Chapter Text
Brock’s breasts are soft and hot from all the milk inside. He’s a bit ashamed of it, sitting in Steve’s lap, his whole body posture suggesting a humble Omega. He’s naked, ashamed, captive in Steve’s arms, his breasts hanging infront of Steve’s face. There is milk beaded on his left nipple.
Earlier that evening he nursed their son, gently laid him into his crib. Ben's already deep asleep when Steve comes and kisses the top of their baby’s head.
„He’s beautiful”, he murmurs.
Brock is silent. He's still unsure how exactly to act around Steve. He is tired, exhausted. All he is wearing is a bathing gown. He got up in the morning, fed Ben, changed his nappies, and basically went through the day with the usual routine. He didn’t have the strength to dress up. He managed to shower though (he might be tired, exhausted, but he won't give in the fatigue to stink like a goat, thank you very much) so at least he feels somewhat fresh. He silently watches Steve kissing the baby’s head, not really knowing what to say, how to react; after two months of living in Stark Tower (a captive in luxury, bird in gilded cage) he's still somewhat unsure of his (their) position.
Sure, he is safe. Sheltered, protected, just like Steve promised him the first day. Ben has the best place any baby could wish for, with his two moms, and the embodiment of justice and honour for a father, Captain America himself.
The news would love that.
Steven Rogers, the epithom of righteousness has sired a son. Congrats, sir, who’s the happy mom? Oh, it’s a traitor agent of SHIELD, a henchman of HYDRA. You remember Brock Rumlow, the tough, kickass Omega Commander of the STRIKE unit? The one wo fought his way up all to the top, the one who sent those helicarriers flying in the air, intending to start a bloody massacre? Yep, that’s him. He lives with me and my mate from before the war, James B. Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, the deadliest assassin of history ever . The three (four) of us together, like a big, happy family. There are movies being watched (nothing sinister, honey, it isn’t good for your nerves) so it’s plenty of Disney, there is the smell of coffee in the crisp mornings; no, Rumlow nurses our son so no coffee for him; tasty dinners, and nice talks. (Hey sugar, you remember that time in Timbuktu? No casualties, they said. Yes Barnes, it wasn’t the first time we fucked up, remember, it wasn’t entirely our fault. Hey Rogers, you’re home? How many killings was it today, how many people died, let’s make a body count, the winner gets extra nightmares, what fun!....)
Stop.
Brock turnes around, away from the memories, the bitterness wrenches his heart, he gasps for breath and he’s just done, so done, head hung, tired.
„You okay?”
Steve asking, eyes full of concern. Brock takes a deep breath, then doesn’t say a thing and wrings his hands helplessly. Are there any words to express how your world is upside down and everything you believed in, turned out a false dream, a major lie? Not even he himself is sure about what he feels, can’t put it into words. Can you pour molten lava in a china teacup?
„You don’t look well.”
That he knows. He lifts his head, is ready to snap and snarl about the obvious, but can’t. He lets his head down again and shrugs. What to discuss about the obvious?
„Come here...”, Steve’s voice is gentle and so are his arms around his waist, pulling him towards 6 feet of blonde, solid body, against a broad, muscled, warm chest. Brock closes his eyes, lets it happen. He needs it. His nostrils feel with the smell of Alpha, his Alpha, and he puts his arms around Steve’s neck, whimpering in the process, letting out a low whine, being a little, greedy, needy Omega, everything he’s never been before, not even when they were in bed, fucking like rabbits, nothing he ever wanted to be, but it feels so good, oh so good.....
Steve’s right arm is around his waist (his hand is on Brock’s ass...), the left is holding Brock’s head in the crook of his elbow, big palm cupping the back of his head, and soft lips are kissing his temples, his hair, his face, nuzzling the scent-gland behind his ear and Brock lets out a low whine (again). He feels like the ground’s being pulled from under his feet and he doesn’t even realize but he’s being held by strong arms, then hoisted up, and carried bridal style, to the living room, to the big couch. There are more soft kisses, gentle caresses, murmurs, and he’s sitting in Steve’s lap, facing him, bathing gown open, body naked and milk on his nipple.