winning the war, and any word from their beloved ones to remind themselves they are missed and loved; and they just have to hang on a little longer.

Keep living, they said.

Even if it was with delay and sometimes with bad news, the moment mail arrived was always something to celebrate. The men spend the rest of the day talking about it and exchanging news, joking about their situations and dreaming of home. Brady frowns at Bucky's scent dampening the mood of the rest.

Before he could say anything, or consider throwing his pipe at the Major, Bucky abruptly stand ups and leaves the room. The sour scent lingers and it takes everyone a moment to realize it's coming from Buck.

His shoulders are tense, jaw set and eyes fixed on the paper.

The pack exchange looks of concern, but no one speaks.

"Everything all right, Buck?" Finally Crank asks. He's a beta, but sometimes Brady thinks he has even sharper perception than them.

Buck shots him a small smile and sighs, putting the letter back in the envelope. "Everything is fine," he replies, quickly covering his scent. "How is your mom Murph?" he asks joining the table, sitting in the same spot where Bucky had been. Everyone takes it as a cue to not dig into whatever had upset him—or Bucky.

The cold feels revitalizing. The smell of humidity, mud and snow, serves to sweep away any trace of Marge's scent in his nose. It was driving him insane in that room.

Bucky sits on the stairs and, instead of staring at the fence—as he's done so many times before—he tilts his head and looks up at the sky. Completely covered in gray clouds. What a surprise, he thinks with sarcasm. The only familiar thing in this place is the shitty weather. He almost misses Texas summer.

His mind wanders, lulled by the constant bustle of the camp, trying to escape to more pleasant memories.

Like the smell of Buck's skin when Bucky brushed his nose against it.

They haven't talked about it. As they didn't talk about a lot of things.

Bucky understood why, but still couldn't help but keep replying that moment in his head, like an endless movie playing only for him in an empty, dark room. Guilt gnawed at his veins, but that didn't stop the arousal that flooded him as his mind conjured up the softness of Buck's skin, the smell of his hair, the sound he made completely lost in Bucky's hands.

The trust that placed on him.

It was hard to think clearly on those nights where the despair, the pleasure, and the anger mixed so much his mind didn't know where to place each feeling. He clung to the scarf, which no longer hold any scent, but it was the only thing he had of Gale, just for him, and he wouldn't give it up.

He closes his eyes and can feel the silk against his chest, safe from prying eyes, but protecting his heart from the coldness of kriegie tag.

I'm sorry Marge, but this is mine.

Chapter Text

The initial relief of those first days after Bucky was transferred to the West Compound slowly started to fade into the same state of focused numbness Gale had felt the past few months.

Most of the men fought nightmares at night and boredom during the day. The camp had a strict routine, and they could enjoy small forms of entertainment, but the vast majority wanted only one thing.

Certainty.

And here there wasn't any.

He and Bucky tried to keep the boys in line, maintain some order and camaraderie that made things feel like they did back at the base.

It was hard. Every time a goon got bored and decided to fire a warning shot even when no one was near the wire, or when the dogs menacingly circled a group of boys playing, Gale could feel the collective shiver that ran through everyone. Especially Bucky.

Most of the men amused themselves with different activities, but nothing could grab Bucky's interest long enough to prevent him for thinking about an insane plan to escape.

"Copper wire, graphite, safety pin," Buck lists, trying not to think of his cold hands on his barely warmed body as he washes himself. "You think you can scourge them for me?"

"Oh, my little kriegie Marconi, huh?" Bucky's voice sounds pleased and Gale thinks that at least he got something positive from losing their old radio. "I'll see what I can rustle up."

The chaos that ensues when Harry is shot destroys everyone's good mood from the raid on Berlin. Buck feels his blood freeze for a moment when Bucky stand too close to one of the goons and stares right into the eyes of the German officer. But Gale recognizes the posture in the action. Bucky is afraid, like everyone else, and fear makes him reckless.

"These goddamn goons are gonna take us out one at a time, Buck," he says as he emphasize his anger with a punch to the door.

He is restless, Buck thinks every time he sees Bucky staring at the fence for too long. Without the radio they didn't have any news about the war, and nothing to sustain the illusion of still being part of the fight.

No letters for Bucky either… I could send him a letter, Gale considers with a hint of desperation when he's running out of ideas.

Marge's letter.

Gale bites his tongue and resist the urge to grab the envelope he he keeps in the pocket of his coat. He knows the words by heart, opening it again is useless, as if the words written on the paper could change. He isn't even sure if he wants them to change.

I met someone.

I'm still faithful to the promise we made, but I don't have my heart in the right place to accept your proposal. I'm devastated. I cried so much as I read those words that I dreamed to hear from your mouth so much. If I could show you how many times I practiced say Marjorie Cleven out loud.

I can't imagine what is going on there, to you having to ask me this by letter, but it only makes my worries grow.

Gale shake his head trying to dispel thoughts he doesn’t have time to ponder. There are more pressing matters requiring his attention.

Benny couldn't keep anything down lately, he was puking constantly—maybe a stomach bug. Brady had been getting more irritable since they were having trouble finding tobacco for his pipe; he kept insisting he was fine, but his furrowed brow said otherwise. Murphy was sick, and getting medicine was a pain in the ass without having to sacrifice everyone's Lucky Strikes to get it.

He also has to check on one of the boys who was going through heat. As the only omega with the rank of Major at camp, the responsibility had fallen on his shoulders. He didn't refuse; after all, there weren't many of them here, and they were all having a rough time. He was allowed in the room, and he usually brought food and anything else that might ease the process. A pal of the boy, an alpha, had given him his sweater—a sweater imbued with his scent.

Gale can't help but wonder if Bucky still has his scarf or if he lost it.

I hope he threw it away, he thinks

His name is William, a beta. A young gentleman who helps Mr. Jones lift heavy boxes and arrange the goods in the store. He couldn't enlist because he suffers from a respiratory condition, but he's very enthusiastic and cheers from here to all of you.

You are a hero Gale. You are our hero.

Would you still give me a hug me when we reunite? Would still smile at me?

The trembling in his fingers is almost imperceptible, the anticipation in the air tensing his nerves as he assembles the radio with the parts Bucky got for him. Please work, please work, he chants inside his head. They need this, they need some contact with the exterior; to know there is still hope. To keep everyone's sanity. To keep Bucky with him.

"Goddamn it." He slams the headphone against the table and regrets immediately.

"Yankees trade DiMaggio?"

"It's not working."

The air quickly becomes stifling. The boys evacuate the room, but Bucky stays, and this must be the first time Buck doesn't want him to stay. He already knows what's coming.

"Don't you wanna eat something more than potatoes?" Bucky paces around like a wild animal. Gale can smell the frustration in the air. It's suffocating and infuriates him. "I mean, we can wait here, doing nothing."

Doing nothing.

He clenches his jaw, his fingers grips the fabric of his pants.

"That's what you wanna do?"

I want you to focus on the reality, Gale wants to reply. But he knows it's useless. Bucky won't hear it; he must smell it, he isn't hiding it—he has to smell Gale's own frustration, his own desperation to do something to improve their situation, to keep everyone alive and whole. To keep the pack.

Gale stares at him, deciding isn't worthy argue when Bucky is like this. Stubborn like a child and stuck in his own mind. "No. I can't stand this place any more than you," he replies, tired and angry.

Bucky nods, condescendingly, and leaves. The air in the room clears, but now it's permeated with the scent of his own failure.

I wish I could see your eyes and then I would know. Your eyes never lie Gale, do you know that?

I pray for you return and for the victory.

Still with so much love, Marge.

Everything feels liquid, slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tries to grab it, and he's not sure he'll find a solution before it's too late.

Gale runs a hand through his hair, then over his temple, down the side of his face, and finally rests it on his scent gland. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as his mind evokes the warmth that coursed through his body that day, when he felt safe and protected.

He can't shake the feeling of rightness he experienced in that moment, with Bucky.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze falls on the radio and he sighs.

He’ll endure; that's the only option.

Chapter Text

Buck knows that despair is poison and more contagious than a cold, which is why he likes to keep the men busy, especially when the weather still allows some sunlight. Physical work keeps them sane and focused. It's good for the morale of the pack.

“There you go. Keep that pressure on. It’s coming.”

Or for most of them…

“Woah. This looks like a work camp, the way you jackasses are grinding away."

The air changes quickly as soon Bucky approaches the group.

“Now the ground’s loosened up, we got a chance of getting wood for cook fires,” Buck explains, even though he knows there's no way Bucky came here to offer help.

No one likes to be reminded that they are rotting in a prison camp, but the men remain silent as Bucky continues to chatter. Gale senses it's out of caution, given the erratic scent emanating from him, rather than out of respect, as the pack alpha's rank would have demanded in another situation.

Gale can ignore anything John says or does in this state, but the rest of the men can't.

"Why don't you shut the hell up?"

The instinctive reaction comes before his brain realizes what is going on. Some part of him, deep inside, flares with alarm at the sign of an attack to one of his boys. "What the hell's is wrong with you?" Buck yells at the same time Bucky falls to the ground with ease, as if Buck had pushed him too hard—maybe he did, he's not sure. "You ain't gonna help, stay out of the way."

The moment Bucky crosses his arms behind his head, smiling mockingly, and leans back into the dirt as if relaxing on the beach, Gale curses inwardly. This was what he wanted. A fight. A reaction.

"You're the new king of the camp, and I'm just in the way?" Bucky taunts. "Oh, King Cleven says, 'No baseball. Just work work work.' That's all he wants to do."

He won't give in to Bucky's tantrum. The men are watching and the goons would take any excuse to shoot or unleash the dogs.

"I'm sorry. Come on." Buck holds out a hand but Bucky pushes it away with his foot.

"No, no, no. Work. You got a stump to pull, King Stump Stumpity Stump. Get to work."

Don't do this.

"Come on. Get up, you loony."

Bucky kicks his hand, again. And that's the extent of Gale's patience.

"Get up, you loony."

"Get off me."

Buck grabs one of his legs, but Bucky's strength drags him down and they both end up on the ground.

One of Gale's legs gets caught under John's arm and Bucky uses the position as leverage to pull. There's pain—Gale grunts at the feeling—but not fear. He feels John's hand over his clothes, his skin being stretched by the force of his grip. It's like a burn and some part of his brain delights at the contact he hadn't felt since that day: when John came back to him.

For an instant he feels like a kid again, playing rough with other children before his designation was known. The closest thing to being free.

Bucky is solid and strong under his hand. Impossible to fully grab and real. Present.

Buck pulls, trying to gain a moment of advantage to shift into a better position and throw him off; but in the chaos of the scuffle an involuntary kick from Bucky connects hard with the side of his body. The heavy boot collides with his ribs, sending a wave of sharp pain that resonates through his body making Gale scream.

Still, his inner self remains calm; he doesn't feel afraid or anything comparable to the shiver running down his spine, his instinct telling him to submit and expose his neck, when he was fighting alphas twice his size.

With every breath, he feels a fire pulsing in his body, spreading like an uncontrolled blaze. The damage to his rib doesn't feel like one, and Gale can't control his reaction; he grunts to hide the shameful moan that escapes his throat. In a brief moment of clarity, he understands what his omega wants, and panic takes hold of him.

I have to end this.

"How's that? Can't handle it? Oh, you can’t handle it—” Buck throws a punch straight to Bucky's face before he can think much about it. As quickly as it began, it ends when Bucky collapses to the ground. They both let go of their limbs at the same time.

The fire in his lower stomach doesn't die and Buck rushes to move Bucky's body away from him.

The sudden fear in the guards’ shouts and the alarm spreading among them serves as a distraction—to his mind and to the men who watched them act so childishly. Quickly, his omega gives in to the urgency of the situation. Buck breathes slowly with control and keeps his scent in check.

“They landed, didn't they?” he says, thinking aloud. He feels the men’s attention shift to the horizon, as if they could see the Allied troops, as if a B-17 were about to appear through the clouds and free them.

"Oh, you think?" Bucky grunts, trying to recover from the hit. He sounds like himself again, Gale notices from the tone of his voice and the scent.

You just needed a punch, huh.

"We're in Western Europe. It finally happened."

It's a strange feeling, experience something you thought it was impossible. But it's real. This is what they were waiting for.

Everyone knew that the invasion of Europe only meant two things: liberation was near and so death. It was just a matter of which would come first. No one knew how the Krauts would react or what they would do with them, but they certainly weren't going to sit back and do nothing.

Bucky talks about action, makes plans to get the boys in shape, and participate in the activities with the rest; his mind races with the power of a B-17's four engines, and for the first time in months, Buck feels like he can breathe easily—figuratively speaking.

It must be a broken rib, Gale concludes the day after the mud fight, when the simple act of trying to breathe was unbearable due to the agonizing pain it caused. But the day-to-day was filled with meetings with the high officers, running ideas with Bucky and planning—this time with a clear goal in sight. There was no time to rest or worry about injury.

Gale ignores the pain. He ignores the stifling warmth he feels at night. He ignores the extreme sensitivity of his skin. He ignores the color changing bruise that blooms over his ribs. He ignores the headache.

But he can't ignore DeMarco.

"It's fine, Benny," he says one morning while drinking his coffee outside, sitting on the steps of the barracks entrance. He was starting to sweat with all the body heat and smell crowded inside that room. "I'm fine, it's going to heal," he repeats for the third time in the last two days DeMarco has been following him like a shadow. Not even Bucky spent so much time with him these days, busy as he was.

"I'm not talking about the obviously broken rib," DeMarco grumbles in a frustrated voice. "Buck, you are feverish and you scent is turning—"

"Stop it," he orders harshly. DeMarco closes his mouth. "I'm fine. It's... maybe, I'm getting sick," he tries to reason, sounding unconvincingly even to his ears. The silence stretches between them. "It's been months, Benny, it doesn't make sense."

After a contemplating second DeMarco lets out a sigh. "Nothing in this place makes sense Buck," he says, this time just tiredly. "You know that if Bucky notices it it’s going to get a lot worse."

Gale clenches his jaw, he hasn't turned around and doesn't plan to. He feels it too, his body temperature rising with each passing day, his vision beginning to lose focus. It's never happened like this before—growing slowly since the fight with John—or maybe it's been so long he just forgot how it was. "Buck," DeMarco pleads. "We can't contain Bucky if he gets—"

"I know," he replies fast, angry. "I know."

The pain in the ribs is killing him and isn't helping at all, maybe he should go to the doctor, if only to see how the injury is doing, and maybe... maybe confirm his suspicions. "I'll help you," DeMarco says.

"No. No." If DeMarco goes with him, everyone will know right away. John will know. If he's going to deal with this, the pack needs Bucky to be focused.

If you come, I don't know if I can say no. We need him. We need mate— Don't come.

"Go get Alex. Tell him to meet me at the library."

Alex is safer, he is a beta and not part of the pack, despite his invitation. Even if Macon follows him, the alpha won't care or say a word. Also Gale knows John won't mind, he was the first to sense the Tuskegee men could be trusted.

DeMarco frowns, but doesn't argue. Maybe he reached the same conclusion. Not a word to the pack, for now. Especially to Bucky.

Chapter Text

It takes almost a day before Major Egan starts to lose his temper.

"I swear to God Benny," he says, clearly irritated. "I just want to check on him, if he's still pissed off about the broken rib I'll let him break one of mine."

Alex stares. He's good at reading people, and as soon as he arrived, he realized who was the one commanding the group. It's even more evident in his absence; the pack alpha is standing right in front of him, but if Major Cleven had been there to tell him to stay put, Major Egan would have obeyed, Alex has no doubt. But since Buck isn't here, it's very clear to him that this situation is going to end badly unless they tell him the truth. After all, Buck only asked them to keep quiet until it was confirmed.

It's been a day and he hasn't returned, which means the Major is actually going through heat and won't be coming back to the barracks anytime soon.

At DeMarco's silence Alex takes a step forward, but he is quickly dragged back by Macon's hand on his shoulder. "No," Macon says in a whisper.

Okay, fine, Alex thinks. It must be one of those unspoken alpha-omega rules that he sometimes forgets about. He stays quiet.

"Heat, isn't it?" It's John Brady who speaks, calmly reading by the window. He's not even looking at them.

"What?" Major Egan turns his head toward him, but is DeMarco the one that explains. "He went to check the broken rib and told us, if he didn't come back it was because—"

"What." The Major says again, apparently not hearing anything DeMarco is saying. "Why? How?"

"We don't know."

Major Egan's face quickly reflects the displeasure at the answer. He puts his hands on his hips and paces around the small room. "Is he alone?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he exclaims, frustrated.

"I didn't go in there, Bucky. I'm not allowed," DeMarco snaps in return.

Alex feels Macon breathing heavily behind him. The air must be thick with pheromones, he guesses.

It's difficult, since they're not part of the pack, but for some reason Buck chose him to assist him, and Macon didn't want to leave him alone with the rest of the 100th men. So they ended up in the middle of this mess.

"Why him?" the Major asks, this time looking directly at Alex. Macon growls low and steps closer to Alex.

"He is a beta," DeMarco answers.

That seems to be a logical and acceptable response because Major Egan quickly looks away from him and takes a deep breath. He brings his hands to his face, rubbing the skin at his temples, then he rests one of them in the back of his neck and scratches lightly, seemingly deep in thought.

Alex notices he has moved closer to the coat rack where Buck's sheepskin hangs. After a prolonged silence, he finally turns to them. "So, how is the deal now?"

DeMarco explains the basics they already told Alex yesterday, when he and Buck came with the proposal. Buck is going to stay in that place, alone. Alex will bring him anything he needs and the food he can eat during those days. Since you have to go through the hospital camp first, the doctor has to know you to let you inside. Normally, as Buck said, it doesn't last more than three days, so hopefully this will be over soon.

By the fourth day Alex knows this won't end quickly or pleasantly.

Major Egan's moods are unpredictable. Some days he speaks and acts with the clarity of someone of his rank, and others, he spends the day grumbling constantly. Tense. Barking at anyone for anything—Murphy had tried to borrow Buck's pillow, and Bucky almost bit him.

As the days go by without a word from Buck, the anxious energy he carries increases and puts almost everyone on edge. Macon tries to spend as much time away from him as possible, as well as Brady. The rest of the boys simply avoid touching anything that belongs to Buck or being close to his bunk.

"Alex," Major Egan calls him one morning before he makes his daily visit to Buck. Alex hasn't seen him yet. The Major told him he didn't need to announce himself or do anything special, just leave everything behind the curtain and leave. The only sign that Buck is in there are the small noises of discomfort.

Alex can't smell anything out of the ordinary, but the Doctor had suggested he doesn't return immediately to the room and spend some time outdoors, to not bring inside any scent that might linger on his clothes.

"Major Egan," Alex replies formally.

"Bucky, call me Bucky." The Major is standing in front of Buck's bed, as he usually does these days. He fidgets on the spot and his eyes wander over the empty room. The rest of the men took off immediately after breakfast, trying to catch as much sunlight and fresh air as possible.

"Bucky," Alex replies with a quiet smile. Buck and Bucky, and not a mated pair.

Bucky takes a sharp inhale, making a noise with his mouth, before returning his gaze to him; this time with determined eyes, as if he had made up his mind about something. Without saying anything, and to Alex's shock, he starts to unbutton his uniform shirt. A well-worn, discoloring shirt that is starting to look very similar to the one he and the Tuskegee men wear.

"What are you…" Alex frowns when, under the garment, he spots a piece of blue cloth wrapped around Bucky's middle, like some kind of sash. His first thought is that it's covering a wound, but as soon as Bucky unties it, he realizes the Major is in perfect condition, or as good as anyone here can be.

Bucky hands him the cloth—a silk scarf. "For Buck," he says. His face has flushed slightly in the brief moment Alex was distracted, and something in his eyes reads like a plea. As if he's pleading this favor to him. "Hide it between Buck's clothes," he instructs, and Alex nods, though confused.

He does as he's told, and it's not until later, when he joins Macon smoking by the gardens with DeMarco, that he understands.

"It helps," DeMarco says. "When you don't have a partner."

Alex doesn't ask any more questions; he honestly doesn't want to know. He leaves them both and walks in search of a good place to resume his drawing, another commission of a pin-up girl: blonde hair, blue eyes, full lips—Alex stop, pencil mid air, and stares at his rough draft. He considers for a moment and decides he'll be careful not to let Bucky catch a sight of the drawing… just in case.

Chapter Text

It hadn't been easy, but manageable, those first few days. He could contain the overwhelming urge to call him. His omega howled, but Gale's mind was stronger. I've handled it alone before. I'll do it again, he thought.

But then time dragged on longer than he expected, and everything started to get progressively worse.

The fever wouldn't subside. The small relief after orgasms wasn't enough, his hands on his own body wasn't enough.On the fourth day, when Bucky's gift arrived, Gale was so caught up in his needs that his brain couldn't even process what he was holding. Only that it smelled like Bucky.

John.

His mind chanted his name as he frantically rubbed himself against the bulge created by the rumpled sheets and the pillow on the thin mattress, his nose buried in the scarf.

His skin desperately ached for release. He felt every cell in his body tense to the point of breaking, waiting for a final push that would free him from this state, but Gale didn't know how to obtain it. He'd never felt like this before, a prisoner of his own body unable to give him what it asked for.

Quickly, even the scarf with Bucky scent stops being enough and only helps him in the afterwards, to comfort him, to delay the waves of arousal that relentlessly hits him and clouds his mind.

Gale no longer remembers why he is alone, why Bucky isn't by his side.

He wants John. Why John isn't here.

The few moments of rest he sleeps. The dreams are full of memories, of sensations. He feels the ghost of Bucky's hand on his shoulders, the strident sound of his laughter at something Gale had said offhandedly. The scent of cigarettes and alcohol that clung to his uniform after spending an entire day with him. It'd be the two of us, he hears in his sleep. He wakes up with wet eyes, his eyelashes clinging to tears of frustration. Of anger. And heartache.

Mate isn't here.

Where is John? Why isn't he here with him, instead of lost inside his own mind and wishing being dead? Why does he abandon him, when Gale is here, flesh and bones?

Why is Gale being here not enough?

He doesn't know anymore what is real and what isn't. What feeling comes from the depth of his soul or what is merely the product of his omega's demands.

He writhes in bed. His clothes are already discarded on the floor; by the third night, he'd given up changing each time he was soaked in his own fluids. The smell of the clothes wasn't the one he wanted and only made him feel lonelier.

The friction against the mattress doesn't feel right; the touch of his own hands is familiar and insufficient. The pleasure reaches its peak, but it leaves him empty and doesn't quell his hunger. He can't hold back his tears. Desperation eats at him from the inside.

His omega howls, and this time Gale doesn't stop it.

"Bucky," he yells. Loud, whimpering. "John," he cries again.

He doesn't know who will hear him, but he calls.

We have to call him and he will answer.

He will come.

The consequences of his decision no longer matter. He can't worry about it. About why it is a bad idea for Bucky to come; about the fact that he never shared his heat with anyone. He can't even think about Marge and what this means for their broken relationship.

After all, if this is hell, what would another sin do?

It takes a while, Gale doesn't know how long, he can't calculate the time with the fever. Every part of his body is burning, and anger and lust mix enhancing all his natural senses.

He perks up from his curled-up position in bed as soon as his nose catches his scent. The air carries it to his room before his physical body can even become visible.

There's no artificial light there, but he quickly makes out Bucky's silhouette through the blur of his vision. He's there, standing in front of him, his back to the curtain that covers the only entrance. There's a hint of distress in his scent, and Gale vaguely notices that he has covered his nose with a cloth. His omega flares with offense, and Gale releases more pheromones.

Aren't you a man of vices? He thinks with a venom he wouldn't recognize in himself.

"Buck," Bucky exhales with relief.

A tense silence passes between them. Gale doesn't move, not even when his muscles want to force him to press against Bucky's body.

The room, already small, seems to shrink even further with John's presence. It's just the two of them, and the distance seems both non-existent and abysmal. Gale waits, in anticipation. He's an omega in heat on display, available, like a prize to comfort an exhausted soldier.

"Nothing?" he scoffs suddenly. "Aren't you a man, Major?" Gale sounds terrible, the dryness in his throat cracks his voice, but in the quiet of the night his words are as clear as his anger.

"What are you saying, the Doc—"

"You've made a move on every dame in your radius, every damn time. Fucked everything that moved since I've know you, and now that I need you, you suddenly know restraint?" he spits out cruelly.

The confusion on Bucky's face is expected, as he's unaware of the battles raging inside Gale's head. But Gale doesn't care about that; he doesn't have time to worry about any kind of explanation or rational thought now.

He wants one thing, and one thing only

The air in the small room is filled with his scent, dense and toxic. I won't take long, Gale thinks. Even with his nose covered, Bucky won't resist.

The warning growl is expected and welcomed. Gale would smile if it weren't because the subtle submission command is already making him feel tingly in all his body.

"You're not yourself, Buck."

"You aren't either," he retorts as he shifts in the bed, aware of the sheet falling to his hips, exposing his chest—the dog tags body-warm and damp with sweat. "The alpha I knew isn't here."

Bucky growls loudly, tensing his muscles and flaring his nostrils beneath the cloth covering his nose. He breathes heavily. "Aren't you an alpha, Bucky?" Gale sits up completely, indifferent to the nakedness of his body. His bare legs are exposed, and the only thing covering his groin is a worn sheet that, in a better light, would be translucent.

"Behave."

The command is still too gentle, and isn't enough to make Gale show his neck. He needs more; if he is going to be taken it's going to be by someone strong.

"You can't order me or claim me, Major," he challenges. Gale feels his temperature rise, sweat beading his temples and trickling down his back. Another wave of heat approaches. He grabs the used scarf and throws it at Bucky, knowing it's covered in all his bodily fluids. It smells like him, like sex, like an omega in heat.

Time seems to stop. Bucky stares motionlessly at the scarf on the ground. It's the first time he's taken his eyes off Gale since he arrived. The only sign that he is still there is his chest moving with each measured breath, and the slight tremble of his hands. Abruptly, with a sudden movement, he tears off the cloth covering his nose, and in the same action he grabs the scarf, bringing it to his face. He inhales deeply, drowning himself in Buck's scent.

Gale moans at the sight.

There's no turning back after that. The grunt of pleasure sounds poetic in Gale's ears, and the pheromones that burst from Bucky signal that the alpha is in rut.

Trying to retain control over his body is a losing battle, Gale knows. But for the first time he doesn't feel like fighting his instinct. Some part of himself feels light. Despite the raw desire that runs through every fiber of his body, there is a sense of certainty. Of calm. Of security

The scent of the earth clogs his nose, the smoky undertones reminding him of those times when, as a kid, he used to stay outside late into the night. A campfire as his only company, alone among the trees and surrounded by nature. Alone, but feeling strangely at peace, far from the underneath fear his father's presence inspired in him or the anguish sentiment his mother constantly wore and made him feel unwanted.

Bucky's scent cuts through his memories and his presence feels real when a large hand rests on his neck, just above his scent gland.

Gale lifts his gaze, staring at him with glassy eyes, the blue barely recognizable as it's pushed to the edge by dilated pupils.

John is surprisingly soft and careful. "Gale," he says in a quiet voice. Holding his gaze, he drops to his knees, right in front of Gale. His hand slides naturally over Gale's bare thighs, but doesn't move any further. Bucky sits on his haunches, still as a statue, eyes pleading.

The fire in his belly only intensifies, Gale doesn't have to say anything. John made the decision himself, as if he could read his thoughts by scent alone. Silently, Gale parts his legs, opening them enough to accommodate Bucky's body.

John groans but doesn't move a muscle.

The bed sheet is still miraculously covering most of him, but the slick and the scent are acting quickly on Bucky's body. Sweat dampens the fine hairs on the back of his neck, his face is flushed, and the bulge in his pants is visibly prominent.

Gale’s eyes are fixed on every single twitch, watching how far Bucky's restraint can go. He removes his hand from the bed and carefully places it under the sheet; he feels Bucky's gaze following the movement unblinking. Gale begins to move his hand, penetrating himself, slowly and deliberately. The sheet covers him, but it doesn't hide the sounds or the action.

He doesn't touch where the pleasure is more intense. This isn't about that.

Bucky moans, and almost as a reflex, his hand moves to his own groin.

"That's mine," Gale growls low and John halts his movement.

The thin fabric is damp. Gale feels the slick between every fold of his skin and knows John can smell it. He withdraws his hand and doesn't have to say anything before Bucky launches himself to lick the fingers clean between moans.

Gale watches him, entranced.

John moves of his own volition, but following Gale's wishes. He presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, then moves toward his forearm and leaves light wet kisses on the inside of his elbow; meanwhile, his other hand runs up Gale's thigh, moving beneath the sheet but not touching where it isn't allowed. His hand rises to his waist and climbs over his ribs, gently pressing on the healing bruise, eliciting a grunt from Gale.

"John."

One hand cups his jaw when Bucky's lips reach his neck, kissing it reverently. With the same intensity, he moves down his collarbones to his chest. The movement makes Gale lean back, but John's arm circles his waist and supports him, keeping him afloat.

Bucky's mouth tastes the entire expanse of skin, matching each mole with a pressure of his lips.

Feeling confident he won't fall, Gale lifts his hands from the mattress and places them on Bucky's head, his fingers sliding through his curls until they find a firm grip to guide him to the desired spot.

The first touch on his nipple is tentative, but it sends a shiver through his body, then he feels a firm lick and John's tongue begins to work with the intensity Gale needs. The nipple swells under Bucky's actions and the pleasure building in Gale's lower belly shoots up so abruptly that it causes him to instinctively close his legs.

Bucky chuckles, mouth still occupied with Gale's chest, but groans when Gale pulls at his hair.

Time starts to blur, Bucky takes his time taking turns between each nipple and Gale leans back a little each time, guiding John along the path of his sternum and down the center of his stomach, past his navel.

"There, over there," he whispers desperately. His torso now rests completely on the mattress. Bucky is still on the floor with his mouth over Gale's belly button, panting softly, his hot breath feeling through the sheet.

Gale props himself up on his elbows to get a better look. John's face is only visible in the contrasts of the partial darkness of the night, his lips shine red, swollen, and used. His scent hasn't changed, thick with desire and taut with the restraint John wears like a leash around his neck. Gale is pretty sure the front of his pants must be damp with cock leaking; he can smell it, but in the lack of light, it's hard to see.

"Take it off," Gale orders, nodding at the only piece of fabric still covering him. John takes a deep breath to center himself, like holding his breath before diving in.

The air feels cold against his wet skin; the slick making a mess in the excitement of anticipation. Without any delay Bucky goes in without waiting for a word. It startles Gale, at first, to feel the pressure of Bucky's tongue touching every nerve; it's electrifying, almost too much. The urge to close his legs overwhelms him for a second, but John's body and the merciless insistence of his mouth doesn't allow it. He licks, sucks, and penetrates with his tongue, without giving Gale time to think about anything else other than the sensations running through his body.

"John, John," he begs. His stomach muscles tense, his hand grips Bucky's hair tightly, trying to push him away and press him even further.

Bucky's hand slowly moves up to Gale's chest, his long fingers caressing the expanse of his pectoral muscle, almost avoiding the sensitive nipple on purpose. His other hand massages the muscle just below the buttocks, lifting the leg over his own shoulder. The slick drips onto the floor, and the air fills with Gale's moans.

He's close, he's about to come, and Bucky has done nothing but use his tongue.

"John, John. Please," he cries, closing his eyes and desperately clutching at the mattress, feeling like he could fly away from the pleasure.

The movements increase in speed and pressure, the wet noises mixing with John's grunts. Gale dares to take a look and finds John's eyes staring back at him, the blue barely visible; his nose buried in his pubic hair, blowing warm air as his tongue gets deeper inside him. The pleasure is almost unbearable, but Gale refuses to look away. That's when he feels a finger, a small pressure on his entrance that slides in too easily thanks to the excess lubrication, and that's all he needs. The orgasm ripples through him with a force that makes him arch his back, but Bucky quickly holds him by his hips, pressing him harder against his mouth. The waves of climax hit him relentlessly, once, twice, three times. He shudders and feels himself floating, only held to reality by John's arm.

When the mouth retracts, Gale collapses onto the mattress, boneless, like a doll. "Bucky—John," he says in a pitiful voice, too low to be heard, that almost embarrasses him.

"I'm here doll, I'm here," John replies, caressing the sides of his body with the gentleness of someone holding something fragile.

Bucky lies with him, naked. Gale doesn't know when he managed to undress, but it doesn't matter. John feels warm and solid next to him and Gale clings to him with a desperation he doesn't know he had. John holds him as tightly, as if he can't fathom to leave a single space between them, sharing the warmth of their bodies and feeling each other’s heartbeat.

The erection is fully hard and wet; Gale feels it against his hip. He's still recovering from his orgasms, but his scent spikes with want.

We need mate.

"John," Gale whispers as his hand moves down to grab Bucky's erection. John lets out a strangled moan, while Gale slides his hand easily, his grip loose but intentional. He feels the slight swelling at the base and the saliva starts to gather in his mouth; his canines ache. "John…"

"Doll, I—" Gale squeezes, causing the precum pooling at the tip to trickle down. Bucky moans and his hips begin to grind, fucking Gale's hand. The bed creaks and moves with the force of Bucky's thrusts, which quickly become erratic. "Gale," Bucky chokes against his neck. He can feel John's teeth grazing his skin.

His omega cries in need. Mate.

Bucky's orgasm arrives surprisingly quickly. Gale makes a twist with his hand and hears the muffled moans and the hot breath over his skin. The cum lands onto his own stomach with John's spasms as he pants and whines, his cock still hard and the small bump of a knot unaffected.

"We're not done, Major," Gale says close to his ear. Bucky nods wordlessly, grunting and grinding against Gale's hip in response.

He is malleable under Gale's hands and commands. He's heavy but easy to move when Gale switches positions, now with Bucky's back on the mattress. As soon as he gets up, the slick and cum slide down his thighs, he feels the chill of the air, but his body still feels feverish with desire. Gale climbs onto John, straddling him with one leg on either side of his broad waist. He had never taken anything of John's size before, but he thinks the lubrication of his body will be enough. It has to be, he can't wait any longer.

He doesn't give Bucky a second to think before grabbing his cock and aligning it against his entrance. He sits on it, thrusting into himself in one motion, and John's hands fly to his waist, gripping it tightly, a loud moan punched out of him. The stretch is a little tight but surprisingly pleasant. It feels good.

Gale bottoms out and lets out a sigh of relief. Good. This is good. This is how it is supposed to be. He's full of John, he feels it, connected to him in an undeniable way.

His omega is ecstatic; he can sense his scent turning sweet, soft, light.

Mate is here. Mate is with us. Mate is ours.

If he could freeze time, he would do it right now. But pleasure demands action, and his hips start to move before he is aware of it. Bucky helps guide him with his hands on his waist, but Gale doesn't need any instructions. He moves slowly at first, discovering the places Bucky's cock can reach and how good it feels. The rhythm grows naturally. Like a heartbeat they share. It dances between them, in sync. Gale places his hands on Bucky's chest for support and intensifies the movement. Like the steps of a dance that come to him instinctively, his body moves back and forth, up and down, exploring all the variations and reveling in the sensations. Every nerve feels alive; everything is both too much and too little. 

"Doll, please," Bucky pleads. Gale ignores his request, but pinches his nipples hard and John moans. "Please."

Gale doesn't stop, his hips maintain the rhythm of his pleasure, but he needs more. "Move," he commands. John doesn't waste a second, lifting his hips to match Gale's own bouncing, he draws moans from both of them with each thrust.

"Yes, yes please. Yes."

It's hard to tell who's begging for what. They're both seeking the same thing. Their bodies move in unison, wetness and sweat glistening on their skin.

It's coming, it's coming, Gale thinks with anticipation. He can feel it, growing. Too big for him, too desperate for it. "Please, John," he cries.

When it settles inside him he almost loses his mind; the pressure is too much. He has never experienced anything like this, bursting into him with the force of Bucky thrust. His orgasm almost reaches him first, but Gale delays it until he feels Bucky coming inside him, grunting with pleasure. Only then he allows his body to let go, another orgasm that forces him to shut his eyes and grip the skin beneath his hands—Bucky's chest will carry the marks of Gale's fingernails.

He screams or cries, or both, John's name. The knot is firmly positioned inside him, and his omega squirms with happiness at the sensation.

This is what he needed, this was what his omega wanted.

Gale slumps forward, and John catches him in his arms.

The last thing he hears, before the exhaustion and stress of the past few days finally shut down his mind, is John's gravely voice, softly reassuring him. "I'm here, Gale. I'm here."

Yes I know, Gales thinks on some level as his mind quickly falls asleep.

You are here, I can feel it.