RIFTS OF DOMINION: THE OMEGA CONVERGENCE

The penthouse nursery in Stark Tower hummed with the soft whir of holographic mobiles spinning constellations overhead—twenty feet square, walls padded in soundproof foam disguised as starry murals, cribs side by side in the center like twin arc reactors. Changing station to the left, stocked with diapers and wipes; rocker-glider in the corner, auto-warmers for bottles. Exits: door to the main living area, panic button linked to FRIDAY's defenses. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and milk, undercut by Tony's ozone-bourbon scent, now laced with the sweet, maternal notes of an Omega nursing pups.

Tony Stark paced the room at 4 AM, James cradled in one arm—five months old, dark curls tousled, tiny fists clutching Tony's tank top as he nursed. Rebecca fussed in the crib, her mewl building to a cry; Tony scooped her up one-handed, settling into the glider to latch her too. Breasts ached from the constant demand, milk flowing steady, nipples sore but he ignored it. Sleep? A luxury. He'd caught two hours between SI calls and Avengers alerts. Competence ran on caffeine and willpower—designs for baby-proof repulsor fields sketched on his tablet during feedings, FRIDAY monitoring vitals for all three.

"Mom's got you," Tony murmured, voice hoarse from the day. He was their mother—Omega biology undeniable now, world be damned. The twins knew it instinctively: James's contented suckles, Rebecca's hand patting his chest. The Avengers knew about the kids—announced post-birth with a terse "Meet the newest Starks" holo-message. Speculation ran wild: "Who's the Alpha?" Nat's sly glances, Clint's jokes about "mystery donor," Bruce's quiet concern. Tony deflected with quips, kept Bucky's name locked tight. The gold mark on his arm burned steady for the absent father, a reminder he both hated and clung to.

By morning, he suited up—figuratively—for the team briefing. Handed the twins off to Pepper in the living room—her Alpha citrus wrapping protective around them. "Be good for Aunt Pep," Tony kissed their heads, then jetted to the Avengers facility.

The conference room overlooked upstate greenery—glass walls, oval table seating ten, holoscreens projecting mission data. Team assembled: Nat in tactical black, covert Alpha musk subtle; Clint nursing coffee, Beta steady; Bruce fiddling with a tablet, Beta calm; Thor booming laughs, god-Alpha thunder; Sam at the window, Beta reliable; Wanda quiet in the corner, Omega power humming; Vision phasing through data, synthetic Beta empathy.

Steve Rogers stood at the head—Captain America, defrosted from Arctic ice five years back, still adjusting to the century. Flashback hit Tony unbidden: that day in SHIELD's lab, ice block cracking under controlled thaw, Steve's body emerging blue-tinged but vital—lungs gasping first breath, eyes snapping open confused. "Where...?" he'd rasped, mark on his arm flickering as the world rushed in. Dense Alpha, honorable to a fault, but clueless on bonds. His own mark burned gold near Tony for months now—flaring hot in proximity. Steve filed it under "modern weirdness," too polite to probe.

Briefing started: HYDRA remnants plotting, intel fuzzy. Tony presented hacks—screens flickering code. "We've got backdoors into their servers. Strike here, disrupt there."

Steve nodded, but his brow furrowed at Tony's yawn—suppressed quick. "Tony, your judgment might be compromised by new parent exhaustion. Maybe sit this one out? We can handle it."

Meant considerate—Steve's voice gentle, eyes concerned. But it landed condescending: the great Iron Man, mother now, sidelined like a fragile thing. Dismissive of the Omega who'd built empires while hiding heats, now raising pups solo. Heartbreaking in its ignorance—echoing Howard's sneers, the world's doubts.

Tony's face stayed neutral, but inside: crack. The gold mark for Steve—burning since some early Avengers clash—dimmed sudden to grey. Incomplete. Damaged. "Noted, Cap," Tony said flat. "But I'm good. Let's move."

Steve blinked, confused, but pressed on. No idea what he'd shattered.

Later, Tony flew back—armor humming, mind churning. Grey mark throbbed like a bruise. Steve. Dense idiot. Another Alpha blind to what mattered.

Bucky's POV: From a rooftop two blocks away, binoculars trained on the Tower. Stateside now—slipped HYDRA's leash careful, conditioning cracking under the bond's pull. Watched Tony's comings and goings, the bundles in his arms sometimes visible through windows. Pups. His. Left a package that night: scaled the Tower undetected (old skills), dropped it on the roof pad—sealed envelope, HYDRA dossier inside: plans to target "Stark offspring" for leverage, experiments. No name. No note. Just protection.

Tony found it at dawn—roof access alarmed, but FRIDAY flagged anomaly. He tore it open, scanned: threats detailed, timelines, assets. Heart stopped. Pups.

Called Pepper first—voice tight. "Lockdown. Now." Then Rhodey: "We got incoming. Suit up."

No sleep for two days—protocols ramped: force fields around nursery, nanite trackers in the twins' blankets, evacuation quinjets prepped. Tony held James and Rebecca close, milk scent blooming as they nursed. "Mom's got you," he whispered fierce. "Always."

Grey mark dim. Gold for Bucky bright.

The rifts stirred faint.