Chapter Text
The orders arrived three weeks later.
Not military orders. Not deployment papers. Nothing so straightforward.
The envelope carried the insignia of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, embossed in dark ink across thick cream paper that felt entirely too expensive for government correspondence. Steve stared at it for nearly a full minute before opening it. He had spent years receiving letters from recruitment offices. Years receiving variations of the same answer. Rejected. Medically unfit. Ineligible. Unsuitable. The language changed. The conclusion never had.
This envelope was different.
By the time he unfolded the letter, Winnifred had abandoned her mending and Rebecca had stopped pretending to read the newspaper.
The silence stretched across the kitchen.
Steve read the contents once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
"What is it?" Rebecca finally demanded.
His mouth felt oddly dry.
"I think..." He frowned down at the paper. "I think somebody wants me to report to a military base."
The newspaper immediately slid from Rebecca's lap.
"What?"
"That's impossible," Winnifred said.
Steve found himself agreeing.
The entire thing felt impossible.
Yet three days later he was standing outside Camp Lehigh with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and enough paperwork in his pocket to prove the impossible had happened anyway.
The journey from Brooklyn had felt strangely detached from reality. A train. A government vehicle. Security checkpoints. Men carrying identification badges he wasn't allowed to question. Nobody explained very much. Whenever Steve attempted to ask where exactly he was going, the answer remained frustratingly vague.
Project Rebirth.
Strategic Scientific Reserve.
National importance.
Need-to-know clearance.
The phrases circled endlessly without ever explaining anything.
Only Doctor Erskine had offered something resembling honesty.
"We are looking for a volunteer."
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The memory followed Steve as he stood at the entrance to camp watching recruits stream through the gates.
Most looked exactly how military recruitment posters suggested soldiers should look. Tall. Broad. Confident. Alphas dominated the crowd, their scents muted beneath military-issued suppressants but still present enough for trained instincts to notice. Betas moved amongst them in smaller numbers. A handful of omegas appeared as well, though unlike Steve they wore designation badges openly upon their uniforms.
Support personnel.
Communications.
Medical assignments.
None looked particularly surprised to be there.
Steve felt as though he'd accidentally wandered into somebody else's future.
A hand settled unexpectedly against his shoulder.
He nearly jumped.
Colonel Phillips looked unimpressed by the reaction.
"If you're done gawking, Rogers, move."
The man possessed a remarkable talent for sounding irritated by somebody's existence.
Steve suspected it was a gift.
The colonel's expression darkened further as his gaze swept over Steve's frame.
Months later and he still looked exactly as every recruiter remembered him.
Small.
Narrow.
The sort of omega people instinctively moved around in crowded streets.
Steve had become accustomed to those reactions years ago.
That didn't mean he enjoyed them.
Phillips snorted.
"Erskine swears by you."
The statement sounded less like praise and more like a personal grievance.
"I haven't figured out why."
Neither had Steve.
The colonel gestured sharply toward a nearby administration building.
"Medical processing."
Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Military efficiency replaced the organised chaos of arriving recruits. White-coated physicians moved between examination rooms carrying clipboards and charts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper.
Steve's file was waiting.
Apparently it required its own folder.
The doctor assigned to him appeared exhausted before the examination had even begun.
"Steve Rogers."
The man flipped through pages.
Then more pages.
Then even more pages.
His eyebrows climbed steadily higher.
"Good Lord."
Steve winced.
"Yeah."
The doctor removed his glasses.
Rubbed his eyes.
Then looked at Steve as though personally offended by the contents of his medical history.
"You survived all this?"
"I've been told I'm stubborn."
"That wasn't intended as a compliment."
"Usually isn't."
The doctor's mouth twitched despite himself.
Several examinations followed. Blood pressure. Weight. Lung function. Blood work. Measurements. Questions. More questions.
Then the conversation shifted.
The room seemed to grow quieter.
The physician opened a separate folder.
Much thinner.
Marked with security classifications.
"Military-grade suppressants."
Steve straightened slightly.
The doctor nodded.
"We'll begin immediately."
The words settled heavily between them.
Every omega used suppressants at some point. They were hardly unusual. Most pharmacies carried several brands. Steve had used them throughout his teenage years before bonding with Bucky.
This was different.
Military suppressants weren't designed for comfort.
They were designed for concealment.
The distinction mattered.
"You understand the purpose?"
Steve nodded slowly.
Nobody at camp could know.
Officially, he existed as a special candidate attached to Project Rebirth.
Unofficially, Colonel Phillips had made the situation painfully clear.
If word spread that Doctor Erskine's chosen candidate was a mated omega suffering from documented separation stress, the project would become a laughingstock before it began.
Some people already considered it one.
The physician placed a small bottle on the desk.
The tablets inside looked entirely ordinary.
Steve hated them immediately.
By evening he could barely smell himself.
The sensation proved far more unsettling than expected.
Most people thought scent was simply another biological characteristic.
It wasn't.
Not really.
Scent threaded through memory. Through instinct. Through identity itself.
Home smelled a certain way.
Family smelled a certain way.
Love smelled a certain way.
Even loneliness carried its own distinct scent if one paid attention.
Now there was almost nothing.
The suppressant erased every trace with ruthless efficiency.
No omega.
No mate.
No bond.
Only the sterile smell of military soap and freshly issued uniforms remained.
For the first time since presenting, Steve carried no evidence of what he was.
The experience felt less like freedom and more like haunting.
Barracks life began the following morning.
Chaos arrived with it.
The room assigned to Steve housed nearly forty recruits. Boots littered the floor. Conversations bounced off every available surface. Somebody was already arguing about baseball before sunrise. Another recruit had somehow managed to lose government-issued equipment less than twelve hours after arriving.
Steve had barely crossed the threshold before a voice announced:
"Jesus Christ."
The room quieted.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Heads turned.
Eyes followed.
Steve sighed.
The reaction was familiar.
A recruit sitting on the nearest bunk looked genuinely concerned.
"You're one of the candidates?"
"Unfortunately."
Several men laughed.
Others continued staring.
One alpha frowned openly.
"You look twelve."
"Twenty-three."
"That's worse."
The laughter came louder this time.
Steve dropped his duffel onto the final empty bunk and began unpacking.
The comments continued around him.
Too small.
Too skinny.
Wrong place.
Wrong assignment.
Wrong everything.
None particularly original.
By lunchtime he'd heard most of them before.
The obstacle course began after dawn the following day.
By breakfast Steve understood exactly why Colonel Phillips hated him.
Every candidate sprinted.
Climbed.
Crawled.
Jumped.
Performed with varying levels of competence.
Steve simply tried not to die.
His body had always demanded negotiation rather than obedience. Every achievement cost more. Every task required planning. Years of illness had taught him how to ration energy with almost military precision.
Unfortunately actual military exercises cared very little about strategy.
The wall defeated him three separate times.
The rope climb wasn't much better.
By the end of the morning dirt coated his uniform and every muscle he possessed had begun composing strongly worded complaints.
Somewhere above him Colonel Phillips watched through narrowed eyes.
"He can't even clear a wall."
The comment wasn't directed at Steve.
Doctor Erskine stood beside him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Observing.
Steve couldn't hear the doctor's response.
He didn't need to.
Because Erskine wasn't watching the successful recruits.
He was watching Steve.
Watching the candidate who kept dragging himself upright after every failure.
Watching the omega nobody knew was an omega.
Watching the man too stubborn to quit.
The distinction mattered.
By the end of the week Steve had become camp entertainment.
Recruits took bets on how quickly he'd wash out.
Nobody wagered particularly high.
The smart money favoured immediate failure.
Steve responded by continuing to exist.
Which appeared to frustrate everyone involved.
Every night he returned to the barracks exhausted beyond language. Letters to Bucky became the highlight of his day. The only part untouched by scrutiny or judgement or military expectations.
He wrote about camp.
Left out the worst parts.
Included amusing ones.
Complained about food.
Asked questions he wouldn't receive answers to for weeks.
The familiar rhythm of correspondence eased something inside him.
Never enough.
Enough.
The nest happened accidentally.
At least the first time.
The second time involved considerably less innocence.
Weeks of separation had sharpened instincts already strained by suppressants and unfamiliar surroundings. Camp smelled wrong. The barracks smelled wrong. Every waking hour demanded vigilance.
The blankets offered relief.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Steve woke one morning cocooned beneath three of them and immediately understood why.
Comfort.
A small pocket of it.
Something soft in a place designed to be hard.
He returned two stolen blankets before anybody noticed.
The third stayed.
Across camp, training intensified.
So did scrutiny.
Every failure reinforced Colonel Phillips' certainty that Steve Rogers represented the worst decision in military history.
Every setback seemed to strengthen Doctor Erskine's conviction that he'd chosen correctly.
Neither man appeared willing to explain themselves.
And somewhere between those opposing certainties, Steve continued running.
Continued climbing.
Continued falling.
Continued getting back up.
Because beneath the exhaustion and homesickness and lingering ache of distance-mate syndrome existed a simple truth.
He hadn't come this far to leave.
Not now.
Not when somebody, somewhere, had finally looked beyond what he was supposed to be and asked who he actually was.
~-~-~-
Camp Lehigh settled into Steve's bones the way winter did.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. It arrived through accumulation. Through bruises that never entirely faded. Through muscles that woke aching every morning before dawn. Through bugle calls and shouted orders and endless miles of dirt packed hard beneath military boots.
Days blurred together with ruthless efficiency.
Reveille.
Training.
Breakfast.
Training.
Lunch.
Training.
Supper.
Training.
Sleep.
Then morning arrived and the cycle began again.
The camp seemed built around the assumption that exhaustion could solve any problem. Every weakness. Every hesitation. Every flaw. If a recruit struggled, the answer was always more running, more climbing, more drills.
For most of the candidates, the formula appeared effective.
For Steve, it was simply another obstacle.
His body had never responded to force particularly well.
It negotiated.
Compromised.
Demanded patience.
There was no patience at Camp Lehigh.
Only persistence.
The obstacle course remained his greatest enemy.
The towering wall mocked him daily.
The rope climbs reduced his arms to trembling uselessness.
The long-distance runs left him fighting for breath while larger recruits thundered ahead without effort.
Each failure earned another look from Colonel Phillips.
The colonel had developed an entire language of disappointment.
Sometimes it appeared as a scowl.
Sometimes as a sigh.
Occasionally as a stare that suggested Steve represented a personal attack against military standards.
The effect might have been intimidating if Steve hadn't spent most of his life disappointing authority figures already.
"What exactly is he supposed to be proving?"
Phillips demanded one afternoon.
The candidates were halfway through another brutal training exercise. Most had collapsed into the grass during a short break. Steve sat slightly apart from the others, stretching sore shoulders while trying not to think about how much everything hurt.
The question wasn't directed at him.
It never was.
Phillips reserved his criticisms for conversations conducted several feet away, apparently operating under the assumption that Steve couldn't hear.
Doctor Erskine stood beside him.
Watching.
Always watching.
"A soldier," Erskine replied.
The colonel barked a laugh.
"That one?"
Steve pretended not to notice.
Pretending had become a valuable skill.
"You could choose any man here."
Phillips gestured toward the training field.
"There are alphas built like tanks. Men with combat experience. Men who actually belong in uniform."
The emphasis landed exactly where intended.
Erskine's gaze drifted toward Steve.
Thoughtful.
Patient.
Almost curious.
"As I said," the doctor answered quietly. "I am looking for a soldier."
The conversation ended there.
Phillips walked away looking no less irritated than before.
Steve tried not to think about it.
The effort failed.
Because despite weeks of training, despite endless evaluations and examinations, nobody had explained what exactly he was being evaluated for.
Project Rebirth remained wrapped in layers of secrecy.
The other candidates speculated constantly.
Experimental weapons.
Advanced combat training.
Special intelligence operations.
Every theory sounded increasingly ridiculous.
Nobody possessed actual answers.
Even Peggy Carter seemed unwilling to provide them.
Steve had learned quickly that Agent Carter occupied a unique position within camp. The recruits respected her. The officers listened to her. Colonel Phillips argued with her often enough to suggest genuine familiarity.
She also appeared entirely immune to Steve's size.
The discovery felt strangely refreshing.
Most people required time to look beyond appearances.
Peggy never seemed particularly interested in appearances at all.
"What happened to your hands?"
The question came one evening after target practice.
Steve glanced up from the bench where he sat cleaning borrowed equipment.
Peggy stood nearby holding a clipboard.
His gaze dropped automatically.
Several small cuts crossed his knuckles.
Old scars mingled amongst newer injuries.
Years of sketching.
Years of odd jobs.
Years of Brooklyn.
Years of protecting people considerably larger than himself.
"Nothing."
One eyebrow rose.
The expression conveyed impressive scepticism.
Steve sighed.
"I got into fights."
"Plural."
"Usually."
Her attention lingered briefly.
"You won?"
"No."
The answer arrived immediately.
Peggy laughed.
The sound startled him.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it wasn't.
Most people laughed when hearing about Steve's fights because the image seemed absurd.
Peggy laughed because she already knew the outcome.
"You kept doing it anyway."
It wasn't a question.
Steve looked down at the rifle in his hands.
The metal gleamed beneath late afternoon sunlight.
Somewhere across camp, recruits shouted during another exercise.
"I don't like bullies."
The response felt inadequate.
Yet Peggy nodded as though it explained everything.
Perhaps it did.
Letters arrived irregularly.
Sometimes two within a week.
Sometimes none for nearly a month.
Steve learned quickly that anticipation could become its own form of torture.
Every afternoon he found himself watching the administration building.
Listening for names.
Waiting.
The waiting never became easier.
One particular letter arrived after nearly three weeks of silence.
The envelope looked ordinary.
The handwriting wasn't.
The moment Steve saw Bucky's familiar scrawl, something deep inside him eased.
Not entirely.
Enough.
He read it sitting alone behind the barracks.
Then read it again.
And again.
The contents weren't remarkable.
Complaints about officers.
Complaints about food.
Complaints about weather.
The familiar rhythm of Bucky's voice seemed to exist between every line.
Yet beneath the humour lurked something new.
Exhaustion.
Not spoken.
Not acknowledged.
Simply present.
A subtle heaviness threading through the words.
Most readers wouldn't have noticed.
Steve did.
The bond stretched thin across an ocean.
Distance had weakened it.
Time had weakened it.
War had weakened it.
Still, traces remained.
Small instincts.
Tiny recognitions.
The ability to hear fatigue hidden inside a joke.
That evening the barracks felt especially crowded.
The suppressant tablets tasted increasingly bitter.
The nest hidden beneath his bunk no longer provided the comfort it once had.
Everything seemed slightly wrong.
Not enough to explain.
Enough to feel.
Across Europe, Bucky was tired.
And there was absolutely nothing Steve could do about it.
The helplessness followed him onto the training field the next morning.
Perhaps that was why he volunteered.
Nobody else wanted to.
The exercise looked miserable.
A flagpole stood in the centre of camp.
Its top reached impossibly high.
Colonel Phillips folded his arms.
"The first candidate to retrieve that flag rides back to base."
A groan swept through the recruits.
The pole had been greased.
Deliberately.
Every attempt ended the same way.
Men climbed.
Slipped.
Fell.
Cursed.
Repeated the process.
The spectacle continued for nearly twenty minutes.
Steve watched.
Waited.
Then quietly stepped away from the crowd.
Nobody noticed immediately.
Most attention remained fixed on the pole.
The shouting.
The competition.
Steve walked directly toward the base.
Removed the securing pin.
And lowered the entire thing.
The flag landed neatly in his hands.
Silence followed.
Absolute silence.
Then groans.
Swearing.
Several recruits looked personally offended.
Phillips stared.
Peggy covered her mouth.
Doctor Erskine smiled.
Not politely.
Not subtly.
Proudly.
As though the outcome had confirmed something important.
Something only he had expected.
The weeks that followed brought more tests.
Some obvious.
Some hidden.
Physical exercises.
Psychological evaluations.
Leadership drills disguised as routine training.
The candidates competed constantly without realising they were competing.
Steve slowly began understanding.
The project wasn't searching for the strongest volunteer.
If it were, the decision would already be made.
Several recruits possessed enough muscle to lift him one-handed.
It wasn't searching for the fastest.
Or the toughest.
Or the most intimidating.
Those qualities existed in abundance.
No.
Doctor Erskine was searching for something rarer.
Character.
The understanding settled gradually as Steve watched other candidates.
Men who excelled physically yet mocked weaker recruits.
Men who followed orders flawlessly until inconvenience appeared.
Men who spoke endlessly about sacrifice while expecting others to make it.
Strength seemed easy to find.
Goodness proved considerably harder.
The grenade happened on a grey morning near the end of training.
Rain threatened overhead.
Mud coated the field.
The recruits stood assembled around Colonel Phillips while he delivered another lecture nobody particularly enjoyed.
The object landed amongst them without warning.
A metallic clink.
Then stillness.
For one suspended second nobody moved.
The shape sat in the mud.
Unmistakable.
A grenade.
Panic exploded instantly.
Candidates scattered.
Shouting erupted.
Men threw themselves toward cover.
Instinct overtook thought.
Steve moved before his mind caught up.
One moment he was standing.
The next he was diving.
Mud struck hard.
Cold earth filled his mouth.
His arms wrapped around the grenade.
Shielding it.
Containing it.
A useless gesture.
An impossible one.
Yet the body rarely consulted logic during moments like these.
"GET BACK!"
The shout tore itself from his throat.
Around him the field dissolved into chaos.
Boots pounding.
Voices yelling.
Fear.
The world narrowed to the object beneath his chest.
To the certainty that everyone else needed more time.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Nothing happened.
No explosion.
No death.
Only silence.
Steve opened one eye.
Then the other.
The grenade remained perfectly intact.
Harmless.
Training equipment.
A test.
Slowly he became aware of the entire camp staring.
Colonel Phillips.
Peggy Carter.
The recruits.
Doctor Erskine.
Everyone.
Mud dripped from Steve's sleeves.
Embarrassment arrived with astonishing speed.
He sat up carefully.
Still holding the fake grenade.
Nobody spoke.
Then Erskine stepped forward.
The doctor's expression held a strange softness.
Not triumph.
Not relief.
Something deeper.
Something almost sorrowful.
As though he'd spent months searching for proof of something he desperately hoped was true.
And finally found it.
Later that evening, after the candidates had been dismissed and darkness settled across Camp Lehigh, Abraham Erskine sat alone inside his office.
Files covered the desk.
Medical histories.
Performance evaluations.
Psychological assessments.
Dozens of candidates.
Dozens of possibilities.
Phillips' preferred choices occupied the top of the pile.
Strong men.
Impressive men.
The sort of soldiers newspapers loved printing on posters.
The sort of men governments trusted with power.
One by one, Erskine moved them aside.
Until only a single file remained.
STEVEN GRANT ROGERS.
Omega.
Mated.
Chronic medical complications.
Physically unremarkable.
Unsuitable according to nearly every conventional standard.
The file looked ridiculous.
On paper, the decision bordered on insanity.
Erskine studied it anyway.
Then remembered a small omega throwing himself onto a grenade to save men who had spent weeks mocking him.
Remembered a recruit who refused to quit.
Remembered a man who understood weakness so intimately that power could never become entitlement.
The serum would make somebody strong.
That was the easy part.
The difficult part was deciding what kind of person deserved strength.
Abraham Erskine reached for a pen.
And wrote a single name.
Omega Steve Rogers.