How Can You Go On With Such Conviction? - Chapter 3
Title: How Can You Go On With Such Conviction?
Author: jaune_chat
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters/Relationships: Steve/Bruce, Steve/Natasha, Steve/Tony, Steve/Thor/Jane, Steve/Clint, Steve/Bucky, Sam Wilson, Darcy Lewis, James Logan (Wolverine), guest appearances by some Agents of SHIELD, Fury, and Coulson.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 23,057
Spoilers: Uses elements through Captain America: Civil War.
Content Advisory: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Omega/Beta dynamics, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Sex Work, Identity Porn, implied past abuse, action/adventure/violence, references to mind control.
A/N: This story was written for marvel-bang. Amazing art by laughtillwecry. Thanks to brighteyed_jill for betaing!
Art: Amazing art by laughtillwecry can be found here. (Link coming soon)
Summary: Steve Rogers is a professional alpha with an unfortunately famous name. A veteran who specializes in people with top-secret clearance, he’s been having some particularly interesting clients lately. This brings him to the attention of SHIELD, who think an alpha like him could be just the person to help a very ill Asset they have. But Steve has more up his sleeve than just one set of skills when it comes to helping the people he cares for.
On Ao3 or below the cut
Two months later
This was probably the first time Steve’s stint in the military had been so crucial to a client. SHIELD had brought him here in a stealth plane, with a helmet and a bulletproof vest. To even get that seat, he’d had a conversation with Director Fury himself.
“I’ve got a shooter in a position to take out a target. He’s been there a week, and he absolutely cannot leave. And he’s due for heat. Normally he’d just take a temporary suppressant, but he’s done that three times already in the past year, and his doctor won’t approve a fourth.”
“His body won’t tolerate a fourth,” Steve said, knowing he wasn’t correcting Fury, but showing his knowledge. “He’s going to go into heat regardless. It might be shorter, but it’s going to be very intense. He doesn’t have a low drive, I take it.”
“No. He’s normal enough in that regard, and from what he’s told his CO, he’s going to be too compromised to guarantee a good shot. But he can’t leave. Our window is set, and I don’t have anyone else I can get into position without blowing someone’s cover. So you’ll need to go in. Will that be a problem?”
“No, sir.”
The agent in charge, Coulson, had been the one to accompany him on the plane. Apparently he was a huge fan of Captain America, and Steve had spent part of the flight signing vintage trading cards with Cap’s mug on them. Aside from that moment of intense geeking out, Coulson had been a consummate professional. He got them into the city without incident and helped Steve get up into the building opposite the target, into Barton’s nest. Inside the empty floor of offices was one with a thin mattress, supplies of food and water, a corner set aside for the necessities of a long stakeout in the form of sealed bottles and a few empty ones. The knock before they’d come in had been coded, and the call before Coulson had even taken Steve up the stairs had been secured, so Barton didn’t even turn his head or acknowledge them, just kept at the scope of his sniper rifle.
“Barton, this is Steve Rogers.”
From here, Clint Barton had the delicious ripe scent of an omega on the verge of a heavy heat, but he wasn’t moving an inch. Clint grunted in acknowledgement and Coulson backed out of the room. Steve moved closer, unbuttoning his pants but keeping everything else on.
“Thought you’d have a worn a bulletproof cup,” Clint said, eyes flicking up to a mirror he’d rigged on the wall so he could look behind him.
“They don’t make ‘em big enough,” Steve said, and Clint snorted in amusement.
“Nice. Look, I have a nasty arms dealer who also has illegal habits that include ‘what the fuck?’, ‘oh hell, no,’ and ‘I’m gonna kill this fucker with my bare hands.’ He’s coming out of this building sometime soon, going from his pleasure fortress down there to tank-like armored convoy and then back to his castle-like remote estate, so I have a skinny window to get him and his top lieutenants. My buddies in the other perches will take care of his security so I have time to erase my tracks, but I’m still waiting for word from my inside guy. She’s trying to send him out. He’s been known to spend weeks on end in there. So while I would really love to make this a little more fun for both of us, right now I need your eyes and a fast, hard knot.”
“As long as you don’t kick me out in the morning,” Steve said, moving closer and going to his knees, shoving his pants down and quickly slipping on a condom. “Are you covered for as long as this’ll take?”
“Yeah. Fuck, you smell good. Hang on a sec. Morse, Hunter, Ward, you’re on watch for…”
“Five,” Steve supplied quickly. There was a time for foreplay, like there had been with Bruce, and there was a time to get right down to business.
“Five minutes.”
There was a pause, and Clint snorted at something they said. Steve could barely make it out, probably some good-natured mockery about Barton’s bedroom stamina.
“Hopefully I get a chance to prove them wrong.” Barton put his gun down, sighed, and relaxed. “Yeah, Steve. Go.”
Steve pulled Clint’s pants down, positioned himself, held onto Clint’s hip with one hand, and thrust in to the hilt in a single motion. Clint shouted into the stock of his gun underneath him, but put one hand back over Steve’s to reassure him that all was well. Steve patted him on the hip, and slipped his hand underneath to find Clint’s cock. And then he pulled out all the stops, using every bit of experience to find Clint’s best angle and pace within the shortest amount of time, using sharp shallow thrusts to keep Clint moaning and gasping, working Clint’s cock in concert. He was wonderfully slick and beautifully responsive, and Steve muffled his own groan into Clint’s back as Clint came over his hand. Clint body’s tightened around Steve’s as his knot expanded, a fantastic sensation he wanted to savor as they both finally relaxed, breathing slowing into a much calmer pace. Clint’s whole frame seemed to unfurl as the initial quenching of his heat eased him down, and he sighed luxuriously before speaking.
“Jesus, that was the best five minutes of my fucking life.”
“I’m very flattered.”
“Barton, you have thirty seconds,” came a female voice over Barton’s earbud, audible to Steve because they were so close.
“Every fucking time, Nat,” Clint muttered. He snatched up his gun and glanced back at Steve. “Brace me, I’m going to have to do this kneeling.” Steve slung his arms around Clint’s middle and held firm as Barton tracked something down below on the sidewalk through his scope. “Morse, Hunter, Ward, ready.”
Affirmatives chorused. A woman from a store moved into position. “I’m clear, all targets in the lobby, moving out.”
“Car’s coming up.”
“Awning’s out.”
“Motherfucker,” Clint snarled. “Shot?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“Steve, on your back, head towards the window,” Clint said sharply.
Taking Clint with him, Steve did as he was bade and rolled over, and nearly went cross-eyed from ecstasy when Clint twisted a hundred and eighty degrees with an acrobat’s grace. A shudder went through him, and Steve felt Clint clamping down harder, but Clint never stopped moving. He set down the gun and from under a blanket snatched up a high-tech-looking bow and quiver of arrows. He put one on the string and held two more, leaning forward and focusing fiercely on something below. Steve used an arm to brace Clint in position, but otherwise held himself completely still.
“I have primary shot. On my mark. Go.” Clint fired all three arrows so fast Steve barely had time to blink. He craned his head back to see three holes through the awning, and a body on the sidewalk with arrows in each eye and another in the mouth. Several more bodies joined it, decorated with headshots.
“Target down!” came the chorus over the earpiece.
“Nat, are we clear?”
“Clear!”
“Clean-up. Now.”
Clint pressed a button on his’s bows grip, and his arrows exploded, neatly hiding exactly what had been done to the bodies and giving everyone in the area something else to think about.
“Coulson, I need clean-up at my location.”
“Ex-fil, is waiting to go now.”
“Steve, you gotta carry me down, buddy.”
“No problem.” It was awkward, but with Clint clinging to his neck and his legs around Steve’s waist, bow and quiver still on him, it was possible. Steve gripped him with one hand, and the belt of his pants with the other, because he couldn’t take the time to do anything else. Steve took the stairs as quickly as he could, both of their vests rubbing together, Clint clenching around him every other step, threatening to send him to his knees. Finally they briefly emerged into daylight, Coulson ushering them into the big bench backseat of a van. They drove away in the confusion as police and ambulances came screaming to the scene of the explosion. Clint didn’t relax his grip or vigil until Coulson tapped his ear and said, “We’re clear, the others are out, sites are scrubbed.”
Then Clint all but collapsed against Steve, body easing onto Steve’s knot, breath coming out in a rush of satisfaction and relief.
“Good job, Barton,” Coulson said, and Clint just nodded. Steve could see how wired and on-edge he had ben, and rolled his hips a little, giving Clint a soothing pulse of pleasure.
“That was amazing,” he said, meaning it.
“You too. Nat said you were good.” Clint rolled his hips in perfect counterpoint to Steve, and he bit back a groan.
“Barton,” Coulson said, a hint of a warning in his tone.
“You guys kept me out there for weeks after I should have had a break. I don’t care if I get slick on the seats right now. Get us back to someplace with a bedroom so Steve can fuck the stupid out of me, and then we can all go out for a beer.”
“…Fine.”
“Steve, that includes you,” Clint said firmly.
“I don’t-.”
“Professional protocol can take a hike. You helped take down a very bad guy, and stop a lot of misery and pain because of it. You get to celebrate with a beer.”
“How could I refuse?”
After two hours of very intense knotting sex in a scent-blocked room in a distant safehouse, a one-hour power nap, and a quick shower, Clint nearly dragged Steve to a bar where the rest of his team showed up soon after. With bottles on the table and more on the way, Clint went around to introduce everyone.
“Natasha, I think you know,” Clint said.
“Intimately,” she said without a blush. Utterly unsurprisingly, Clint’s “inside man” was the same Natasha who’d contracted Steve upon his return from his Brazillian vacation nearly a year ago.
“I hope Jerry and Sonya are in a good place,” Steve said, and she smirked.
“Exactly where they’re supposed to be,” she said, clinking her bottle with his.
“Those two are Bobbi and Lance,” Clint said. Those two had been quipping at each other when they walked in. Bobbi had been one of the people in the crowd during the op, using her looks and blonde hair to fit in with the populace until it had been time to go to work. No longer working, Steve could see she was just as graceful and strong as Natasha, with an American accent he rather thought was real. Lance was cut more from a soldier’s cloth, athletic and short-haired, dark stubble making him look like he’d been spending nearly as much time in his sniper’s perch as Clint had. He was British from his speech, and from the way he and Bobbi kept bouncing off each other, committed.
“And that’s Grant.” He was younger than the others, with a face that could have been used for a monument, darkly handsome with a snipers’ long gaze. He’d been quiet most of the time, likely new to the team.
Clint was telling the others about Steve’s “heroic” actions, while Steve just shook his head and savored the bitter bite of his beer.
“…picked the exact wrong time, Nat, so Steve just kept doing his thing and braced me so I could do mine.”
Bobbi and Lance were laughing, and even the dour Ward had cracked a smile. Natasha raised her glass to clink bottles with the others as Clint said, “Chalk another one up for the good guys.” After a round of contemplative swallows, Ward turned his attention to Steve.
“You get dragged out for this kind of thing a lot? Or did Barton beg for it?” he asked.
Bobbi gasped in mock-shock as Lance thumped his bottle with Ward in appreciation for the zinger. Steve grinned in the face of Ward’s jab - the kid had moxie. “No often on active missions, but a lot of times before or after,” he explained.
Clint was still in a post-heat flood of endorphins, and feeling very inclined to be indulgent. Otherwise Steve was certain Ward would have been sporting some sort of projectile in a very embarrassing place in no time at all.
“Post-op work?” Ward pressed.
“Yeah, especially if people need someone with-.”
“A huge-,” Lance started, and Bobbi shut him up by pushing his beer into his mouth.
“-Good reflexes,” Steve finished smoothly. Ward looked thoughtful, and Steve wondered if he knew someone who needed a professional’s services. Ward was definitely an alpha, and, if Steve’s observations of who Ward was looking at in the bar were right, likely not someone who needed someone in Steve’s line of work. But he could have a friend, a squad-mate…
“That does it,” Clint said, giving everyone at the table a shit-eating grin. He walked over to the music system, made a selection, and then bopped back to the table with the opening notes of Pat Benatar’s “Love Is A Battlefield.” Natasha groaned, and the table moved on to conversation of everyone’s questionable musical choices. Ignoring the main thread of the discussion, Ward kept questioning Steve.
“They fly you out here on a transport?”
“Had to, it was the only thing going. I already served my time, so I know the drill. I’ve flown in worse.”
“Fury must have moved heaven and earth to get you here this fast.”
“Just one plane. He said I was needed, so here I am.”
“Your job must pay better than this, I bet,” he said, waving vaguely to indicate the team.
Steve chuckled. Even a specialist’s pay, like Ward, wouldn’t get you tropical vacations and fancy cars, but then again, neither would Steve’s, not with his expenses.
“Somewhat. I don’t get shot at, at least. I do some work gratis, especially for vets.”
“You mean…” Clint said, grinning widely, and Steve mentally begged for him not to finish that sentence. “Pro boner?”
In vain, it seemed.
The table groaned or laughed according to how many beers they’d downed, Bobbi and Lance breaking into nearly identical giggles. Even Ward was grinning.
“How long have you two been married?” Steve demanded of Bobbi and Lance, drawing another laugh from them.
“One year and counting,” Lance said proudly.
“You’re too much alike.”
“Don’t we know it,” Bobbi said, arm slung around Lance.
Steve smiled as the quips and stories flowed around the table, putting in a word or two where he could. It felt good being part of a team again, drinking in a bar after a mission, having made the world just that much better, brighter, at least for a while.
--
Two weeks later
Secretary Pierce initially regarded Steve with skepticism, then smiled, relaxing. He’d liked what he’d heard from Fury, apparently. “I believe you will find this assignment particularly challenging, Mr. Rogers.”
Steve stood easily, despite the fact that he had had no more than five minutes of warning before literally being hauled out of his apartment and driven, blindfolded, to this office for “a matter of national security.” This wasn’t a call for the Secretary, personally. He was a beta, not uncommon for a politician, but one who wore cologne with an aggressive alpha scent. It wasn’t as blatant as those cheap “mating call” scents hawked in drug stores or over the internet, but a refined and subtle scent you wouldn’t notice consciously unless you were looking for it. That would give him an edge over a hot-headed agent.
No one on this floor had had so much as a whiff of heat around them. Not even the industrial-grade filters and scent blockers were going to eliminate every trace, not to Steve. So, perhaps another embedded field operative, like Clint? Or for another black-ops agent? There was no other reason to bring him here with this level of urgency and secrecy.
“Your clearance rating and successes with military prisoners of war is why we chose you and not someone in-house. Not to mention your performance with other agents under my jurisdiction.” He glanced briefly at the NDAs Steve had been required to sign before even stepping foot in the office, then locked eyes with Steve. “Some years back we acquired an asset from Russia through means I’m not going to get into. This asset was a prisoner of war, captured while injured, surgically modified and cyborged, brainwashed and conditioned to become an assassin, using fairly invasive and violent measures. The records we have indicate Russia had him for at least twenty years, if not longer, keeping him in cryosleep when he was not needed.
“We’re trying to make sure he is as healthy as he can be, considering his circumstances, but obviously recovery is a long, frustrating, uncertain road. Needless to say, it seems the Russians found the idea of an assassin in heat to be less than idea, so the asset has been on very heavy suppressants for at least twenty years.”
Through his growing sense of horror and outrage, Steve winced. Between the body’s rhythms being disrupted through cryosleep, and the necessary kinds of suppressants to work for that long of a time, the man had to be barely hanging on.
“The Russians didn’t know his real name, and the asset doesn’t either. He remembers nothing of his past, or at least nothing we’ve could tell definitively. He rarely talks, and there’s evidence of a long history of torture.”
“Sir, I--”
“I understand this would entire substantial risk to you. Even damaged, this man has the capacity for incredible violence, and has spent years being honed into a weapon. I have combat-trained alphas, but no one trained for such a violent heat. We don’t have many omegas in combat positions. We have people who want to help him, an entire staff who’s ready to tend to his health and get him better, but they can’t even get close to him in his current state, not until he gets balanced out. The suppressants the Russians were using were devastating to his system.”
“Sir,” Steve still felt sick, but he wasn’t going to back down, not now. Not ever. “I’ll do everything I can to help him.”
“Good man.” Pierce put a small plastic box on the table, and Steve knew what it contained right away. “Nasal flare filters,” he said unnecessarily.
Steve kept himself from pressing his lips together with distaste, or working his jaw to show he was biting his tongue. A few times he’d worked with people who were undercover, who’d felt it worth his life for him to know their scent. That, he could understand; it made his job harder, but sometimes it was necessary. However, if this “asset” was supposed to be getting better, why hide his scent from a professional?
“This is for his own protection, and yours, Mr. Rogers. There are still several places where he still has a price on his head. Having a civilian with that knowledge would be very troublesome.”
Steve just nodded, wanting to get out of this uncomfortable interview and to the man who needed his help.
“The asset is extraordinarily sensitive right now, partially due to heat, partially due to what modifications were made to his system. So he will be goggled and masked with scent blockers for most of your session,” Pierce continued blithely.
Steve kept his jaw from dropping with difficulty.
“I understand there will need to be some scenting in order for him to make a full recovery.” Pierce dropped a pill and a pheromone ampule on the desk next to the nasal flares. Steve recognized them. Anyone in his line of work would.
“That’s illegal,” he said flatly.
“Rogers, I need him to associate comfort with his recovery team’s pheromones, not yours. You are a one-time thing, a significant one, but we don’t want him asking for you again, for your own safety.”
Steve picked up the pill with distaste. It was supposed to block his own pheromone output, while the ampule would hold someone else’s pheromones. The combination was used some therapies legitimately, normally memory recovery or occasional sexual therapy, but was also used illegally in sexual assault, fraudulent bonding, date rape, false heats, and other ugly cases.
“Sir, you know how important it is to use pheromones when bringing someone out of a long drought. But this- if you just needed a body…” Horrible as this was, what was Pierce’s reasoning for calling in Steve? The DoD had their own professional alphas on staff, and there would have been no need for extra NDAs or this very shady pheromone regimen.
“As I said, he’s dangerous due to his conditioning as well as his amnesia. And he’s violent at times, very violent. My own alphas don’t have the experience with the same kind of cases you’ve dealt with. I have combat-trained alphas, I have alphas who’ve helped others through heat, but I don’t have a compatible one who’s done both. You did say you’d do anything to help, yes?”
Steve kept his expression neutral. “Right now, sir?”
Pierce nodded, and slid the tablet and ampule over. Steve popped the pill, took the nasal flares and ampule and stood. Right now, this was his show.
“Let’s get going. I’ll need an hour for the pill to kick in, and a hot shower to remove traces of my own scent. I brought scent-neutralizing soap and shampoo with me.” Without a backwards glance, Steve walked straight out of the room, leaving Pierce to follow in his wake.
--------
Chapter 4
Chapter 2
Master Post
Author: jaune_chat
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters/Relationships: Steve/Bruce, Steve/Natasha, Steve/Tony, Steve/Thor/Jane, Steve/Clint, Steve/Bucky, Sam Wilson, Darcy Lewis, James Logan (Wolverine), guest appearances by some Agents of SHIELD, Fury, and Coulson.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 23,057
Spoilers: Uses elements through Captain America: Civil War.
Content Advisory: Alternate Universe, Alpha/Omega/Beta dynamics, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Sex Work, Identity Porn, implied past abuse, action/adventure/violence, references to mind control.
A/N: This story was written for marvel-bang. Amazing art by laughtillwecry. Thanks to brighteyed_jill for betaing!
Art: Amazing art by laughtillwecry can be found here. (Link coming soon)
Summary: Steve Rogers is a professional alpha with an unfortunately famous name. A veteran who specializes in people with top-secret clearance, he’s been having some particularly interesting clients lately. This brings him to the attention of SHIELD, who think an alpha like him could be just the person to help a very ill Asset they have. But Steve has more up his sleeve than just one set of skills when it comes to helping the people he cares for.
On Ao3 or below the cut
Two months later
This was probably the first time Steve’s stint in the military had been so crucial to a client. SHIELD had brought him here in a stealth plane, with a helmet and a bulletproof vest. To even get that seat, he’d had a conversation with Director Fury himself.
“I’ve got a shooter in a position to take out a target. He’s been there a week, and he absolutely cannot leave. And he’s due for heat. Normally he’d just take a temporary suppressant, but he’s done that three times already in the past year, and his doctor won’t approve a fourth.”
“His body won’t tolerate a fourth,” Steve said, knowing he wasn’t correcting Fury, but showing his knowledge. “He’s going to go into heat regardless. It might be shorter, but it’s going to be very intense. He doesn’t have a low drive, I take it.”
“No. He’s normal enough in that regard, and from what he’s told his CO, he’s going to be too compromised to guarantee a good shot. But he can’t leave. Our window is set, and I don’t have anyone else I can get into position without blowing someone’s cover. So you’ll need to go in. Will that be a problem?”
“No, sir.”
The agent in charge, Coulson, had been the one to accompany him on the plane. Apparently he was a huge fan of Captain America, and Steve had spent part of the flight signing vintage trading cards with Cap’s mug on them. Aside from that moment of intense geeking out, Coulson had been a consummate professional. He got them into the city without incident and helped Steve get up into the building opposite the target, into Barton’s nest. Inside the empty floor of offices was one with a thin mattress, supplies of food and water, a corner set aside for the necessities of a long stakeout in the form of sealed bottles and a few empty ones. The knock before they’d come in had been coded, and the call before Coulson had even taken Steve up the stairs had been secured, so Barton didn’t even turn his head or acknowledge them, just kept at the scope of his sniper rifle.
“Barton, this is Steve Rogers.”
From here, Clint Barton had the delicious ripe scent of an omega on the verge of a heavy heat, but he wasn’t moving an inch. Clint grunted in acknowledgement and Coulson backed out of the room. Steve moved closer, unbuttoning his pants but keeping everything else on.
“Thought you’d have a worn a bulletproof cup,” Clint said, eyes flicking up to a mirror he’d rigged on the wall so he could look behind him.
“They don’t make ‘em big enough,” Steve said, and Clint snorted in amusement.
“Nice. Look, I have a nasty arms dealer who also has illegal habits that include ‘what the fuck?’, ‘oh hell, no,’ and ‘I’m gonna kill this fucker with my bare hands.’ He’s coming out of this building sometime soon, going from his pleasure fortress down there to tank-like armored convoy and then back to his castle-like remote estate, so I have a skinny window to get him and his top lieutenants. My buddies in the other perches will take care of his security so I have time to erase my tracks, but I’m still waiting for word from my inside guy. She’s trying to send him out. He’s been known to spend weeks on end in there. So while I would really love to make this a little more fun for both of us, right now I need your eyes and a fast, hard knot.”
“As long as you don’t kick me out in the morning,” Steve said, moving closer and going to his knees, shoving his pants down and quickly slipping on a condom. “Are you covered for as long as this’ll take?”
“Yeah. Fuck, you smell good. Hang on a sec. Morse, Hunter, Ward, you’re on watch for…”
“Five,” Steve supplied quickly. There was a time for foreplay, like there had been with Bruce, and there was a time to get right down to business.
“Five minutes.”
There was a pause, and Clint snorted at something they said. Steve could barely make it out, probably some good-natured mockery about Barton’s bedroom stamina.
“Hopefully I get a chance to prove them wrong.” Barton put his gun down, sighed, and relaxed. “Yeah, Steve. Go.”
Steve pulled Clint’s pants down, positioned himself, held onto Clint’s hip with one hand, and thrust in to the hilt in a single motion. Clint shouted into the stock of his gun underneath him, but put one hand back over Steve’s to reassure him that all was well. Steve patted him on the hip, and slipped his hand underneath to find Clint’s cock. And then he pulled out all the stops, using every bit of experience to find Clint’s best angle and pace within the shortest amount of time, using sharp shallow thrusts to keep Clint moaning and gasping, working Clint’s cock in concert. He was wonderfully slick and beautifully responsive, and Steve muffled his own groan into Clint’s back as Clint came over his hand. Clint body’s tightened around Steve’s as his knot expanded, a fantastic sensation he wanted to savor as they both finally relaxed, breathing slowing into a much calmer pace. Clint’s whole frame seemed to unfurl as the initial quenching of his heat eased him down, and he sighed luxuriously before speaking.
“Jesus, that was the best five minutes of my fucking life.”
“I’m very flattered.”
“Barton, you have thirty seconds,” came a female voice over Barton’s earbud, audible to Steve because they were so close.
“Every fucking time, Nat,” Clint muttered. He snatched up his gun and glanced back at Steve. “Brace me, I’m going to have to do this kneeling.” Steve slung his arms around Clint’s middle and held firm as Barton tracked something down below on the sidewalk through his scope. “Morse, Hunter, Ward, ready.”
Affirmatives chorused. A woman from a store moved into position. “I’m clear, all targets in the lobby, moving out.”
“Car’s coming up.”
“Awning’s out.”
“Motherfucker,” Clint snarled. “Shot?”
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
“Steve, on your back, head towards the window,” Clint said sharply.
Taking Clint with him, Steve did as he was bade and rolled over, and nearly went cross-eyed from ecstasy when Clint twisted a hundred and eighty degrees with an acrobat’s grace. A shudder went through him, and Steve felt Clint clamping down harder, but Clint never stopped moving. He set down the gun and from under a blanket snatched up a high-tech-looking bow and quiver of arrows. He put one on the string and held two more, leaning forward and focusing fiercely on something below. Steve used an arm to brace Clint in position, but otherwise held himself completely still.
“I have primary shot. On my mark. Go.” Clint fired all three arrows so fast Steve barely had time to blink. He craned his head back to see three holes through the awning, and a body on the sidewalk with arrows in each eye and another in the mouth. Several more bodies joined it, decorated with headshots.
“Target down!” came the chorus over the earpiece.
“Nat, are we clear?”
“Clear!”
“Clean-up. Now.”
Clint pressed a button on his’s bows grip, and his arrows exploded, neatly hiding exactly what had been done to the bodies and giving everyone in the area something else to think about.
“Coulson, I need clean-up at my location.”
“Ex-fil, is waiting to go now.”
“Steve, you gotta carry me down, buddy.”
“No problem.” It was awkward, but with Clint clinging to his neck and his legs around Steve’s waist, bow and quiver still on him, it was possible. Steve gripped him with one hand, and the belt of his pants with the other, because he couldn’t take the time to do anything else. Steve took the stairs as quickly as he could, both of their vests rubbing together, Clint clenching around him every other step, threatening to send him to his knees. Finally they briefly emerged into daylight, Coulson ushering them into the big bench backseat of a van. They drove away in the confusion as police and ambulances came screaming to the scene of the explosion. Clint didn’t relax his grip or vigil until Coulson tapped his ear and said, “We’re clear, the others are out, sites are scrubbed.”
Then Clint all but collapsed against Steve, body easing onto Steve’s knot, breath coming out in a rush of satisfaction and relief.
“Good job, Barton,” Coulson said, and Clint just nodded. Steve could see how wired and on-edge he had ben, and rolled his hips a little, giving Clint a soothing pulse of pleasure.
“That was amazing,” he said, meaning it.
“You too. Nat said you were good.” Clint rolled his hips in perfect counterpoint to Steve, and he bit back a groan.
“Barton,” Coulson said, a hint of a warning in his tone.
“You guys kept me out there for weeks after I should have had a break. I don’t care if I get slick on the seats right now. Get us back to someplace with a bedroom so Steve can fuck the stupid out of me, and then we can all go out for a beer.”
“…Fine.”
“Steve, that includes you,” Clint said firmly.
“I don’t-.”
“Professional protocol can take a hike. You helped take down a very bad guy, and stop a lot of misery and pain because of it. You get to celebrate with a beer.”
“How could I refuse?”
After two hours of very intense knotting sex in a scent-blocked room in a distant safehouse, a one-hour power nap, and a quick shower, Clint nearly dragged Steve to a bar where the rest of his team showed up soon after. With bottles on the table and more on the way, Clint went around to introduce everyone.
“Natasha, I think you know,” Clint said.
“Intimately,” she said without a blush. Utterly unsurprisingly, Clint’s “inside man” was the same Natasha who’d contracted Steve upon his return from his Brazillian vacation nearly a year ago.
“I hope Jerry and Sonya are in a good place,” Steve said, and she smirked.
“Exactly where they’re supposed to be,” she said, clinking her bottle with his.
“Those two are Bobbi and Lance,” Clint said. Those two had been quipping at each other when they walked in. Bobbi had been one of the people in the crowd during the op, using her looks and blonde hair to fit in with the populace until it had been time to go to work. No longer working, Steve could see she was just as graceful and strong as Natasha, with an American accent he rather thought was real. Lance was cut more from a soldier’s cloth, athletic and short-haired, dark stubble making him look like he’d been spending nearly as much time in his sniper’s perch as Clint had. He was British from his speech, and from the way he and Bobbi kept bouncing off each other, committed.
“And that’s Grant.” He was younger than the others, with a face that could have been used for a monument, darkly handsome with a snipers’ long gaze. He’d been quiet most of the time, likely new to the team.
Clint was telling the others about Steve’s “heroic” actions, while Steve just shook his head and savored the bitter bite of his beer.
“…picked the exact wrong time, Nat, so Steve just kept doing his thing and braced me so I could do mine.”
Bobbi and Lance were laughing, and even the dour Ward had cracked a smile. Natasha raised her glass to clink bottles with the others as Clint said, “Chalk another one up for the good guys.” After a round of contemplative swallows, Ward turned his attention to Steve.
“You get dragged out for this kind of thing a lot? Or did Barton beg for it?” he asked.
Bobbi gasped in mock-shock as Lance thumped his bottle with Ward in appreciation for the zinger. Steve grinned in the face of Ward’s jab - the kid had moxie. “No often on active missions, but a lot of times before or after,” he explained.
Clint was still in a post-heat flood of endorphins, and feeling very inclined to be indulgent. Otherwise Steve was certain Ward would have been sporting some sort of projectile in a very embarrassing place in no time at all.
“Post-op work?” Ward pressed.
“Yeah, especially if people need someone with-.”
“A huge-,” Lance started, and Bobbi shut him up by pushing his beer into his mouth.
“-Good reflexes,” Steve finished smoothly. Ward looked thoughtful, and Steve wondered if he knew someone who needed a professional’s services. Ward was definitely an alpha, and, if Steve’s observations of who Ward was looking at in the bar were right, likely not someone who needed someone in Steve’s line of work. But he could have a friend, a squad-mate…
“That does it,” Clint said, giving everyone at the table a shit-eating grin. He walked over to the music system, made a selection, and then bopped back to the table with the opening notes of Pat Benatar’s “Love Is A Battlefield.” Natasha groaned, and the table moved on to conversation of everyone’s questionable musical choices. Ignoring the main thread of the discussion, Ward kept questioning Steve.
“They fly you out here on a transport?”
“Had to, it was the only thing going. I already served my time, so I know the drill. I’ve flown in worse.”
“Fury must have moved heaven and earth to get you here this fast.”
“Just one plane. He said I was needed, so here I am.”
“Your job must pay better than this, I bet,” he said, waving vaguely to indicate the team.
Steve chuckled. Even a specialist’s pay, like Ward, wouldn’t get you tropical vacations and fancy cars, but then again, neither would Steve’s, not with his expenses.
“Somewhat. I don’t get shot at, at least. I do some work gratis, especially for vets.”
“You mean…” Clint said, grinning widely, and Steve mentally begged for him not to finish that sentence. “Pro boner?”
In vain, it seemed.
The table groaned or laughed according to how many beers they’d downed, Bobbi and Lance breaking into nearly identical giggles. Even Ward was grinning.
“How long have you two been married?” Steve demanded of Bobbi and Lance, drawing another laugh from them.
“One year and counting,” Lance said proudly.
“You’re too much alike.”
“Don’t we know it,” Bobbi said, arm slung around Lance.
Steve smiled as the quips and stories flowed around the table, putting in a word or two where he could. It felt good being part of a team again, drinking in a bar after a mission, having made the world just that much better, brighter, at least for a while.
--
Two weeks later
Secretary Pierce initially regarded Steve with skepticism, then smiled, relaxing. He’d liked what he’d heard from Fury, apparently. “I believe you will find this assignment particularly challenging, Mr. Rogers.”
Steve stood easily, despite the fact that he had had no more than five minutes of warning before literally being hauled out of his apartment and driven, blindfolded, to this office for “a matter of national security.” This wasn’t a call for the Secretary, personally. He was a beta, not uncommon for a politician, but one who wore cologne with an aggressive alpha scent. It wasn’t as blatant as those cheap “mating call” scents hawked in drug stores or over the internet, but a refined and subtle scent you wouldn’t notice consciously unless you were looking for it. That would give him an edge over a hot-headed agent.
No one on this floor had had so much as a whiff of heat around them. Not even the industrial-grade filters and scent blockers were going to eliminate every trace, not to Steve. So, perhaps another embedded field operative, like Clint? Or for another black-ops agent? There was no other reason to bring him here with this level of urgency and secrecy.
“Your clearance rating and successes with military prisoners of war is why we chose you and not someone in-house. Not to mention your performance with other agents under my jurisdiction.” He glanced briefly at the NDAs Steve had been required to sign before even stepping foot in the office, then locked eyes with Steve. “Some years back we acquired an asset from Russia through means I’m not going to get into. This asset was a prisoner of war, captured while injured, surgically modified and cyborged, brainwashed and conditioned to become an assassin, using fairly invasive and violent measures. The records we have indicate Russia had him for at least twenty years, if not longer, keeping him in cryosleep when he was not needed.
“We’re trying to make sure he is as healthy as he can be, considering his circumstances, but obviously recovery is a long, frustrating, uncertain road. Needless to say, it seems the Russians found the idea of an assassin in heat to be less than idea, so the asset has been on very heavy suppressants for at least twenty years.”
Through his growing sense of horror and outrage, Steve winced. Between the body’s rhythms being disrupted through cryosleep, and the necessary kinds of suppressants to work for that long of a time, the man had to be barely hanging on.
“The Russians didn’t know his real name, and the asset doesn’t either. He remembers nothing of his past, or at least nothing we’ve could tell definitively. He rarely talks, and there’s evidence of a long history of torture.”
“Sir, I--”
“I understand this would entire substantial risk to you. Even damaged, this man has the capacity for incredible violence, and has spent years being honed into a weapon. I have combat-trained alphas, but no one trained for such a violent heat. We don’t have many omegas in combat positions. We have people who want to help him, an entire staff who’s ready to tend to his health and get him better, but they can’t even get close to him in his current state, not until he gets balanced out. The suppressants the Russians were using were devastating to his system.”
“Sir,” Steve still felt sick, but he wasn’t going to back down, not now. Not ever. “I’ll do everything I can to help him.”
“Good man.” Pierce put a small plastic box on the table, and Steve knew what it contained right away. “Nasal flare filters,” he said unnecessarily.
Steve kept himself from pressing his lips together with distaste, or working his jaw to show he was biting his tongue. A few times he’d worked with people who were undercover, who’d felt it worth his life for him to know their scent. That, he could understand; it made his job harder, but sometimes it was necessary. However, if this “asset” was supposed to be getting better, why hide his scent from a professional?
“This is for his own protection, and yours, Mr. Rogers. There are still several places where he still has a price on his head. Having a civilian with that knowledge would be very troublesome.”
Steve just nodded, wanting to get out of this uncomfortable interview and to the man who needed his help.
“The asset is extraordinarily sensitive right now, partially due to heat, partially due to what modifications were made to his system. So he will be goggled and masked with scent blockers for most of your session,” Pierce continued blithely.
Steve kept his jaw from dropping with difficulty.
“I understand there will need to be some scenting in order for him to make a full recovery.” Pierce dropped a pill and a pheromone ampule on the desk next to the nasal flares. Steve recognized them. Anyone in his line of work would.
“That’s illegal,” he said flatly.
“Rogers, I need him to associate comfort with his recovery team’s pheromones, not yours. You are a one-time thing, a significant one, but we don’t want him asking for you again, for your own safety.”
Steve picked up the pill with distaste. It was supposed to block his own pheromone output, while the ampule would hold someone else’s pheromones. The combination was used some therapies legitimately, normally memory recovery or occasional sexual therapy, but was also used illegally in sexual assault, fraudulent bonding, date rape, false heats, and other ugly cases.
“Sir, you know how important it is to use pheromones when bringing someone out of a long drought. But this- if you just needed a body…” Horrible as this was, what was Pierce’s reasoning for calling in Steve? The DoD had their own professional alphas on staff, and there would have been no need for extra NDAs or this very shady pheromone regimen.
“As I said, he’s dangerous due to his conditioning as well as his amnesia. And he’s violent at times, very violent. My own alphas don’t have the experience with the same kind of cases you’ve dealt with. I have combat-trained alphas, I have alphas who’ve helped others through heat, but I don’t have a compatible one who’s done both. You did say you’d do anything to help, yes?”
Steve kept his expression neutral. “Right now, sir?”
Pierce nodded, and slid the tablet and ampule over. Steve popped the pill, took the nasal flares and ampule and stood. Right now, this was his show.
“Let’s get going. I’ll need an hour for the pill to kick in, and a hot shower to remove traces of my own scent. I brought scent-neutralizing soap and shampoo with me.” Without a backwards glance, Steve walked straight out of the room, leaving Pierce to follow in his wake.
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Chapter 4
Chapter 2
Master Post