Bucky used to love being an alpha. He enjoyed the stares, the lingering touches, the way omegas would stumble over themselves in his presence. It was nice, having a distraction from the constant stresses that came with the war.

When HYDRA found him, Bucky found himself constantly wishing he was only a beta. At least then he wouldn’t have to deal with the harsh suppression of his instincts. Designations were to be used as weapons — what didn’t help with the cause, he didn’t have the luxury of accessing.

He was pumped so full of suppressants that he’s entirely sure his cycle is completely destroyed, and with it any future dreams he may have once had of settling down with pups. Then again, that was life before the Winter Soldier. Life after was different.

He was kept muzzled with each mission he was sent out on. After all, he was a lesser being. He wasn’t granted the privilege of scenting, which made him more sensitive to smells on the field. It was best he couldn’t catch the scent of anything at all, to make sure he was focused.

He was a volatile alpha — unstable, aggressive, unsocialised. Unsafe, he tells himself, distantly.

Steve is trying to help him. He understands that. He remembers Steve. Steve helped him remember Bucky, the time before he was moulded into the Winter Soldier. He feels a debilitating disappointment that sinks into his bones when he realises he can’t be that man anymore. He’s too broken now, damaged irreparably.

He thinks he’s in a cell, but his head is still swimming, and it’s hard to focus on anything for too long. He knows he can’t leave — the door is locked with some kind of biometric system. Bucky doesn’t feel trapped, though. It’s bigger than what he’s used to, and the bed he’s currently sprawled out on is nicer than anything he had under HYDRA.

Footsteps still send him into a state of panic, his body stiffening as he stands up from the bed in the corner of his… room? Cell still didn’t feel like an accurate descriptor, even if he can’t leave.

The face he sees when the door opens isn’t familiar, but Steve’s scent lingers on you enough that he allows you into the space without kicking up a fuss. He won’t let you near him, though, even if the food you’re carrying makes him very aware of the uncomfortable way his stomach is twisting.

You aren’t safe. Bucky doesn’t know you, and he’s not stupid enough to blindly trust anyone who acts nice. It was just another tool used to break him, in the end.

He backs up until he’s pressed firmly against the wall, eyes narrowed and head tilted as he watches you silently.