Nice, Tender Touching

Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.

“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”

And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.

Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others. 

Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.

But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.

“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”

“We need you here.”

“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”

“Hey!” John protests.

“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.

“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”

You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him. 

If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.

Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”

“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”

“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”

“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.

“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.

He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.

Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.

But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.

“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.

He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy. 

Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.

Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—

He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.

“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”

He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.

Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.

Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you. 

“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.

“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”

“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”

“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”

So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.

There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.

Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.

Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock. 

Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.

The transformation happens in an instant. 

Adrian goes fucking ballistic. 

Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.

His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.

No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—

“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”

“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.

“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.

“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.

Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”

You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.

“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”

Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.

“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.

Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.

Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”

“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.

“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”

“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.

“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”

But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.

“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”

His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.

“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.

“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”

As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.

When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.

“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”

“What—”

“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.

Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.

Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”

“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”

“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”

Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.

“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt. 

“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”

You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”

Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”

“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”

“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”

“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”

“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.

“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”

“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”

“What do you mean? He’s not?”

“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”

You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.

“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”

Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.

“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”

“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”

“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”

The girls are quiet.

“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”

A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.

“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”

“Listen—” Emilia starts.

“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”

Emilia stares at you.

“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”

You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?

If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—

“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.

“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.

It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.

“I want to see him.”

“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”

“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”

“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”

“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.

“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.” 

It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.

“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”

“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”

You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.

When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?

“What the fuck,” he pants.

“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”

“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.

Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.

“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”

“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”

Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.

“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.

“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”

Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”

Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”

“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”

“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”

“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”

“I am thirty-four! I would know—”

But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.

And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.

“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”

“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”

“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.

“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”

“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”

Chris puts the phone on speaker.

“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least. 

It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.

“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”

“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”

“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”

“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.

Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.

“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.

“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”

Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.

“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”

“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”

Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”

“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”

“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”

“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful. 

“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”

“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”

But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

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