Soup

You turn and run towards your home. You hear the crash of him through the forest behind you giving chase. Even knowing the land as well as you do the terrain is uneven, the roots are made to catch your feet, and the branches are low to obscure your vision. You don't have the deer's advantage of darting movement to keep you out of reach. Each step you can hear him getting closer, until you feel his hands grab you.

The man, the viking, catches you around your middle. You kick and scream and make every effort to batter him with your fists, to make yourself difficult prey. You've heard enough stories about what these men do to know you want no part of it. He lifts you, hauls you up off the ground as you fight and twist.

"Would you be still, I'm not going to hurt you," The man tells you in gaelic. You freeze at the familiar tongue.

"You're a liar," You push at him, claw at his grip, "why would you chase me if you weren't hunting me?"

"Why would you run?" He asks, grabbing your wrists to pin them against his chest. You glare at him, your chest heaving as you gather your breath back. He's handsome, for a viking. There's something sort of rakish about the stubble on his face and the set of his brow. "Did I do something to scare you, bonnie?" It's not an honest question, he knows full well why you'd run.

You keep quiet, keep your glare level with him. An easy task with him holding you up, his arm hooked around your thighs. His head tips back to look at you with a smile. "Aren't you pretty," He whispers, hardly phased by the run or your anger. When you don't respond he seems to find his head again, his smile dropping to something more serious.

"Fine, courting later, business now." He sets you back down, keeping a tight grip on your wrists now that you've proven yourself a runner. "I'm here to negotiate a trade, I need an escort," He explains, though you would think a man needing an escort would have a shorter handle on the ax at his hip.

"A bad liar," You amend your previous statement, tugging at his hold.

"Fine," He relents, "I want an escort. Escort me." He insists, tugging you against his chest again. You're really getting tired of bumping into him.

"Why? So you can lead a raiding party back as soon as I turn around?" You spit.

“To what end?” The viking asks, tips his head to the side, his eyes hard on you, “What use do we have for dead healers?” 

You stop your struggling, stunned. He’s not wrong, but he speaks to an understanding of your village you hadn’t expected. How much did this man and his company know about you? How many scouts had walked your paths, watched your neighbors work? He’s right, dead healers are useless, but so are port healers. Vikings are only as strong as their weakest man, wouldn’t they prefer to keep healers on hand?

“You said-” You swallow, “You said you were here to negotiate a trade. What- A trade for what?” He looks away from you, and you have your answer. You were right to run, he’s here for one of you.

“Let’s go,” He doesn’t pull you, but you follow him anyway. Your mind races, thinking through the people your elders would offer up. Who was the most skilled, the most expendable, weighing what you might get in return. What couldn’t these vikings offer you? Safety, rare goods, money, animals, friendship. Invaluable intangible things that would aid all of you, for whatever price they set. It’s still only the illusion of a choice.

Your wrist is still held tight in his grip as you walk beside him. An escort, what a joke. You’re not going to put in a good word for him or do anything more than act as a pass for him to walk your streets. You’re busy working on your escape plan when you smell it.

Smoke, just as you step clear of the forest.

"Gods," the man breathes, both of you standing on top of the hill at the edge of the forest, watching your home burn. Your eyes grow wide watching the fleeing shadows of raiders, the sacrifices of you kin. What are they doing? Why would they- A mass of fire belches from the center of your village, the man covers your eyes, shields you from the heat of it with his cloak. The tattered tartan catches your attention, makes your heart pound in your chest. You recognize it, Mactavish. He was one of you.

"We have to go," He tells you. You try to pull yourself free, scream for your family down the hill. He catches you around the middle again, hauls you back into the safety of the forest. 

"Tell them to stop," you beg. Your sobbing pleas fall on deaf ears.

The group accepts you into the fold easily, integrates you as one of their own. In the work setting it’s strictly professional, and it takes you a while to figure out the degree of separation between work and…the rest of it

You run drills with them, train alongside Soap and Gaz on the obstacle course, listen to Ghost’s orders in the training maze, and listen to Price as he demonstrates advanced weapons skills. You learn more with them in a few weeks than you have in years of service, and at the end of each day you find yourself exhausted by trying to absorb every inch of information, trying your best to earn your keep, remind yourself you earned this on your own merits

Your work consumes most of your waking hours, but in the soft in-betweens, there’s a gentler, more tender element to your relationship with these men

You’re not sure what you’re expecting, really. You’ve never been officially courted before. You think about the stories of alpha suitors swaying the affections of their omega interest with a dozen roses, with candlelit dinners and passionate kisses under twinkling stars

The idea, romantic as it is, is not the 141’s style

Instead you find yourself having a much unchanged relationship with the rest of the team

Gaz and Soap drag you off to movie night still, sit you between them and lean up against you so your scents intermingle. Each of them catches you alone, asks for your company for various reasons

Gaz takes you grocery shopping, and while not necessarily romantic, the time you spend with him after cooking a meal for the group makes a tender warmth flutter in your chest

Soap takes you hiking, smoothes a hand down your back when you double over for breath, and bares his teeth at a nearby alpha hiker who mistakes Soap for another alpha, leaving well enough alone

Price invites you to him, and while he doesn’t offer a gesture so grand as outings or flowers, the quiet, beloved gentleness of your evening hours spent together talking and reading have the same effect

Ghost, much to your surprise, is strangely hesitant with his efforts. It takes you a while to realize he’s never once courted someone, not even Johnny. You’re not sure what you expected, given his propensity to act as a tall, foreboding guard dog around you. Yet the instinct of defense, protection, is so very different than the gestures the other men give you, and Simon struggles with the gentler aspect of romance

You don’t mind, not really. The idea of Ghost showing up in a suit with a bouquet, of a fancy restaurant or anything so cliche has you smirk wryly when he isn’t looking, think about how silly it is

He does approach you one day, in the evening when the base is quiet, and pushes a small, wrapped package into your hands, waits for you to open it

A knife. A very good one, just the right size for your tac vest, and with an edge so sharp it seems to slice across your wide-eyed expression caught in the silvery reflection. 

Figures that, of all things, it would be a weapon that Simon would give you as a courting gift. Something to protect yourself with if he wasn’t there

When you thank him, Simon’s shoulders relax, as if he was somehow afraid you’d reject this. He nods, moves to excuse himself, when he pauses

A hand reaches out between you both, raises to your soft bump on the side of your neck, and a gloved thumb traces over your gland. Gently, a featherlight touch, just enough to scent you

You shove your head into your pillow that night, face warming like a schoolgirl with her very first love

It turns out you need the knife much earlier than you thought

The mission you and the team are on turns sour. A partial building collapse leads to you being separated from the group, and you call the tell them you’re safe, that you’ll find a way around

Only to stumble into a nest of enemies

There’s nowhere to run, no bodies at your back, your team likely hearing gunfire but with no way to reach you

You plant your feet, refuse to concede, fire rapid, calculating shots until your clips run low and even then the enemies just keep coming

You operate entirely on instinct, adrenaline, centuries old evolutionary adaptations boiling in your blood as your omega instincts see only threat, danger, escape, survival

When you run out of ammunition, you resort to your knife, forcing it into wet flesh and bone, fangs popping out, wild-eyed, snarling. An untamed, feral animal that’s been cornered, lashes out with all its might in desperate, vicious fear

You’re soaked in blood by the time the team forces their way to you, hands trembling, crimson smeared across your gear, muscles taut, and when Gaz reaches for you to look for injuries you snarl, snap at him. Instincts still on overdrive, not recognizing your allies, heart thrumming so loudly in your ears you can’t make out their words to you

You fight them off, chest heaving violently as they try to calm you down, hyperventilating and looking past them for a way out, for escape-

A hand settles across your nape

You growl at first, ominous, a threat. Yet all you’re answered with in turn is a deeper, more commanding growl, one that slithers into your hindbrain as it demands surrender, submission

A body cages yours into the wall before you, and even when you writhe the alpha captain above you doesn’t relent. Instead his thumb grazes up to your gland, presses down with just enough force to make your limbs grow a little more relaxed

There’s a low, soothing purr that replaces the sharp warning growl from Price, one that rumbles deep in his chest and slides silkily across your wired senses, cools the searing awareness from your tautly held form

“Good.” He tells you breathily as you whine placatingly, stretch your neck for better access in a gesture of submission

He’s gentling you, you realize belatedly. Calming you down from your hyper driven state, manhandling you into submission so you relax, letting the adrenaline rush fade so you can come back to your senses

The sudden clarity of the act makes the remnant stress in your body collapse, figure sagging into him as he keeps you upright

“That’s it.” Price purrs into your ear, a little husky in a way that makes something delicious pulse between your thighs. “Easy does it, love. You’re safe now.”

Safe. With an alpha you trust, one who’s protected you, who’s rescued you, who saved your life all that time ago

Your eyes flutter as you whimper, a heavy sluggishness descending upon you as you reach the end of your adrenaline, head dropping with fatigue

When Price releases you, it’s through his strength alone that you don’t drop to the ground. Gaz steadies you on your other side, and together they held you until you’re strong enough to stand on your own once more

You lean on them willingly, let their familiar scents assuage your overheated senses, relax into Gaz’s hands once it’s safe to check you over, eyes fluttering

You’re injured from the chaos. A gash where a bullet grazed you. Inches from devastation. It’s not bad, but it leaves a scar in the weeks to come

A reminder, you think, of your survival, of the thing you did despite your own doubts, without them. Earning your place.

Knowing they’re there to catch you when you fall

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