A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

by bryonyotsana

Summary:

Bucky's therapist said he needed a calming routine. So, he has coffee, black. Quiet.

It was a good routine until he got stuck with the Thunderbolts.

And then there's John Walker—a loud, obnoxious problem who thinks he's an Alpha. His instincts, the ones that were trained to smell a lie, told Bucky something was off.

Now, with a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Sam telling him to be a better person, Bucky new calming activity is a hunt: finding out what exactly John Walker is so desperately trying to hide.

Notes:

Hey, this is my second story but new to the ship. Like i was really inspired by the author gingerdoe. Like i really liked that Bucky but mine kinda does what he wants, and i adore John Walker in the Falcon and the Winter Soldier series and in Thunderbolts, like he is a great character and so well written, and the Omegaverse is to enhance the story and the characters like i will try to not fall into stereotypes. I kinda want to write them in character and i will try to do it. I'm writing this story as it goes, like i wrote till chapter 15, and im still writing it. English is not my first language but i studied. I hope you all enjoy the story.

Chapter 1: The First Crack

Bucky was having his coffee. Black with no sugar. A routine he maintained since he became Bucky Barnes again. It was a routine he kept even though he now lived with his new 'coworkers.'

Only three months in the tower and Bucky was used to Ava randomly appearing in rooms without using the door, avoiding Alexei and his questions about "his good super soldier serum", Yelena and her rambling and chaotic energy and Bob, who was…well, Bob.

But there was one person that Bucky couldn’t stomach—

"Barnes, pass me the spinach.” Blonde. Loud and annoying. That was John Walker. 

Bucky only stared at John. Of course, he just came back from a morning run. Ugh. Still trying to be a wannabe Steve.

"Hey, you are leaning on the fridge, C'mon, man I just came for my morning run, and I want to make my shake." John started tapping his finger into the blender then he starts waving at Bucky making gestures as to open an imaginary door.

Bucky suppressed his scoff because any sound is an invitation to be more John into John's eyes. He moved from the fridge, positioning himself next to it.

He heard the sigh and the blonde moving closer, already expecting a flash of that annoying alpha scent that he'd always associated with John's presence: oakmoss with bergamot— Bucky's lips twitched at the irony of it. The scent of bergamot, often used in calming oils, was a stark contrast to John's nervous energy, and yet it was all there—and cinnamon.

It never came. The scent never came.

John was right next to Bucky. Rummaging through the fridge complaining, never able to shut down this one, about someone eating his stupid spinach. "Alexei again. Damnit, I label it this time.”

It should have been there, but there was nothing. Bucky tried to focus on his senses, and there was nothing. Not on John who just smelled null.  Nothing. No sign of John marking thing like the alpha that he showed himself to be.

"Oh, well. I will use albahaca. Never try it. But there is always a first time for everything. Am I right?” With a wink, he gave a friendly feint toward Bucky's arm, which Bucky dodged with a simple shift of his body. John offered an awkward smile, then a soft murmur of 'right' before turning back to his weird smoothie.

Bucky watches him leave. He then pushes the thought out of his mind, not worth it, it's just John Walker.

 

________________________________________

 

Hours later, Bucky was in the common room reading a fiction book while waiting for the rest to appear. A calming activity that his therapist recommended: “Do something for you outside your job. Something you like.”

Bob was murmuring to himself while pacing back and forth in the room. Bucky looked at the big board that Yelena installed with her big cheshire cat grin. “Oh, this old thing. Is just to put a schedule to help train Bob. We can’t have him defenseless. Good for teamwork, also.”

Today, it was John and Alexei shift with Bob. And Bucky's turn to oversee that John didn’t kill Bob as Ava exclaimed.

Bucky smelled them before he heard them—Yelena, an omega who smells like the chilling winter, cold but with a warm fireplace, and whose footsteps were hidden by the loud, purposeful stride of John Walker. Bucky's body tensed, instinctively bracing itself for the familiar scent that always accompanies John's arrival—the scent he'd been so sure of this morning.

But as John walks into the room with Yelena, there is nothing…again.

"Cmon Bobby. Alexei is waiting for us at the gym." With a smile sharp as a shark, and intense eye contact John greeted Bob. Then with a sharp nod to Bucky, he left. "Bobby, hurry. I don’t have all day."

Bob went grumbling while sighing. "He knows I hate to be called Bobby."

Bob alpha scent was quite…something. A freshly baked bread and comforting vanilla but hiding behind was a cold hint of decay and ozone static. Inviting but there is something deeply wrong with it. Better than null, a stray thought crossed Bucky’s mind.

Bucky went after Bob, after all he was not shrinking his responsibilities. At least he had his book.

 

________________________________________

 

"Bob. Do it. Feel it. Feel the strength like a bear you have inside you and lift." Alexei was making an imaginary show of strength. And Bob…Bob couldn’t lift weights as Alexei or John did. His strength came and went; he doesn’t control it. Yet.

John was pinching his nose. "I told you before, Bobby can’t do th—"

"SILENCE JOHN WALKER. HE CAN DO IT. LET ME SHOW HIM HOW." Alexei exclaimed. Bob moved off the way. John sighed and looked at the watch waiting for this stupid waste of time to end.

Bucky eyed the trio from his chair while holding his book. He was just there to see that these dumbasses don’t kill themselves or activate the Void.

Alexei, with booming steps place himself in front of the weights. "See the strength of my homeland coursing like a river through my veins." With a mighty roar he lifted the weights easily and then he let out a wave of his retro scent: stale vodka, pine needles, and old leather.

Bucky felt a low growl stir in his own chest in response to Alexei's scent. It was a classic Alpha display, and it demanded a classic Alpha response. Bucky pushed his own scent, instinctively bracing for a challenge from both John and Bob.

Bob did but not John's. It never came. John's scent never came. Bucky's eyes went to John who was back straight, shoulder square and looking intensely into the watch on the gym wall. But there was no scent. John did nothing. He just stood there, still and silent.

And Bucky realized that he was not the only observer, there was also Bob.

 Bob, who was stiff as a wood plank nervously pacing, his eyes were gold all while side eyeing intensely John.

Through all of this, Alexi laughed and exclaimed "Nothing like a good alpha challenge to turn the heat in the area."

John suddenly waves his hands in the air and then he places them on his hip, chest puffed out. "Thank the lord. The hour is up, let’s never do this again. Bobby, you’re better with Yelena." And then he left.

His loud footsteps the only thing that proved that John Walker was there. That and Yelena's board. No scent, just null.

Too null. Bucky narrowed his eyes.

Chapter 2: Loud-Mouthed Puppy

It had been a week since Bucky started noticing the null scent. He would see John with his perfect smile, talking with Ava and Alexei, with a spinach shake on his hand. He would see the way that John would splutter and not look into Yelena's eyes when she asks him if he ate her albahaca a week ago.

Bucky would shake his head. It was impossible. There was no way that a man with that much insecurity would be able to fool not just him, who was trained to detect lies, but also a group of spies.

Bucky tried to ignore him. He really did. He told himself it wasn't his problem, but the noise wouldn't let him go. His ears would pick up the booming volume of John's voice, but his trained senses would register the absence of his alpha presence, a void where there should have been a scent.

 He saw the way John's posture was too straight, too stiff, a practiced exaggeration that was "too much and too little" all at once. He'd even seen the subtle flinch when Ava had made a sudden appearance for a wall right next to John—not the territorial reaction of a dominant Alpha, but the unnerved stiffness of someone trying to hold a performance together. Bucky’s old handlers had taught him to catch every lie, every tell, even if they were of a loud-mouthed annoying puppy.

Now, after three months, here they were, gathered for another dinner. It was a bad habit that stuck around after one month of living together. Yelena was trying to stop drinking so much, and unfortunately, she couldn’t cook for shit. Alexei cooked…stuff, some edible like breakfast and light lunch and some protein meal from his homeland, "To fight bear you need to become bear." Ava thought that Alexei was shitting on them, but Bucky knew by the earnest look on his eyes and unguarded posture that he was telling the truth.

Bob cooked sometimes but some days he was too down that he didn’t want to eat or drink; and others day, he was obsessed with pizza rolls. Ava, well, Bucky knew from the moment she said in her posh accent: "I'm quite adept at working with volatile ingredients and find my creations tend to leave a lasting impression" that she didn’t cook.

That left Bucky and John. Bucky knew how to cook, he was efficient, but he refused to prepare the team meals like they were in kindergarten. They were adults and they would survive on their own. Codling them was unnecessary in Bucky's eyes.

John, on the other hand, surprisingly, was a great cook. He prepared lunches and dinners with no problem. At the start he only cooked for himself, then Ava opened the gates of hell and started stealing his meals, so John made more. And that was the permission the rest of the misfit needed to take what they wanted. Bucky realized it was more efficient to simply eat the food rather than cook his own. He liked to ignore that it was John's hand that had prepared it.

Bucky sat in his usual seat, on one of the heads of the table, and in the opposite one was John. The seat was one Alexei regularly challenged John for sometimes with "I’m the other head alpha of the team" or "Let me father all of you like I father my Yelena", but never Bucky—a quiet but undeniable concession to the simple fact that Bucky was a man whose single glance or an arched eyebrow was enough to make Alexei back down. The rest of the team was scattered between them, a messy, disorganized middle ground.

Bucky ate without tasting, his eyes discreetly moving around the table. The null scent felt like a ringing in his ears. For three months, he had been living with a lie he never knew was there, and the loss of control was something he couldn't stand. He mentally pulled up a file for each of Valentina's secret agents.

File: Yelena Belova. Black Widow, Alpha-level combatant.  His gaze landed on Yelena, her hands were a blur of motion as she talked with Bob and Ava, and Bucky’s senses picked up the cold scent of winter air mixed with the warm fireplace. Omega.

His gaze next landed on Ava. File: Ava Starr, a.k.a. Ghost. Former S.H.I.E.L.D. asset, abilities: phasing and intangibility. He watched her hands as they moved, not with Yelena’s chaotic energy or Alexei’s theatrical bravado, but with a quiet, deliberate grace. She spoke in a low voice and every gesture was deliberate. Her scent was a faint hum of ozone and static. Beta.

"OH. Delicious meal almost better than being on cereal box." Alexei pondered his fist on the table rattling all the dishes. Yelena let out a "Dad!" while hiding her face embarrassed. File: Alexei Shostakov, Red Guardian, Soviet Super Soldier. Bucky's gaze lingered on the man who was whining at Yelena. Big gestures and his scent tried to fill all the space around him. Alpha.

Bucky's gaze would land on Bob, who was quietly picking at his food. File: Bob Reynolds, Sentry. The Void. Depression, anxiety, substance abuse and more. The file was endless about the mental problems that Bob has. Unstable. Alpha.

Bucky watched the way Bob shifted in his seat, his hand placing a calming presence on Yelena’s shoulder. Bob’s eyes, however, seemed to constantly drift toward the head of the table where John was.

It was then that Bucky's gaze followed Bob's line of sight to the opposite end of the table. Every time John opened his mouth, the vanilla and fresh baked bread scent would shift, and the cold hint of ozone and decay would grow a little sharper, reaching toward him. And John, Bucky noted, talked a lot.

File: John Walker. U.S. Agent. Super soldier serum from Dr. Wilfred Nagel: strength of a super-soldier without the physical bulk, but it was also psychologically unstable. The fake Captain America was telling a theatrical story, his voice booming and his gestures big, as if he were trying to fill the entire room with his presence. To anyone else, it would have seemed like the natural act of an Alpha, but Bucky’s senses picked up nothing. The scent was a void, a sterile absence that made the hair on Bucky’s arms stand up. He watched John’s hands, the way he slapped the table for emphasis just like Alexei before, a gesture that was too practiced, too stiff to be genuine. The scent of Bob’s anxiety grew sharper, a nervous energy that should have earned a territorial growl or a dismissive glare from an Alpha. Instead, John simply went still, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he continued his story, his eyes a little too wide. Liar.

 

Notes:

Hi, thanks for the comments, the kudos and the bookmarks. I also want to tell that is a slow burn so the idea is to set the mood and context, and then John will be more active in the story. Don't worry John perspective is going to appear. This chapter is short but the upcomings ones are going to start being longer. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 3: Finding Arkenstone

Bucky was watching Walker. Whispering in one of Bucky's ears was his therapist's voice calm, controlled. "You can't control the world to make it safe, James. You have to learn to let go." But in the other, the murmur of one of his handlers, chilling, and monotone. "The best hunt is the one your target doesn't realize you are there."

The Winter Soldier had been trained to identify a threat's weaknesses, to find the one small flaw in their armor and exploit it. Bucky wasn’t supposed to fail.  He had entered this team knowing all the variables. He had memorized the files, cataloged the strengths and weaknesses of every asset, and mentally mapped out every possible contingency. He was in total control of the situation. But he had been living with a single, crucial unknown, and the loss of that control was a silent, festering wound.

John was at the coffee maker, humming a tuneless little song to himself, completely off-guard. He was standing right in front of the cabinet where Bucky kept his mug. The logical thing to do was to just reach around him.  In one ear, his therapist's voice whispered, a familiar anchor. " Deep breath, James. Hold. Steady."

Blue eyes looked at Bucky. "Buck." John said with an almost teasing quirk on tone. The only thing missing was a tail wagging behind John. "Sorry, my bad, I mean Bucky." —Bucky knew there was nothing truth in that sorry. John liked to push, he pushed and pushed. But Bucky wasn’t like Bob, who the use of "Bobby" rattles him.

The chilling voice of his handler murmured, "And now, shoot."

"Move," Bucky said, his voice low and flat.

Bucky stepped closer, his body language subtle, but clear to any Alpha. He needed John to move, and he wanted to see how he would react to the challenge of another Alpha invading his space.

John, completely oblivious to the territoriality of the request, simply smiled. "Sure, man." He stepped to the side, his body posture remaining loose and relaxed. There was no growl, no posturing, no scent and no instinctive widening of his shoulders.

Bucky took his mug and turned back, his jaw tight. John’s casual compliance was more infuriating than a fight would have been. A new theory began to form in his mind: the possibility that he was simply ignoring Bucky out of some perceived need for respect and approval.  He will have to watch him with the others.

 

________________________________________

 

Sooner rather than later, Bucky found another opportunity for observation. Alexei, in his usual, boisterous manner, playfully challenged John with a firm push to the shoulder. John laughed loudly and pushed back, making a point of not backing down. To anyone else, it looked like two Alphas bonding, but Bucky saw the rigid, practiced way John held his stance. A learned response, not an instinct. Bucky also saw the way Alexei reached with his scent and suddenly John leaved with a bump on Alexei shoulder.

Even if John used scent suppressants, typical for the military and vigilance work, when you are close enough there is a note of a scent. Even Bucky, when he was the Winter Soldier, had a scent when his victims got close enough. But maybe the puppy used blockers, and blockers were only used when have a severe medical condition or when you had to hide something.

Then Bucky’s mind connected to another dot when he remembers earlier, a conversation between Walker and Yelena while John cooked. "So, my ex-wife Olivia and I are finally friends again," John said, a bright smile on his face. "The divorce was rough, but now I get to see my boy, Liam, on weekends. It's not a restart, but it's a good start."

John's eagerness to share was a performance, but it was also genuine. It was a way of showing that he was in control, a put together person unlike the rest of the team, but there was also a show of real happiness with John's eyes lit up and his voice taking on a giddy, hopeful tone.

"Olivia, huh?" Bucky had murmured, almost to himself at the time. A stray thought had crossed his mind, one he had ignored because it was just Walker: Why would a stereotypical alpha like you marry a Beta?

Then one of the most telling signs that something was off was Bob. John always maintains intense eye contact. Unwavering, especially with Bob. John didn’t dislike Bob, but he held eye contact as a challenge, to show he is not intimidated, that he is not backing down.  But Bucky saw the wary, almost nervous twitch in John's jaw, the shifting of his stance. And then, the flicker. For a fraction of a second, as John talked, Bob’s eyes would flash a subtle gold.

The room was full of noise. John was talking, a loud, empty sound that hurt to listen to. Bob felt a familiar pull in his mind, the whisper of the Void telling him to pay attention. The man was a lie. The sound was a lie. It was a flimsy wall of noise meant to keep things out, but Bob could feel what was behind it: a trembling, terrifying thing that wanted to disappear. "Like you before" the Void whispered. Bob tried to keep control, think invincible, think invulnerable, be Sentry.

But then Bob sensed that Bucky moved behind him leaving the room. The noise of him was different—it wasn't loud, it was heavy. A weight of steel and old grief. But Bucky's scent was a mask of cold satisfaction, sure and steady: cedarwood and pine, the scent of old forest, of a strong, enduring, and rooted core, not loud or aggressive; it just is. The Void whispered teasingly, "you should be afraid of that man. He is what you are."

 

________________________________________

 

The mission was simple, by any military standard. John was in the middle of a briefing, standing beside a map, trying to give orders. "First, we'll go in through the south entrance, and I'll clear the way with the rest of the team providing cover," he said, tapping a point on the map.

"No need for plans. Let it flow. We will nail it!" Alexei said with a loud, theatrical boom, puffing out his chest.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," Yelena deadpanned, rolling her eyes while doing her nails. Bob was off to the side, shifting on his feet, his jaw tight. He wasn’t ready for a mission, but he was part of the team and have to be present for briefing. Ava just smiled mockingly while playing with her knife, ignoring John's detailed instructions entirely.

John's smile faltered, but he pushed on, trying to regain control. "Okay, but we have to stick to the plan. Order is important, people. We need to be a cohesive unit Show we are a team."

Bucky, who had been watching from the shadows, stepped forward. He didn't say a word. He simply walked to the map and, with a silent, confident gesture, traced a different route—a more dangerous, but more efficient one. He looked at Yelena, who gave him a small, imperceptible nod. Alexei immediately moved to Bucky’s side, his loud energy now focused. Ava met Bucky's gaze for a moment before she disappeared from the room. John just throwed his arm in the air.

They all followed the route marked by Bucky. But nobody managed to say what they should do when they were in the place. 

Walker tried to outline a clean, step-by-step approach. "We'll do A, then B, then C." He was at his best in a structured environment.

But the Thunderbolts, by nature, were not a structured team. As soon as they hit the field, the plan fell apart. Yelena saw a better angle and went rogue. Alexei started a loud, distracting fight that wasn't in the plan. Ava disappeared and reappeared where she needed to be. Bucky adapted. He was irritated but he used Yelena's distraction to create an opening, followed Ava's lead, and tried to keep Alexei from getting them all killed. He was the one trying to make the "mess" work.

John, however, was locked in the original plan. He was efficient, but he wasn't adaptable. If there was no structure, he couldn’t work with the team. He just shout, "fuck this" and did whatever he thought it was better.

In chaos, Bucky was in the middle of a takedown when Alexei's loud, distracting fight sent a piece of collapsing debris flying. Bucky had to push off the wall to avoid it, and in a flash of movement, he ended up almost on top of John.

For a brief, suspended moment, their bodies were pressed together. Bucky’s keen eyes caught it. A strong, synthetic lining on John’s suit. It was subtle, almost invisible, but it was there, designed to cover the scent glands. And once again, there was no scent. Just the faintest, sterile smell of the fabric itself.

He met John's shocked blue eyes, who then winked at him and shouted, "We make a great team, Buck." While running after another enemy.

And at that moment, the final piece clicked into place. He found it, the Arkenstone. The gnawing unease fell away, replaced by a cold, clean certainty. Bucky's metal hand, which had been tense all night, unclenched and then clenched again, a quiet, almost imperceptible gesture of satisfaction. He remembered what Gandalf had said: "It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him." But there was no dragon, only a lying puppy.

Notes:

Hii, thanks for the comments, kudos and bookmarks. Hope you enjoy the character, and next one...drum rolls...we will have John point of view. And in this chapter there is a wink to Bucky having read the Hobbit when it came out like he said in the series The Falcon and Winter Soldier.

Chapter 4: The Lying Puppy

Notes:

SOOOO double update, don't get used to it, but is to thank for the support you all gave me...and surprise: i decide to write the alternative version of this story after i finished this one because of all the comments i saw of the BuckyxJohnxBob ship, and it was the original idea i had for this fic, and don't worry it won't be a straight copy of ths one and it will have changes, maybe not the first chapters but after it it will be different. But i'm going to do it after i finished this version, because i wrote till chapter 18 of this one and i might cry if i erase that. So thanks you for the comments, the kudos and bookmarks.

It took an entire month after the mission for John to realize that Bucky Barnes was watching him for all the wrong reason. In his defense, his attention had been squarely on Bob. Bob who had nothing to do but watch all of them. He was…endearing, funny, soft but the Void was the proof that John couldn’t relax next to him. Because that was a hell of a dark side. One that could get to your memories and see pesky things.

The worst thing is that John was sure that Bob wouldn’t do anything, he was just too curious and relaxed near omega scents, the example was Yelena.

John checked on Bob wellbeing, but he refused to be a scent crutch to the guy. So, he made intense eye contact, a thing he knew Bobby hated to get him back off. It was an exhausting performance, but one John believed he had under control.

And because of that self-imposed distraction, John had made a critical, desperate error in judgment. When Bucky had started to leave subtle traces of his own scent—cedarwood and pine—in the kitchen, near the coffee maker, John had thought he was making progress. He'd interpreted Bucky's cold, lingering presence and his subtle scent marking as a sign of grudging respect, a quiet Alpha finally accepting another into his space. In his heart, John had foolishly believed he was finally being accepted by Bucky Barnes, Captain America's best friend. A need that never truly died—it had dimmed but never died, unlike Lamar.

"Buck," John had started one evening in the common room while Bucky read, going for casual camaraderie, "guess this makes us... colleagues, huh? Both sides of the coin." He'd offered a tentative smile, seeking some flicker of shared understanding, a nod of professional respect from the legendary soldier. He hadn't asked for friendship, just... validation.

Bucky hadn't even looked at him, just straightened slowly, his posture conveying a silent, potent dismissal. "Don't kid yourself, Walker." Then he walked away, leaving John standing in there. John had tried to brush it off, to tell himself he didn't care, but a part of him, a deeply insecure part, had yearned for that impossible approval.

Then he ignored Barnes and focused on distracting Bob. He would be the loudest, the one that took all the space.  He ignored the scrutiny, those small gestures. He dismissed the way Bucky would always be there, perfectly still, his gaze casually finding John, holding for a fraction too long. In meetings, he ignored how Bucky would subtly shift his position, ensuring he had a clear line of sight to John, the way those cold eyes would trace his neck, and his calm Alpha scent would inexplicably feel closer, more concentrated, than anyone else in the room.

John would feel a cold dread unfurl in his gut, a subtle tremor in his hands that warned him that something was wrong, but he'd force his voice to remain steady, his expression neutral. John dismissed, thinking that Bucky wanted him out of the team or that this was a weird intimidating Alpha territory thing that John didn’t get but had to navigate.

Then, he got it.

One morning, right when he was leaving for his morning run, he'd left his jacket in the common room and went back to retrieve it. He stopped in the doorway, unseen. Bucky was there, standing perfectly still in the middle of the room, his head tilted slightly to the side. He wasn't watching TV or reading. He was just smelling the air, right where John had been sitting minutes before. It wasn't a casual gesture. It was a methodical, almost clinical, assessment of the residual scent—or lack thereof.

In that moment, he knew that Bucky hadn't been marking him as a peer. He had been marking him as prey. And that Bucky suspect that John wasn’t an alpha.

The next day, John deliberately sought out the best synthetic Beta scent money could buy. Better to make them think I’m a beta than an omega. It was clean, inoffensive, and utterly without a hint of the powerful Alpha he was pretending to be.

He put it on, and within a few hours, he found Bucky.

John knew some of Bucky’s habits when he tried to befriend them. Then the knowledge, sometimes, was used to avoid Bucky, especially when John returned for his mandatory therapist session. He would feel like crap but at least he wouldn’t face Bucky and see a confirmation that John was…rotten. A fake, too much to handle but not enough to stay, too loud, too…John.

So, John passed him in the hallway. Bucky’s head tilted, and he took a slow breath, his eyes flicking from John's face down to his neck. Bucky didn't need to say anything. He had already figured it out. John’s file also talked about his partner: Lamar, an alpha. So that scent he associated with John was Lamar's.

John braced himself for a confrontation, but it never came. Instead, a look of utter weariness settled over Bucky's face. He scoffed, a single, harsh sound, and walked away. Bucky dismissed John with a single, brutal thought: Of course, an obnoxious Beta trying to be special. Because the world didn’t bend to the puppy’s needs, he threw a tantrum. Bucky shook his head and walked away; the case closed in his mind. He knew from the start that it was a waste of time, after all, it was only John.

John felt humiliation like a physical weight, but he held it. He would keep this act, this scent because he had avoided Bucky, and he was sure Bob would reject the beta scent and lean more on Yelena.

He had chosen his new lie, and the cold dread of exposure was replaced by a more familiar, manageable kind of fear: the fear of being seen.

Notes:

Thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed both chapters.

Chapter 5: The Puppy's Game

Notes:

DOBLE UPDATE: GO BACK IF YOU HAVEN'T READ CHAPTER 4. Sorry if chapter are short but some will be longer soon.

John noticed it almost immediately. For the first time in weeks, Bucky instinctively backed off. The first time he walked into the common room and Bucky wasn’t there, waiting. The first briefing where Bucky didn't subtly shift his position to maintain a direct line of sight. The absence of that constant, suffocating scrutiny was like a physical weight lifted from his chest. He could breathe again, deeply, without feeling like every inhale was being analyzed.

He could talk to Alexei without Bucky's scent implicitly judging his attempts at normalcy. He could even laugh, a genuine, unforced sound, without feeling the chilling knowledge that Bucky saw the effort behind it. John could do his exercise in peace; the serum gave him super-strength and more but in Alexei words John serum was meh compared to the formula of Steve Rogers and Buck Barnes. Nope. John had to keep exercising.

Even Bob back off. He looked at John like he wanted to say something but then he wrinkled his nose and backed off murmuring "it doesn’t fit him at all". Ava also started acting weird around John and murmured weird things like “John Walker, intelligence follows you, but you run much faster."

 But still, life goes on. John still had to fight Alexei for the head of the table place, but it didn’t matter. Everything went normally.

Two months passed like this. Bucky sometimes stared at him and sniffed discreetly around John, but then he would shake his head in denial. It helped that John was religiously putting his synthetic beta scent.

So, six months passed since the Thunderbolts started living together. They made assignments together, still chaotic, but they made it work. Even Sam Wilson came to some of the missions. Bucky and he reconciled, and they were best buddies again. 

Sam, also, patted John in the back and told him “He was not so bad” and gave him his phone number. It was weird even by John's standards.

Later that evening, Bucky was with Sam grabbing a coffee to "catch up" because that is what "well-adjusted people did". Apparently.

"What was that?" Bucky said, his voice low.

Sam didn't look up, just stirred his coffee. "What was what?"

"You giving Walker your number." Bucky said, a cold edge to his voice.

Sam finally looked at him, his gaze level and tired. "I was trying to be…nice," he said simply. "I was angry at John for the whole Captain America thing but…" He paused, his expression softening slightly. "Maybe I was a little hard on him, now I can see he is not that bad. A little eager, perhaps. But he also lost his best friend, so I can sympathize."

Bucky's posture straightened while he murmured. "Well, he is kind of like an overexcited puppy."

Sam let out a bark. "Oh, this is great. You are unsettled by John Walker."

Bucky stared at Sam, a dawning horror in his eyes. Him? Unsettled? by John? Him?

"I’m not." He snapped back.

 "Yes, you are. What is it? His voice? His way of posturing? Or maybe, how loud is he?"

"Sure Sam, I’m obsessed with John Walker." Bucky summoned his most dry tone. The one that obliterates Steve's stupidity when he was being a little shit.

Sam exploded in laughter while grabbing his stomach. "You can lie all you like. But man, you gave him a nickname. An endearing one. Puppy."

Bucky rolled his eyes. He should stop his friendship with Sam, if not his eyeball are going to get stuck up there. Bucky waited for Sam to finished…

It took a while.

Sam coughed and finally, stopped laughing. "Is the lack of scent, right? That is what is bothering you." Sam took a sip of his coffee. "Before, you didn’t care because you barely saw the guy. But now you are living with him, and it must freak you Winter Soldier senses not to well...sense him."

"Fine. It bothers me. But because, before he smelled like alpha, then he decided to go null and now he lets out his scent. A beta one. "

Sam looked at Bucky with "Are you dumb?" Expression. "The alpha scent around John when we met him was Lamar's. After his death, John was no longer covered in it and had no scent."

Bucky's cup clattered against the counter as he set it down with a sharp clang. "What do you mean, no scent?"

Sam's expression was incredulous. "I mean what I said. John has never had one." He paused, a strange half-smile on his face. "So, I'm surprised John suddenly lets out his real scent. It’s a little synthetic, and it doesn’t really fit him, but good for him, I guess."

Bucky's face went completely blank. Sam’s words echoed in his head: " It’s a little synthetic, and It doesn't really fit him." The thought resonated. The scent John was wearing was too clean, too inoffensive. Too beta? It was too cold, too un-John. It didn't have the manic energy, the desperate need for attention, or the constant, annoying, overexcited warmth of the man himself.

Bucky's mind flashed to Dr. Raynor's words from months ago. "You can't control everything, James. Sometimes you have to let go. " He decided to try. He would let the mystery of John Walker go. It wasn't his problem. It was not.

But a week passed. He tried to follow his therapist’s advice, but his instincts wouldn't listen. His Winter Soldier training had cataloged every minute detail of John, from the cadence of his voice to the way he shifted his weight. And now, those instincts were focused on a new detail: the beta scent. It was like a hole in the universe, an unnerving silence that his senses screamed about. He watched John carefully, clinically, and knew without a doubt that the beta scent was a lie.

He was right.

One evening, Bucky was staring out a window, lost in thought, when John walked by, carrying his usual overly sweet, cream-filled coffee. Just as John passed him, Yelena, with her usual penchant for stealth, jumped out from behind a curtain, yelling, "Boo!"

John startled violently, his coffee splashing over his hand. He yelped, surprised, his eyes wide. Bucky watched the entire exchange with detached clinical focus. He noted Yelena's immediate spike of playful, slightly mischievous scent. He even caught a subtle shift in Ava's calmer beta scent as she chuckled at John's reaction. All the scents in the vicinity had reacted to the sudden surprise, a natural, unconscious response to a change in emotional state.

All except John's.

His synthetic beta scent remained, unnervingly static. Bucky compared to Ava, a real beta, how in the briefing room, Ava’s fainter beta scent would shift with her focus or annoyance. But John’s… nothing.

Bucky hadn't been smelling Lamar. He had been smelling a ghost of a scent that he had created in his mind. But now, staring at John clutching his spilled coffee, the unchanging beta scent a blatant lie, Bucky knew the truth with absolute certainty.

John turned from Yelena's laughter and caught Bucky’s eye. He offered a strained, nervous laugh and gestured at his coffee-stained hand. "Guess you can't sneak anything past her, huh?" John's smile wavered slightly, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, confiding tone.

"You know," he said, "I've learned it's never who you expect to betray you. Am I right?"

Bucky's gaze was fixed on John's, the air suddenly thick with a tension only Bucky could feel. The smile was a mask, the beta scent a flimsy costume. The comment about betrayal, about trust—it was an irony coming from a man who was, in that very moment, a walking, talking lie. Bucky said nothing. John's words, the nervous laugh, the way he was trying to brush off the genuine scare—it all screamed deception.

Bucky's face went completely blank. He thought back to Sam's words, "Good for him, I guess." No. Sam was wrong. The "puppy" hadn't done this for himself; he'd done it for Bucky. Because Bucky had been hunting him, scrutinizing him, and making him uncomfortable. John, the "overexcited puppy," got scared and had thrown up a wall. He hadn't just been hiding; he had been actively misleading. The lie wasn't impersonal; it was directed at Bucky.

He tricked Bucky. John Walker tricked Bucky for six months. You shouldn't have done that.

Chapter 6: Taking Back Control

Notes:

HII, another chapter. We still a long road ahead, remember is a slow burn. Thanks for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks.

"How are you sleeping, James?" Dr. Raynor's voice was calm and even a steady anchor in the sea of Bucky's turbulent thoughts.

"Fine," Bucky mumbled, staring at a crack in the ceiling. He wasn't fine. He was sleeping, sure, but his dreams were filled with the image of John Walker. A smiling, loud, overexcited puppy, with a fake scent that smelled like a lie who teasingly led him on and loudly yelled "That is all you got Buck?" And him, the Bucky in his dream, would follow. Always.

Infuriating. Even in his dreams John robbed Bucky of his hard-gained control.

Dr. Raynor leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp. "In the last few sessions, you've started mentioning John Walker a lot. You seem to be very focused on him. On his attitude, his need for approval and that he never listens to you." She paused, letting the statement hang in the air. "How does he make you feel?"

Bucky's jaw tightened. He didn’t answer. 

"Do you want to know what I think?" she asked.

"I got the feeling you are going to tell me anyway." Bucky smiled with a tight, strained expression.

She looked at him. She was waiting for his permission.

He snapped. "Fine."

She smiled. "James, your default coping mechanism is to want to control everything because you were controlled for so long." She paused. "It’s a natural response. You're just trying to get back what was taken from you, and I think your new team, especially John Walker, is triggering your old instincts."

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He knew. He wanted control over himself, over his life, over every little thing he could.

"And the 'letting go' exercise I recommended? Did you try them?"

"Yeah."

"Good," she said, her tone warm, gentle. "It's important to stop hunting ghosts, James. To let go of the things you can't change."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? The "puppy" wasn't a ghost of the past. He tricked Bucky. He had made a mockery of his senses, his instincts, and his judgment. And Bucky was starting to think he couldn’t let it go at all.

________________________________________

 

The briefing was on a Wednesday. The entire team knew what that meant. Wednesday was therapy day, and after therapy, Bucky was off. He was tense and on edge, and the team had a silent agreement to let him have his space. Even John.

John, refreshed from a good night's sleep, walked in and took his usual seat, ready to be his loud, confident self. He was still enjoying Bucky's and Bob's absence, grateful for the breathing room. This was supposed to be a standard affair.

Bucky entered the room last. Instead of taking his usual seat in the back corner, he walked with a deliberate stride and sat directly next to John, his body radiating a cold, focused intent. He was close enough that John could feel the heat of his arm through his jacket. John could even smell that Barnes was marking him aggressively with his cedarwood and pine scent. It was usually steady, calm, in control…but now it was too much, it was even overwhelming the careful, neutral aroma John was wearing.

John, visibly uncomfortable, shifted into his chair. Maybe he should move his chair a little more to the left to create some distance. "Hey, Barnes," he said, trying for a friendly, casual tone. No "Buck" nickname, because the guy looked ready to snap. "Long time no see."

For a whole five minute, Bucky didn't answer. He didn't even look at John. His eyes were fixed on the briefing screen, but his gaze was vacant, his body taut with coiled, predatory energy.

Then he let out a low, quiet murmur that only John could hear, cut through the silence of the room. "You should do more than that to make your act convincing," Bucky whispered. "And why are you posturing so hard with my scent? A beta's nose isn't that good, and they wouldn't react like that." He gave a soft, disapproving and then he looked straight into John's eyes. "Tsk, tsk. You should never forget who your audience is, puppy."

John froze. He couldn't move. The word "puppy" hit him like a physical blow. It was just a nickname, a mean one, but still, a nickname. But the way Bucky had said it, the cold intent behind his words, felt like a threat.

So, he knows I’m an omega? John wondered, his mind racing. He tried to deny it, but Bucky's nose immediately went to John's neck, his scent gland.

 Bucky made another disapproving noise, because he could still only smell the synthetic scent. Then the rest of the team started entering the room, breaking the tension. Bucky stood up to go to his usual seat, not before muttering to John, "Take off that stupid beta scent."

See, Dr. Raynor, Bucky thought, a cold, hard knot forming in his stomach. The letting-go exercise worked. The first rule: do something you want to do. Taking back control.

 

________________________________________

 

John left the briefing room feeling a cold knot of dread in his stomach. Bucky now knew that John was an omega. But did it matter that Barnes knew? Like the guy hated John but surely, wouldn’t go out of his way to expose his secret. He didn’t even ask why John did it.

But as he walked, a different feeling, hot and angry, started to rise.

Take off that stupid beta scent.

The command echoed in his mind. But John shook his head, scoffing to himself. It was just Barnes being Barnes. The guy hated him. He hated everyone. He was probably just trying to get a rise out of him. He’d say something mean, make a passive-aggressive threat, and then he’d let it go. It was a bluff. A desperate attempt to show he is the unquestionable leader and regain some control.

Even someone like John could see that Bucky had a thing with control. He was always effortlessly steady, a leader, but a clear example of his need for control was the one time that someone, aka Alexei, moved an inch Bucky's favorite cup and put it in a place where it didn’t go. Barnes glared at Alexei for an entire month and, like a vengeful ghost, ate all the Russian cereal that Alexei got for himself. The old guy cried for an entire month.

John squared his shoulders and pushed the fear down, replacing it with a hard, defiant resolve. He would not take the scent off. He would not stop the blockers. He would pretend the entire encounter had never happened. This wasn’t Bucky’s business. This was his life, his secret, and he would not be controlled by some angry, old soldier with a grudge.

When he reached his room, he stood in front of the mirror, the confident smile back in place. He was in charge. He’d just ignore him, and Bucky would eventually move on to his next target. He had no choice but to let it go.

 

 

But Bucky had no intention of letting anything go.

 

Chapter 7: The Puppy and the Wolf

Notes:

Hii, new chapters. Again thanks for all the support, i'm glad people are liking my story and the dynamic. Now i have to write the alternative version with Bob in the relationship. Hope you all enjoy. In a few chapters the pace will be pick up, but don't worry, it will make sense and everybody in character.

The aroma of garlic and spices filled the common room, a rare and pleasant scent. John, in his element, was humming a cheerful tune while he stirred a large pot of pasta sauce. Alexei was seated at the table, watching with enthusiasm.

"See, Alexei," John said with a confident flourishing of his spoon. "Cooking is all about a good foundation. You start with the right ingredients, you follow the process, and you trust the result. Kind of like a mission. Everyone has their part to play, and if you trust them, it all comes together perfectly."

From across the room, Bucky was at the table, silently reading a book. He didn't look up, didn't interrupt. He simply let out a low, almost silent snort. It was a single, harsh sound that was picked up instantly by John's super-soldier hearing.

Alexei turned around with a "uh?" towards Bucky.

John's spoon clattered against the side of the pot. His confident smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his hands clenching at his sides. He knew Bucky was mocking him. He knew Bucky was pointing out the irony of a "lying puppy" talking about trust and teamwork. But he couldn't confront him. To do so would be to admit he heard it, to admit it bothered him, and to look weak in front of Alexei.

Bucky continued to read, a picture of calm indifference. When Yelena walked by, she paused to watch the pot for a moment.

"The key is the sauce," John said, trying to regain his composure. "It's what holds everything together."

Bucky's gaze remained in his book. "That's what they say," he muttered to Yelena, his voice a low, steady rumble that hung in the air for just a moment too long. "Until you realize the sauce is full of lies and the rest of the meal is ruined."

Alexei muttered…loudly. "OH, somebody got up with the left foot today." He then laughed.

John had to get out of the kitchen. He had to breathe. He offered Alexei a strained smile. "I, uh... I need to go get some fresh basil," he muttered, and then he walked away, a new cold dread settling in his stomach. Maybe Bucky was a little pettier than John thought.

The next few days were a blur of cold dread for John. Bucky's silent snort in the kitchen had been opening to a new hell.

It started with small, insidious things. John would leave his door ajar for a moment and find it closed when he returned, a faint but unmistakable whiff of cedarwood and pine lingering in the air. He started noticing Bucky's scent on his own possessions. His towel, freshly laundered, carried a faint, alien note of alpha musk. His toothbrush, his razor—each item was now subtly tainted. It wasn’t a strong, aggressive mark, but a quiet, possessive claim that spoke of an intruder. Bucky had been in his room, in his bathroom, in his space. John's personal sanctuary was no longer his own.

The territorial dominance became even more overt in shared spaces. John would round a corner in a long hallway, only to find Bucky standing at the other end, seemingly lost in thought. Bucky wouldn't move, wouldn't acknowledge him. He would simply stand there, forcing John to backtrack and take a different, longer route to avoid confrontation.

Still, John held onto his resolve: he would simply ignore Bucky. He reasoned that Bucky's entire game was built on a reaction. The taunts, the scent, the quiet mockery, it was all a test.

The most jarring moment came one night when John was in the kitchen getting a glass of water. Bucky was already there, leaning against the counter. As John approached, Bucky straightened, his large frame filling the space between the counter and the door. He didn't speak. He just stood there, his metal arm glinting under the fluorescent light, his body language a silent, physical wall. John was cornered. He could feel the suffocating weight of Bucky's presence, the quiet threat in his stillness.

John stood frozen, the glass of water in his hand. Bucky let a slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that only John could hear.

"You're not a very good hider, are you, puppy?"

John flinched, the words hitting him with the force of a physical blow. John ran back to his room. Just hold on a little more, tomorrow will be a new day, that is all he needs.

So, the next morning, John returned from his morning run. He needed to reassert control, and his morning routine was the only thing he had left. The run was his escape, and the post-run spinach smoothie was his ritual.

He walked into the common room and headed straight for the blender but stopped dead in his tracks.

On the counter, a glass filled with a perfectly blended green liquid sat waiting for him. His smoothie. A small, yellow post-it note was stuck to the side. In neat, crisp handwriting, it read: 'You look tired. Thought you could use a head start.'

A wave of humiliation and fury washed over John, so intense it made him dizzy. He walked over to the counter, his hands trembling. He couldn't drink it. The thought of ingesting something Bucky had made, something he had tainted with his smug cruelty, was sickening.

John grabbed the smoothie, a defiant resolve hardening his features. He walked over to the garbage can and, with a shaky hand, dumped the entire contents into the trash. The sound of the splash was ridiculously loud in the silent room. He crumpled the glass in his fist and threw it in after the liquid.

Bucky let out a low, satisfied hum from behind his book. It was a soft, tuneless sound that told John everything he needed to know. The act of defiance was exactly what Bucky had wanted. He had given John a choice, and either option—drinking it or throwing it away—was a victory for Bucky.

It didn’t matter; John would hold on a little more. Also to distract himself, later will be the team briefing for another mission and that is where John shined. Work. He had devoured the briefing packet, analyzing every detail, every potential threat, every possible contingency. He had crafted a plan that was watertight, efficient, and, most importantly, irrefutable. And today, the briefing was John's turn to lead.

In the early days, mission briefings were a chaotic mess of five huge egos, all trying to out-strategize each other except Barnes, who was so cool that none questioned him. John now rolled his eyes to that thought. The Thunderbolts were a team of misfits where orders were seen as suggestions, and suggestions were seen as a challenge. It was a problem.

So, during one of the missions where Sam was present, he proposed a simple solution. A draw. A small, nondescript box was placed in the common room. Before each mission, everyone would write their name on a slip of paper. The person whose name was drawn would be the leader for that mission. They would run the briefing, make the final call on the strategy, and their authority was to be respected. It was a compromise that gave everyone a turn at the top while still maintaining a semblance of order.

The system worked. It gave the Thunderbolts a sense of fairness and prevented the constant power struggles that had plagued their early days. John, a career soldier, initially disliked the idea of leaving leadership to chance. He believed in merit and experience. But over time, he had come to see the value in it. The draw gave him a chance to earn the team's respect, to show them that his training and planning were just as valuable as Bucky's quiet competence.

The briefing room was quiet, a rare state of affairs. John stood in front of the tactical map, a confident smile on his face. He was in his element here. This was a place of clear rules and a defined hierarchy. He was the one giving the orders, outlining a perfectly structured plan to handle an infiltration mission.

Bucky was standing in his usual spot, leaning against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. John felt Bucky's gaze on him—a cold, steady weight. It made the hairs on John’s neck stand up, but he pushed the feeling down. This was a professional setting. Bucky had no choice but to listen.

But just as John was about to move on to the next slide, Bucky moved. He didn't say a word. He simply pushed off the wall and walked toward the tactical map. He moved with a quiet, confident certainty that drew the team's attention away from John entirely. As Bucky passed him, a wave of cold alpha scent—cedarwood and pine, sharp and demanding—washed over John. It wasn't an aggressive scent, but in this context, it was a silent, suffocating command. John's synthetic beta scent felt like a flimsy paper shield against a storm. He stood frozen, his eyes wide as Bucky stopped next to him.

"Diversion is good," Bucky said, his voice low and even, a natural command that needed no authority. "But the target is mobile. We'll lose time with a three-pronged attack." With his metal hand, he traced a different route on the map through a series of underground tunnels. "Yelena and I can handle the entry. Alexei can be the diversion. John and Ava can be our backup on the surface. Bob is too green to put in a mission"

Bucky didn't offer a suggestion; he gave an order. It was a single, flawless correction that cut through John's plan with surgical precision. The team responded instantly. Alexei's chest puffed out, a loud nod of agreement. Ava disappeared without a word, already preparing. Bob nodded his head with a helpless shrug.

Yelena smirked looking at the two of them in interest. She watched it all unfold with a kind of detached fascination. She liked John. He was a good guy, in his own over-eager, loud way. He was trying so hard to be the hero, to be the leader, to be the one everyone looked up to. His need for approval was so transparent it was almost endearing. But Barnes... Barnes was a wolf. He didn't need to bark or growl. He just needed to remind everyone that he was the most dangerous thing in the room.

John stood there, the laser pointer still in his hand, his mouth open. Bucky had just taken his plan, dismantled it, and given him the role of "backup" in less than a minute. The humiliation was a hot burn in his gut.

Bucky turned from the map, his eyes finally meeting John's. The cold, predatory gaze returned, and with it, another burst of that punishing alpha scent. It was a low-level, relentless attack that only John could feel. Bucky took a step closer, his body language speaking a silent threat.

"Any questions, puppy?" he murmured, the nickname a chilling private jab that only John could hear. "Or is your plan better?"

John's hand trembled, the laser pointer shaking in his grip. John couldn’t deny it anymore; Bucky was not letting go.

Fuck

Chapter 8: Unreasonable

Notes:

Hii, new chapter. Thanks for the comments, kudos and bookmarks. READ PLEASE THEAUTHOR NOTE BY THE END...if you want is nothing bad, just a question. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

The rest of the team went on with their day, seemingly unaffected by the power play that had just unfolded. Bucky’s plan, though stolen, was flawless, and they had a mission to prepare for. John, however, couldn’t shake the humiliation. He tried to act normal, to project the image of a leader who had simply delegated himself to his most experienced team members. He was in the common room, methodically packing his gear, trying to drown out the memory of Bucky's cold, predatory gaze.

"Hey, Bob, I need you to double-check the comms before we go," John said, his voice a little too loud. "Make sure our channels are secure."

Bob nodded, but his eyes were on John's hands, which were trembling slightly. The faint, synthetic beta scent John wore, usually so solid and reassuring, was cracking under the stress. Bob's keen nose could detect the underlying note of fear and desperation, a bitter smell that made the hairs on his arms stand up. Bob said nothing, but a flicker of suspicion passed over his face before he turned away.

John saw the look. The look of a partner who didn't trust him. He swallowed hard and turned to the other side of the room, where Yelena was polishing her knives with a quiet intensity. Bucky was lounging on a couch nearby, reading a book.

"Yelena," John began, "I need you to run point with Barnes on this one. Stay in constant communication with Alexei, and..."

Bucky let out a low, sarcastic hum from where he was polishing a knife. "Oh, the puppy is giving orders. How adorable."

The word, spoken with a quiet, lethal calm, were just loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Yelena slowly raised her head. A slow, thoughtful smile spread across her face. Her eyes, filled with detached curiosity, now held a new, mischievous glint. She had been watching the two of them for months, seeing the transparent, over-eager way John tried to earn Barnes's respect. Bucky's word for him were perfect. Not mean, not cruel, but a perfect descriptor.

"Puppy," she murmured, the word tasting new and perfect on her tongue. "It fits. He's all barks and clumsy warmth, isn't he? So needy." She purred.

John’s face flushed a deep crimson. Such a cutie, Yelena thought.

For John, the shame of being called a puppy was one thing, but hearing Yelena, one of the team's most dangerous members, repeated it with such cruel amusement was a thousand times worse. The nickname, his private torment, was now a public joke. He looked over at Bucky, who met his gaze with a cold, triumphant smirk. Bucky had just made John a laughingstock, and he hadn't even had to get off the couch.

Across the room, Bob looked at the man, so full of noise and empty bravado, and felt the whisper of The Sentry. Puppy. Cute, it fitted him, but not that fake scent. Bob's gold eyes flickered for a second, but no one saw it. Bob watched John, a thought he wouldn’t dare to say aloud cross his mind, if only he was an omega, Bob could cuddle with him and not only depend on Yelena to help him calm down. He buries it down in the deepest part of himself; Bob was not interested in cuddling in John totally uncomfortable chest.

 I want to cuddle him too, the Void whispered.

"What? " Bob and the Sentry shoot back at the same time.

"What?” the Void whispered.

Bob squinted, God, I’m one of the most fucked up person on the earth.

 

________________________________________

 

The mission was hell for John. Yelena didn’t shut up for even one minute.

"Oh, come on, U.S. Agent. Don't be shy. Is the big, bad Winter Soldier letting you off the leash? Who's a good boy, then?"

Or when they were passing through the tunnels:

"Did you find any nice bones down there, Agent Walker?" "Make sure you mark your territory!" Each comment, delivered with playful innocence, was a tiny pinprick of humiliation. John tried to ignore it, to focus on the mission, but the nickname echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of Bucky's silent control and his own powerlessness.

Then at the end of the mission, Yelena was waiting for John with a wide, Cheshire cat grin on her face. "So," she said, her eyes lit with joy as she looked at John. "Who wants a treat?"

For the love of…

The tower was quiet. The mission had ended, and the team had retreated into the privacy of their rooms. The common room was empty, save for John, who sat alone at the large table. The ache of the mission was nothing compared to the sharp, humiliating sting of Yelena's playful taunts. He felt like a boy again being mocked for trying too hard. For being too much. John knew that Yelena wasn’t being truly mean, but it was bothersome because it came from Barnes who wanted to punish him.

He was staring into a cup of lukewarm water when Yelena walked in, a small bag of pastries in her hand, a rare treat she had acquired during the mission. She paused when she saw John. She was expecting the over-eager, loud John. The John she saw was quiet, shoulders slumped, his entire posture screaming defeat.

Without a word, she walked over to the table and placed the bag of pastries down. She pulled a pastry and, with a flick of her wrist, tossed it onto the table in front of him. It landed with a soft thump.

"You look like you need something," she said, her voice flat and even. It wasn’t a question.

John flinched, his hand clenching around his cup. He braced himself for a new taunt, a new joke about begging for food or a treat. But none came. Yelena simply leaned against the counter watching him.

"It's about the nickname, is it?" she asked, her voice quiet.

John didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too tight.

"I liked it because it fits," she said, her tone almost thoughtful. "You are like a puppy. Pushy, eager, and clumsy, soft warmth. Endearing." She paused, then added, "It was never meant to be a punishment."

For the first time in what felt like forever, John felt a crack in his carefully constructed armor. He looked at Yelena, at the pastry she had tossed him, and saw not cruelty, but a rare, genuine moment of understanding. It was comfort, given in a strange way, but it was comfort, nonetheless.

He slowly picked up the piece of pastry. It felt heavy in his hand. Yelena's strange kindness was the first act of grace he had been shown since Bucky had started his torment. It gave him a moment to breathe, to feel something other than shame. It gave him a flicker of something…he would talk to Barnes. And he would end this, one way or another.

So, John waited until he could corner Barnes alone. John saw his chance after dinner, when Bucky was the only one left, leaning against the balcony window with his arms crossed.

"Barnes," John started, his voice a little too loud in the sudden silence. He won’t call him Buck, because it will annoy Barnes and because John was kind of annoyed with the guy. Bucky doesn’t deserve a nickname from John with his behavior.

John always tried to be his comrade, to get his respect when he was Captain America but no, Barnes hated him. Then Lamar's death, for a while, scorched that fragile yearning out of him. The shield, the public disgrace, the raw, gut-wrenching grief. Bucky's disdain became irrelevant. All that mattered was survival, clawing his way back, proving his worth to himself, to the uniform, to the memory of his friend. He became U.S. Agent, a grim, isolated instrument. The approval of men like Bucky Barnes was a luxury he could no longer afford to want. He was too busy trying to simply exist and find a new purpose.

And then came the Thunderbolt and John wasn’t longer drowning. He was breathing again, he had sort of friendship with Ava and Yelena, even Alexei. He was a better father to Liam; he and Olivia were friendlier. So, John tried again not with Bob because…let’s forget Bob. With Bucky to be Bucky's coworker at least, to get a little of his respect. 

But John should have known better. He should—after Lamar, after the shield— have known better. He would never earn Bucky Barnes's respect. There would always be another fault to find, another question to ask, something to dissect as to why John was wrong in Bucky's eyes.

Bucky didn't move, didn't open his eyes. He just let out a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of cedarwood and pine filling the space between them. I

"We need to talk," John said, forcing himself to take a step closer. "About... this." He gestured vaguely between them. "I'm not going to pretend I don't know what you're doing. It needs to stop."

Bucky finally opened his eyes, a cold, unwavering stare fixing on John. "I don't think you get to make that call, Walker."

"No, I do," John insisted, the old soldier in him taking over. "Look, I know what this looks like, but it wasn't personal. My military records are my own business. I'm not ashamed of who I am, but I am in a professional environment. I’m an asset, just like everyone else here. My dynamic is just a part of my life, not my whole identity."

He could see Bucky’s jaw tighten. "Not personal?" Bucky scoffed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. He pushed off the wall and took a slow, deliberate step toward John. "I was trained by the best to see every tell, every lie. You, with your loudmouth and your fake bravado... you made a fool of me for six months."

"I wasn't trying to make a fool of you; it is just my private life." John pleaded, taking a half-step back. " The beta scent... it was a way to make things easier."

"You made a conscious choice to lie to me," Bucky hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He was close now, close enough that John could feel the heat radiating off him. You deliberately used a synthetic scent to trick me. That's a direct challenge. That's an act of war, not a professional courtesy. You don't get to say, 'it's not personal' when you've been actively mocking my instincts."

"I was trying to survive!" John retorted, his voice cracking with a mix of frustration and fear. He knew he'd never be able to make Bucky understand. He would always think the worst of John.

Bucky stare at him still, silent. Like John was the unreasonable one. Just staring at him, not saying anything. Oh, so he drives John crazy and now he has nothing to say. He's like a mule with a grudge.

"This isn't some professional disagreement. This is you seeing a weakness and wanting to exploit it. It's you seeing an Omega and thinking that's all I am. A project for your winter soldier instincts." John insisted, his voice cracking with a mix of defiance and rage.

"No," Bucky said, a cold, hard finality in his tone. "You were playing a game. And you're mad because I figured out how to win." He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "And you don't get to tell me what I can or cannot do with my own information. You don't get to tell me to 'let it go' because I don't let anything go. Especially not you, puppy."

Then he left.

John squinted his eyes, is the time to get the big guns.

Notes:

Like is a question about the fic throuple between BuckyxJohnxBob and i kinda want to do like another idea instead of the same as this one, where is know after the captain america thing that John is an omega and when they are starting living all together after the Thunderbolt movie, things start to happen, like all in character because i like that. Or maybe go another route, like guide-sentinel theme instead of omegaverse, like what do you think? or if anybody has an idea that wants to share or advice in the ideas i just gave, it will be cool, because i cannot decide and maybe something gives me like a spark of creativity or something. Thanks.

Chapter 9: You Can't, Can You?

Notes:

Guess who forgot to update because i was writing the new story. The bad thing: late update, the good thing: soon i will update a new story and next update of this one will be double. Enjoy, and thanks all for the advices, comments, kudos and bookmarks. Things will start to go forward, and remember the tag unreliable narrator.

John, still seething, walked to his room and pulled out the slip of paper with Sam Wilson's number. He'd been given it months ago as a kind of peace offering, a truce after their Captain America mess. He never thought he'd use it.

With a deep, unsteady breath, John pressed the numbers. It rang twice before Sam answered.

"Wilson." The voice was crisp, professional, and a little guarded.

"Hey, uh... Sam. It's John."

A beat of silence stretched between them. John could almost feel Sam's surprise. "John. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Just... checking in," John said, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. He walked to his window, staring out at the city lights. He could almost imagine Bucky's cold, calculating stare in the glass. "I kind of wanted to tell you about something. About Bu—I mean the team…It's...Well, I—"

"I heard you guys are working well together," Sam said, his tone still neutral, but with a new, subtle layer of inquiry. "Bucky seems to be holding his own, doing great from what I've heard."

This was John's opening. "Yeah, he's... something else." He forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Look, Sam, to be honest... I'm a little worried about him. He's been… on edge lately. Really—busybody, annoying, psychotic, an old mule. John instead chose to say— unreasonable."

"On edge how?" Sam asked, his voice losing its neutrality and turning into that familiar, no-nonsense tone of "tell me the true right now."

"Just... the usual," John said, deliberately vague. "The silent treatment, the glaring... he's been—a crazy bastard. Nutcase. Like how dare he where John doesn’t want his attentions the guy decides he wants to be there— acting out. It's making things difficult. I think maybe someone should check on him. You know, give him some space, see if he needs to talk."

"You want me to check on Bucky because he's being difficult?" Sam's voice was filled with skepticism. "Sounds like Bucky to me."

"No, it's... different this time," John insisted, his hands clenched into fists at his side. "He's just... Maybe you should just talk to him. See what's going on."

"John, what aren't you telling me?" Sam pressed. "You sound rattled. Is this about something he said? Something he did?"

John took another shaky breath. "It's a lot of things. He's just... being a mule." He instantly regretted the word, the anger and frustration spilling out. "Just... give him some space. And don't tell him I called. Please."

Another long silence. Sam was processing everything, the subtle pleas and the overt accusation. "Okay, John," he finally said, his voice soft but firm. "I'll make a note of it."

"Thank you, Sam," John said, the relief a physical wave. He hung up the phone and stood by the window, the city lights blurring in his vision. He had fired his "big gun." Now he just had to get out of the way when the blast arrived. He needed to get out, to create space.

He found Ava in her lab, a place where she was at her most relaxed and, ironically, most dangerous. She was hunched over a worktable, her hands moving with a surgeon's precision over a complex piece of tech.

"Ava," John said, his voice calmer than it had been all night. He had a plan, and the plan gave him a fragile sense of control.

She didn't look up. "John. You look like you've been run over by a truck. And then that truck backed up and did it again."

"Just a long day," he said with a tired smile. "I was looking at the mission roster. The one you have for the surveillance gig in Berlin. I was thinking I could take it."

Ava finally stopped her work, a pair of tweezers hovering over a microchip. She turned her head, her gaze sharp and assessing. "You want to swap a solo mission with me? You've been trying so hard to be a team player."

"It's not about that," John lied, the words coming easily now. "I just... I need to clear my head. Get back to basics. A simple, straightforward mission with no team to distract me. You'd have to brief Yelena, I guess."

Ava leaned back, her chair creaking softly. "Mmmh," she hummed judgingly. John didn’t even know how she managed to do that.

John's composure wavered. "Okay, I need some alone time."

She watched him for another moment, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She could see the desperation in his eyes, the subtle tremor in his hands.

"The file's on my desk," she said, nodding toward a data pad. "You're lucky I'm good with Yelena. Don't die in Berlin."

John felt a wave of relief so intensely it almost made him dizzy. "Thank you, Ava."

"Just don't make it a habit, John," she said, turning back to her work. "I do not want to become your personal getaway car every time Barnes gets on your nerves."

"WHAT. Bucky who? Who is that? I mean I know who he is but wh—"

Ava stopped his blabbering with a hand gesture and a glare.

John decided to grab the data pad and leave a small. A smile of victory on his face. He was going to Berlin. Two weeks. Two weeks of distance from Bucky, from the mind games, from the quiet torment. Two weeks to finally breathe and give Bucky a chance to, as he had said to Sam, "get to reason." He felt a flicker of hope. He could do this. He was a soldier, and he knew how to survive.

John was skipping. Bob even said hi to him and John responded and patted his back. Then Bob tried to say he wanted to ask him something, but John cut him off with "later". Really, you give people our hand and they grab your shoulder. Not this time, Bobby. Not this time. John didn’t fall for those tricks anymore and he also needed to have everything ready to leave when Bucky was out of the tower with Sam.

 

________________________________________

 

The coffee shop was too loud, too bright, and too cheerful. It smelled of burnt sugar and cinnamon, a sickly-sweet scent that made Bucky have a headache. Sam was already there, nursing a steaming cup, his posture open and relaxed.

Bucky went to get his coffee. It went badly.

 "A black coffee, please." Bucky said to the smiling cashier.

"We don’t sell that here." she replied, her smile not faltering.

"It’s a coffee shop." Bucky said dryly, pointing to the huge neon sign.

He watched her eye twitch with irritation. "We don’t sell just coffee. We sell experiences. Relaxation. Nature and more."

Bucky sighed, the sound of exasperation a low rumble in his chest. "Then don’t call your business a coffee shop."

He then slid into the chair opposite Sam, his metal arm resting on the table with a dull thud.

"Long time no see, man," Sam said, his voice easy. He took a sip of his coffee. "I was thinking about you."

Bucky didn't buy it for a second. Sam's casual tone was a flimsy mask over a very specific agenda. "I'm sure you were," Bucky said, his voice flat. "What's up?"

Sam set his mug down. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. The new team, the new dynamic... You seem a little on edge."

Bucky's jaw tightened. He leaned forward, his gaze a cold, hard glare. "Is that what you're here for? You came to run an intervention because you think I'm 'on edge'?"

"I came because a friend called me," Sam said, holding Bucky's gaze.

"A friend," Bucky scoffed. "And what did this 'friend' say?"

Sam hesitated for a beat. "He said you were being 'unreasonable.' Said he was worried about you."

Bucky felt a cold wave of fury wash over him. "He called you?" Bucky said the words a quiet, lethal accusation. "John called you."

"He called me," Sam confirmed, his voice low and serious.

Bucky's knuckles whitened around his mug. "He's running away," Bucky muttered.

"From what?" Sam asked.

Bucky's jaw clenched. He couldn't lie to Sam. Not completely. He couldn't let Sam think he was just being an asshole for no reason. "The guy's a liar," Bucky said, his voice flat. "He's been lying to all of us."

"John? You are talking about John Walker. Every time he tries to lie his eye can’t look straight into your eyes Bucky. He admires you."

"He's an Omega," Bucky said, the words a confession and a condemnation all at once. "He's been using a synthetic beta scent to fool me."

Another pause. Bucky could almost hear the gears turning in Sam's head. "I know," Sam said softly.

"You what?"

"I know," Sam repeated. "I figured it out a while back. The alpha scent around him? That was his partner, Lamar. The synthetic one from the mission we all did together? It's not great. Too flat and it doesn’t really fit his personality. I just figured... maybe he didn't want to share. So, it is none of my business."

Bucky felt a flash of pure, unadulterated fury. "Sam, he was lying to me. He was mocking me. My instincts. I was trying to figure out what was wrong, and all this time he was laughing at me. He was playing me." He thought back to John's words. It wasn't personal. His knuckles whitened. Not personal, my ass.

"He was trying to protect himself, Bucky," Sam said, his voice firm. "You of all people should understand that. People don't always get to be who they are or want to be."

"This isn't the same," Bucky spat.

"Isn't it?" Sam challenged. "You're both just trying to survive. John called me because you've been on his case for months, and now you're finally forcing a reaction out of him."

A new feeling, hot and angry, welled up in Bucky's chest. He didn't like this feeling. He didn't like the idea that he was the bad guy. He was just trying to get the truth. He did months of missions with the guy. Instead of staring at Bucky with starry eyes and pouting pink lip he should have come clean but, no, the lying puppy decided that the most logical thing was spraying himself with a fake beta scent and tricking Bucky.

"So let it go," Sam said, his voice dropping to a calm, steady rhythm. "You figured it out. He's an Omega, he's a liar, and he's not your problem. Let it go... unless you can't."

Bucky goes back to the tower, to his room. But the words still echoed in his mind. Unless you can't.

He stared at the empty room. To quiet. The tower was too quiet. Bucky was left here, alone with his thoughts and his frustrating new feelings.

 

Let it go.

 

Bucky decided to work. So, he walked to the mission roster, his mind already calculating, already planning. He would talk to Yelena and switch with her and go himself with John to do that mission.

But then he found the file for the Berlin mission, a simple surveillance job that Ava was supposed to take. It was now assigned to John. Two weeks.

Bucky's heart thumped a strange rhythm in his chest. He wasn't just annoyed anymore. He wasn't just intrigued. He didn't want to let it go. He had won the war, but he had lost the battle, and that was the one thing he couldn't stand. He had to win.

 

Two weeks of silence.

 

John had tricked him, challenged him, and now he was running away. Bucky had no intention of letting him get away with it.

 

It’s not that he couldn’t let go. Is that he didn’t want to.

Chapter 10: The Welcoming Committee

Notes:

Enjoy the double update, jejejeje. And please remember the questionable acts tag. Yeah i put already all the number of all the chapters of this story, don't worry after this two chapters, the others will get much longer.

Two weeks of space. That's what John had wanted and what he had finally gotten. The solo mission in Berlin had been uneventful, a quiet blur of rooftop surveillance and late-night paperwork. He had hoped the time and distance would do what his pleas couldn't: make Bucky Barnes see reason.

He arrived back at the Thunderbolts' tower in the middle of the night, exhausted but with a faint sense of victory. The hallways were silent. He let himself into his room, pushing the door open just enough to step inside.

That's when the light flickered on.

Bucky was there. He was seated in the single chair by the window, his metal arm resting on his knee, a book open in his lap. The sight of him sent a jolt of pure shock through John's system, the quiet victory of his mission evaporating into a cold wave of dread.

John squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest and…"nope" and began to close the door he just opened.

 John could sleep in a hotel. Even a park would.

"Get in here. Now," Bucky said, his voice rumbled low in the quiet room.

John's hand froze. The command was laced with Alpha’s authority, a claim that made John's own Omega instincts flare up with a mix of obedience and defiance. He felt a tremor in his hands, a sudden, overwhelming urge to run. But he was a soldier. He was a U.S. Agent. He was not some…misbehaving puppy like Barnes like to call him.

He slowly pulled his hand away from the door and stepped into the room. He felt every muscle in his body tense as his eyes met Bucky's. The happiness he had been clinging to for two weeks was gone, replaced by a deep-seated weariness. He dropped his gaze to the floor, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Shit, he was acting as if he did something wrong. John was a saint, if you ignore certain things about him. But everybody had issues; well, that's what his mandated therapist said.

Bucky rose from the chair, the sound of the leather creaking a low thud in the silent room. He crossed the space between them in two purposeful strides, his presence a heavy weight of scent and power. He stopped just inches away from John, his gaze a cold, hard glare.

"Welcome back, puppy," he said, his voice a quiet, lethal growl. "We need to talk."

John's mouth started moving before his brain could catch up. "Yes! Yes, I want to talk too! I was thinking about you the whole time—I mean, not like that. I was thinking about you—uh—about the team. Yeah, the team and…and the weather in Berlin, it was... you know, kind of funny? I mean, the mission itself was uneventful. I have all the reports done. I'll get them to you first thing in the morning." John blabbered like his life depend on it. Oh god, he couldn’t stop. His eyes darting to Bucky's face. And John then started making weird hand gestures trying to imitate the weather, and the mission, and the team. Oh god, oh god.

Bucky was just watching him, his expression unchanging, a predator observing its prey. His eyes were cold, and his jaw was set in a hard line. John's own nervous energy was making his blood feel like it was boiling. But he couldn’t stop watching that mouth move. Maybe Bucky should stuff something there to shut it.

John swallowed hard. Is he going to cut my tongue out? The thought, sharp and irrational, flashed through his mind. No. He wouldn't. Barnes was a congressman now. He's well-adjusted, right? Right? John's blabbering went even faster. "I mean, I'm sure you have a lot to say, and I have a lot to say too, about... Berlin weather. And pastries. And did you know vibranium isn't actually melted down to be shaped? It's an alien alloy, so the sonic vibrations from the asteroid are what's needed to reconfigure its molecular structure. It's not just a metal, it's a whole other... thing. I mean, it's pretty wild when you think about it."

Bucky's gaze narrowed. "Shut up," he said, the command a low, dangerous growl.

"Yes, sir. I mean Barnes. Buck." John squeaked. He saw Barnes eye twitch. "No Buck. I meant Bucky. You know what?  I’m going to shut up…"

Barnes opened his mouth.

"Right now. Silent as a grave." John squeaked again while zipping at his mouth gesture. Barnes's eyes twitched even more if that was human possibly.

Did John cause a super-soldier a stroke with his talking? It is kind of a good weapon if you think about it. Like an effective weapon against super-soldiers. Wait but John was also one. But he can’t babble with himself, so he will be okay. But it wouldn’t work if he had no tongue to, well, talk.

John's frantic energy sputtered out, leaving him standing there in the middle of the room, his shoulders slumped, and his gaze fixed on a small scuff mark on the polished floor. He couldn't bring himself to look at Bucky, at the cold, triumphant smirk he knew would be waiting for him.

A moment stretched, feeling like a century. Then, a hand closed around John's jaw.

It was Bucky's metal hand, cold and unyielding. The touch was a shock to John's system, a jolt of ice and electricity. John instinctively flinched, his body tensing, but the grip was firm. Bucky tilted John's head up, his thumb and forefinger digging in just enough to be a threat without causing real pain.

John's eyes, wide and panicked, finally met Bucky's. The cold glare was there, just as he'd expected, but there was something else, too. Something deeply unreadable. The air between them suddenly felt charged, heavy with Bucky's cedarwood and pine scent, which was angry.

John was screwed. Which was unfair, because he was innocent. He didn’t do anything.

Bucky's voice, when he spoke, was a low growl that vibrated through John's jaw.

"Now that I have your attention," he said, his eyes never leaving John's, "we can talk about why you ran."

Bucky's grip on John's jaw tightened slightly, a physical reminder of who was in control. John's frantic, racing thoughts were suffocated by the cold presence of Bucky's metal hand.

"You're not a Beta," Bucky stated, his voice a low, gravelly growl. "You're an Omega."

John's eyes widened, but he said nothing. He couldn't. He just stared into Bucky's cold, furious eyes. He kind of wanted to say "duh, we already cover that." But he didn’t have a death wish. For now. Maybe later, after this conversation he will get one. Who knows? Life was kind of random. Look at John, he was respected, chosen as Captain America and now he is living with a bunch of maniacs. Life, am I right?

"And you used a synthetic beta scent to lie to me" Bucky continued, his voice dropping in volume, making it all the more menacing. "But you're not going to be lying anymore."

Bucky finally released his grip on John's face and stepped back, his presence a suffocating weight. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, empty bottle. It was John's synthetic scent spray, the one he had painstakingly bought and hidden. A faint, chemical scent clung to its plastic.

"I found this," Bucky said, a smirk playing on his lips. "I got a little curious while you were gone. I threw the rest of it in the incinerator."

John felt a jolt. He only bought it to distract Bucky and Bob. So, the rest of the team wouldn’t question why again he was all null. His mind, however, immediately went to a different thought, a small, selfish relief.

Thank God the blockers were at Olivia's house.

His real scent blockers, the ones that were truly effective and left his scent completely null, were always stored at Olivia's place. He had a few emergency pills into the lining of his suit, but they were not enough to get him through another two weeks of close proximity with Bucky.

Bucky stepped closer again, his presence an overwhelming weight. His scent of cedarwood and pine was a heavy, intoxicating presence.

Bucky leaned in, his nose inches from John’s neck.

"You're not giving off a scent," Bucky whispered, the words a low, dangerous rumble. He pulled back, his gaze a cold, analytical glare. "Not Beta. Not Omega. Nothing. Just null. You're using blockers."

John’s breath hitched. He felt Bucky's breath on his neck; his mouth almost caressing him. It was too…close.

John's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a tremor in his knees, but he forced himself to stand his ground. He was a soldier. He was a U.S. Agent. He couldn't show fear.

Bucky stepped away while staring intensely into his eyes.

"What do you really smell like?" Bucky said, his voice softly murmured. Like he wasn’t trying to startle his prey.

John tried to say something, anything, but Bucky shushed him.

"None of that." Bucky continued, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips, "Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’m going to find those blockers and when I do, you're going to let me know what you really smell like, puppy."

Chapter 11: A Fragile Balance

Notes:

DOUBLE UPDATE, GO BACK IF YOU DIDN'T READ CHAPTER 10, OR OKAY, DO WHAT YOU WANT.

John felt like he hadn't slept at all. Bucky's cold, whispered words had replayed in his mind all night. Every creak in the building, every shadow on the wall, had been Bucky coming for him. He sat in the common room, a lukewarm cup of coffee clutched in his hands, his shoulders hunched in exhaustion.

The elevator chimed, and John tensed. The door slid open, and out stepped Bob. Bob’s scent was muted, soft like a fading memory of vanilla, a clear sign he had just come from his therapy session. His shoulders were a little slumped, his head bowed. He looked up, and his gaze landed on John.

"H-hi," Bob said, his voice a nervous whisper. He fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag. "I was... I was wondering if I could ask you something."

A jolt of pure dread ran through John's body. He had spent the last two weeks trying to escape Bucky's questions, and now here was Bob, another Alpha, with a question of his own. John’s mind raced, his paranoia twisting Bob’s innocent question into a trap. Is it about the scent? Does he know? Of course he knows. But it’s Bob he won’t ask. John’s grip tightened on his coffee cup, his knuckles turning white.

Bob took a closer step, his own nervousness clashing with the quiet command of his presence. His eyes, a soft, troubled blue, found John’s and held them.

Then, they began to change.

A flicker of gold crossed Bob’s eyes, and the air crackled with a jolt of ozone. John saw the corners of Bob's mouth twitch. The faint scent of vanilla was suddenly overwhelmed by a bitter, metallic odor. Then, the gold in Bob’s eyes faded, replaced by that unnerving, creeping blackness. A heavy, sickening scent of decay filled John’s nostrils.

The unsettling mix of gold and creeping darkness was a terrifying visual of the battle taking place inside Bob’s mind.

Bob's mouth, however, remained frozen in a nervous frown, as if he were fighting for control over his own face.

"I... I..." Bob started, the words coming out in a strangled stutter.

John's heart hammered against his ribs. Not this again, couldn’t this happen with Yelena. She was way better at comforting than John. Wait, does this mean that John will have to hug Bob…again?

Bob blinked, and the blackness in his eye vanished. The gold was gone, too. All that was left was the soft, troubled blue of the man he was supposed to be. Bob frowned, a look of confusion on his face.

"Oh," he said, his voice a soft whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I'll go."

As Bob turned to walk away, a new, internal struggle raged within him.

Ask him, a chilling voice whispered, the Void speaking without the filter of his own mind. What harm could it bring? You are dying to know.

If you ask, maybe you can get the comfort you need, the Sentry's voice, colder and more logical, chimed in.

Bob stopped dead. The words came out in a rush, desperate and quiet.

"Why do you hide your scent?"

John froze, the question a sharp, cold jab that cut through his exhaustion. Are you freaking kidding me?

A bitter laugh escaped John's lips. He set his coffee cup down with a soft click on the table, the sound echoing in the silent room. He met Bob's troubled blue eyes, forcing a smirk on his own face.

"Look, Bobby," John said, the nickname a deliberate, cutting jab. He saw a flicker of hurt cross Bob's face, a confirmation that he had hit his mark. "It's called privacy. Something I'm sure you and I both need a lot more of, right?"

Without waiting for a response, John pushed himself to his feet and walked away, leaving Bob standing alone in the common room, the question hanging in the air unanswered.

 

________________________________________

 

Bob gasped for air, his hands covering his ears. He was still on his knees in the common room, the echoes of John's sharp words and his own internal cacophony ringing in his head. The air was a nauseating cocktail of decay, ozone, and a faint, bitter vanilla that felt more like a memory than a reality.

He rejected you. He thinks you are pathetic, the Void hissed, its voice a low, sibilant torment.

His response was a defensive maneuver. The action was calculated. He used a psychological trigger to create distance, the Sentry countered, cold and clinical.

He was right. John was a trigger. A beautiful, terrifying, perfect trigger.

A hand, light and surprisingly gentle, touched his shoulder. "Bobby. What is happening?" Yelena's scent, a clean and calming mix of jasmine and lavender, instantly cut through the chaos.

Bob flinched, but he didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch, feeling the tension bleed out of his muscles. Yelena's presence was an anchor. It was safe.

She is an omega. She provides comfort. It is a logical solution to the sensory overload. The variables are controlled, the Sentry hummed, a low, reassuring thrum in the back of his mind. The ozone layer in the air began to recede, a calm order asserting itself.

Oh, yes. Soothing. It feels so good. We are reading her shame and her pain. It is there, beneath the surface, the Void purred, its voice thick with greedy satisfaction. The scent of decay faded completely.

Bob felt the relief wash over him, a sense of peace that was both genuine and, he now knew, deeply unsettling. Yelena helped. She was a predictable, safe source of balance. But it was a fragile balance, one that could be shattered by a single word from John.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, at the quiet, lethal woman with her own buried shame. He knew what was fueling him, what was bringing him to a state of calm. Yelena was a perfect, if temporary, solution. But John...

John was a raging torrent. An open, bleeding wound of shame and fear. Bob had felt it, just for a moment, in the common room. That raw, potent emotional input was a hundred times more powerful than anything he got from Yelena. It was a terrifying, chaotic solution, but it was a complete one. For Bob, who had been struggling with this since he was a kid, a complete solution was all he ever wanted.

But his therapist would say that the road to recovery is not an easy one. Bob recovery was on him; he should make the effort.

But he also said that it is okay to want things. Remember? The Void murmured teasingly.

The recovery is to make you more perfect. Having a crutch is logical. And aren’t I a God? I deserve the best one.  The Sentry's comment overlapped with The Void's, their voices a single, overwhelming whisper in his mind.

I'm so fucked, Bob thought, his hands clenched into fists.

 

________________________________________

 

Bucky was in his room, not researching, but methodically preparing for a hunt. His computer screen showed a satellite image of a quiet suburban street, a small house circled in red. John's military records had provided the address of his ex-wife, Olivia, and the Winter Soldier's memory was a flawless network of information.

Bucky pulled up the schematics of the house, his metal arm resting on the keyboard. He wasn't planning a violent confrontation. He was planning a silent infiltration. He would be in and out before anyone knew he was there. The mission was simple: find the blockers, destroy them, and then wait.

He closed the screen, a cold smirk on his lips. "You can't hide from me, puppy," he whispered to the empty room. "Not for long."

The house on the suburban street was silent, dark save for the distant glow of a neighbor's porch light. Bucky scaled the side of the brick wall with a quiet, lethal grace, his metal arm making no sound as it found purchase in the gaps between the bricks. He was a ghost, a shadow moving with the instinct of a phantom. The window on the second floor was his target. He popped the lock with a thin wire and slipped inside, the soft thump of his boots on the carpet barely a sound at all. Olivia and Liam were asleep. He could hear the soft, rhythmic breaths from a room down the hall, and the scent of family at rest.

He had never gotten a hint of John’s true smell, not even a phantom echo in his memory. It was just a lie—a hole where the truth should have been. And for a man who had been a living lie for a lifetime, a man who had promised himself he would never again live without truth, John’s deception was a direct challenge. It felt like a promise broken.

He searched the closets and cabinets, his hands moving over clothing and boxes, a blur of motion. His focus was on the mission, but his mind kept flashing to other things. He saw John's eyes, pupils wide with panic while at the same time trying to look like an innocent angel, when Bucky had grabbed his jaw. He remembered the small tremor in his hands when he talked about the weather in Berlin, a nervous energy that was so entirely John Walker. He saw the fleeting; an awkward smile John had worn when he called him "Bucky." It was a clumsy, desperate attempt to look endearing.

He's so obvious. So full of tells, Bucky thought, dismissing the images as just another part of the problem. But a part of him, a part he refused to acknowledge, knew better. Bucky knew attraction. He knew what it felt like. And he was shoving it down, refusing to acknowledge it, because this was John and clearly Bucky is confusing control and attraction.

He opened the nightstand drawer, and there it was. A small, unmarked bottle filled with white capsules. The no scent of the pills was a sharp, clinical reality.

Bucky pulled a small bag from his pocket. The plan was to destroy them, but he paused. The memory of John’s unmasked fear returned. Bucky felt a sickening sense of obsession, a desire to see that truth again, to possess it.

He put the bottle in the bag. Not just one pill, but all of them. He moved silently out of the room, leaving no trace behind. He was a ghost, an echo of a life he once lived, a life of cold efficiency and unyielding logic. But as he dropped the bag into the dumpster in the alley, he felt a strange, quiet thrill.

 He was in control. And for the first time, he was getting exactly what he wanted.

Chapter 12: The Waiting Game

Notes:

Hi, new chapter, hope you all enjoyed. We are getting closer to less asshole Bucky for those who are worried. And please READ THE END NOTES I PUT LIKE A WRITING TRAILER FOR THE NEW STORY IM GOING TO UPDATE: the sentinel AU with BuckyxJohnxBob. Is also going to be a slow burn and is my first time trying to write something like the trailer, but go read it.

The next few days were a blur of nervous energy for John. Bucky was a phantom, a shadow that seemed to be everywhere. John could feel his gaze from across the common room, a cold, unwavering weight that promised the other shoe was about to drop. John would look up and see Bucky reading, but the stillness of his form, the complete lack of a single unnecessary movement, was a threat. Bucky wasn’t moving; he was waiting.

But Bucky wasn't the only one. Bob was a different kind of specter, a clumsy, unsettling ghost who appeared in John's periphery, always too close. John would be walking down the hallway and feel a hand on his shoulder, only to turn and see Bob smiling awkwardly.

"H-hi, I just, uh, wanted to ask if you were okay," Bob would say, his eyes darting between John's face and his hands. The air would fill with the faint scent of vanilla, now mixed with a new, bitter anxiety.

John would immediately pull away. "I'm fine, Bob. Thanks."

"Okay," Bob would murmur, his shoulders slumping in disappointment. But he would always try again, a few hours later, a clumsy new attempt to break the distance between them. John, remembering his encounter with the Void and Sentry, tries to draw away. He didn’t hate Bob, but he didn’t like the possibility of his darkest secrets being shove it his face when he least expected. Especially with Barnes, sniffing around John.

 

Friday afternoon came as a welcome relief. John had a weekend pass to visit Olivia and Liam, a small reprieve of the suffocating atmosphere of the tower. He packed a bag and left without looking back, a deep sense of a burden lifting from his shoulders. He was free, if only for a few days.

The scent of Olivia’s perfume was a warm, familiar comfort as she hugged him at the door. Inside, Liam ran into his arms, and for a few hours, John was just a dad. He was just John, and it was a fragile, beautiful illusion.

Friday night bled into Saturday morning. After a quiet breakfast with Liam, John slipped into the bedroom to get ready to return to the tower. He opened the nightstand drawer, his hand going for the small bottle of scent blockers he always kept hidden there. He needed to take the pill that would make his scent null for another two weeks.

His fingers closed around… nothing. The drawer was empty. He pulled it out, frantically searching through the contents, his heart beginning to hammer against his ribs. The bottle was gone. The small, unmarked container was nowhere to be found.

A cold wave of dread washed over him, he felt the phantom weight of Bucky's hand on his jaw. The other shoe had dropped, and he knew exactly who had done it.

Panic seized him. He stumbled to his feet and began to tear the room apart, pulling clothes from drawers, throwing pillows from the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. Maybe I misplaced them. Maybe I put them somewhere else. But he knew that was a lie. He was meticulous about his supplies. He didn't forget things. The bottle was gone.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers fumbling as he found the contact. The provider's name was a simple code word. It rang once, then twice, before a calm, even voice answered.

"Hello."

"I need a new order," John said, his voice tight with desperation. "I need it now. Can you do it overnight? I'll pay whatever it costs."

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. "Mr. Walker, you know that's not how this works."

"I know, I know," John pleaded, his voice cracking. "But this is an emergency. I lost my supply. I need them. I need them today. Please."

"The blockers are not a mass-produced product," the provider said, his voice remaining calm, detached. "They are made by demand. You know this. The last order was placed weeks ago. There is no stockpile."

John's blood ran cold. "But... You have to have some."

"But they are made by demand. They come through a specialized, anti-aid order. It's a precise formula, Mr. Walker. It's not something we keep on a shelf."

John felt his knees begin to buckle. "So... you're telling me you have nothing?"

"I'm telling you I can begin the process of a new order," the provider said, a hint of steel in his voice. "The estimated time is one month, give or take. And that's if everything goes smoothly."

The phone slipped from John's grasp, clattering to the floor. One month.

He breathed and went to the pharmacy and placed an order for suppressors. They weren't his blockers—not by a long shot. They were less effective, and it would let out his scent if he was close or in a small room. It was a temporary, desperate fix, but it was better than nothing. He would have to expose himself, but it would be a manageable exposure.

He took one pill and went back to the tower.  But the change in the atmosphere of the team was immediate. John's scent, a soft and warm blend of sunlight, rain-soaked grass and a sweet note of honey, was now a constant, almost imperceptible presence. It was a scent that was full of the lighthearted, playful energy of a puppy, and for Bucky, it was something else entirely. It was the faintest echo of a home he had lost long ago.

Alexei, ever oblivious, was the first to notice. "Ah, John! You smell like a sunny forest!" he boomed, clapping John on the shoulder with enough force to make him stumble. "It's much better than nothing at all, I tell you!"

John forced a tight smile and pulled away. Alexei had no idea of the game being played.

Yelena and Ava, however, were another story. Yelena's eyes, sharp and intelligent, followed him across the room. She was too much of a professional not to notice the subtle shift in his scent. She didn't say anything, but John could feel her silent questions, her suspicion simmering just below the surface. Ava, a quiet observer, simply watched him, a small, knowing smirk on her face. She suspected; she was just waiting for the truth to reveal itself.

But to Bob, the world had narrowed to a single, all-consuming thing: John's new scent. It was a soft, warm blend of comfort, full of life, puppy-like smell that was now a constant presence in the air. Bob was instantly and completely lost in it.

He sat at a table, the book he was reading forgotten in his hands. The scent was a drug, a sweet, intoxicating vapor that filled his lungs and went straight to his head. He felt dizzy, his body warm and heavy, as if he were sinking into a hot bath. It was the most complete, all-encompassing peace he had ever felt.

This is it. The optimal solution, the Sentry hummed, a low, satisfied thrum in his mind. This scent provides the perfect balance of comfort and order.

Oh, yes. So good. So warm. So full of shame and hate at the same time. He's perfect, the Void purred, its voice thick with a greedy, blissful satisfaction. The sickening smell of decay was completely absent, replaced by a pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Bob felt the two voices merge, a single, unified chorus in his head that simply wanted more. More of the scent, more of the comfort, more of the peace. He watched John across the room, his movements no longer just a source of anxiety, but a promise of a fix. He was a beacon, a drug that Bob's fractured mind was now completely addicted to.

He tried to stand, to walk away, to get some space. But his legs felt heavy and clumsy, his movements uncoordinated. He stumbled slightly, a clumsy motion that made Yelena, sitting nearby, look up with a sharp glance. Bob just offered a weak, distracted smile, his eyes never leaving John.

He was a junky. And John's scent was his fix.

John felt the weight of Bob’s stare, the unnerving intensity of it. He felt Bucky’s cold, triumphant gaze from across the room, and the quiet, assessing glances from Yelena and Ava. He was a specimen under a microscope, and the humiliation was a hot burn in his gut.

He didn’t bother with a flimsy excuse; he just turned and walked away, a hard, angry resolve in every step. He needed to get to his room, to his space, to the one place where he could still pretend to have a modicum of control. He could feel the familiar swell of rage, a hot, angry defense mechanism that had served him well his entire life.

He shoved his door open, the sound of the wood hitting the wall a satisfying thud. He walked in, but before he could close it, a hand stopped the door from swinging shut. Bucky was there, his presence a sudden, suffocating weight.

John flinched, but he didn't back down. He squared his shoulders; his jaw set in a hard line. "What do you want, Barnes?" he bit out, his voice low and angry.

Bucky didn't answer. He just pushed the door shut, the click of the lock a quiet, final sound that trapped them both inside. He took a single, deliberate step toward John, his eyes, cold and unwavering, fixed on his face. The scent of pine and cedarwood was a heavy, intoxicating presence, a tangible force in the small room.

He stood his ground, forcing his hands into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to flinch, fighting the urge to tear everything apart.

Bucky's gaze, however, was distant. His body was still, a cold statue of a man, but inside, a new, more dangerous storm was brewing. His mind had known, intellectually, that John was an omega. His logical self-had processed the facts: the scent blockers, the fear, the lies. But now, his alpha side was experiencing it firsthand.

He was smelling John, really smelling him, and the scent was a jolt to his primal instincts. The raw, sweet scent of honey and rain-soaked grass was a promise, a soft, vulnerable invitation that his alpha wanted to claim. He wanted more. More of that scent, more of John, more of that stupid mouth and his stupid blabbering, more of those eyes looking at him. They always looked at Bucky, but now…now he sees me. Not Captain America friend, but Bucky Barnes.

Bucky stopped just inches away, his gaze dropping from John's eyes to his neck. He leaned in slowly, his nose a hair’s breadth from John’s scent gland, the movement a deliberate, predatory act. John’s breath hitched. He felt the cold shock of Bucky’s metal arm as it came to rest on the wall next to his head, pinning him in place.

John could feel Bucky’s soft breath on his skin, a low, quiet sound that sent a shiver down his spine. The scent of pine and cedarwood was an overwhelming tide that threatened to drown him. He felt his knees begin to buckle, but he forced himself to stand straight, to hold his breath.

Bucky inhaled slowly, a long, deep breath that was more of a taste than a smell. He pulled back, his eyes finally meeting John’s again. There was a flicker of something in them, something unreadable that wasn’t just cold malice.

"I told you I'd figure it out," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrated through John’s body. "I told you I'd know what you really smell like." He leaned in again, his lips inches from John’s ear. "And it smells nice, puppy."

John stood frozen against the wall, Bucky's metal arm a cold and final barrier. The words—it smells nice, puppy—hummed in his ears, a low, possessive growl that seemed to bypass his brain and go straight to the frightened, primal part of him he tried so hard to bury.

John's first instinct was rage. How dare he? How dare Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the man who had hated him from the moment they met, reduce him to this? John’s hands clenched into fists, the hard, physical reality of the situation a slap in the face. He wanted to shove Bucky back, to yell, to use his super-soldier strength to prove that he was not just a puppy, just an omega.

But a second, more insidious feeling crawled its way to the surface. It was a twisted, shameful flicker of something almost like… satisfaction. Bucky's eyes, cold and unwavering, were on him. For months, all John had wanted was Bucky's attention, his respect, his validation. He had craved it, not because Bucky was just another teammate, but because Bucky was the friend of the real Captain America, the one person who could grant him a piece of that legacy. Bucky’s disapproval had felt like a judgment from the ghost of Steve Rogers himself. And now, in this dark, twisted moment, he had Bucky's undivided attention.

His face burned with shame at the thought. The anger, a hot, angry defense mechanism, roared back to life. "What do you want, Barnes?" he bit out, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and fear.

Bucky didn't move. He kept John pinned against the wall, his gaze never leaving his face. He took another slow, deliberate sniff, and his lips curled into a mirthless smirk. "You feel that?" he said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "That feeling you have right now? That feeling of being exposed, of having a secret you've carefully hidden suddenly laid bare for everyone to see?"

John tried to turn his head, to break the focus of Bucky's stare, but Bucky's hand, still on the wall, blocked him.

"That's how I felt," Bucky continued, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "That's how I've felt for six months. I was trying to figure out what was wrong with you, why my instincts were screaming at me, and all this time you were just… lying. You were mocking me with a fake scent, a flimsy, pathetic beta costume."

The shame was a physical weight on John's chest. He felt his omega instincts, the part of him that wanted to cower and submit, fighting against the rage. He was angry at Bucky for forcing this on him, but he was also angry at himself for the part of him that liked it. He was a mess.

"So what?" John retorted, the words laced with pure, unfiltered bitterness. "You got your way. Happy now? You figured it out. Congratulations, Bucky. You're the best. You're the alpha. You're the boss." His voice cracked with a bitter, defeated laugh. "You must be so happy, happy to punish me for lying to you, happy for getting what you wanted. Are you just going to stand there and gloat? Is that it? Is that all you wanted?"

He met Bucky's eyes, a challenge in his gaze. "I get it," he spat. "You've proven you're the one in control. So, stop it. The game is over."

Bucky's smirk faltered, replaced by a cold, hard finality. He slowly lowered his metal arm from the wall, his body language still radiating a cold, predatory intent. He took a single step back, giving John just enough space to breathe.

"The game" Bucky whispered, his voice a low, steady rumble. He looked at John, at the raw, vulnerable omega he had finally uncovered, and a new, more dangerous look came into his eyes. "The game is over, John, when I say it is over."

He turned and walked to the door, his hand on the knob. He paused, his back to John, but his scent, a heavy, possessive wave of pine and cedarwood, lingered in the air.

"You're not hiding anymore, John," he said, his voice a soft, lethal whisper. "And now that I know what you are, neither am I."

Then he was gone, leaving John alone in the silent room, the suffocating scent of an alpha scent invading even John room.

John screamed into his pillow. Nutcase, he was living with a control freak, son of a—a soft knock on the door broke him out of his haze.

"John," a quiet voice called from the other side. "It's Yelena. Open the door."

He didn't move. Didn’t answer. He didn't want to talk to anyone. But Yelena, an omega who had survived worse things than he could ever imagine, was not going to be ignored. The lock clicked, a sound that made John's heart leap into his throat. She had picked it. Of course, she had.

The door opened, and Yelena stepped inside, her body language radiating a cold, contained calm. The clean scent of fireplace and cold winter, the scent of a capable and dangerous omega, was a sharp contrast to the aggressive alpha claim that still filled the room. She looked at the raw, vulnerable mess of him, at the rage and fear in his eyes, and a small frown creased her brow.

"So," she said, her voice soft but direct. "The cat is out of the bag, yes? The alpha got his prize. He has a very ugly possessive scent."

John flinched at the word "prize," a wave of fresh humiliation washing over him. "He didn't get anything," John retorted, his voice a low, angry growl. "He's just an asshole."

"He's an alpha," she corrected, her eyes, sharp and intelligent, meeting his. "You are an omega. I am an omega. The dynamic is what it is. I am not stupid, John. I just want to know why. Why would you hide it? Omegas are not weak. We are not prizes. We are equals."

The words were a pinprick, but they went straight to the heart of John's shame. "You don't understand," he said, his voice cracking.

"Then explain it to me," she insisted, taking a single step closer. "I have no shame about my dynamic. Why do you? Do you think it makes you weak? It does not."

John's composure, the last thin thread of his self-control, snapped. He threw his hands up in a gesture of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Don't you dare talk to me about shame!" he exploded, his voice a roar that vibrated with a lifetime of buried anger. "I'm not ashamed! Do you know what it's like to date a beta as an omega? Do you know what it feels like to be at a bar, and have some alpha sniff around you, ask you on a date and then ask your girlfriend on a date, right in front of you, because he thinks that since you are an omega and she is a beta, you could have a 'hot little threesome'?"

Yelena's expression remained impassive, but John could see the flicker of a cold, lethal anger in her eyes. It was a shared wound, a universal truth for omegas who had to navigate a world built for alphas.

"And you want to know what?" John continued, his voice a broken, bitter laugh. "Captain America can't be an omega! That's what they think! When I got the shield, I was a goddamn hero, and when I lost it and my best friend died, and if it got out that I was an omega they will paint me as an 'hysteric omega'! They would have turned my hurt, my gut-wrenching, honest grief into a pathetic display of my dynamic! I would not be a soldier who had lost his brother; I would be an omega who couldn't control his emotions."

The air was thick with the weight of John's confession. The raw, gut-wrenching grief he had carried for years was suddenly laid bare, not as a source of strength to just keep going, but as a deep, festering wound that never was going to heal. Yelena's expression, which had been impassive, softened into a look of genuine understanding.

He took a ragged breath, the suppressed rage a bitter taste in his mouth. "I don't care about dynamics, Yelena," he said, the fight draining from his body. "I just don't care. I just want to be John."

He looked at her, standing in front of him, and saw a flicker of genuine understanding in her eyes. The shame, the anger, the pain… she understands it, of course she had.

Notes:

Okay here there is no bold type or italics because in notes i don't know how to put it, but in the story there will be italics and etc to separate The Void and Sentry, and thoughts:

He needs to be shown he has to surrender to us. To be our guide. Our perfect offering… The thought was Bob's, but the voice was Sentry's, cold and commanding.

Bob’s hands slid from John’s waist to his hips, a firm, sure grip. Without a word, he lifted John, his movements a surprising blend of desperation and strength, and gently laid him on his back on the cold marble of the kitchen counter. John didn't resist. His body, loose and pliant from the overwhelming sensation, was a willing offering. He jolted. The coldness of the counter was a jarring shock, a stark contrast to the heat of the two men who now stood over him.

…for our sacrilegious altar, The Void laughed.

Bucky’s eyes, fixed on John’s face, burned with a new, dark kind of triumph. His human hand lifted, not to touch, but to trace the outline of John’s jaw. He saw the vulnerable, blissful expression, the flushed cheeks, those wide eyes, the parted lips. His thumb brushed over John’s bottom lip, a soft, teasing touch that was anything but gentle.

He pushed a little inside, and when it looked like John was closing his mouth, with a slow, deliberate motion, his hand moved lower, his cold fingers closing around the sensitive skin of John's neck, forcing it to arch. Bucky's hand in John's pulse. He traced it, did little circle on it. And John whined, disappointed, tracing his lips with his tongue looking for what was denied.

Look at you now. So, in the denial, and now, I could have you begging for more.

Chapter 13: A Different Kind of Control

Notes:

hIII, NEW CHAPTER. AND I DON KNOW IF YOU SAW BUT I POST A NEW STORY GOO CHECK IT, IF YOU WANT. Thanks for all the support.

Sam went to meet at the tower with Bucky a week later, alone in the small, rarely used meditation room. Bucky sat cross-legged on a mat, eyes closed, a picture of deep calm. But Sam knew that something was going on. He crossed John earlier on the tower, and the guy was murmuring about "a nutcase, the metal must have given him brain poisoning" and more insults. He didn’t even register Sam passing him, and he said hello to Walker. Pretty rude.

"Barnes," Sam said softly, settling onto an adjacent mat without waiting for an invitation. He let the silence stretch for a moment, giving Bucky time to register his presence. "How is everything going with your puppy?"

Bucky opened his eyes. They were clear and unreadable as always, but Sam felt the weight of his gaze. "Walker is under control," Bucky stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"That's what I'm talking about," Sam countered gently. "Control. That's always been your thing. Your way of dealing with the chaos. But this thing with Walker... it feels different." He leaned forward slightly, his tone serious. "Are you sure you're not... courting him? In your own, twisted way?"

Bucky's gaze hardened, an immediate, visceral "no" forming on his lips. "No," he said, the denial sharp and definitive. The concept was absurd. Courting? He didn't court. He observed, assessed, and controlled. This was about John's deception, about re-establishing his own equilibrium.

Sam held his gaze, unwavering. "Is it? Or are those forty sensibilities of yours, the ones that remember what Alphas do when they're interested, finally kicking in? Because from where I'm standing, I smell your territorial marking all around the tower, especially in the hallway of John's room."

Bucky went completely still. Sam's words, direct and unafraid, hit him like a physical blow. Courting. Territorial marking. He rejected the terms instinctively, but then Sam's question burrowed deeper, bypassing his immediate defenses.

He remembered every little interaction:

His unwavering gaze on John. Was it just surveillance, or was it a form of constant focus, of seeking out the object of his attention?

The way his Alpha scent subtly deepened around John, a quiet pressure meant only for John's Omega senses. Was that about control, or was it a subconscious assertion of presence, of claim?

The deliberate physical proximity, the way he closed the distance between them, ignoring John's discomfort. Was that strategic, or was it an instinct to be closer, to feel the target of his fixation?

The feather-light touch on John's arm, the casual brush of his bionic thumb against John's skin. Was that a simple assertion of dominance, or was it a form of intimate contact, a way to anchor himself to John?

His unwillingness to "let go," even when John was gone, the unsettling void John's absence created. Was that just annoyance at a missing variable, or was it a nascent longing, an Alpha's discomfort when his desired isn't within his sphere?

His refusal to allow John to escape, engineering situations that kept John in his orbit. Was that just about team cohesion, or was it a compulsive need to keep John close, to maintain a proximity that had become, unsettlingly, gratifying?

Bucky had viewed every action through the lens of strategy, of control, of punishing deception. But now, through Sam's blunt assessment, he replayed each instance, each gesture, each subtle scent assertion. And the horrifying, undeniable truth began to crystallize.

His mind flashed to the brief, genuine Omega scent that had escaped John when he'd first returned without his blockers, and the visceral jolt it had sent through Bucky. He hadn't just identified it; he'd recognized it, a primal chord struck deep within his Alpha core.

Yes

The word, raw and unwelcome, echoed in his mind. He wasn't just managing. He wasn't just punishing. He wasn't just re-establishing control.

He was showing signs of an interested Alpha. He was doing it in the only way he knew how—a cold, relentless assertion of presence, a subtle, possessive claim that had become dangerously close to actual courting, albeit a terrifyingly unique version of it. He was pushing John, but not only for his own sense of control; he was pushing him to break him open, to reveal the Omega underneath, and to keep him bound.

Bucky's breath hitched. His eyes, fixed on some distant point, suddenly held a dawning, complex mix of horror and a strange, cold excitement. Sam's question had stripped bare not just John's secret, but Bucky's own.

He slowly turned his head to meet Sam's gaze, his eyes reflecting the unsettling revelation. He didn't need to say anything. The answer was etched in the sudden, profound understanding that transformed his face.

The realization that his relentless pursuit of John was, in fact, a dark form of courting had left Bucky profoundly unsettled. For a man whose life was built on precise control and cold logic, this raw, instinctual pull was a dangerous anomaly he didn't yet know how to categorize or manage.

For the first time in weeks, Bucky instinctively backed off. The suffocating weight of his constant scrutiny lifted…again, leaving John with a fleeting sense of relief. John, however, knew that a quiet front often hid the most dangerous attacks. The silence was not a victory; it was a prelude to whatever sick realization that Bucky had.

His intuition proved correct during a quiet afternoon in the tower's common room. John was at a table, painstakingly repairing a tear in his U.S. Agent uniform. It was a tedious task, his thick, super-soldier fingers fumbling with the delicate needle and thread. Frustration was a bitter taste in his mouth, his every stitch a testament to his own inadequacy. He grunted, snapping the thread and muttering a string of insults at the fabric.

A shadow fell over him. The air shifted, no longer a wall of aggression, but a subtle, grounding presence of pine and cedarwood. John didn't look up, but his heart hammered against his ribs. He felt a hand on his back—firm, steady weight that was both unnerving and, to his shame, strangely calming.

Bucky didn't speak. He simply stood there, his presence an overwhelming force. He leaned over John's shoulder, his alpha scent, a heavy, intoxicating presence in the small space. John could feel Bucky's breath on his neck, the soft, quiet sound a sharp contrast to the furious clatter of his own heart.

He isn’t there. John is hallucinating. Lalalalala, hell no.

Then, Bucky's hand moved. With a deliberate slowness that was more terrifying than a threat, he gently took the needle and thread from John's fumbling fingers. His metal thumb brushed against John's, a jolt of ice and fire that made John's skin prickle.

"You're a mess," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrated through John's body.

John tried to pull away, to reclaim his uniform, to assert his independence, but Bucky's other hand—his human hand—came to rest on John’s knee, a gentle but firm pressure that rooted him to his seat.

Bucky's gaze, intense and unnerving, never left John's face. He then began to mend the uniform himself, his organic hand working with a practiced ease that made John's previous attempts look clumsy and pathetic.

As Bucky worked, he broke the silence again, his voice still that low, quiet purr. "I'm going to fix it," he said, not to the uniform, but to John. "You're going to let me."

The uniform was perfectly mended. Bucky had left it on the workbench, the stitches so fine they were almost invisible.

John watched him, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fury. This is a new torture to punish John, he is sure of it.

But it didn’t end there.

Over the next few days, Bucky's "off" behavior became the new reality of the compound. It was a relentless, quiet pressure that John couldn't fight.

During a team sparring session, Bucky didn't engage John directly. Instead, he would appear at his side, a silent, watchful shadow. When John was knocked off balance, Bucky's human hand would shoot out to steady him, a firm, grounding touch that made John's skin prickle.

One evening, John was alone in the common room staring at the Tv. He was exhausted, the constant mental battle with Bucky wearing him down. He felt a presence behind him, the familiar scent of cedarwood and pine filling the air.

Bucky placed a mug on the table in front of him. It was a fresh cup of coffee, black with milk and sugar, sweet, exactly how John liked it. Bucky didn't say anything. He just sat in the chair opposite him, his metal arm resting on the table between them, a silent, physical barrier.

John wanted to throw the coffee against the wall. He wanted to scream, to ask Bucky what his new game was, what new psychological torture he was inflicting. But he just sat there, his hands trembling slightly around the warm mug.

"You're tired, puppy," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly purr. The word wasn't a tender endearment. It was a demeaning slur, a reminder of John's subservient role in Bucky's twisted game. It was the softest Bucky had ever sounded, and it was the most terrifying.

John looked up, his eyes meeting Bucky's. The cold malice was gone, replaced by an unnerving focus. "You have no right," John said, with his voice a low, tight growl.

Bucky just watched him, his expression unchanging. He reached out and he gently took the mug from John's hands. He set it on the table and, with the same strange, unsettling care, ran his thumb over the dark circles under John's eyes. Bucky's hand lingered there, his gaze never leaving John's, his message was clear to John: he was in control and John couldn’t do anything about it.

John, for his part, tried to reclaim his space and routine. He went to the kitchen to cook, a task he often found grounding. He was meticulously chopping vegetables for a stir-fry when he felt the familiar presence behind him. The air shifted, no longer a wall of aggression, but a subtle, grounding presence of pine and cedarwood.

Bucky leaned against the counter, his metal arm resting on the cool marble. He didn't offer to help; he didn't try to take over. He simply watched, his gaze a physical weight on John's back.

"You're a good cook," Bucky said, his voice a low, quiet hum. "Where did you learn?"

John's hand froze. He saw the question not as a compliment, but as a probe, an opening in his defenses. Interrogation. he thought furiously. Bucky was trying to find out something about his past. He wanted to know what made him tick, to punish him more.

"Nowhere," John lied, his voice clipped. "Just picked it up."

Bucky's eyes, unnervingly focused, didn't leave John's face. "The way you hold the knife, the way you season the food. That's not 'just picking it up.' Who did you cook for?"

The question was a direct hit. John remembered Lamar, Olivia, and then Liam when he was born. Bucky was prying, trying to find a weakness, a connection he could exploit. John forced himself to continue chopping, his movements stiff and mechanical.

"No one," John said, the lie a bitter taste in his mouth. "I just... I like to cook."

Bucky let the silence stretch for a moment, the tension in the kitchen growing. He then took a step closer, his scent, a heavy, intoxicating presence, enveloping John.

"You're a bad liar, puppy," Bucky said, his voice a low, purr.

He dropped the knife, the clatter on the floor echoing in sudden silence. He felt a desperate need to escape, to breathe air that didn't smell like Bucky's dominance. He stumbled out of the kitchen, his mind a whirlwind of rage and terror. He found himself in a quiet, rarely used hallway, leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

A quiet voice broke his haze. "Your scent is a mess, John."

Yelena was there, leaning against the opposite wall, a small, knowing smirk on her face. Her own clean scent of fireplace and cold winter was a sharp contrast to Bucky's possessive claim.

"He's a nutcase," John muttered, shaking his head. "He's just… toying with me. It’s a new game. He’s trying to… dissect me."

Yelena’s smirk didn’t waver. "Perhaps," she said, her voice dry. "I was just speaking with Bob's new therapist. He is a specialist in Alpha-Omega dynamics."

John’s blood ran cold.  He didn’t like where this is going. "And?"

"You know that omega scent helps Bob stabilize." Yelena said, her eyes, sharp and intelligent, fixed on John's. "My scent helps, but he heard that there was another omega on the team. And said that could help me to do shifts so I don’t tire, and Bob doesn’t get to attached to a scent and form a dependence to it." She paused for a beat, her smile turning into something predatory. "So, the next turn is yours."

John felt his world tilt on its axis. "No," he said, his voice flat with disbelief. "No way. I'm not doing that. This is just… a few more weeks. My blockers will be here. This is all temporary. And me and Bob? He detests me. And I suck ant being comforting, like no way, like how will that even work. No, like no, is gr— "

"Better then." she cut through John rambling. "If the scent is temporary then he won’t form a crutch and this way I take a break. Be a team player, I’m also being one."

This team sucks. It officially sucks.

Notes:

Before you came at me. Yelena is good but she is also practical and cold-hearted, she see the benefit for Bob and doesn't think that is going to be invasive to John, because hey, she is also an omega and is like meh for her.

Chapter 14: The Misinterpretation

Notes:

Thanks for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks. And double update, yay.

It was John's divine punishment. Bucky's weird attitude and now…this. The universe was punishing him for all his sins.

The common room was quiet, the only sounds the soft hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic tapping of Bob's foot against the floor. Bob was coiled in a tight, anxious ball on one of the sofas, his scent a chaotic, aggressive mix of ozone and decay, the vanilla and the fresh bread hidden behind it. He wasn't lashing out, but the air around him was thick with a palpable tension.

Yelena, sitting a few feet away, looked at John with a dry, knowing smirk. "He needs it," she said, her voice low. "The therapist said the same thing. My scent helps, but he needs to... establish other anchors. To not become dependent."

John’s stomach churned. He knew what "it" was. The therapist's recommendation, a suggestion that John's calming Omega scent could help stabilize Bob, was now an unofficial mandate.

He sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa next to Bob, leaving a significant gap between them. John's own scent was carefully muted, his body tense and rigid. He was here out of duty, not choice.

Bob, however, didn't seem to get the memo. His body, stiff with anxiety, slowly uncoiled. He shifted, his arm reaching out for John. It was a clumsy, instinctual movement, exactly like the kind of desperate grab for comfort Yelena had told him about. Bob wasn't trying to be aggressive; he was trying to cling to the nearest source of calm.

John recoiled instantly, his body flinching away from the touch. He scrambled to his feet, a hot wave of humiliation washing over him.

Bob's face, a mask of confused anxiety, fell. His scent spiked again, a painful static of rejection.

"No," John said, his voice flat with disbelief. He bent down and gave Bob a quick, awkward pat on the shoulder, the touch lasting for less than a second. "There. I did it. There is my scent."

His body rigid and he started to walk away.

"It doesn't work like that, John," Yelena's voice cut through the silence, sharp and condescending. "Think comfort. Not a light switch. You have to be present. You have to be calm."

John stopped, his back to her, his jaw clenched. "I am not a weight blanket. My scent is my scent. That's all he's getting."

He didn't see the effect his words had on Bob, but he felt the shift in the air. The ozone and static in Bob's scent didn't just spike; it fractured, a sudden, jarring crack.

In Bob's mind, a new voice, a low, guttural growl, began to whisper. He doesn't want you. He rejects you. Make him give it to you.

Another voice, high and thin, answered it, filled with a sick kind of longing. He has what you need. Take it. He doesn't want to give it to you, but it is yours. A god deserves to be worship.

Bob's head snapped up, his eyes, dark and haunted, fixed on John's retreating back. His body began to tense again, not with anxiety, but with a new, dangerous purpose. John's cold dismissal hadn't calmed him. It had shattered the fragile peace, and the other voices were now in control.

Yelena, seeing the subtle shift in Bob's posture, knew they were on the brink of a major incident. She crossed the room in three quick strides, her face devoid of its usual smirk. "John," she said, her voice a low, urgent hiss. "Now. He needs it. Don't be an idiot."

John stood frozen, his mind screaming in protest. No. This is humiliating. I am not a pillow for this… this broken mess.

"He's going to hurt someone," Yelena warned, gesturing to Bob's trembling form. "And you're the only one who can stop it right now."

John looked at Bob, at the coiled tension in his body, at the desperate, lost look in his eyes. He saw not a man, but a dangerous animal, and he was the only one with the key to its cage. The humiliation of the act battled with his sense of duty. Duty won.

John slowly, reluctantly, sat back down on the couch. The cushion was still warm from his brief presence. He felt a deep sense of disgust, his skin crawling at the thought of physical contact.

He barely had time to brace himself before Bob's body, drawn by the proximity of the Omega scent, uncoiled and latched onto him. Bob's arms wrapped around John's torso, a desperate, childlike grip. His head buried itself in John's chest, and the loud, frantic static of his scent began to soften.

John sat there, stiff and rigid as a corpse. He felt Bob’s body, the weight of his fear, the desperation of his need. John felt none of the calm that Bob was so desperately seeking. He felt a profound sense of disgust and humiliation, a deep, cold shame that settled into his bones. His mind raced, replaying every moment of his failure. He was a soldier. He was not this.

Oh, John chest is so soft. A perfect pillow. It’s so warm and he smells so good. Bob felt drunk on it. He felt better, much better.

Yes. This is it. All the shame, all the pain. This is it. It will keep us feed for long, the Void was filled with glee. The scent of decay faded slowly letting Bob's fresh baked bread out.

He is the worshiper that a God like me deserves. The Sentry feels even more invincible if that is possible. The scent of ozone gave place to the vanilla of Bob's scent.

John’s breath hitched. He could feel Bob's body, surprisingly warm and solid, completely against him. Bob's scent began to slowly mellow, the chaos fading into something less threatening. John didn't sense attraction from Bob's scent; he felt a terrifying, unfamiliar kind of bond forming.

Bob's hold tightened slightly, he didn’t want to let go. But he wasn't trying to claim John in the way Bucky was. He was not like Bucky at all; he doesn’t want to mate John. He only wants to feel normal. And Joh shuts them; he shuts the Void and The Sentry. He was just holding on, finding a fragile moment of peace in the Omega's presence.

John felt Bob's body relax against his, the tension finally seeping out. John was trapped in this bizarre, intimate moment, a human pillow for a deeply disturbed man. He hated it. He couldn't wait for his blockers to get here. He couldn't wait for this to be over. This was not what he signed up for.

John felt like he was floating outside his own body. He couldn’t focus, couldn't think. The scent of Bob's vanilla and the lingering shame of the encounter with him still clung to his clothes, his skin, his very soul. He had fled the common room and was now wandering through the tower's hallways, a ghost in his own life.

He was so lost in his head that he didn't even register the presence behind him until a mug was gently pressed into his hand.

He flinched, his body tensing, but the mug was warm, not a weapon. He looked up, his eyes meeting Bucky's. The cold malice was gone, replaced by an unnerving, focused intensity. Bucky's scent, a grounding mix of cedarwood and pine, was a subtle but heavy presence in the quiet hallway.

For the love of God. John surely broke a mirror on his other life and will have seven lives of bad luck.

Bucky didn't speak. He just stood there. He had a mug of his own, and he simply raised it slightly in a silent gesture. The message was clear to John: This is a peace offering. This is a moment of calm. John, to his shame, felt a profound sense of relief. The mug was warm against his trembling hands, and the coffee, a perfect blend of milk and sugar, was exactly how he liked it. He took a hesitant sip, his eyes never leaving Bucky's, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and terror.

This was a new kind of torture, he was sure of it. He wasn’t tormenting John with threats; he was tormenting him with kindness, a kindness that made John's skin crawl and his Omega instincts flutter with a terrifying sense of security.

John was still standing there, frozen and dazed, when Ava stepped off the elevator. She took one look at the scene—Bucky, silent and intense, and John, clutching a mug of coffee like a life raft—and a small, knowing smirk played on her lips. She saw the way that John's s eyes got wide and ran away with his tails between in his leg.

She walked past Barnes, her gaze a silent acknowledgment of the bizarre power dynamic at play. She was almost at the end of the hall when she stopped and looked back.

"Barnes," she said, her voice dry and to the point. "You know he thinks this is a new kind of punishment, right?"

Bucky's gaze snapped to her.

"The coffee, the uniform, the whole 'I'm a silent, brooding protector' act," Ava continued, her smirk widening. "He sees this as a more refined way of you being an asshole."

Ava shook her head, a hint of pity in her eyes. "He's not going to figure out you're courting him. He lived all his life as an Alpha or a Beta. And he won’t get it until you say it right to his face."

With that, she turned and disappeared into the common room, leaving Bucky alone in the silent hallway. Bucky's face, which had been a mask of focused intensity, went completely still. Ava's words had hit their mark.

The subtle gestures, the silent claims—they had all been a waste of time. He was going to have to do this the hard way. He was going to have to make John understand.

Chapter 15: An Idiot's Guide to Courting

Notes:

Double update, go back. JEJEJE

The next few days were also a blur of nervous energy for John.

The most frustrating thing was Bob. John, in his new role as a "comfort blanket," was spending hours on the common room couch. He would sit, stiff and rigid, with Bob's head on his chest, a desperate, childlike grip on his torso.

John felt a deep, profound sense of shame, but he couldn't leave. He saw the way Bob's frantic, chaotic scent would mellow, and the way he was better. It was a duty, and John, for all his rage and humiliation, couldn't deny the improvement. But he still was counting the time for his blocker to get back. Two more weeks.

And there was also Bucky…John thinks that Bucky is learning to let go, in his Barnes way. Maybe he saw the torture of John in the hands of Bob and decided that was punishment enough.

The example from that was that evening, when John was in his room, meticulously cleaning his U.S. Agent shield, when he heard voices in the hallway. It was Bucky and Yelena, their voices low but clear enough to carry through the thin door. John froze, his hand still on the shield.

"He can't keep doing this," Bucky’s voice was low, a steady, dangerous rumble. John could hear the frustration in it.

"He's being a team player," Yelena retorted, her voice dry. "Bob needs it. You saw what happened when John first refused."

"It’s not about Bob," Bucky growled, his voice rising in anger. "It’s about John. He’s not a pillow for that broken mess to cling to. It's degrading."

John’s hand, which had been wiping the shield, froze. A hot, confusing warmth spread through his chest. Bucky… he thought it was degrading? He was standing up for him? Why would he care? Why would he protect John from something that he was, by all accounts, enjoying? He felt a flicker of a feeling he hadn't felt in years: someone was looking out for him.

After that, John would find Bucky in the common room, reading, but positioned so that his back was to John, his scent, a heavy, possessive wave of cedarwood and pine, acting as a physical barrier between John and the rest of the team, especially he was like an anti-Bob barrier. It was great.

Almost at the end of the week, John walked into the training room to put in some extra time on the punching bag. He saw Bucky standing by the weapons rack, his expression as unreadable as ever. John braced himself.

But Bucky just walked toward him, his gaze fixed on John’s gear. He didn't speak. He just reached out and, with the same unsettling care he had used when mending John’s uniform, he tightened a loose strap on John’s wrist guard. His fingers brushed against John's skin, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of ice and fire through John's body. His scent, a heavy wave of cedarwood and pine, enveloped John, a silent, possessive claim that John, in his dazed state, was completely oblivious.

John, seeing Bucky’s focused attention and the quiet act of maintenance, felt another flash of that warm, confusing feeling. This wasn’t torture. This was... professional. This was the way soldiers acted. They looked out for each other. They made sure each other’s gear was secure. It was a normal, human gesture of professional respect.

A wave of relief washed over him. The world was making sense again. "Thanks, Barnes," he said, a genuine, if hesitant, smile on his face. "I appreciate it. It's great we can be professional again."

Bucky’s face, which had been a mask of focused intensity, went completely still. The word, "professional," hit him like a physical blow. He looked at John, at the genuine, relieved smile on his face, and the last shred of his composure snapped. He had tried to be subtle. He had tried to be a silent protector. He had tried to speak to John in a language that his Alpha instincts had known for years. But John hadn't understood a single word.

"You" Bucky growled, his voice a low, furious roar that vibrated through John’s entire body. "I'm courting you, you idiot!"

The words echoed in the silent training room, the final, shattering blow that broke through every defense John had ever built. "I'm courting you, you idiot!"

John’s mind went blank. He stood there, frozen in Bucky's grip, the world tilting on its axis. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The confession, raw and unhinged, was a complete contradiction to the reality he had meticulously constructed for himself. Bucky was a suitor. And John, to his horror, was the object of his affection.

The next few days were a waking nightmare. The words were on a constant, maddening loop in his head, a furious buzzing that drowned out everything else. He walked through the tower in a daze, bumping into walls, tripping over his own feet, and completely missing the open elevator doors. He cooked a meal for the team and put a heaping spoonful of sugar into the stir-fry instead of salt. He fell asleep during a crucial briefing with the entire team and woke up to find Yelena's unimpressed gaze at him.

Bucky watched it all with frustrated concern. He found himself silently moving chairs out of John's path, catching him just before he walked into a closed door, and subtly redirecting his attention when he was about to make another disastrous culinary mistake.

The climax of this madness came in the training room. John was attempting to lift a series of heavy weights, but his mind was elsewhere. He was replaying Bucky's confession for the hundredth time, his focus completely gone. As he lifted a heavy bar, his grip faltered, and the weight began to fall, an iron slab hurting toward his head.

Bucky, who had been watching him from a distance, moved with a terrifying speed. He lunged forward, his metal arm catching the weight just inches from John’s face, the impact of a jarring, metallic thud that echoed in the silent room. John stood there, frozen and trembling, his heart hammering against his ribs. A small, childlike part of his mind whispered in awe, my childhood hero...THE Bucky Barnes…the friend of Captain America... he wants me.

But the hardened, adult part of him, forged in a lifetime of professional deception, immediately suffocated the thought. Remember. He's a nutcase, a control freak. And worse…your coworker, is not professional.

Bucky didn't say a word. He just lowered the weight back to the floor with a quiet, controlled motion. He turned to face the wall, and John heard him let out a long, shuddering sigh—a sound of exhaustion and defeated frustration. He then turned and walked away, his shoulders tense. Bucky just confessed, is not like he did something outrageous. The worst thing it that Bucky thought that John was…adorable.

Too adorable.

Bucky doesn’t want to turn into that kind of people who are blind to their partner faults, but John was…. really endearing.

A few minutes later, Ava found Bucky alone, staring out a window with a grim, unreadable expression. She walked up to him, a dry, knowing smirk on her face.

"So," she said, her voice a low, amused hum. "You finally said it."

Bucky didn't turn around. "Leave me alone, Ava."

She walked over to him, her voice whistling. "You broke him, Barnes. I'm impressed."

Bucky groaned.

 

Chapter 16: Omega Matchmaker

Notes:

Hii, new chapter. Hope you all enjoy it. Don't worry i know we are close to the end but everything will tie up, even Bob situation.

John was no longer in a daze. The shock had worn off, replaced by a desperate, frantic need for a solution. His mind, trained for decades to find a clear objective and execute a plan, was now racing to process the most confusing data it had ever received.

He found himself in the same quiet comms room where he'd called Sam before, his fingers trembling as he dialed the number. He didn't even wait for a hello.

"He is courting me," John said, his voice breathless, furious whisper. "Sam, he said it. Right to my face. He's courting me. He's crazy. This is a Winter Soldier thing. This is a sign he's losing it."

Sam's voice was calm, a stark contrast to John's panic. "No, John. That's not what's happening. The Winter Soldier is gone. You know Bucky's been through extensive therapy."

"Then what is it, Sam? What do you call this? It's unhinged! He's weird and well, weird. He makes me coffee, my favorite, and he sews my suit, he even added a little red star into it. And he is making an evil plan, I’m sure, he is—"

Sam cut John dryly. "Wow, so he is a domestic terrorist."

"YES. That is what I’m talking about. He is being a domestic terrorist. Wait domestic. That’s it."

John's voice trailed off as a new, terrible clarity washed over him. The pieces of the puzzle: Bucky’s cold logic, his deliberate actions, his scent... It wasn't a relapse. It was a need. An Alpha's need.

"He just needs an Omega," John said, his voice a quiet, stunned whisper. "That's it. It's not about me. It's about his instincts. He's an Alpha who's finally found a stable Omega and... he's reacting to it. It's just a biological imperative."

Sam was silent at the other end of the line. I’m saddling up with idiots. Great.

"I just need to find him one," John continued, a manic, self-congratulatory energy building in his chest. "Someone who... someone who can handle him. A willing Omega. A team player. I can do that. I can solve this. I can find him an Omega."

"John, no," Sam said while shaking his head over the phone. His voice urgent. "For the love of god. John, no. Just listen to me. Don't do that. You don't want to do that."

"Sam. You are brilliant. It's a perfect solution!" John's voice was a joyous, unhinged hum. " I just need to be a good coworker and... get him one. It's brilliant. Thanks, Sam. I can really see why you're so good at this. Like wow, you really are a great therapist."

John hung up the phone, a wide, terrifying grin on his face. He was brilliant. He had solved it. He just needed to find Bucky Barnes a new Omega.

 

________________________________________

 

Today, Bucky was observing John from the doorway. He had noticed the change in John’s demeanor over the past few days. He wasn't flinching as much, wasn't actively avoiding him. He seemed… calmer, almost focused. Maybe he's finally processing things, Bucky thought, a small sliver of hope flickering within him. He’s still a mess, walking into walls and putting sugar in the pasta last night, but at least he's not actively terrified of me anymore. Maybe he's finally coming around.

Bucky even remembers that yesterday John came to ask him questions about himself with a notebook. He was staring wide eyed at Bucky while Bucky was looking at some files for the upcoming missions. The dork even took notes.

"So, Buck. I mean Bucky or do you prefer James? I think James makes me think of James Bond. Not like James Bond is better than you but the last one was blonde so—uh—you know what? let’s forget that." John stammered, his eyes wide and slightly terrified. He then looked at his notebook and cleared his throat. "Are you a dog or a cat person?"

Bucky felt a strange, amused jolt in his chest. A dog or a cat person? Then Bucky realized he wants to know me. Bucky's mind settled on an answer that was both true and, he hoped, disarming.

"Puppies," Bucky said, a small, genuine smile on his face. "They are… endearing."

He expected John to write that down, to follow up with another bizarre question. Instead, John squinted his eyes at him, as if Bucky were an alien species he was trying to categorize.

"I’m going to put down cats," John muttered to himself, but Bucky’s super-soldier hearing caught every word. "You don’t look like a dog person. He is a cat person; he even looks like he judges people like one."

Bucky froze. The bizarre comment, the furious scribbling in the notebook—it made no sense. But the fact that John was there, talking to him, was progress. Maybe he had to humor John's eccentricities for a while. He could do that. He was patient.

John, completely oblivious to Bucky’s internal thoughts, flipped a page in his notebook. "Okay, next. What are your hob—I mean, your usual unstructured downtime activities?"

Bucky shrugged. "In my time we called that hobbies, but I read. Sometimes I go to museums."

John's pen moved across the page. "Okay, 'enjoys cultural outings.'" Maybe finding Barnes a match won’t be that hard. Physically he is conventionally attractive, and he likes culture stuff, people usually love that in a partner. And he was a congressman, even if he only managed to do half term but that’s speaks of social commitment. Another good point.

" Now, a hypothetical. What if your partn— your teammate, had a particularly strong scent? Would that be a tactical disadvantage? Like on a mission"

Mission? Bucky raised an eyebrow. "What is this for?"

John's voice came high. " Assessment. For…Alexei. He asks this for a future collaboration, compatibility —  I mean compatriot? —uh— coordinator, computational, compact…thing." God, why John was such a bad verbal liar? He won’t buy this.

Bucky looked at John with a wary expression. "Compact thing?"

John ignored the question, just looking at Bucky with expectation.

Bucky just stared at him, the confusion on his face giving way to a flicker of something else—amusement? John couldn't tell.

"Tactical disadvantage?" Bucky repeated, a small, knowing smirk starting to form on his lips. "Only if it was too sweet."

John scribbled that down, muttering, "Okay, 'avoids cloying scents.' Got it." He looked up, his expression dead serious. "Final question. How do you handle conflict? Do you prefer a calm, structured discussion, or a more... explosive method?"

Bucky’s lips twitched into a small, wry smile. He remembered yelling, "I'm courting you, you idiot!"

"I'm learning to be more of a structured discussion guy," Bucky said, his eyes holding John’s gaze. "But if that doesn't work, all options are on the table."

John nodded gravely, writing it all down as if it was a mission debrief. He snapped his notebook shut with a definitive thwack.

"Great," John said, with a relieved smile on his face. "This is very helpful. For the profile. I mean, the collaboration thing for Alexei. Go Yankees! Wait, are you a Yankees fan? Do you like sports?"

Bucky just snorted. John scribbled something more and left. Bucy watched him walk away, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest. The idiot.

But now watching John on the computer with Yelena and Alexei, Bucky didn't notice the laptop screen filled with Omega profiles nor was he really paying attention to what those three together were saying; he just saw John engaged in something that didn't involve panic. So, Bucky left.

So, John sat hunched over a laptop in the common room, a tense furrow in his brow. The glow of the screen illuminated a series of profiles, each displaying pictures and information about various Omegas in the area. He was muttering to himself, occasionally clicking through photos with a decisive "Nope" or a more hesitant "Hmm."

Yelena wandered in, drawn by the low murmur of John’s voice and the unusual sight of him focused on something other than avoiding Bucky. Alexei lumbered in behind her, ever curious.

"What are you doing, Little Captain?" Alexei boomed, peering over John's shoulder. "Looking for a date? Finally decided to embrace your inner… submissive self?"

John flinched, his eyes darting to Alexei with a glare. "It's none of your business."

Yelena, however, was already leaning closer, her sharp eyes scanning the screen. "Are those… Omega dating profiles?" She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Since when are you interested in dating?"

"I'm not dating," John snapped, quickly trying to close the laptop. Yelena was faster, her hand landing on the spacebar.

"Ooh, 'Seeking a strong Alpha who knows what he wants,'" Yelena read aloud with a theatrical flourish, a smirk playing on her lips. "Sounds… intense. For you? You can play the strong alpha for a lone omega in need of love"

"It's not for me!" John hissed, snatching the laptop back.

"Then who?" Alexei asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you setting up Ava on a date? She would kill you."

"It's for Barnes," John blurted out, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a look, a mixture of disbelief and dawning amusement in their eyes.

"Barnes?" Yelena repeated slowly. "As in… Bucky Barnes? The Winter Soldier, James?"

John sighed, defeated. "He... he's been having some issues. Instinctual urges. Alpha things. He just needs an Omega. And I'm… helping him find one." He presented it as the most logical, professional solution.

Alexei threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Little Captain, you are more brave than I ever gave you credit for! Trying to find a partner for the scary metal arm man! He will crush anyone you pick! And you."

"Oh, John Walker. You cracked me up." Yelena said laughing.

"He just needs someone stable," John insisted, scrolling through another profile. "'Enjoys quiet evenings, long walks, and… picnics.' Hmm, maybe."

Yelena snorted. "You think James is going to be interested in 'quiet evenings' and 'picnics'? He looks like he enjoys brooding in dark corners and intimidating pigeons."

Alexei pointed at a scowling black-haired omega. "This one. They make cute brooding dark-haired sons and daughters."

Yelena smirked. "No, no, no. Dad. James...likes the blondes one." She said while pointing at a profile with a blonde man smiling with a Captain America t-shirt.

John glared at Yelena. "Very funny."

Alexei pointed at a black headed omega. "No, no, no. Go back to the black haired one, she had edge as youngster says. Remember brooding babies."

John sighed in frustration, rubbing his temples. "This isn't about looks or kids, Alexei. It's about stability. Someone who can handle... a very specific kind of Alpha." He clicked through another profile, a picture of an Omega posing with a dog. "No. No, no. He's a cat person. He said puppy, but they are too demanding, and he is to…cool for puppies."

Yelena snorted. "You won't find a 'professional' Omega on a dating app, John. You need someone with a high tolerance for chaos, a ruthless streak, and a lack of moral fiber. A woman who works for a spy agency, perhaps." She said it as a joke, but a sudden, manic glint appeared in John’s eyes.

A spy agency...

A memory flashed through John's mind. A cold room. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Her assistant... Mel. A quiet, unflappable Omega who moved with a calm precision that John had found unsettlingly familiar. Mel, who had handled Valentina's volatile energy with a quiet efficiency. Mel, who worked for a woman who trusted no one and still seemed to rely on her Omega assistant. Mel, who also knew Bucky and even had amenable chats with him.

She's perfect, John thought, a wide and terrifying grin spreading across his face. He slammed the laptop shut with a finality that made Yelena and Alexei jump.

"I know just the Omega for Barnes," John announced, his voice filled with a manic, unshakeable certainty. " Mel. Valentina's assistant. A stone-cold professional. And Barnes already knows her."

Yelena's amused expression vanished. "John. You are not going to try to set up Barnes with Valentina's personal assistant."

"It's a perfect solution!" John insisted, already standing up. "It's a pre-existing professional relationship. It's an easy transition. I'll just explain the situation, and she'll be in—"

"You are being crazy!" Yelena eyes wide with genuine alarm. " Valentina will kill you for even looking in her direction. Mell is a too efficient asset to lose in her eyes, even if she makes mean comments about firing her…constantly"

Alexei just shook his head, a mixture of pride and fear in his eyes. "He is an idiot. But a very brave idiot. I want to see this."

"Don't be dramatic," John said, already walking toward the door, his mind completely made up. "Mel is an independent woman who can make her own decisions. And she is attracted to Barnes. She smiles at him. She always glares at me and Alexei."

"You are moron! She doesn’t smile at you, because when she baked us congratulation cupcakes because of the New Avengers thing, you taste one and spit it right in front of her face. And then murmured, not as quietly as you thought you did, that those cupcakes were the worst offence to the culinary word." Yelena hissed.

"Okay! It was not on purpose. We just won against The Void and I was dying of hunger. And those were so gross that my hunger went away. And remember that I wasn’t the only one that thought they were gross, Ava phased out and brought a rat from the street, not even the rat ate them." John snapped at Yelena.

"True, they were gross. Not even bear will eat after hibernation period" Alexei agreed.

"And you know what Yelena? That story of yours proves that Mel will be perfect for Bucky. Because let’s remember that the one to console Mel was Bucky. And when did you see Bucky console anybody on this team, so she is perfect, period" With that speech, John left.

Mel is perfect for Bucky. It didn’t matter that his stomach was churning, it must be the nerves for the huge success his idea is going to have. That’s it.

Chapter 17: A Different Kind of Home

Notes:

Hii, new chapter. Like i think after finishing both my stories i'm going to take a break of writing John and Bucky.

But at the same time i got an idea, from a fic i read where the pairing was John and Steve and Bucky, but they were teachers and there is omegaverse, is from gingerdoe. And i thought what if, Thunderbolt happened or is happening-haven't decided yet- and Steve returns from his time travel of endgame at that moment-like the travel thing malfunction when returning the stone and Steve never meant to go to Peggy but he wanted to return to Bucky and Sam but it fails-So we had a very fanboy John who is in cloud nine because that is Steve Rogers, and he is in a team with Buck Barnes and Steve Rogers and well, the others. And Steve likes John too he finds him funny and Bucky is like jealous of how much of a fanboy is John and how sweet he is. And why John acts like that to Steve and doesn't focus on Bucky.

I don't know. Advice is always welcome jajajaja. Hope you all like the chapter.

The four weeks were over. He had his weekend pass, and as soon as he got to Olivia's, he saw the box on the porch. He felt a wave of profound relief, knowing that his long-awaited lifeline had arrived. The past month of Bucky's quiet, unnerving gestures and the anxious presence of Bob could finally be over. He could be null again, invisible.

He took the box inside, locking the door behind him and heading to the bedroom. He tore it open, pulling out the small, familiar bottle. He was about to swallow one when the bedroom door creaked open.

Liam. His son stood in the doorway, a small, beaming figure. "Daddy," he said, his voice filled with joy.

John put the bottle in his pocket, a silent, furtive motion. He bent down to hug his son, the small, familiar weight a profound comfort. But Liam, however, didn't just hug him. He buried his face in John's chest, taking a long, deep breath. A soft sigh escaped his lips. "Daddy," he said, his voice muffled. "You smell like home."

The words hit John with the force of a physical blow. He had forgotten. He had been null for so long, so careful to hide his scent, that he had forgotten what it was like for his son to simply smell his father.

He remembered Olivia when she was pregnant once telling him that a father's true scent was an anchor for a child, a source of comfort and security. He hadn't just been hiding from the world; he had been hiding from his own son.

His baby boy, who recognized for the first time his scent four weeks ago. John’s heart hammered against his ribs; he couldn't do it. Not now. Not when his son was finally getting what he needed.

He carried Liam to the living room, leaving the bottle in his pocket. And in the corner of his mind, he knew that the longer he waited, the harder it would be to go back. Especially when those eyes look right through him.

John returned to the tower on Sunday night, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He felt a deep sense of peace from the weekend, but also a new, profound sense of vulnerability. He was still giving off his true scent—sunlight, rain-soaked grass, and a hint of honey—and now he had a new, more powerful reason to keep it that way.

He walked into the common room, where Yelena was reading and Ava was tinkering with a device. They both looked up as he entered, their sharp eyes assessing him in a way that made his skin prickle.

Yelena's gaze was direct. "So," she said, her voice a low, even tone. "The package arrived."

John froze. He didn't have to ask what she meant. "It did."

"But you haven't used them," Ava chimed in, a small, knowing smirk on her face. "You still smell like a freshly mowed lawn. What's the reason? Bucky’s courting is a success?"

John flinched, the word "courting" a fresh humiliation. "No," he said, his voice clipped. "It's not that."

Yelena leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Then what is it, John? You looked like a man with a lifeline a few days ago, and now… you smell like you've resigned yourself to your fate."

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just… Liam," he said, the word a small, quiet admission. "He said I smelled like home."

A flicker of understanding, and something almost like pity, crossed Yelena’s face. She nodded slowly; a silent acknowledgment of the sacrifice John had made.

Ava, however, just shook her head, her smirk widening. "You're a mess, Walker. You know that, right?"

John didn't answer. He just walked to the kitchen to make some dinner, the smell of his true scent, a warm, undeniable presence in the air. He sighed. And he still got a harder battle: get through Valentina Allegra de Fontaine and get to Mel. He was screwed.

The phone call with Valentina Allegra de Fontaine's office took three days of relentless, increasingly desperate pleading. John, convinced his plan was flawless, had to navigate a labyrinth of secretaries and automated answering services, each one colder and more unyielding than the last.

Finally, he got an email back from Mel. It was short and to the point: Valentina doesn’t think that your pleading is fun anymore, it is pathetic. So, I can give you five minutes.

John arrived at the sterile, government-issue office building in a flurry of nervous energy. He was wearing his U.S. Agent uniform, a desperate attempt to project a sense of professional authority. He found Mel seated at a small desk outside Valentina's office, her scent, a clean and unobtrusive mix of crisp paper and a hint of mint, was a stark contrast to the chaotic, emotional mess John was. She didn't look up from her tablet, just gestured to the chair opposite her.

"Five minutes," she said, her voice a low, even tone. "The clock is ticking."

John swallowed hard. "Okay, so… this is about Bucky."

Mel's perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose slightly. "I assumed as much. You worship the ground that he walks on, and you're giving off enough nervous energy to power a small city. What about him?"

"No, I don’t. I had a military respect not a personality respect, he is a nutcase." John blurted out, a torrent of words escaping his lips. Wait. John must backtrack; he can’t pawn off Bucky to Mel if he makes Bucky sound unstable.  "Not nutcase like crazy, more like nutcase because he likes nuts and cases. And he is looking to court; I mean date someone."

"I am aware, he wants to court, but he is already courting someone." Mel said, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. "I see his scent on your clothes. I can smell it from here."

John's face flushed with a fresh wave of humiliation. "It's not... It's a professional thing," he stammered, the lie a bitter taste in his mouth. "He just… he needs a permanent solution. An Omega. A good one. Someone like you."

Mel finally looked up from her tablet, her gaze sharp and direct. She stared at John for a long, quiet moment, and then, a genuine, beautiful laugh bubbled from her throat. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but a laugh of pure, unadulterated amusement.

"You," she said, shaking her head, a smile still on her lips. "You think I'm going to be James Barnes's second choice omega?"

The words were a bucket of ice water to John's face. "No! Mel, you will be his first-choice mate! His partner! It’s a very serious thing for him."

"It's a serious thing for him because he's obsessed with you, you idiot," Mel said, her voice losing its mirth and becoming a low, knowing whisper. "I like James. I think he's a good man. But I also know he's intense and he has a one-track mind, and he's found a new target for that fixation. And that target isn't me. It's you. I can smell it on you."

John sat there, speechless, as Mel's words stripped away the last of his self-deception. "But... he knows you," John pleaded, the last remnants of his plan crumbling around him. "And you have a good rapport! And you're smart! And you… you like him."

Mel nodded slowly, the mirth gone from her face. "I do. I like him. But I am not a project. And I am not a solution to your problem. Find a different Omega, John."

With that, she stood up, five minutes over. John was alone in the waiting room, his brilliant plan in ruins.

Meanwhile, Bob was in a session with his therapist, Dr. Aris. The room was warm and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic battlefield of Bob’s mind. Dr. Aris, a kind-faced Beta with a calming, neutral scent, sat opposite him.

"So, Bob," the therapist said gently. "You've been doing well. The team tells me you've been more stable than you've been in years. And that your teammate Yelena help was good, but they noted that when you had John Walker’s scent you were much calmer, but that stopped when your other teammate put a stop into that."

Bob nodded, a faint smile on his face. "Yes. The scent… it helps. It's like a warm blanket. But Bucky was right. John wasn’t comfortable and the highs where too high and the drop was worse. And I think that it feeds too much on The...The Void."

Dr. Aris scribbled a note on his pad. "That's good. You realize that recovery is never going anywhere if you depend on others doing it for you. I see you better and you even realized that your teammate’s decision to put a stop to that was the right one. So now we must talk about what's next. You've become too dependent on the omegas' scents. And we don't want you to just trade one addiction for another."

Bob's face fell. He knew what his therapist was talking about. His mind, the place where the Sentry and the Void lived, had become fixated on the warmth of John's scent and the comfort of Yelena's. It was a perfect solution, a blissful escape from the constant warring in his head.

Dr. Aris continued, " The scent will still be there, but you will not be able to rely on it. You will have to learn to cope without them."

Bob's hands clenched into fists. He felt the familiar static of the Void begin to rise, a low, angry hum of rejection and loss. The Sentry, however, was calm, its voice a cold, logical whisper.

This is a logical evolution. The dependency was a flaw in the system, we don’t need anybody, we just are. We must adapt.

Bob looked at Dr. Aris, his eyes wide and scared. "But... I don't know how."

Dr. Aris smiled warmly. "I know. That's why I'm here. This is the real work, Bob. This is where you learn to get better. It is progress"

The session ended, leaving Bob alone with his thoughts. The scent of John and Yelena was now a distant memory, a lingering ghost. He had to face his mind on his own. He had to let go.

 

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John found himself back in the tower's common room. His mind, still reeling from Mel's blunt assessment, was now scrambling for a new solution. The first one failed. He'd have to try another. He pulled out his notebook and the online dating profiles again, but this time, he was going straight to the source.

He found Bucky alone, sitting in his usual chair, his eyes closed. John walked up to him, his hands full of profiles. This is like a mission. Treat it like a mission.

"Okay, Barnes," John said, his voice shaky but resolute. "Your courting methods are garbage. You're terrible at this. So, I'm going to do it for you. This is the new plan."

Bucky opened his eyes slowly, his expression a mask of unreadable calm. He watched John. He saw the way John's hands trembled as he flipped through the notebook, the way his Omega scent, usually so comforting, was now spiked with fear and anxiety. It was pitiful, and Bucky wanted to both shake him and hold him.

"I found a few suitable candidates," John continued, flipping through his notebook. He cleared his throat, trying to sound professional. "This is 'Candidate A.' She's an Omega. She's a scientist, so she's got a high level of critical thinking. She enjoys 'cultural outings' and 'calm discussions.' She's good with pets. Seems to be a cat person. And doesn’t like to smile. Look at the picture, she looks like she has your vibe."

Bucky felt a low growl start in his chest. He saw the desperate, almost panicked hope in John's eyes as he spoke, the way he was trying to solve an emotional problem with logic. It was so transparent, so fundamentally John, and it infuriated him. He didn't want a "suitable candidate." He wanted the mess standing in front of him.

"And 'Candidate B' is a former marine. Another Omega. He's a veteran, so he gets it. He's a family man, has two kids. He also likes cats." John paused, looking at his notes. "Oh, wait. He likes dogs. I'll have to adjust my profile. But he's a good one, Barnes. A stable, reliable choice…And blonde, much blonder than me and look, he has brown eyes, sort of like a haunted from his soldier memories, mysterious puppy."

Bucky's scent, a storm of cedarwood and pine, began to fill the room, a warning he knew John was too terrified to heed. He saw John's eyes, wide with a familiar, pleading look, a mix of defiance and anxiety he had seen so many times before. It was the look Bucky had fallen for.

Bucky stood up then. He took a step towards John, and another, until he was right in front of him. The air was thick, suffocating with his Alpha scent, and John felt his own Omega instincts screaming at him to submit. Bucky saw the way John's breath hitched, the way he was unraveling right in front of him, and it made him want to finish what he started.

"You're a mess, Walker," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrated through John’s entire body. He reached out and, with a terrifying slowness, took the notebook from John's trembling hands. He looked at it for a long, quiet moment, and then, without a word, he tore it in half.

John flinched, but Bucky's gaze never left his face. "I'm courting you," Bucky said, his voice raw with a mix of fury and frustration. "You. Not a scientist. Not a marine. Not an artist. You, you idiot."

Bucky took another step, backing John against the wall. His human hand came up, gently cupping John’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the soft skin. The touch, a plea.

John was in a state of beautiful, terrifying paralysis. He couldn't move. Why did Bucky look at him like that? Like John was everything he could see, like he was worth something in the eyes of the legendary Bucky Barnes. It was so unfair. How was it fair that Bucky was doing this? He had no right. No right to tear up his notebook either; John had researched for hours to find him the perfect partner, only for Bucky to tear it apart in seconds.

"Do you think I want some... quiet artist?" Bucky's voice was a low, breathless whisper, his eyes dark with an intensity that made John's heart race. "I want you. I want your ridiculous puppy dog eyes when you're caught in a lie. I want your desperate need to be a good soldier, even when you have no idea what that means anymore."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against John's ear. "I want your stupid endearing nature, the way you try to be a good father even though you're a mess. I want the way you lie and backtrack and make it so obvious. I want your blabbering and your stupid awkward little jokes. I want all of it. The part that's a good man, and the part that's a mess. I want your scent of a summer forest and your honey-sweet core."

Bucky pulled back just enough to lock eyes with John. He saw John's face, a mask of pure shock and confusion, and he knew he had finally gotten through to him. He saw the realization dawning in those wide blue eyes, the way John was finally, truly seeing him for the first time. Bucky's heart ached with an all-consuming need. He aches for him in a way he never thought possible.

As the Winter Soldier, Bucky couldn't want anything. After the Winter Soldier, he simply drifted, life passing by without a goal, without a single thing he truly wanted. And then he met John. John, who made Bucky furious. How dare he take Steve's shield and give that crooked little smile, saying he was going to do his best? How dare John look at him like he wasn't a broken, ugly thing—like Bucky was worth it, easy to like, easy to love? How dare John keep trying and trying, trying to be a better man, trying to get Bucky to like him? Just kept trying.

How dare John make Bucky ache for him and try to pawn him off?

Like Bucky could swap him for another person. Like John wasn’t worth it, like John wasn’t too John, too endearing, too infuriating. Like any person could drive Bucky mad like John does. Like John could be replaceable, forgettable.

"Every other Omega is just a ghost. A whisper," Bucky said, his voice low and serious. "You're the one who's real. The one who's here. The one I want."

Bucky took a final, devastating step, pressing John’s body against the wall. His scent enveloped John claimed John. He leaned in close, his low, gravelly purr the only thing John could hear.

"So, stop it," Bucky said, his voice a final, heartbreaking whisper. "It's you or nothing. And I'm not giving up on you."

He leaned back, his gaze still holding John’s. Then, with a tenderness that was a stark contrast to his earlier fury, Bucky gently brushed his lips against John’s forehead, a soft, intimate kiss that stole the last of John’s breath.

Oh, John was screwed.

Notes:

And Bob, realized he needs to stand in his own feets. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 18: The Only Thing Stronger Than Fear

Notes:

Two things: First, the next update is going to be double because they are the last chapters adn the story will be over. And second, i'm going to write the StevexJohnxBucky story, you will have to wait because i had not even write the first chapter and i'm planning it. But it will happen.

John ran. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to get away. He stumbled into his room, slamming the door shut and leaning against it, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He was alone, but Bucky's presence was inescapable.

 He could still feel the phantom pressure of Bucky's lips on his forehead, a soft, intimate touch that had stolen his last breath. He could still smell the lingering scent of cedarwood and pine on his clothes, a physical marker of a territory that was no longer his.

John's mind was a battlefield of its own. He battled with the two conflicting ideas of Bucky he had always known. There was the Bucky Barnes of legend, the stoic war hero, the best friend of Captain America, a man John had idolized his entire life. And there was the unstable Bucky, the man who had stalked him, tormented him, and made his life a living hell. John had a place for both of these men in his mind, but now, a third terrifying idea had emerged: Bucky the suitor, a man whose every action, every gesture, had been a dark, twisted form of affection.

He replayed the confession, his mind a constant, maddening loop. “I’m courting you, you idiot!”

Bucky told him, John hadn’t believed him then. But now... He remembers Bucky's eyes, not with fury, but with a raw, desperate hope that was more terrifying than any threat.

And now John began to see everything in a horrifying new light: The coffee made exactly how he liked it. It wasn't a taunt; it was a morning offering. The mended uniform, the feather-light touch on his wrist guard, the way Bucky's scent had acted as a quiet barrier between him and Bob—it wasn't a mission. It was a dark, possessive form of care. Bucky had been taking care of him, not as a teammate, but as a potential mate.

Bucky had seen all of his broken pieces, all of his pathetic attempts to be a better man, and he had wanted them. A part of John wanted to hope, hope that someone chooses him even if John is, well, himself, but he hoped before, wanting to be Bucky's friend even coworker and Bucky crushed it…several times…

He remembered walking up to him in the common room, a bag of chips in his hand.

"Hey, Barnes," John had said, with a clumsy, forced smile. "Want some? They’re jalapeño, my favorite. Don't worry, they're not too spicy."

Bucky hadn't even looked up from the book he was reading. "No," he had said, his voice flat and final. John, flustered, had mumbled something and retreated, a bag of chips clutched in his hand like a social failure.

A week later, he had tried a more professional approach. "Hey, Barnes," John had said in the gym, his voice a little too loud. "I've been working on a new training regimen. Want to spar? I think it would be good for us to learn each other's… tendencies."

Bucky had looked at him then, his expression as unreadable as ever. "No," he had said again, before turning his back on John to continue his own brutal, solitary workout. It was a firm, humiliating rejection that had made the entire team, even Bob, silently watch him.

And then, the worst attempt. John, in a moment of pure, unadulterated "too much," had tried a friendly joke. "You know, you're always so serious, Barnes," he had said, trying to be casual. "You know, if you smiled, you'd probably stop traffic. Maybe you should try it."

Bucky had slowly, deliberately turned his head to look at John. His eyes were cold, his scent a quiet, dangerous warning. "No. I don't smile, Walker," he had said, his voice a low, final growl. "Leave me alone."

The humiliation of the past was now a weapon against his current hope, a reminder that he was, on his own account, a person who was "too much" and "not enough" and that Bucky had seen it all and rejected it.

The very traits Bucky once seemed to despise—the clumsy smile, the too-loud voice, the frantic need for connection—were the same ones he was now claiming to want. In the past, his attempts at friendship had been met with a cold, hard "no." Bucky had pushed him away, his body language and scent a clear, definitive rejection. The man who had once shut him down with a simple, no was now saying he wanted all of John's broken pieces.

Because now, after seeing John at his most pathetic, his most chaotic, Bucky was pulling him close.  Close enough to give hope but also close enough to make it easier to see John and decide he was not worth it.

________________________________________

 

Before they took flight, Daedalus gave his son a warning. He told Icarus not to fly too low, because the sea spray would weigh down the feathers, and he would drown…

________________________________________

 

The next morning, John was a ghost in his own life. He didn’t run to his room, but he didn’t dare enter Bucky’s orbit either. He found a small, neglected table in the corner of the common room, a no-man's-land away from Bucky’s usual chair. He sat there, a silent, terrified lump, trying to make himself invisible. His scent, still a frantic mess of fear and a fragile, unwanted hope, filled the air around him.

Bucky, however, saw right through John’s attempt at invisibility. He was a man who had made his claim, and now he was simply integrating himself into John’s world, one deliberate action at a time. Bucky walked to the kitchen and opened a cupboard.

 John’s heart hammered against his ribs. The next move would be Bucky’s. He expected coffee.

Instead, Bucky pulled out a bag of jalapeño chips.

John froze. The very snack he had offered Bucky in his first, most humiliating attempt at friendship. The irony was a physical punch to the gut. Bucky walked directly to the small corner table, the bag held casually in his hand. He didn’t just place them on the table; he opened the bag and then, for the first time, he smiled.

It wasn't a warm, friendly smile. It was a small, unsettling curve of his lips, a look that held a terrifying amount of quiet knowing. In that smile, John saw the past and the present collide.

"I figured it's time we shared these," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly purr. "You look like you need a distraction."

John stared at the bag of chips, the smell of jalapeño a ghost of a past humiliation. Bucky wasn't just offering a snack; he was offering a moment of his past rejection, now reframed as a quiet, domestic beginning. He was bridging the gap John was too terrified to cross.

The air in the common room was a suffocating mix of fear, hope, and the heavy scent of Bucky's pine and cedarwood. John stared at the open bag of jalapeño chips on the table.

John’s hand, trembling slightly, slowly reached into the bag. He felt Bucky’s gaze on him, a physical weight that made every nerve in his body scream. With a quiet, deliberate motion, John took a single chip. It felt like he was holding a grenade. He brought it to his lips, chewed, and swallowed. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done. It wasn't about the chip; it was about acceptance. It was a small, terrifying step into Bucky’s world.

Bucky didn't say a word. He just sat, his presence a heavy, unwavering anchor in the room. He had laid his cards on the table, and now John had, with a clumsy, hesitant motion, picked one up. The next move was, for the first time, not about what Bucky would do to him, but about what John would do now that he had been given a choice.

Over the next week, a strange, silent dance began. John, having taken the first tentative step, found himself unable to retreat. He was just watching the train closer and closer, ready to collide with him. But he couldn’t stop. Every action he took was a test. He would enter the common room, but he would no longer sit in the far corner. Instead, he would sit on the couch, always a small, nervous distance from Bucky's chair, but within his orbit. He made small, clumsy attempts to bond, always braced for rejection.

 One afternoon, he found Bucky staring at a TV screen, a documentary playing silently. John, with a voice that was too loud and a laugh that was too forced, made a comment about the show. His heart hammered against his ribs, expecting a cold, final "no" like in the past.

But the rejection never came. Bucky simply turned his head, his dark eyes meeting John’s. He gave a small nod, a quiet, almost imperceptible sign of acknowledgment before turning back to the screen. To John, it was a thunderclap. The man who had once shut him down with a simple word was now accepting his clumsy attempts at conversation.

Another day, John was in the kitchen, making himself a smoothie after his run. He remembered the humiliation of Bucky telling him he didn’t smile, and his own desperate desire for connection. He expected Bucky to ignore him or make a comment about his loud blender. Instead, as John finished his smoothie, Bucky, without a word, simply held out his hand. John, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, hesitated, then slowly passed him the blender. Bucky took a sip and passed it back, his gaze unwavering, a silent, terrifying form of approval.

The lack of rejection was a new kind of torture for John. He was always on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Bucky to finally reveal that this was all a game and he was, once again, the fool. But the hammer never came. Instead, Bucky’s presence became a part of his life. He was always there, in the room, his scent a quiet, possessive hum. He would find a book John was reading and simply sit closer. He would find a loose thread on John's uniform and, without a word, mend it.

 

________________________________________

 

and not to fly too high, because the sun would melt the wax holding the wings together...

 

________________________________________

 

Bucky's world was a series of habits and triggers. He was methodical; he always had been. In the past, it was a means of survival, a way to track a target, to understand a pattern of behavior for control. Now, his methodology was the same, but the purpose was entirely different.

John's behavior was erratic. He was a creature of habit who had been thrown off his rhythm. Bucky noted the frantic scent of his fear, a new, fragile layer of sweetness beneath it—a tentative hope that John was too scared to name. John sat on the couch, always just out of arm's reach, a constant, predictable variable.

Bucky observed his clumsy attempts at connection, each one a signal of vulnerability. He saw John watching a silent documentary and knew, by the frantic rhythm of his heart, that John was about to speak.

John made a comment, his voice too loud, a laugh too forced. A desperate attempt to seem casual. Bucky felt the anticipation in the air, the way John was braced for a cold, final "no." John's posture was a study in resignation, like a puppy with its ears pressed back, his pleading eyes fixed on Bucky, begging for a sign that wouldn't come.

But how could Bucky reject him when he looked at him like that? John looked at him with eyes that were a mirror of Bucky’s own past, a soul desperate for an ally, a partner, a man who saw him.

 In those fleeting, unguarded moments, John looked at Bucky as though he were his word—a truth, an anchor, something to believe in. How could he?

Bucky simply nodded, a quiet, almost imperceptible gesture of acceptance. It was an acknowledgment, a promise that the cold of the past would not repeat itself.

Later, Bucky felt John enter the kitchen to make a smoothie after his run. Bucky knew the smoothie wasn't just for nourishment; it was for comfort, a familiar ritual in a world turned upside down. John’s scent was a mix of exertion and that same fragile hope. John finished and, with a mind in a whirlwind of confusion, hesitated. Bucky knew what he wanted. So Bucky held out his hand, a deliberate, quiet gesture.

John, his eyes wide with surprise, passed him the blender. Bucky took a sip and passed it back, his gaze unwavering, his way of showing John that he saw him, he accepted him, he would not reject him.

Bucky felt a fierce, terrifying protectiveness bloom in his chest. He would not push John away. He would not abandon him. He would simply sit, and wait, and methodically integrate himself into John's world, one small, irreversible step at a time.

The goal was to build a new world around John, brick by slow brick, until John’s mind, exhausted from fighting, finally accepted that he was no longer alone. It was a cruel form of kindness, a gentle siege.

 Bucky would simply wait until John’s world was no longer his own, but theirs.

 

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And burn, Icarus did.

Notes:

Thanks for reading, hope you all enjoy the chapter, and thanks for all the support: the comments, kudos and bookmarks, and also my silent readers. Im kinda sad you can give readers kudos because if i could i will give you all a lot of kudos.

Chapter 19: Starving

Notes:

Hii new chapter. I know i said double updates but i have good and bad news: Bad one, no double update and the final chapter is kinda short. Good news: the final chapters will be updated in saturday and i put a little teaser of the John, Steve and Bucky throuple story at the end note of this chapter.The story has a title:Operation: Throuple-not very original but i suck at naming and tagging stuff- which won't be update it in weeks but is in works thanks to all your encouragement.

For a week, John had been making clumsy overtures, expecting the cold shoulder, the flat "no." But the rejection never came. Instead, Bucky’s quiet, possessive approval had settled over him like a warm, heavy blanket. It was terrifying, but a strange, addictive confidence had begun to bloom in his chest. He still had no idea what he wanted, but he was no longer running.

He just knew he liked to be the center of Bucky's attention. It felt good. It felt good the way that Bucky would stare at him, stare at his eyes, and then, in the middle of one of John's nervous rants, that gaze would become a heavy, velvet caress, his eyes drifting down to John's lips.

John would shut up, his throat suddenly dry, and Bucky would not look from his mouth for one whole minute, his gaze an inescapable, physical weight. John’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Know better, know better, a voice screamed in his head, a final, futile warning. And then Bucky would look straight into his eyes and cock an eyebrow, a silent challenge, and John would start rambling again, unable to resist.

One afternoon, he found Bucky reading in the common room. John, unable to stay still, launched into a frantic explanation of a new training regimen. He paced back and forth, his words tumbling over each other. "And then I thought, if we used the weighted vests, it would simulate..." He stopped, a slight pout on his face, and looked at Bucky. "Are you even listening?"

He stopped pacing and stood before him, his shoulders hunched, waiting for a sign. In that moment, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide and pleading, he looked like a puppy waiting for a command. He saw the shift in Bucky's expression, a tightening in his jaw, and a familiar sense of dread washed over him. Was this it? Was the rejection finally coming?

Bucky's world was a set of habits and triggers, and John Walker was the most chaotic variable he had ever tried to calculate. The "gentle siege" was working, but John's eager, needy presence was a constant, delightful disruption.

Bucky would sit with his book, and John, unable to stay still, would bounce on the balls of his feet, his eager eyes darting between Bucky and the television. He wasn't afraid anymore, not in the same way. Now, there was a pleading hope in his eyes that made him look like a puppy with its ears down, desperate for a pat on the head. He was becoming more confident, his small attempts at testing boundaries now more frequent and less clumsy.

Bucky found it both maddening and utterly irresistible. He was trying to be patient. Methodical. He would wait for John to come to him. But John was making that impossible.

Bucky's patience, his carefully calculated reserve, finally snapped. He couldn't take the silence, the expectation of rejection, anymore. He closed his book with a soft thud and stood up, moving closer. John’s eyes went wide, but there was a defiant pout on his lips.

Bucky reached out, cupping John's jaw with a hand that was surprisingly gentle. He tilted John’s head up, so they were looking directly at each other.

"You're driving me crazy," Bucky said, his voice a low, gravelly purr, a world away from his usual monotone. "But in the best possible way."

 

And with that, he closed the distance between them, his lips met John's.

 

 But Bucky didn't just hold the kiss; he consumed it. His lips, firm and demanding, were a silent, desperate demand for John to stop fighting.

 For a moment, John was a statue, his mind a panicked chorus of "know better, know better."

Bucky’s hand, still cupping his jaw, shifted, his fingers digging in just enough to hold him in place. His other hand, warm, moved to John’s waist, pulling him in with a low, possessive growl that rumbled against John's lips.

 

John's mind, a battlefield for so long, simply went blank.

 

Bucky's grip tightened, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of John's neck, tilting his head back as the kiss deepened, becoming a starving, desperate thing. It wasn't a gentle caress; it was a hungry, undeniable claim.

 In that moment, John just melted. His body went soft and pliant against Bucky’s. His own fists uncurled from his sides as he forgot everything but the possessive taste of the kiss and the iron grip that held him so tightly. He wrapped his arms around Bucky's waist, holding him just as tight as he was being held.

 

More, he wants more.

 

Bucky wanted to shut John since he met him. He didn’t know it was with his mouth and that he was starving all his lifetime for this.

Starving for that sweet mouth, starving for those wide blown eyes, starving for more of those little gasps, for more, and more, starving for John.   

For Bucky this kiss was a promise, a promise that Bucky gave to John, I won’t let you go, never.

Bucky was the first to pull back, his breath coming in a low, ragged gasp. He didn’t let go of John, his hands still firm on his waist and in his hair, but he pulled back just enough to look at him.

John’s eyes were wide, dazed. His lips were parted, and his scent, no longer a frantic mess, was a heady mix of exertion and sweet, surprised surrender. For a long, silent moment, he just stared at Bucky, his mind a quiet, breathless void. His hands, still clutching Bucky’s waist, tightened just a fraction.

Then, he just leaned his forehead against Bucky's. He closed his eyes, and in that moment, Bucky knew. Bucky's hand, which had been gently cupping John's jaw, moved to hold John's head more firmly.

John responded without a thought, pulling Bucky in for another kiss.

Notes:

Teaser chapter 1:

John’s mind went completely blank. All the polished training, all the tactical discipline, all the carefully constructed professional facade he had built up since losing the shield… it was gone. He felt his jaw go slack, his body frozen in a state of pure, childlike awe. He felt like when he was a kid who had read the comics, who had watched the movies, and his hero was standing right there in front of him. He wanted to call Lamar and say, "Are you seeing this?” It's Steve Rogers."

Crack.

The sound was clean and sharp, a sickening pop that fractured his skull. One second, Lamar was there and the next, he was flying into a place John couldn’t follow. Not this time.
His body slammed backward into a stone pillar, the impact of a dull thud that rattled John's teeth. Karli’s fist was a blur of motion, a punch powered by a serum that had promised to make them heroes but only made them monsters.

Then, there was just silence. A ringing, empty space in his mind.

And then…the shield came down.

John shook his head. Focus. Steve Rogers.

He was so caught up in his own disbelief that he didn't even notice the reaction across the table.
Bucky's head had snapped up. For a single, fleeting second, his eyes were wide with hope so profound it was heartbreaking. But the moment passed instantly, replaced by a cold, hard anger that made his face a mask of stone. He looked at Steve, a silent accusation in his eyes, you left me, you left me and made me give the shield to Sam. Just in case you said…just in case. But then his gaze shifted, landing on John.

 

Teaser chapter 2:

A look of profound relief washed over Steve's face, so pure it was heartbreaking. He started to walk toward him, a small smile forming on his lips. "Buck. I’m home."

The words hit Bucky like a physical blow. Home. A cold rage settled deep in his chest. Liar.

He didn't want to hear it. He wanted to scream. Steve had chosen this. Like he always got to choose something that he takes for granted. Steve had made a choice to leave, and Bucky had been left to clean up the mess. Again.

When Steve put all the Hydra files into public view he might have saved Bucky's life, but he also threw him back into the public eye and onto the government's hit list. Bucky wasn't just Bucky for the word; he was a notorious killer with a metal arm and a history that everyone was now aware of.

Then, the whole fight with the Avengers. Steve's actions made him a spectacle. He was no longer just Bucky; he was Steve's cause, a symbol of rebellion and a target. He had to hide, constantly look over his shoulder, and then rely on T'Challa's mercy.

The Wakanda people who also pulled the rug from Bucky. They gave him his mind back and even a new arm but when fighting against the flag-smashers, they showed what they thought of Bucky: they made a button to shut down his arm.

This wasn't a choice he made for himself. It was a life thrust upon him because of Steve. Steve, who chose Bucky over the world, but the second the world has been saved from Thanos, he left him to live in it without him.

"Till the end of the line", where the line ended when Steve decided it did.

Chapter 20: A Simple Promise

Notes:

The last chapter. Is short but i thought the scene was necessary.Thank you for all the support. I'm crying, like i really love writing this story so im kinda sad this is the end. And i enjoy all the comments and getting to talk with you about the thunderbolts, character and the story. So thank you so much. I'm going to cry in a corner if you don't mind.
Oh, AND READ THE END NOTE, PLEASEEE.

Bucky broke the second kiss, but he didn't let go.

He couldn’t let go.

His hands remained firm on John's waist, his grip in his hair, a gentle but undeniable pressure. John’s mind, which had gone blank with the kiss, was now a confusing, reeling mess. The fear was there, a low hum beneath the thrumming desire, but for the first time, it didn't feel like a warning to run. It felt like a question.

John leaned his head back, his eyes searching Bucky's. He was breathless, his lips still tingling from the press of Bucky's, but he found the courage to speak. His voice was a small, shaky whisper, barely audible in the quiet room.

"What was that?" John asked, his voice cracking on the last word. "What... what does this mean?"

Bucky’s face, which had been a mask of raw emotion, softened. He reached up, his thumb brushing a stray tear from John's cheek, a tear John hadn't realized was there. His eyes, always so unreadable, were now clear and honest.

"It means what I said," Bucky responded, his voice low and steady. "It means I'm courting you."

John’s breath hitched. "But... why me? You always hated my smile, the way I'm..." he trailed off, his old humiliations rising to the surface.

Bucky shook his head, his thumb still on John's cheek. "I didn't hate it," he said softly. "I was terrified of it. You were too real, too present. And I was so broken." He took a slow, deep breath, his grip on John's waist tightening slightly. "But now... now I'm not afraid anymore. I'm not going to leave you, John. Not ever. I won’t let you go. You’re mine, and I’m yours."

In those simple words, Bucky gave John the truth he had been craving. He just needed a promise. He leaned in, his forehead resting against Bucky's chest, his arms squeezing Bucky's waist. The frantic rhythm of his heart began to slow. The fear was still there, but it was quiet now, a small voice in the back of his mind.

He squeezed Bucky tighter, a small, desperate act of his own. And in his mind, he heard Lamar's voice. Just do the best you can.

John nodded against Bucky's chest.

And for the first time in his life, that felt like enough.

Notes:

The end...

Oh, and be ready in a few weeks because i will update the new story even though i'm starting to write chapter 3, but well, the updates might be slower, like one chapter and then two weeks and then a new chapter, or i might update the story when i'm around chapter 10.
Thanks for all the comments, bookmarks, kudos and the silent readers. Special thanks to:
bietro_fastimoff23, you were my first comment on this story and i still remember your cat profile photo. I don't know if you are still reading this story but i will make that cat photo a sticker.
DafffoDaisy, i love talking about the characters and the mcu with you. And i love the way you talked about John Walker character and your thoughts process. I also was also waiting for your thoughts every time i update.
Anonymous_Morte_MorningStar, i love your profile photo and i laugh at your comments. And also, you are the one that the support made me write about the BobxJohnxBucky idea from the other story, so thank you. And also alway waiting for your comments every time i update it.
lnajarro, que también comentaste y que me acuerdo de vos porque dijiste que Bucky era más tóxico que Hannibal jajajaa.
TumblingBackpacks for all the comments, and especially this one: John: I’ve connected the dots. Sam: You haven’t connected shut. John: I’ve connected them
mione_star, who always commented and waited for someone to help John but well it didn't happen, sorry for the suffering.
galafanxy who also showed support through the story and i laugh at the questionable acts comments, and i don't even know why. So thank you.
And damizu0809 because i still remember that you said you will give me your soul for an update. I still also laugh at it while being very flatter by it.
MrBuckyWalker, you never answer me back like is arcane a good serie or not to look. Please tell me why is good, like i don't know if is worth watching or not like because i seen some spoilers.
Red205, also thank you. I really like it that you enjoyed the story enough to take the time to quote some paragraphs in your comments.
I think there are some more comments of other readers, and i really thank you all. Truly.