GirlUnscripted

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You get off the train in the middle of the night, a little dizzy from the nap cut short and almost forget your duffel on the train.

Thankfully, your humble abode is the last stop the train's going to make before it circles back to London so you get a chance to go back and get your stuff before anyone thinks the worst and phones the bomb squad.

'Got off the train. No maniacs in sight.' You send to Kyle, wincing when you notice the time.

Almost 3 in the morning. Shit.

Probably best not to bother him this late.

The walk home is uneventful and quiet, the cold night air making you zip up your coat, teeth of your zipper unpleasantly scratching against the spot under your chin.

No one's awake this late at night and part of you is glad that none of your neighbors are out to say hello and ask about the weather and the service and the weekend and the way you are coated in the smell of another alpha, coming back with purple hickey all over your throat in the middle of the night on the last train from London.

You don't want to share that time with Kyle right now. No one knows about the talk you had or about him letting you nap on top of his body during the game. No one knows that it was your time with him and you don't want to share any of it with anyone while it is still so fresh in your mind.

You don't want to share Kyle.

The house is dark when you finally get home, closing the metal gate to your yard as quietly as possible — windows of the cottage blank and hollow.

Not a movement from the inside.

Good.

Still, the routine fog of war, like Ghost likes to call it, fills your head and you circle the house, picking the lock on the back entrance instead of walking in from the front, your steps silent on the usually creaky wooden floors.

You still under the stairs, not breathing, ears straining to catch someone else's breath.

A step on the wrong floorboard, maybe. Or the quiet, barely audibly click of stiff joints.

Silence presses on your eardrums and rings inside your head, surroundings just as you have left them.

You don't turn on the lights just yet, while you slowly check the first and then the second floor, swiping each room with the knife in hand.

Empty.

'All clear.' Simon's voice in your head comments and you get back on the first floor to finally close the back door and turn the electricity back on.

Unlike Ghost you don't change flats frequently, opting to stay in a house your grandmother left you, in a small town that didn't know trouble other than you living there.

Unlike Ghost you also never were pronounced dead, so it's a question of patience and a bit of luck to find out where exactly you stay off duty.

'Should've rigged the place.' Ghost in you comments and you sigh, clicking all the locks shut.

Making your routine window check before you take your boots off and really get comfortable.

"Wouldn't want to dodge the mercs barefoot, would we?" You mumble out loud, making sure that everything is fine.

Just the way you have left it before deployment, albeit dusty.

Another thing you completely forgot about is that the fridge's empty. Completely.

You have been away for a long time and came back in the middle of the night, of course, it's bloody empty. Makes you wistfully think back to Kyle's stocked pantry. Lucky sod has his mum prepping his flat when he comes back on leave.

Your stomach rumbles and you sigh even heavier, laying your forehead on the wooden countertop.

Fuck.

The food will have to wait till morning then.

And the shower will have to wait too — with the power back on, boiler will need at least an hour to heat up the water for you.

You look at the dust all around, wet muddy footprints left after your sweep across the house and sink back on the counter.

Maybe changing the flats is not the worst idea, at least this way you won't come back to the mess you've got no energy to clean up.

"If we lived someplace in the city, we'd have 24 hour shops close by." You say to no one in particular in the quiet of your kitchen and rub your face.

You won't move from your cottage, you know you won't.

For all the inconvenience you have to face and the perpetual paranoia of getting got in the hallway of your ancestral home, you just…you can't.

This place is the only thing that has ever been truly yours.

Not to mention that it costed a bloody fortune to fix up the roof and the heating systems and to replace all windows because previous ones were as old as you are and the draft was everywhere, which did very little good to your attempts to save on heating.

Had to replace the locks too, you think, glancing back at your back door, L.t. even came over once to test them out. That was certainly an occasion to open some bubbly for.

He cracked two of them, broke the third one and appreciatively stroked the fourth, pausing only to tell you that you can benefit from some wrought iron security bar on the inside of your front door.

"Decent burrow." Simon said at the end, shaking his head when you offered him to stay for a couple days, decompressing together after the long deployment.

But less than wanting to get dropped in one of his faceless flats, your leftenant wanted only to get dropped in someone else's house, surrounded by baby pictures and old quilts.

He never stayed n one place for long, you think. Makes you wonder how his current arrangement's working out for him.

There are only so many places to rent with cash that are in the close proximity to Soap's.

Speaking of…

You swipe your phone's screen, unlocking it and the chat folder is just as quiet as before.

Nothing from Johnny so far.

You stare at your list of contacts for a minute, swipe down aimlessly, not really looking for anyone in particular.

You don't have that many people in your life.

Unlike Kyle you've got no family to fall back on, unlike Soap you have no pair to come home to. Neither do you have the set of large brass balls to invite yourself into someone's house and haunt it like l.t. did.

You think of Price for a moment and feel nauseous with aching that is slowly spreading from your chest to your head.

Settles in your temples — heavy — expands like it needs more space than you can give.

Takes it anyway.

John lives alone as far as you know. Doesn't bring anyone home and always declines invitations to come over. He is content with his life, satisfied with his career and relieved to never have to marry despite an occasional nudge from his now elderly parents.

John doesn't fall in love and doesn't do relationships, he ties his tubes in his middle twenties and isn't any worse for that.

Your captain doesn't hate his second gender, not per se, but sometimes you wonder whether he hates yours for the fabled 'advantage'.

For the lesser pressure, for the lack of expectations to marry as soon as possible, for the ease with which you are supposed to be left off the hook.

You aren't sure you feel the promised advantages, but you prefer not to raise the topic with him.

The lead omega of your pack does not take kindly to having his sergeant telling him how he's supposed to view the world when he's been in it longer.

When he has suffered his fair share of trouble.

As much as allowed you do love John Price.

You try to hope that so does he, even if it's a little.

Even if there are parts of you that will always make him bristle.

You try not to ponder why it's never the case with Kyle and choke down the childish envy, because you can, in all honesty, understand.

Kyle is a lot like John, Kyle has been by his side ever since the Taskforce was formed and Kyle is the golden protege of infamous captain.

Kyle is 'one of the lads'.

You, on the other hand, are just an alpha that Price shags when he's in a good mood, no matter how many people you kill for him.

Strictly business and nothing personal.

Not even when everything is as personal as it bloody gets.

Your stomach tightens again, hunger crawling up to your solar plexus — the hollow sucking feeling of it spreading.

Just one damn thing after another, you think, miserably and exhausted, sky lightening behind your kitchen windows.

Your pocket rustles when you try to stretch out the aching shoulders and Lord, if the light bulb that lit up above your head was real it would've lit up the entire place.

Kyle, good mate and good alpha that he is, has provided you with a little something for the road.

You fish out the half-smashed croissant and almost rip the brown paper it's wrapped in, hands trembling.

God-fucking-bless.

The pastry is cold and sweet, it flakes off on your fingers and around your mouth — chocolate filling of it spreading over your tongue, kicking in the 'life's worth living again, lads' feeling in your brain.

You finish it faster than you would've liked and lick your fingers clean, remembering about the juice box in your backpack while the last of Kyle's care dissolves on your tongue with the dough so buttery your toes almost curl in your boots.

"Cheers." You mumble, ripping the plastic cover of the paper straw (that's some irony, innit?) with your teeth, practically inhaling the peach ambrosia that the best most considerate sergeant in the world supplied you with.

Sugar of it is a divine fuel that will let you pull through the night and a really late morning before you get your hands on something more substantial.

High on sugar rush, you swipe your chat with Kyle open.

'Mate, I owe you my bloody life, the 'resupply' saved me tonight. A kingdom for this croissant, next time I see you, it's on sight, because I will be kissing you on both cheeks with maximum delicacy. Better bring your chapstick, just in case.'

Kyle usually wakes up around 5 for his morning sprint for life or 'light exercise' as he calls it, so you make the best of the spike in your energy and get to cleaning the house before you drop down like a dead horse somewhere in the vicinity of your bed. Hopefully.

Otherwise you will pull a muscle and get stuck downstairs on the couch that is not long enough for your legs to stretch out fully.

True to his habit, Kyle responds at 4:56 in the morning, catching you fresh out of the shower and ready to sleep for the next 15 hours.

'With tongue?'

The implication actually makes you snort out loud typing in the response immediately.

'Other cheeks, bruv. Don't unbuckle your pants just yet, I am gonna cost you more than just one croissant.'

'True.' Kyle replies, sitting on the edge of his bathtub miles away, cheeks aching when you 'heart' his message. 'Will the cake do it for u then?'

The response is slower this time, probably because you actually contemplated whether or not that would be enough, filling him with light, laughter cracking at the back of his throat.

'It will. Get me the one with them edible glitters and your own mum won't recognise the raisin I will send her back in place of her son after I'm done with you.'

Idiot, Kyle thinks, grinning from ear to ear and 'hearts' your message in return, putting his phone away.

Alpha in him purrs with smug bone-deep satisfaction. You ate what he bought you. You were hungry and Kyle provided for you even while being miles away.

Not many omegas can do that now, can't they?

Means another thing too, Gaz in him comments while he squeezes the toothpaste out, means you live alone. Means there are no omegas with hot meals waiting for you from deployments, no sweet neighbors checking on your plants or bed.

So for the next three weeks or so Kyle can have your undivided attention in between your cat-naps and breaks for melancholic ripping of weed out of the ground.

You did mention you have that you have a garden there.

Makes him wonder if you'd let Kyle take care of it too. He is good with plants.

Patient and attentive, his mum used to say that even the sickest of them flourish under his touch.

Could offer you a helping hand, he thinks, tying his shoelaces and checks his chat with you one more time before the run. Maybe that can be a way to finally see your house and not just hear about it.

'Go catch some rest, mate. Can feel u stewing all the way over here. Ill talk to u later, ok?' He sends and something warm and large swallows his lungs when you 'heart' his message immediately.

'Have a good run, Kyle.' You type out and don't know whether to send it. Would that be too much?

Probably not, you two spent the last three days together, so it's not weird that you now know Kyle's approximate schedule or that his running shoes are bright blue, because Kyle thinks blue is his lucky colour.

It's not clingy, you reaffirm internally and send the text, almost throwing the phone away from yourself, we are just being nice too.

Maybe he is right, you should sleep and then eat and, maybe, unpack your bags.

Whichever order you fancy doing it in, that is.

There's routine you've developed over the years of service, after the first time you came back home aching all over and not knowing where to put yourself.

You were so early in your twenties at the time that the teenage felt like yesterday, while actual adulthood was a mirage that twisted in the cracking with heat air. You could still pull allnighters and survive your day on nothing but candy bar, large herbal brew and spite back then, when the ruts could have been dimmed down with Ibuprofen and some blockers.

Blessed days, some would say.

You'd come home, drop your things off in the hallways and walk yourself out to just give yourself a five before you'll need to start doing something, like feeding yourself, checking the backyard for weeds and rodents, nodding at neighbors in greetings like you are part of this entire ecosystem.

At the very beginning your grandmother took care of many things in your life — attentive and stubborn, beta who always left her word to be the last one, she never left you off the hook if only to teach a lesson.

Cared for you in a hundred different ways from care packages sent every month with treats and clothes and meds and bloody contraband (you still don't know how she managed to smuggle it in to you for years).

You were too old to be babied, but going away from home was scary at 18.

And she was the only one who called. The only one who cared.

Your emergency contact is still listed as her phone number — you kept it in service after her passing.

Practical decision, she'd say, because yeah, it was, kept people from dipping into your world.

You don't think about her voicemail that you kept calling up after the funeral not even knowing the fuck you expected to happen.

For her to pick up? Well, you've buried the ashes that afternoon, a tad late for that, innit?

So the phone kept ringing till you heard the familiar ping and her voice briskly greeting her caller, the usual lilt of her voice recommending: "If I am not picking up right now — leave your name and the purposes of the call so I can call you later. And pet, if that's you, tell me all about your day — I am missing you already. I will call you as soon as I can. Goodbye, now."

You don't know why you kept calling it.

What did it matter? Doing the exact same thing but expecting different result is the definition of insanity.

She wasn't coming back.

She wasn't going to listen now.

No one now was going to give a flying fuck how your deployment been.

How bloody unfair it was that a person so enormous was gone and life just kept going.

The sun was shining the next day, not a cloud in the sky and you drank till you couldn't fucking see in front of your eyes.

Called Ghost's burner — sobbing and slobbering, barely coherent just to reach the automated voicemail. Another one.

Fucking wailed like a baby, passively hoping that maybe he'll pick up, maybe you won't have to go to sleep the night after her funeral so completely alone.

But no one picked up.

You slept on the floor in the kitchen that night, too drunk to climb the stairs, curled up on the tiles and burning up with grief that you were not ready for.

What were you supposed to do now?

There was no one left at all of your familial pack.

There wasn't a new pack you could turn to either — you had no one but Ghost.

And Ghost wasn't picking up.

Away on an op, you learned later, completely off the books — the voicemail where you whimpered for him to please, please call me back, l.t., she's gone, I can't sleep, sir, please, just pick up, I don't want to be alone, please, I need you, pleasepleaseplease, just pick up, probably was at the bottom of some river at that point.

Pathetic, you think, slowly blinking up at the ceiling, you were young and as clingy as they got.

Good thing Ghost never got that message, saved you the humiliation.

But the small part of you — all that is left of your twenty-something self — remembers not relief, but tunnel-dark, crushing hopelessness. Remembers despair and grief and whimpering under the kitchen table like a kicked dog.

You were so completely alone back then.

Not much has really changed, passed through your mind as your eyes slide to the cobweb you didn't notice yesterday. Now a tiny spider was making his way to your wall, maybe having a better idea as to how to live a life, leaving you bundled up to your neck in blankets.

Tired and boneless, like one of the things this many-legged lad probably eats for supper.

First nights home are always the hardest, because the house haven't changed much.

You still use her perfume on the blankets and quilts after the wash to sleep better. Helps, to an extent. Confuses your alpha, searching for the family that is no longer there, because the scent persists and she didn't.

The first year after her death you did the stupid thing of going shopping for groceries straight off deployment.

Didn't realise that everyone and their mother would be telling you how sorry they are, how tired you look, how much you must work and that you simply cannot pass on the offer to come over for dinner sometime.

You awkwardly nodded, towering over old omegas and betas of the market and never went to a single offered dinner.

Weren't sure you could make it through one without starting to bawl right around dessert in someone's home surrounded by quilts and baby pictures.

This wasn't even your community, you thought, hiding at home till next deployment, it was hers and now she was gone.

And you were hardly a substitute.

You didn't remember everyone's birthdays, and anniversaries, didn't call for each big holiday, didn't know which gifts to bring or what's the right thing to say.

All the knowledge — it died with her before you got taught most of it.

And afterwards you weren't in much of a state to learn. No energy left to go out of your way.

If you were completely honest, you didn't see much of a point in it either — you were gone so often with your line of work and could tell so little about yourself.

Hardly a desirable member of the community, you had nothing to bring to the table when all you could do was curl under it and hope that it will start hurting less if you play dead.

So, after the initial misstep you came up with the routine for your leaves — late night train, house check, a bit of cleaning, some sleep, shopping for groceries around the time when most would go home for afternoon tea.

Your system left a lot to be desired, but it worked as much as you hoped it would.

The house became yours — to think, you didn't even plan for it not being yours, suddenly struck with the realisation that things might have been different. That you could lose everything in one day if the fate turned the other way and your grandmother didn't take care of everything for you. Like always.

So, from every paycheck you started fixing this and that around the place.

The roof, the gates, the windows and stairs. The decades old electric and plumbing.

A lot of work had to be done. Costed you a pretty penny.

But it gave you something to look forward to — an almost instantaneous positive change. Like there was still something you could do. Something for you to take care of when all else was gone.

The light shines through the lacy curtains — yellowish and warm — strokes the side of your face which only makes you to sink deeper in the pillows. Maybe you can just stay in today.

Who needs food? It's not like your rut is a week away, you can certainly manage all on empty stomach and empty pantry. Perhaps you can prove a point to Price and survive on worms from your garden, instead of going out and talking to people.

Life keeps going, but you don't really feel like you do outside of successful ops and repairs you do around the place.

You flop on your side, bundling up more in another blanket on top of the one you are curled in and squint at the windows. These will need a good scrub before winter.

So will the curtains, these you had to wash before deploying, but they seemed good enough to last another few months, so you didn't. And now the amount of dust there is probably enough to kill a small child.

Not like you have children over though, nowadays you don't really have any guests. People got the hint after a while of you pretending not to be home when someone knocked, so there haven't been a friendly visit for a cuppa in this house ever since his better owner died and left both the cottage and you to collect dust.

Your phone buzzes, the sudden vibration almost sending you up to the ceiling (twitchy after work out in the field, are we?) and you grab it, checking. Could be captain saying that you are needed for something very dangerous and 'need to know basis', could be Ghost finally dropping in for a chat, could be Johnny finally taking you up on your offer.

Anyone. Someone.

A reason not to hand-wash the fucking curtains so you can keep procrastinating over the inevitable task of it till Christmas.

'U had lunch already?' says the message instead, prompting you to turn on your stomach so that your shoulder cover the screen from the sun, your blankets tangling in your legs.

Kyle's checking in on you, you think, hating the traitorous warmth and wrap an arm around your pillow, propping yourself up on it.

'Just woke up. How was your run?' Is mundane and so boring, but Kyle texted you. Kyle is talking to you even though he doesn't have to any longer — you aren't his guest right now, you aren't a packmate with the first aid kit, you aren't even a mate he takes out for a pint.

You don't have to remain in his orbit, he has no obligation to tolerate you hovering there, so if he is being nice, you want him to be nice to you a little more often.

Maybe it won't be that bad this leave if he checks up on you once in a while, has a quick chat with you before going on with his day. You wouldn't mind that at all.

It's always better to watch someone's back in the distance than to not have anything to watch at all.

'Run was splendid, however I am pretty sure the crown will implement spying systems via pigeons. I keep seeing one and the same bird outside my window. Could be surveillance.' Kyle shares readily and you can feel your lips curling upwards. Here he goes with the conspiracy theories. 'What's the plan for supper then?'

'Mate, I promise pigeons aren't spying on you, maybe you just have kind eyes. Like one of them princesses — their hearts ache to help you in your sweatpants.' You propose instead, grinning when he reacts with 'thumbs down' on your text. 'And I am not sure yet. The house's fucking barren, I'm gonna do some shopping as soon as I get out of bed.'

If, you get out of bed, being the key part, but you don't think Kyle needs to know about that.

You'd be content spending your day just like that, talking with him about nothing, getting to poke your head in the warm sand of his attention before you will get ripped out of it like an overripe turnip.

Speaking of turnip, you did plan to plant some seeing as it's the start of winter. Could do with some garlic too, maybe even carrots if you are feeling adventurous.

If all is well perhaps some of them might survive until you return from the next shipment to god knows where.

'If u didn't have no plans, I can call u later and we will shop together. I will be out for a few things mum needs, can keep u company.' Kyle offers suddenly and you pause, blinking at the message like you misread it. 'Can take a rain check if u'd rather not, no hard feelings.' He adds after a minute of your silence and you don't know what to do with the tremble in your fingers.

That's…that would be great, actually.

'Sure I can. What's the ETA?' You finally reply and Kyle 'hearts' your message.

'In an hour or so. I'll call u, ok?'

Okay, you think, pulling yourself upright and quickly text 'deal' before putting your phone away, more than okay. An hour gives you time to do few things around the house, wash the bloody curtains, hang them out to dry with the rest of the laundry.

An hour is a set time frame that finally gets you moving — gives you a mission to set on, gives you a flickering light at the end of the tunnel.

Because in an hour Kyle's going to call and you will get out of the house with his voice in your ears and it will be almost like he is there, walking down to the market with you.

Immediate positive change, you think, trying not to grin too hard.

And finally, some of it for you.

People often say 'do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life', probably meaning the fulfillment of knowing one's work is making some kind of change.

That the tail of your comet would graze people's life and for one moment spanning the entirety of this connection their skies would light up.

It's true for some people, you think, sure, that does happen to doctors saving lives and firemen rescuing kittens and craftsmen building community around their work.

Connecting with people on a level you can never seem to be able to access.

Your life isn't bad. You don't think it is.

Not many people get to earn their living doing art like yours without tapping into 'what sells' against 'what's mine'.

It's a rare opportunity. Some probably envy you.

They don't know me enough to envy, you think immediately and sit in your cool kitchen helplessly feeling how the tight knot grows in your chest with the tea choked on.

I don't mind being alone, you think, sizing up wood for the new 'passion' project, one of those you do in between commissions to make sure your spark isn't turning into flickering electrical light that kills local moth population.

It's convenient not to have anyone dragging me down or eating my favourite snacks or, even, messing up my good sheets because they can't stop turning in their sleep, you reason later, checking on your latest lacquer order that should arrive any day now.

It's convenient, echoes in your head when you tuck yourself in the corner of your couch, cool plush of it seemingly endless.

All that space and it's yours, aren't you lucky?

So what if it's empty?

It's no longer the case when Kyle comes into your life.

Or, more specifically, when you make Kyle and now have him following you around the house on wooden legs with wide attentive eyes of a bloodhound.

'Kyle shouldn't be a person, but he is now.' Passes through your head while you watch him stretch out your dad's old sweater with the width of his shoulders, impossibly real when he combs his fingers through the white of your curtains. Thumbs the lace of it when he sees you aren't looking.

You've made him beautiful and tall and charming.

You've given Kyle long beautiful arms and thick heaviness to thighs.

You carefully chiseled out his eyes and painted that little mole on the back of his neck.

You made him so someone would keep you company and now he's not yours to keep because you've made him too well, isn't that the irony?

Even now there isn't a connection that you can force to stay and warm your couch, and eat dinners with you, and watch your shows, and kiss your cheeks because they are simply happy you are in the room.

You make a noose out of the red string just for it to come apart fraying — seep through your fingers like sand, returning to the flow of fate because maybe it has never been your destiny to keep someone.

Maybe, what is yours is only the work you never run out of.

Maybe, what you are meant for is never someone's adoration, never companionship, never the tenderness you see in the movies.

But that's sort of the point, right?

Like a child knowing not to touch the cookie jar, you stash yours as high up as possible, but keep staring at it from the shadows under your kitchen cabinets.

Still hungry.

"You could leave." You tell Kyle in the evening, your legs in his lap — his warm fingers tipping under the hem of your socks.

Couch with him feels wonderfully full.

Gaz tilts his head slower than you know he can, watches you through the lashes, probably thinking that you'll add anything else.

You don't.

"Tired of me already?" He muses quietly.

Kyle doesn't ask 'why', doesn't ask 'where would I go', doesn't ask 'what's wrong with me'.

"No." You stare at your hands clasped in your lap, trying not to think that his have not a blemish while your middle finger is slightly crooked from when you dropped a slab of marble on it. "I'm just saying—"

"I hear what you're sayin', baby." Kyle hums, cutting you off and leans closer — palms curled around your feet.

No way to run from this conversation when he's got you by the legs, eh?

"Are you plannin' on makin' someone else?" He asks, not blinking, because he doesn't really need to, because you forget to remind him that people do.

"What, like a new project?" You clarify, unsure. "I might, I'll need to fill up the space when you leave."

'When', you say, not 'if'.

"Oh?" Kyle's entirely too curious, the tilt of his head now unnatural.

Shouldn't have given him wooden joints.

"Who'd you make, babes? Maybe a bloke larger than me, perhaps with hair lighter?" He purrs, climbing on top of you. "Or maybe someone older? Would you like him with some nice 'stache, love?" Gaz's smile a little mean, when your face burns. "Could make someone bulkier too, I reckon, if you fancy one of them blokes that look a bit like a pittie."

"It's not that." The protest sounds weak and like a shark smelling blood Kyle follows the trail of it.

"Would you touch them too, baby? Give them lipstick kisses to stain the marble, lick down the cracks, panting and groping? Or maybe stroke their wax casts so they'd get nice and pliant under your fingers?" Kyle's needy like only favorites can be when the stream of attention starts thinning. "Would ya hump the bronze thighs you'd give them too? Would you get it all messed up? Would you clean it with your tongue? Would you whimper for them to come alive and touch you in return?" Each detail throws you in the water boiling, lightheaded and ashamed, because you did do this to him. You wanted him so much that someone heard it and made Kyle real. "You've made me, baby, I'm perfect for you. And now you don't want me? What did I do?"

The heat explodes in your stomach, spreads down and coats you with want swelling — bakes you from inside out, electricity buzzing down your fingers.

You have no right getting so fucking excited, but God help you.

"You didn't do anything." You say slower, swallowing with more effort than you ever needed for a task so simple. "I'm just offering you freedom. You could try new things. Maybe even meet someone else." The last one makes you wince and Gaz spots it immediately.

"I could." He agrees for the first time, sits on your hips — tall and immovable, heavy bulk of his pinning you down deliciously. "But I don't want to. What will we do with that?" Kyle asks, tone innocent when he starts slowly dragging his sweater off. "I don't want to leave and I don't want you to make anyone instead of me."

"That's a tall order." You comment, eyes trailing down his chest to the curls of happy trail.

"I wanna know if you like me." He continues, leaning down to brace on his forearms. "Want to stay here." Kyle murmurs, his face inches from yours and he smells like wood shavings and warm human skin, licks his lips when you glance up at him through the lashes.

To be or not to be, that's the real question, innit?

"Anything else?" You ask quieter and cup his cheek, marveling at the scratch of stubble you can feel with your palm.

God, he really isn't turning back into your statue now, is he?

"I really want to kiss you." Kyle shares, voice lower, voice cracking, voice coating your eardrums when he nuzzles in your palm, eyes still on you.

His lips find your palm, the beating pulse of your wrist, the tender spot down your forearm.

"Kyle," You hum, fingers sinking into the meat of his inner thigh — the one you made for him, "come here."

Is all the permission he really needs to finally catch your lips like he wanted to, teeth clicking against your because he is impatient, because he never kissed anyone before, because you laugh in his mouth and he wants to solder himself to your bones.

Wants to rearrange your ribcage, so he can squeeze his heart through and have it beat against yours, wants you to look up at him again like he is incredible.

Kyle wants a lot of things.

But you were right, that's a tall order even for someone who's been born few weeks prior.

He'll get his chance to be greedier.

Kyle's lips count down your sternum, tasting the beat of your heart as close as possible.

For now, he thinks, that's enough.

After all, what he really wanted can be summed in one very simple word.

Kyle's warm in the best possible way, you think, like a yellowing sunshine after a long winter.

Like getting your cold hands breathed at.

Like sharing one umbrella, side pressed to side tight and secure, his eyes finding yours before you even notice that you are grinning back at him.

"Been really good." You say all of a sudden, glancing at the time your train is supposed to arrive at. Fifteen more minutes. "The last couple days, I mean." You clarify when Kyle doesn't say anything and finally drag your eyes back at his face, not even knowing what you are so nervous about. "Thank you."

Sergeant tilts his head, breathing out in your cheek, his shoulders sagging when you catch his eyes.

"Come back soon." Kyle wants to demand, but all Gaz says is, "You weren't half bad guest, mate."

"I've been a great guest, you wanker." You grumble and Garrick throws an arm around your shoulders, squeezing them and making sure you aren't putting any distance between the two of you any time soon.

"Who told you that? The spirit of delusion?" He taunts, pressing you closer to him when you try to pull away. And where do you think you are going? Train's not even here yet. "Iced me in my own bloody shower."

"You are so sensitive." You chuckle, "I've seen you dive in freezing rivers for the sake of the bet and like, fifty quid." You add, shaking your head, smile tugging on your lips.

Only Kyle doesn't laugh and doesn't squeeze you again — stares back, lips in a line.

"I'm not sensitive." Gaz says, tone flatter than you have heard before, grip around your shoulders easing all of a sudden.

Immediate drop in temperature making your fingers flex, blood flowing away from the tips of them because sergeant stares at you like you have wandered on the minefield and he is waiting for you to blow your leg off, eyes tracking the steps you make and think of making.

"I meant no offense." You try, careful when he keeps looking at you like you are standing on the pressure plate, bringing something heavy behind his eyes into motion. A boulder that you cannot yet see, but can feel rolling downhill to roll you out like dough for croissants he treated you to a couple hours earlier. "I'm sorry for the shower, mate. I was just pulling your leg. Didn't mean anything."

Kyle knows you probably didn't.

Kyle knows you weren't trying to get a rise out of him.

Does not help with the way he feels when you off-handedly call him 'sensitive', your eyes laughing. Like it's fucking hilarious.

Like you've had a great laugh at his expense.

"Kyle?" You lean closer to him and Gaz, startled, pulls back instinctively, catching his reaction only in it's aftermath when your face falls. Fuck.

Not sensitive, of course, he isn't.

"Your train's here." He just says at the long steel body of your transport, not looking at you anymore, his arm falling down to his side leaving you again on the platform a little cold. A little lonelier than you came to London. "Let's get you in before they leave you here till morning."

Right.

You nod, stepping away from him and pick up your duffel before he can reach for it.

"Fair enough. Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome." You say more to yourself than to Kyle and don't glance back to check the emotion that passes behind his eyes.

'Seems like we've already overstayed all our welcomes, mate', voice in your head comments, tightening the loosened knots throughout your stomach.

"Thank you for seeing me off. I appreciate it." Your voice softens involuntarily and you turn away, slinging your backpack over the shoulder.

Maybe Kyle's been upset about it before and you just didn't notice. Maybe he really was trying to be nice and you pushed it.

'Don't forget to shower.' Price in your head says and you are now acutely aware that you still smell like Kyle. Your entire coat does. So does your hair if you had to guess.

Fuck.

Maybe you really got carried away there, forgetting how these things work. That it's never…more. Not supposed to be. Not for you.

Pack is just a pack and Kyle ain't your family to put up with the antics and annoyance you invoke in him. You aren't Kyle's best mate, you remind yourself, Johnny is and it's best you don't forget yourself in the future.

At least captain parted with you sated and satisfied, your brain digs into the scabbed over wound, scraping off the protective layers, you did right by him, you did good with John.

Didn't do as good with Kyle and made him upset instead, daft fucking cow, voice in your head hisses and you hunch your shoulders, feeling the stone of the platform through the soles of your boots.

Took too big of a bite and got your hand smacked away. Rightfully so.

You don't look back at Kyle and Gordian knot grows through you, coiling around your throat now as well. Spreads through the chest upwards and tightens as you think more about it, replaying everything you have said and done, every long look or too wide smile Kyle gave you.

What else did you miss?

"Bruv, wait up." Kyle suddenly calls out and this is so stupid and so bloody childish, but you duck in the train, pretending that you haven't heard him in the crowd.

Train's leaving in a few minutes, so a bit more and he'll be free.

You'll apologize again tomorrow, when you get home. This time properly.

Probably over the text, so he doesn't have to listen to you rambling, wasting more of his leave on you.

Lucky enough, your seat is by the window, which is both a blessing and a curse given how packed the train car is, making you squeeze through the crowd before you can plop down with a heavy sigh.

L.t definitely knew something, you think with your eyelids heavier and eyes burning, when he said that some of us don't need to have anything nice.

Have yet to earn it, he said at some point in a dark safehouse, quickly bandaging your bleeding leg.

"Oi." Is suddenly breathed out above your ear you actually flinch, eyes flying open when the plastic corner of something gets pressed into your palm. "Forgot the juice." Kyle just says, tone almost…sheepish(?) when you blink at him, momentarily disoriented. "I figured you haven't heard me on the platform so had to take a light jog."

"Cheers." You nod after a pause too long, unsure what else to say, given the strings of tension vibrating between the two of you. "You didn't have to go through the trouble — could just drink it yourself."

"I don't like peaches." He says, almost defensive when you blink at him again without a word. "I bought this one for you." Sergeant finishes, unusually awkward and you nod again, staring up at his face.

You thought you'd just marinate in what happened the rest of your way home, without looking at him again till you have to be back on base in a month or so.

"I'm really sorry." Gets dragged out of your chest when he turns to leave, throat constricting around the words it cannot push back down and has troubles letting through. "I…fuck, I'm sorry, mate. I overstepped. Won't happen again, I promise. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I swear to good."

Kyle freezes, staring at you like he didn't expect it and doesn't know what to do with it.

Like you are still not getting something.

Part of him is glad that you don't.

That's a can of worms he is not opening tonight.

"Let me know when you get home." He says instead, fingers again sinking into your hair to grip it at the roots for a moment, massaging the sting into your scalp right after. Mindless affection and a bit of self-soothing. "Okay?"

"A-firm, sir." You murmur, too relieved to push for a proper answer, head lolling to the side so he can touch you more.

Your body an ever hungry animal, readily pushing itself against eager affectionate hands.

When you look back at Kyle, his cheeks are red, which he, evidently, can feel because sergeant gives you a nod and turns on his heels, making his way out of the train.

Glides through the crowd with the ease that you envy sometimes, makes it all the way to the platform, just so he'd trip, sidestepping around a kid.

You watch from your seat as graceful and quick sergeant Garrick, the man you know to be the top of his year, the man who passed every training and simulation with flying colours, the man who set a new record when passing the interrogations and managed to get out of the restraints and leave the building all together…almost faceplants on the platform.

The cackle you accidentally let out is so loud that half the car and Kyle himself turn to look at you.

You stare at him, face burning, he stares at you and then the doors finally slide closed, leaving him — outside and you — fucking wheezing in the collar of your jacket.

'U did not see that.' Your phone dings with the incoming message, forcing out an actual laughter. 'Stop cackling at me, I can see u through the window.'

'Im sorry' You type back, smiling so hard it's not possible to go any wider.

'U're a bloody liar, I can see ur smirk from here.' Kyle responds immediately and you have to bury your face in your palms for a couple seconds, shoulders shaking with laughter.

'Are you okay? Not broken or anything?' You ask, finally pulling yourself in some semblance of together, train starting to crawl away from the platform.

'Im not broken. Scabbed the skin on my palms.' He replies a little slower this time.

'So no need to kiss it better?' You tease him before you can think better of it and Kyle falls silence for a long 20 minutes.

'Went to my mum's to treat the "wounds". Already got roped into having dinner this Friday.'

'Tell your mum I said "hi".' You type back immediately, while you still have the cell service. 'Try not to trip over your legs on your way home, mate.'

Kyle takes another few minutes to send you a middle finger and a short: 'Mum says "hello" back.' followed by a quick 'Let me know when u get off the train. If u get kidnapped on the train station, I want to be the guest of honor on the true crime doc they'll make about u.'

Arsehole.

You lean your shoulder against the cool surface of the wall of the moving train, legs humming and chest hurting. Ghost would say that maybe it's time to go to the doctor and let them poke at you some to figure out why it is you are still alive and not warming up a place for him on a local cemetery.

'I'll get out of the torture basement just to spite you.' You reply after a minute, fingers flying over the screen to type out the message before Kyle responds. The only thing quicker than bloke's wit is his typing. 'Have a good night, ok? Thank you for having me these last few days.'

You hit send, huffing out air through the nose when Kyle 'hearts' your messages, some tightness dissipating. He doesn't say anything else and after another 10 silent minutes, you click your phone off and lean back in your seat.

Conversation over, you think, bittersweet anticipation slowly draining out of you.

Kyle sits in his bed, staring at the open chat with you for what feels like forever before his screen finally goes dark, reflecting now only his own face.

He can still feel your hair in his grip, how easy it was to pull your head back so you'd bare the throat, so you'd go pliant, lolling it to the side to give him more.

Your eyes still stare back at him, your voice rubbing his inner thigh with that unnecessary "A-firm, sir".

Fucking hell.

To make the matters worse you saw how he reacted, saw his face go hot, saw him fumble like a high schooler and saw him make a fool of himself.

Kyle rubs his face, tired and annoyingly hot, the beast in his head throwing in an unasked for reminder that the bedding you used is still on the couch, now neatly folded.

Still smells like you after a nightful of sleep.

Soft and hazed, smoky and a little sweet, his mouth watering at the memory.

Delicious, alpha in him purrs. Gaz in him already thinking about getting the sheets from the living room.

Christ, and he used to say that Johnny was shameless with his constant sniffing of every tidbit of clothing he sneaked from home away from his omega.

"I take it all back, mate, I get you now." Kyle groans in the cool surface of his pillowcase, screen of his phone lighting up all of a sudden.

Not a message from you, but a system notification.

The devices synchronized successfully, it says and just to confirm Kyle swipes open.

The red dot shines in the dark, steadily moving away from London. No surprises there, not sudden changes of the plans, nothing that he could file away for later.

Just a precaution, Kyle thinks, to make sure you are safe.

After all, if someone actually managed to subdue you late at night, Kyle would like to know in which yard he'll need to bury the unfortunate cunt.

"I'm not dying." Sergeant actually rolls his eyes at you. Arsehole, that was a valid concern. "But just…hear me out on something."

"Yeah, I'd shag Ghost and yeah, the mask stays on." You nod immediately and spend an entire minute staring back at Kyle, who looks at you as though you've given him an aneurysm. "I'd shag captain too, if that's what you meant." You add casually and have the privilege of getting the front row seat to Gaz going through five stages of grief, cycling someplace around bargaining and depression.

"Anyone you wouldn't shag?" He recovers, tilting his head to the side and the smile he has on shows off his fangs.

Probably would give one hell of a mating bite, you think all of a sudden and push down the phantom feeling of his teeth on your neck from yesterday.

"Colonel Vargas." You say honestly and sergeant just arches his eyebrow, so you feel the need to explain. "The forehead. It's so shiny, I'd get distracted by my own reflection. Although the accent this man has…" You sigh a little too wistfully and Kyle's upper lip twitches in a snarl that's gone as fast as it was shown.

"Would you shag me?" He asks suddenly and stares you dead in the eyes, while the McDonald's worker places ice cream in front of you.

"Are you offering?" You tilt your head to the side and Kyle bristles, muttering defensive 'forget it', "No, c'mon, mate, I'm sorry. You just caught me off guard."

You catch his eyes and lean a little closer, some defensive edge dulling in the set of his jaws.

"Yeah, sure I would. You're a handsome bloke. Why're you asking?"

Kyle looks back down at his ice cream — plain strawberry in a plastic cup — digs the wooden spoon in the gradually melting mass of it.

"I was thinkin' since you like me and I like you, and you aren't physically averse to me…" He starts and you have to bite down the inside of your cheek, trying not to chuckle. "Neither of us also has any permanent relationships." Gaz continues, glancing at you to confirm, his shoulders relaxing when you nod easily, "And you know, ruts can get brutal when you're alone. I figured, we could help each other out." Kyle glances at you again, waiting for your reaction.

"So…like packmates with benefits?" You clarify and he slowly nods, still holding your gaze.

"Yeah. Hell, you helped me out last rut and it was a bloody godsend." Kyle explains and realisation finally dawns on you.

Oh.

Oh.

"Kyle, you don't have to help me out with my ruts, I helped you cause I wanted to. You don't have to pay me back." Your tone softens and Gaz rolls his eyes again.

"I don't have to do anything other than stay Black and die." He parries, the tip of his boot knocking against your shin.

"What about taxes?" You ask randomly and he shrugs, entirely too careless.

"Captain has that accountant of his that does 'em for us, no?"

You look at him for another minute, seeing that he arrives to the same conclusion around the same time you do.

"I take it none of us have been actually paying them in the last five years or so." You stuff another spoonful in your mouth and Gaz has the sense to look mildly flustered. Well, the crown can take a little pilfering from your ends, given all the dirt you cleaned up over the years for the country. "But you were saying?"

"I'm offerin' because you were there last time and it was bloody lovely."Kyle recovers, his tone a little softer now, like he is trying to get closer to a skittlish cat he's been trying to pet for a while now. "You knew that I could actually sleep through the night when I usually don't? And I know that your ruts too can get pretty fuckin' mean, so don't give me that crap about managing it."

You sigh, pushing a spoonful of your ice cream into your mouth, cold of it aching at your back molars, sinking deep into your jaw so you have time to think instead of hearing the excited pulse of your too eager heart.

So that's why all the twitching and staring today.

"You sure 'bout that?" You start slowly, "I'm happy to help out when you need it, mate. You don't gotta do it in return."

"Well, I'd like to." Gaz huffs out, bracing his forearms on the table, his eyes following yours so you can't look away. "It's fine if you don't want to, but mate, if you do — let's try. If it doesn't work then it doesn't work, no harm done. We're both alphas, right? The risks are minimal. And nothing has to change, yeah?" You look back at him, chest tight and t-shirt sticking to your back with sweat.

God, what a conversation to have in the middle of McDonald's.

"No strings attached." Kyle's voice dips a little lower, tone curling around your ears, almost sweet when he tilts his head to keep watching your face, "If you want out at any point, then we just roll back to how it was, no feeling hurt."

You nod slowly, trying to ignore the anxious buzzing in your bones. On one hand you could really use some help with ruts, because whatever thing you have with John — it does not extend to your time on duty. Or to your ruts.

Too personal. Too risky.

On the other hand, people, even nowadays, don't always take too kindly to two alphas…mingling. Not when there's no omega or beta in between as a buffer or chain link.

Not when it's just the two of you.

"Okay." You finally said, drawing shapes in your ice cream with the tip of the spoon. "Let's give it a try. You want any ground rules or anything?"

"Sure." Kyle agreed quickly, leaning a little closer, his fingers intertwined. So you wouldn't see the tremble there, so you wouldn't back off when he just got the foot in the door. "You've got any, mate?"

"Whatever happens during ruts stays between us? So, I think, privacy first." You offer, glancing up at him, awkward and annoyed with yourself all of a sudden. You know Kyle, you've been with Kyle in different circumstances, you are not going to get embarrassed of having a proper conversation with him now.

"Fair." Gaz nods, scooping up his ice cream, licks his lips after swallowing and pretends not to notice how your eyes slip. "I want full transparency — if any of us finds a pair, wants out or just has an itch they can't scratch, we tell it how it is. Even if the shite's embarrassing."

"Okay." You try not to watch how he licks the spoon clean too. "Another one is you can still come to me outside of ruts. We are still a pack, right? Care's not limited to ruts only."

"Yeah." Smile on his face stretches, warm and toothy. "Sounds good to me."

Sounds better than good, something in him rumbles, dark and pleased — a big beast with a hundred mouths. All salivating.

"Is there anything else you wanna add, just so we are all clear from the get go?" You finish your ice cream, almost pushing your nose inside the cup in an attempt to get all of it and sergeant's eyes crinkle when he swipes his thumb over your nose. Pops it in his mouth, licking clean off without a second's hesitation.

"Exclusivity." Gaz says after a pause, his eyes following yours when you tilt your head at him, puzzled. "I figured, it's something we should discuss beforehand. If we help each other out and it works well for us, then we can keep to each other, right?" Sergeant proposes, not blinking while you hold his gaze. "Unless, of course, you suddenly fall in love and start planning a summer wedding with your omega." He adds after a beat, smile too wide to be casual.

"I think we can circle back to it later once we see how it goes." You shrug and Kyle slowly nods.

Gaz in him just smiles even wider, baring the teeth.

"I'm just sayin', mate. It's fine to fool around with omegas off duty but it would be best for us to keep each other in the loop about this sort of thing." He starts, tilting his head to catch your eyes again, strange need to see that you are considering his offer at the very least.

All he needs is one crack in the wall to squeeze through.

"That does sound reasonable." You murmur more to yourself than to him and finally let him catch your gaze, glancing back at Kyle. "You've got any, sort of, hard 'no's' for that? As in, kissing is fine but sex isn't."

"Ruts are off the table." Kyle says, quicker than he planned to and just keeps talking trying to cover the slip up. "Kissin' is fine. All the usual physical shite we do with lads is fine too."

"Second you on ruts." Agreement comes out easy and Garrick visibly relaxes at that. "If you'd like to shag someone outside of ruts, I don't mind that either." You add and he tenses up again.

The unspoken 'Well, I bloody mind that very much.' sits on his tongue so close to getting out that Kyle has to look away first, staring at the glass doors of the entrance behind you.

"Thought I could come to you if I understood correctly." Kyle started carefully.

"You can." You nodded, "But if you ever want to shag someone else — just let me know, aye?"

"How much you want to know if that happens?" Gaz chuckles, leaning closer. "Date, name, place, position and time zone?"

"A simple 'hey, bruv, fucked a bird from pub on weekend, gonna need some down time and a condom' would work, arsehole." You roll your eyes at him, "But sure, throw in the details if you feel like it. Then we can all finally rest easy knowing whether Kyle likes reverse cowgirl or lotus." Sarcasm seeps through your scent, thickening the smoke in it and Kyle grins like a big wolf everyone don't think he is.

"Lotus." He says easily, a little too smug when you just stare at him, mind blanking out. "I like to see my partner's face during sex."

"Good for you, mate." You mutter, ignoring the traitorous heat climbing up to your cheeks.

The mental image of Kyle grinding against you, eyes dark and sharp, eyes following the movement of your throat when you have to gulp just not to drool over him, eyes laughing when your hips twitch up to meet his.

Jesus, you really need to get your mind of the gutter.

"What 'bout you?" Gaz asks, propping his chin on his fist, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to bare the dark skin of his forearms contrasting beautifully with the pale blue of his sweater.

If you bit down on him, how long would the mark stay with him for?

"Not sure. I'm not picky — usually adapt to whatever my partner likes." You shrug, ignoring the tightening of the knot in your chest. "Don't worry about that."

Easier said than done when you really aren't helping your case here, Kyle thinks, mindlessly scratching the plastic side of hic cup.

Well, he'll find it out soon enough for himself.

Gaz in him wants to pull you apart and suck your bones clean, wants to pick apart sinew and muscle, wants to pull on your strings and cross your wires. See which one will make you buzz, which one will grant him access.

Gaz in him needs information that no one else has and he'd like to have it right this second, preferably.

Only it does not work this way.

Patience is a virtue, Kyle reminds himself, eyes slipping to your lips for a moment too long to be accidental.

The inside of your mouth right now is probably perfectly cool and sweet — your teeth would click against his if he pushed his way in right here, sinking fingers into your hair, pressing on the back of your head to keep you panting in his mouth.

Gaz would love to have you by the short hairs for his own peace of mind, only Kyle knows that this is not the way to play it. Not if he wants to have a leg to stand on later when he circles back to getting casual sex with other people off the table too.

You'll find out that Kyle's a quick learner and a very gifted student, he just needs to prep and lay the groundwork first.

When you get up to use the bathroom, Kyle glances up, face slightly embarrassed that he even needs to ask.

"Can I use your phone for a hot second? Mine has no bloody cell service in here — can't check our next route before we head out."

"Been there, mate. It almost feels like London is inside a black hole, I've got no idea how the lot of you is operating around here." You chuckle, unlocking your phone and passing it to Kyle, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

Made him smile, didn't you?

The realisation spreads hot and sweet, coats insides of your stomach, turning it into amber, preserving the feeling bubbling under your surface so you can take it home with you when you leave.

"Prayer and a lot of back up plans, bruv. I'll wait for you here." He laughs, warm and grateful when he opens the map app, typing in the next destination.

By the time you come back, he's all done and finishing his ice cream — your phone lying screen down under his forearm for safety — his eyes find you in the crowd as soon as you round the corner out of the doors of the nearest loo.

"Holding down the fort here?" You grin at him and Kyle passes you your phone back, lips curling upwards.

"Easy to tell you haven't had your phone snatched before."

"Not all of us live in London, mate. Cheers." You tuck your phone back in your pocket and offer Kyle a hand to get his arse off the chair. "You ready to go?"

You have train in six hours, but the day's still young — Kyle's palm a little clammy when he takes yours to haul himself up.

"All prepped and ready to go." Gaz purrs above your ear, deliberately squeezing your hand and starts towing you through the crowd, even his voice steeped in some muscle-deep satisfaction.

Like he can hold his head even higher now.

Not that sergeant Garrick ever needed your help with that.

He's the smartest, most driven person you know — Kyle's the best of the best and he's the cork in every bottle.

And he still doesn't let go of your hand when he turns around and starts walking you to a suspiciously subway-shaped underground entrance, stairs leading down in your hell.

"Kyle, no." You try and the wicked bastard squeezes your hand so tight he almost crushes your palm, his smile sweetening by the second.

"Kyle, yes." He teases and interlaces your fingers with his just to make sure you won't be able to pull your hand out of his grip. "This is my retribution for morning's shower. You ain't leaving London till you take the train with me."

"I am claustrophobic." You try to protest, pointedly ignoring Kyle's 'since fuckin' when' because what does he know?

Maybe you are deeply traumatized, had a difficult childhood and all of of your toys were wooden.

"Maybe," Kyle starts, tone bordering on gentle if not for his lips twitching to smile wider, "you are just full of shit."

This prick is laughing at you, you just know it.

"Your audacity is enormous." You comment grimly and he grins with all his teeth.

"Should see what else's enormous 'bout me." He shares, almost conversationally and the scandalised look you give him would have worked if only you hadn't involuntarily cackled.

"I've seen your arse, Garrick, it's not enormous." You try to rebut, walking right into his trap, because Gaz is as serene as the mount Fuji when he pats your shoulder, feigning compassion.

"I know, love, they were all out of it after you and Ghost cleared up the entire inventory."

He giggles, tapping your chin so you'd close your mouth, clearly eager to hear what you have to say to him now, his smile growing when you stay silent, so caught off guard you can just helplessly open and close your mouth, staring at him.

Sergeant beams at you, his eyes satisfied and amused when he tucks something in the back pocket of your jeans, his fingers smoldering hot even through the layer of fabric.

"Cat got your tongue?" He coos at you, stunned into flustered silence, gives you a few more seconds before his smile turns so smug you have an itch to kick him in the teeth. "That's what I thought."

"Wanker." You mutter under your breath and he chuckles, standing closer than necessary — his chest to yours — when he leans down just enough to talk in your ear, sending a traitorous shiver through you.

"Y'look like a fuckin' tomato." Kyle says with so much satisfaction you can feel annoyance bubble behind your jaws, hot and sticky, it spreads under your skin and heats up all the blood that you can feel in your cheeks and behind the eyes. "What's the problem, bruv? Need to cool down?"

"Need to see you bleed out in the snow." You comment barely audible when he pulls you inside the train car, immediately boxing you in against the wall.

"Stop talkin' dirty to me, there are witnesses." Gaz murmurs, voice hiking an octave up with amusement, his shoulders shaking a little when he leans on you, warm puffs of his laughter tickling your ear.

"Sorry I gave you a boner." You murmured back, tilting your head to catch his eyes — dark and laughing, "It will happen again."

"Threats or my boner?" He clarifies, tone innocent, dimples playing on his cheeks when he can't back another grin too wide.

"You're insufferable, Garrick." You mumble, looking away because you are not letting him know that you think he's funny, his head's big enough as it is.

"And yet you suffer." Kyle nudges you to lean against the wall so he can tuck himself as closely to you as possible in a packed subway car — presses his nose to your temple for a too long moment. Checks if you still smell like him.

Gaz takes a deeper breath in when you raise your chin, giving him access without a second thought.

Lovelier than any omega he met — all trusting and tender-hearted.

Maybe Johnny really isn't the Sun in their pack, Kyle thinks, glancing around quickly before he leans down to bury his nose above your scent gland. (Smoke and herbs, heat and haze.)

Maybe that's you.