Tywysog Melys

You're in the bed, tucked into Johnny's side while the other alpha scrolls on his phone, eyes drooping as he fights off sleep. Simon knows him well enough to know he's putting on a strong facade for you. Simon also knows that Johnny has been lying about the level of discomfort he has been feeling from the moment they left base.

Simon can't help the creeping flush that warms his cheeks, his neck and spreads down over his chest. The feeling of rightness, something settling in him that he never knew was unsettled to begin with.

His whole life he had relied on his instincts to keep going, keep fighting, keep being the strongest soldier on the field in order to protect his team, his pack. But now? Now he wants nothing more than to protect this feeling, this moment, this little bit of calm and peace, this thing he doesn't know how to describe.

"Give me a couple hours. I'll text you an address."

Simon agrees to meet later. It's not ideally what he wants and by the time he is parking outside of the house he found at the address John had texted he is both more nervous than before and very confused.

John has hosted the team more than once at his townhouse, a rickety old thing he had inherited from his parents. Simon knew about the little cabin he kept in Scotland. The one Johns visits when things are bad, when the older man needs to escape people and the looming pressure of their job.

It only takes one knock before John is opening the door, ushering Simon into the house. It has that stale, unlived in smell. It's sparsely furnished with odds and ends that look out of place. John wordlessly leads Simon to the kitchen, sitting at a wooden table with three mismatched chairs.

"Wot's this place?"

"It's mine, only 'ad it a few months. 'Aven't 'ad the time to do anythin' with it yet."

Simon looks around the kitchen. It's not much now, but with the right appliances it would be far better than his flat or Johnny's. It's bigger than the one John had at the townhouse.

"Wot ye need all this space for?"

John looks sheepish as he scrubs a hand over his beard, a look Simon knows well. The kind of move he makes when he's nervous. It's not common, Simon's only seen the man unsure of himself a few times in the years they have known each other.

"Thought maybe one day I'd 'ave a pack to share it with."

A pack?

The four of them have never put a label on what they are. They are a military pack, a categorization that kept them together, gave them privileges they wouldn't have otherwise. Outside of the professional though, there was an unspoken bond between them. Simon had long accepted that the 141 is the closest he would ever get to a pack, even if it isn't in the traditional sense.

Simon has never felt for John, or Kyle, what he feels for Johnny. He understands why now, that even without their scents the two were drawn to each other. There are blended packs though, where not everyone is bonded, where some members are mated and the others are just platonic.

Simon has never considered the possibility of losing John and Kyle to another pack.

"Got a 'mega waiting for ye?"

John laughs, something sardonic and self-deprecating.

"Bit old t'be chasin' after omegas. Thought Kyle might like it 'ere. Thought I might like it when my days in the field are over."

"Retirin' on us, old man?" Simon jokes.

John doesn't answer right away. He doesn't meet Simon's eyes as he sighs, his head dropping back as he stares up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before meeting Simon's eye again.

"I'm tired. I'm tired of the endless fight, tired of the blood on my hands, tired of fighting the instincts that ride me to do more. Maybe I don't deserve a happy ending, maybe I don't deserve to rest, but I deserve a little bit of peace, maybe a bit of comfort."

Simon nods. Simon knows that he doesn't deserve a happy ending either, but he's just enough of a bastard to steal one for himself. He might not know you, but he knows Johnny, the Scot can make you happy. Fate chose you for them and Simon will make sure it sticks for Johnny. And for you.

“Goin’ t’need that paperwork ye were talkin’ ‘bout.”

John reaches down to the bag he has on the chair next to him, thumbing through it and pulling out a folder. 

Simon opens it. The paperwork is already filled out with John’s neat handwriting, all that is left to do is sign his name and then Johnny’s on the dotted line and they will be a true pack, in the eyes of the military and the government. All very official. But this paperwork is only for the two of them, a pack of soldiers. 

“Might need to redo this, ’s why I called ye,” Simon says, passing it back across the table, not commenting on the fact that paperwork is dated months before him and Johnny scent matched. 

John nods, taking the folder and replacing it with another. Simon opens it to another form, still with the same neat letters but the fields for “civilian pack member” are left blank. 

The date at the bottom of this form is today. 

“Had a feelin’, Soap had been askin’ a bunch of questions a few months back.”

“Questions?”

“Asked if I ‘ad ever been with an omega, ‘ow did you court someone, ‘ow did you explain what we do to someone you were meant to cherish? Could tell ‘e was smitten with someone. And then ‘e never brought it up again.”

“It’s new.”

Simon doesn’t know how to explain it. Isn’t ready to share it even if it is only with John.

“There’s room for you ‘ere. Always thought of you and Soap as pack.”

And there is it, the words that Simon has never been able to say himself, the words he never let himself hope to hear from John.

“Think ye can put up with Johnny’s bad ‘abit’s and worst cooking? Barely any food in the flat.”

John laughs, then tells Simon about the first time Kyle visited him at the townhouse, just the two of them. It’s easy and familiar, the two alphas talking about their budding relationships, about Johnny keeping the omega secret, about John thinking he’s too old and not good enough for Kyle. I’m selfish for wantin’ it. Simon keeps to himself the fact that Kyle has been making moon eyes at John since before the Taskforce was official. 

“Need to sign anythin’ else if we take ye up on yer offer?” Simon asks as John walks him to the door. 

“Not yet, don’t need to rush it. We can take it one step at a time,” he says with a nod to the folder that Simon has clutched in his hand. 

“Aye, thanks…for everythin’.”

“Go take care of your pack, Simon. I’ll be ‘ere when you’re ready for the next step.”

**********************************

When you wake it's to an immense but comforting warmth at your back and a rattling purr that leaves you feeling boneless. Although, that might have also been the fatigue of the fever that had burned through you. In some ways it was no different than handling a heat on your own and in other ways it was very different because there was no gnawing, unsatisfied ache left behind in both your core and your heart. 

You consider that perhaps this has been a really good fever dream, something born from dehydration and lack of food, but then the person behind your shifts and you feel the firm pressure of their body against yours.

All of his body. 

You gasp when one of their arms comes around and pulls you in close, caging you in. The fear settles in quick, the confusion, the distress. How did you get here, whose bed is this, whose body? 

Your scent is acrid, burnt oranges that surprises even you because it’s the first time you have been able to smell in days. 

But then, that isn’t the only thing you smell. It’s two different scents that wrap around each other and then you, curling through your senses until your eyes are wide, searching for the source because you know one of them. It’s the scent that haunts you, that you searched for for weeks and could never find another hint of. The sweatshirt that you shamefully kept.

"Stop squirmin', Ahm tryna sleep," a voice murmurs into your neck, their breath hot against your skin.

The feverish memories of the last couple of days come back as a flood. Blurry shapes, low voices, the warmth of bodies pressed in around yours as you fight off the fever. The kind of warmth that only comes from comfort and not from the sticky sickness you had suffered through.

"John?" you ask, even though you know it's him, you remember cuddling him.

Fuck could you be more of a mess.

"Aye, was hopin' ye wouldnae wake until Simon was back."

This time the heat that warms your face is the flames of embarrassment because you remember who Simon is and more specifically that Simon is the alpha that belongs to your sweatshirt.

Does that mean…

You wiggle in John's hold until you can roll over, coming face to face with the Scot who always seemed to be running away.

You are beyond social niceties at this point, these two men, alphas, have seen you at maybe your lowest. There is no way you don't stink, you don't remember showering at any point, you do distinctly remember tossing off the very incriminating sweatshirt in the middle of the night, the press of two warm bodies had been overwhelming. John doesn't seem to mind you based on the way he has been holding you.

You shove your face beneath his chin, his beard is grown out more than you have ever seen it, his scent clinging to his skin and permeating the rough hair. You're still stuffy as you sniff at his scent gland, but what you can pick up has your blood running hot.

John's scent is warm, the kind that heats your skin in the summer, the kind that beats down on you from blue skies. It's like tart currants eaten right from the vine, staining your fingers and lips purple. You've only ever reacted to one other scent this way…

"Match?" you murmur against his neck, gulping down his scent and melting into the rightness that's settling over you.

"Yeah, bon, yer mine now and ahm nae lettin' ye go."

John kisses the top of your head before rubbing his cheek against you.

The urge to lick his scent gland is strong. You want to drink him down. Just a little lick wouldn't hurt.

"Fuck, bon, ye keep up like that and Ahm nae goan tae be able tae control mahself."

Reluctantly you pull back, the taste of him still on your tongue.

You've never had this kind of reaction to an alpha, even the ones you've dated or shared heats with. Your heats have always been mild enough, usually a knotted dildo could get you through it but now that you've smelled John? Found the owner of the sweatshirt? You can't imagine going back to long stretches alone in your sad excuse of a nest tending to your own needs.

You keep your face tucked into John's chest as your thoughts race, your heart not far behind. What if they don't want you? Don't want a pack? It happens. Just because you are a scent matched doesn't mean they have to want you.

You're not sure you could handle that, you've been heartbroken before, you don't know you could survive rejection from your mate.

Your breaths come in short gasps as you try to calm yourself.

"Where's your friend?" you manage to ask, anything to distract yourself from your spiraling thoughts.

"Nae sure. Been out for a mo'."

The door to the flat slamming shut breaks you from the haze, enough so that you are scrambling from John’s hold and right off the edge of the bed in a tangle of blankets and limbs. You can barely hear the heavy footsteps of the other alpha as he approaches over the sound of your own heart pounding. You scent him before you see him, a salty ocean breeze, a bonfire, Simon.

“Why's the omega on the floor?”

“I—" you start but are cut off by John.

“Got a name, ye numpty. Cannae go around callin' people by their designation.”

You stare up at the other alpha. He is intimidating. So broad, larger than John, the kind of person you would cross the street to avoid and yet, you can remember him from the haze of your fever, rough fingers that touched you reverently as he helped you to eat, to drink, to walk to the bathroom. 

You also remember the shock of embarrassment at realizing that he is Riley, the Riley whose sweatshirt you had been clinging to for months. The scent match you had almost convinced yourself wasn’t real. 

Now that you are seeing him outside of the haze of your fever you are struck by his face. He isn't a handsome man, he doesn't look like those traditional alphas you see on billboards with a flawless ruggedness that comes from moisturizer and vanity workout routines. His face was carved by violence, nose clearly broken more than once, a scar that bisects his lip and pulls when he speaks, one cauliflower ear while the other is missing a piece. One honeyed eye marred by a burst blood vessel, a yellowed bruise painted across his cheek beneath it. 

Military men.

Military alphas. 

John’s use of suppressants makes sense now, why you have never gotten anything from him. 

“I—" Simon starts, Simon Riley you think as you watch him before he continues. “I apologize,” and then he says your name and you don’t think you’ve ever heard your name the way he says it. Like you are something precious. Something special. Something not broken. 

Your breath catches in your chest, the familiar anxiety bleeding in. It doesn’t matter that these are your scent matches. History has already shown you not to trust alphas, not to trust biology. Fairytales are just that, tales told to children, fantasies for other people but not for you. 

“Sorry,” the word tumbles out of your mouth but you don’t know what it is you are sorry for, just that suddenly the weight of this revelation, the fact that you let literal strangers take care of you, that you burdened them when you only knew John by name and nothing more. All of it is too much. 

“Sorry,” you repeat it, “I can’t, I don’t,” you trail off. You’re going to ruin this just like you ruin everything else. 

“Bon, yer okay, it’s okay, nae a thin’ tae worry aboot.”

But John doesn’t know, he’s only ever seen you briefly, not long enough to know about you, know what you are like. Know all the reasons they shouldn’t mate you. 

You truly don't hear him move this time, his steps are silent and without warning Simon is kneeling down beside you. His scent is calm, if your behavior has turned him off from you he gives nothing away. 

“This is a lot for you, yeah?” His voice is quiet as he asks, a whisper that washes over you, teasing you with something that feels like kindness, understanding. 

You nod because the words feel too hard. 

“‘ow ‘bout you go back t’yours, shower, change into somethin’ clean and then the three of us ‘ave a chat later.”

“A chat?”

“Not lettin’ you get away now that we found you.” 

There’s a finality to his words, a commitment that has you nodding again and letting him drag you to your feet. Showing you your clean clothes, folded into perfect piles and then stacked carefully into your laundry bag. 

Simon follows you to your apartment, leaving a grumbling John on the bed, his knee propped up. 

You promise to come back when you’re ready. He makes you say the words out loud as you stand outside the open door to your flat. It’s like he can sense your indecision, your fear, the voice in the back of your head that tells you to flee. 

As a parting gift he pulls off his jumper, the material warm between your fingers as you take it from him. 

“Can’t let you forget what’s waitin’ for ya,” he says before walking away. 

*************************************

“Cannae believe ye left the omega alone,” Johnny grumbles as he spoons extra sugar into his coffee. 

“Oh so now it’s ‘the omega’?” Simon chides him. 

“Ye ken what ah mean. What if we came on tae strong?”

Simon laughs. 

“Isnae funny.”

“Only one comin’ on strong was you from the smell of it.”

Simon leans over in his chair, fingers carding through Johnny’s overgrown mohawk and yanking him to the side. Simon’s breath is warm on Johnny's neck as the other alpha breaths him in. Johnny knows he’s looking for, that delectable bouquet of orange and honey.

“Couldn’t keep your ‘ands t’yourself?”

Johnny doesn’t bother to answer. He knows if he hadn’t been laid up, knee locked straight he would have been all over you. As it is he can barely think straight now that you’ve been here for days, your scent somehow permeating everything in a way that Simon’s hadn’t. But maybe that’s it, maybe it’s the rightness of the two of you together. The coming together that he couldn't have predicted going so well, so perfectly. 

It isn't a fluke either, the scarf had been yours, he has proof now that you are meant for him, for Simon. All that time he spent agonizing was for nothing.

Except Simon has let you slip away, has made you leave them and even though a very rational part of Johnny knows it was for the best, that you need to regroup, gain your bearings, that he can;t lock you up and keep you all to himself. He worries. Worries you will walk away. Will run away. Reject them because who wants a broken alpha.

Simon and him make sense. Simon and him are made for each other, cut from the same cloth, walking different paths in life that had them careening toward the same existence. And when the military snatched them up it did it with no remorse for the young alphas they had been.

And now what is he good for? Killing? Blowing things up with an almost unreal precision? And if his knee doesn't heal? If the doctors got it wrong? What would be do then? What could he offer you?

“Johnny?”

“Aye?”

“Asked if you wanted to eat something.”

How can he think about eating when you are somewhere else in the building, washing away his scent, washing away all of his hard work. How can he eat when you might leave them? Might decide they are too much or not enough. Not good enough. 

Johnny doesn’t realize he’s growling until Simon is yanking him back into his chest, tucking Johnny face into his neck. 

He fights the calm he finds as he’s forced to breathe in Simon’s scent. He knows what this is even if it’s always been carefully controlled by suppressants. Buried by chemical hormones. A rut. Even as he acknowledges it, the desire creeps up his spine like a wildfire threatening to pull him under. 

“Don’t you dare fall into a rut when we’re tyin’ to impress our mate.”

Our mate. 

Something about the possessiveness of how Simon says those words calms something in Johnny. He’s known Simon long enough to know that if Simon has chosen you, he’s not letting you go, not easily.

“It’s nae ever felt like this,” he whispers into Simon’s chest. 

“Never been off suppressants this long, never been surrounded by your pack either.”

Pack. 

His pack.

Joining the military had pretty much been a death sentence to any dreams a young Johnny had had of being part of a pack. But now he has Simon. And maybe if fate stayed on their side, they will have you, if you want them.

****

Your knock on their door is hesitant and comes after minutes of pacing outside in the hallway. Simon doesn't comment on that or the bitter undertone to your scent. He leads you into the flat, Johnny propped up on the sofa, his leg elevated out in front of him on a makeshift ottoman. Simon's already making a mental list of questions for John about the house, it might be a better location for Johnny's recovery but Simon doesn't want to get ahead of himself.

"Bon, ye came back?" he asks with a smile, patting the spot next to him on the sofa.

Simon doesn't think you realize it but you slot yourself in next to Johnny, despite there being plenty of space for you on the sofa. Your body leaning into his instinctually.

"I said I would," your voice is soft when you answer.

Simon swallows hard to stop the purr that threatens when he watches you playing with the hem of the jumper he had lent you.

Johnny smiles at you, but Simon can still see the tension that keeps his body stiff. It's the worry, the fear that you'll tell them you don't want this. Johnny might not think he is good enough to be your alpha but at the same time Ghost knows Johnny doesn't want to lose you. Ghost knows because he feels the same, the hollow ache in his chest when he thinks about the possibility of losing you now that he's found you?

Of losing Johnny?

"Feelin' olright? Need anythin'?" Simon asks.

You turn your gaze on him, there's a hesitancy behind that look, a fear. Simon is not unfamiliar with being a thing of nightmares, of being the thing that people fear, but the thought that he scares you scares him.

"No? Maybe something to eat? If its not a bother?"

"Och, nae a bother. Simon disnae mind, aye?"

Simon moves towards the kitchen, aware of the way your eyes track him.

Johnny whispers something to you, low enough that Simon can't make out the words, but the huff of a laugh he gets in response has some of the tension leaving Simon's shoulders. You wouldn't be asking for food, or laughing at Johnny's jokes if you were going to reject them. You didn't seem like the heartless type.

"Is Simon your new roommate?" you ask Johnny in a quiet voice.

"Nae, still workin' out the logistics, aye? All this is new."

"New?"

Simon can picture the way your brow furrows as you ask the questions, puzzling through what they are, what this is, where you fit in. It is the same furrow you had in the depths of your fever as you oscillated between burrowing into the blankets and kicking everything off. It had been a struggle for the two alphas to keep you clothed when you were determined to shed everything. But in your barely conscious state you knew enough to listen to your alphas.

It had pleased Simon more than he cared to admit. And he had studied every little expression, every little reaction, and even though you didn't seem to remember the worst of the fever, he did.

He remembered the scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow, the way your eyes had gone wide when you first put together that that sweatshirt you had clung to like a life vest had been his.

"Aye, mission gone too long. 'ad nae gotten a whiff of Simon before, but the moment ah did? Was like learnin' 'ow tae breathe for the first time."

"So you two aren't bonded? You don't have a pack?"

Simon frowns as he works on heating the soup he had picked up form the shops on his way back from John's. He hasn't had a chance to discuss it all with Johnny, to make a plan, to decide how they want to proceed. If it was just the two of them then Simon knew moving in with John and Gaz would be easy, it would make sense. Consolidate their funds, their resources, their time. The house was a hell of a lot better than this shithole.

"Nae, nae yet. Was bloody busy till Ah went and got my knee whacked."

"But you don't have a pack? It's just the two of you?"

There is a hesitancy in the way you ask the question. Simon worries because he has already latched onto the possibility of sharing a life with the whole pack, even if it is nothing more than platonic between the three of you, and John and Gaz. He's getting ahead of himself. He doesn't even know if you want them, let alone a whole pack and a pack house, and a whole new life.

"Nae in the traditional sense, Ah guess. We 'ave a military pack, nae bonded or anythin' like that, but we're close."

You don't say anything right away and Simon fights the urge to turn and see your face, to try and decipher what you are thinking before you ask your next question.

The kettle whistles before you can continue.

"Tea?" Simon turns to ask, forcing his face to remain impassive when he sees you still pressed up against Johnny.

"Cannae get a bloody cup of coffee with this one around. 'ope you like warm leaf water in the morn."

You laugh, giving Simon the barest hint of a smile as you tell him you would love a cuppa.

He makes both of you herbal tea. You need the rest and he likes to treat himself when he's on leave to something sweet. A box of Twinings mandarin tea had caught his eye at the shops and he wonders if with a spoonful of honey if it will be as sweet as you.

When the soup is ready Simon sets the rickety excuse for a kitchen table while you help Johnny limp over to his spot. You even drag over a stool to rest his leg on before taking the seat between the two of them. The fourth side of the table is shoved up against the wall for space.

"'ad lot of questions aboot us, what aboot you bon? We arnae stealin' you away from some stinky alpha?"

You frown at your bowl of soup, stirring the contents with your spoon before scooping up a bite. You swallow hard, Simon can't look away from the muscles in your neck as you do, his gaze drifting lower to where is jumper hang loose around your shoulders. Its an old thing, the stitching already mended in a few places, the collar and the cuffs had long lost their shape, but Simon liked it. It was comfortable, soft, but it looked better on you than it had ever looked on him.

"No alpha or pack. It's just me."

There a defeat in your words. Something that pulls at Simon, an emotion he doesn't have words for.

"Nae anythin' wrong with that. Simon 'ere waited till 'e was over thirty to meet 'is mate."

Simon scowls at the Scot.

"Wasn't like I was sat at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to come along," he shoots back at Johnny.

Johnny smiles, "aye sir, we were both a bit busy. And 'eavily surpressed. Cannae beat military grade suppressants."

You nod along, but Simon knows there is more to this story. There is a reason that you are alone, not a fault or anything like that, but a reason that in this moment, sat here in this flat you are alone.

"Don't 'ave to be alone anymore," he says.

Simon doesn't know how to do feelings, didn't grow up in a loving pack, doesn't know how to court an omega properly, but he knows what he wants and if he's going to get it, going to get you and Johnny, he has to convince you to stay.

To court you.

"What?"

You turn to him, soup abandoned, mug of tea still steaming on the table in front of you.

"You're our mate and we want t'be with you. Whatever that looks like."

You look back to Johnny, the question written clear on your face.

"Aye, ah want ye to, bon. Missed ye every second ye were gone. Thought my wee 'eart was goin' tae break if ye didnae come back."

You bite your lip, hands twisting in your lap. If Simon couldn't see your unease he would have been able to smell it. Your scent isn't burnt the way it was before, but its bitter the way the pith of an orange tastes. You're unsettled by something.

Your breathing is shallow, your mouth moving soundlessly as you mouth words he can't make out. Johnny looks at him across the table, already trying to shift himself towards you, to offer you comfort in the way an alpha should.

"Bon?"

**************************************

alone.

our mate.

stop. breathe.

In for four.

alone.

breaking my heart.

In for four.

alone.

In for…

Breathing exercises are pointless when you can't breathe to begin with. When you can barely hear your own thoughts over the ringing in your ears. How are you supposed to win over alphas when you can barely keep your shit together on a good day. 

And on a bad day?

Or on a day when it feels like maybe you can have everything you have ever dreamed of as long as you can pull your shit together for just a moment? Just long enough for them to see you as not so much of a mess. Not so broken.

You don't realize you are crying until you feel rough thumbs dragging across your cheeks as warm palms hold your face. 

It's Simon. His mouth is moving, the scars pulling at the skin around them as he speaks. You can see a chipped tooth that was never fixed, a patch of dry skin on his cheek that desperately needs lotion. Your omega, those instincts that feel at odds with you on most days, wants to sooth him. To run back to your flat and get the sample of the fancy skincare and smooth it over that spot. You have other things, lotions and serums and creams, that would help with the scars. It wouldn’t make them go away, you didn’t want them to go away, they were part of Simon, but you could soften them. You could help make it so they didn’t pull so tightly when he speaks, when he smiles…

“Love, you need to breathe.”

In for four…

You gasp, lungs struggling to fill. 

Simon pulls you in, burying your face in the warm safety of his neck, where his scent overloads everything else. It’s overwhelming and euphoric. Your body has forgotten how to breathe for you, but your omega wants to crawl in Simon’s skin and wear his scent as your own. 

You close your eyes and try to ground yourself in the alpha. In the feel of his fingers that hold your head close. In the warmth of him that bleeds into you. In the smell of leather, and smoke and the sea.  In the sound of his breathing, slow and measured against you. The rise and fall of his chest. 

In for four.

hold for seven.

out…

You sob before you can stop yourself, before you can focus on anything else but the sense of dread and loss that threatens to steal you away again. They don’t need to know about how you couldn’t please one single alpha, about how you begged for his bite, for his affection, his care and he rejected you while you were in heat. They don’t need to know about how your friends had sided with him and how the ones who hadn’t couldn't understand why you were still moping, still crying over some alpha who wasn’t good enough for you. 

“It’s okay, bon. You’re okay.”

You didn’t know how you had gotten here, tucked in to the bed again, John holding you in strong arms. You don’t realize you’re saying anything until he is pressing his finger to your lips and shushing you. 

“Please stop apologizin'.”

There's something akin to desperation in his voice when he speaks, the weight of it stops you before you can speak again.

You hate how weak you feel, how lost, how long you've felt this lost.

"Bon, it's okay," he says again, holding you tighter.

You had never considered the possibility of scent matching. The possibility of fate saddling strangers with you. You want to be like other omegas, like Olive who is strong and confident and once told she would rip and alpha's knot off for you. Or even like Theo, the beta, who goes out and dates like his designation doesn't matter and demands to be treated the way he wants.

You want to believe John. Believe that everything will be okay. But how could it be?

You shift in the bed, your arms feel weak, your scent burned into everything, but John's scent is still there, warm and comforting. You pull yourself to him, wrapping yourself up in him. Your face tucked in beneath his chin, close enough that he can here your whimpered words, your quiet confessions, but hidden from his view.

You tell him about the alpha, about the rejection, about the way your friends treated you after. About the creeping, crawling fear you felt every time you left the building. About the way you had avoided alphas since because it felt like everyone you had told your story to had blamed you. You even tell him about finding Simon's hoodie, left behind in the laundry room and still smelling of the alpha you could here puttering around in the kitchen.

John doesn't interrupt you, he lets you whisper to him every one of your secrets, every one of your fears until you feel hollow. He wraps you in his arms, warm and strong and grounding. His knee braces pushes into your own leg uncomfortably and if it hurts him he makes no move to change the position.

You lose time like that, maybe you fall asleep, maybe you just dissociate enough to not feel him leave the bed, to not smell Simon coming to collect his mate. You should mean nothing to the two men and yet they treat you so gently with such reverence it makes your heart ache.

They're in the kitchen, you hear the soft sound of the kettle heating on the stove. Their voices are low, too low for you to make out the words. They don't sound angry, they don't sound like they are planning on how to kick you out, to get rid of the inconvenience fate has tried to thrust upon them. Maybe your fate was to be rejected again, but in the moment you decide to burrow deeper into John's bed and surround yourself with his scent and the lingering traces of Simon.