#abrupt ending

Robby moves back and fires off a text to Jack. Eyes never leaving the nest. Logically he knows not to be hurt but that alpha hindbrain can't help but chafe at the idea his very vulnerable mate doesn't want him around.

Text to Abbot

Dennis is nesting. Actually full on nesting, he growled at me. What do I do.

Delivered 18:50

It's about 15 minutes later when the door goes.

Dennis lifts his head above the nest in response and blinks slowly, head tilted, waiting. Robby is prepared to do something. Horror stories of feral omegas and tales of violence in the name of protection flying through his mind.

"Jack", Robby calls down the stairs to the movement.

"No, Trinity, Abbot is on tonight, what's wrong"

The beta looks, more like a stereotypical alpha when she demands an answer from Robby and her mood doesn't improve when Robby helplessly shrugs and gestures to the transformed bedroom.

As Trinity slowly approaches the nest, Dennis startles when Robbys phone rings. Trinity quickly coos and attempts to sooth him back into his original position.

Robby can hear her asking Dennis, how her niece is doing as he answers the phone to Abbots brisk voice.

"He is 38 weeks, is he in labour?"

"I don't think so, he seems settled." It's partly true, Dennis whilst now non verbal still shows signs of recognition, it's not reached a danger point yet. Robbys skepticism is apparent as Jack takes the time to think over a plan.

Trinity meanwhile has been bodily moved further into the nest and while Robby would be amused at this on any other day, jealousy then shame are the prominent emotions.

He takes a step towards the room only to be met with another growl. Trinity's eyes widen as she hears a sound she's never heard from her best friend.

Dennis looks at her incomprehensibly and shoves her right back down to the nest.

Jack lets out a low, "Okay." Clearly having heard the noise.

"Santos, can you check." -

"He's fine", she replies and as if to affirm how fine he is, Robby can hear Dennis purring.

There's a pause and she says, "He's lying on top of me. Another pause and then, "I do have a shift tomorrow morning."

"No you don't" Robby states as Dennis growls low and soft clearly displeased at the idea of Trinity going anywhere.

Jacks voice comes through the phone, "Okay so it's not the most ideal but he's medically fine for now. Go shower and try to calm down, you panicking has likely made him on edge, he's not communicating typically but maybe once you relax, he'll let you near."

Robby sighs at that, the last thing he ever wanted was his mate to be upset because of him. Especially in the last weeks of pregnancy, everyone knows omegas become more sensitive to everything and everyone during this time.

As he moves to step away from the bedroom doorway he's confused to hear another growl from the room. Trinitys voice is muffled from inside the nest but he can hear her ask Dennis if his mate can come inside once he's showered and changed from the hospital. There's a pause and then a high pitched chirp in response and Robby feels some tension finally release. Dennis still wants him.

It was one of those rare evenings when the night shift wasn't busy. There wasn't a crazy slew of events, just a regular flow of patients. The nausea had plagued you almost immediately, and you had been sipping on an electrolyte drink in between charting. The bout of Nausea was likely brought on by stress- a headache turned bad. Maybe it was a migraine. Those were common. Whatever it was you could handle it.

You seemed assured you could take care of it until the first hour of your shift. You found yourself kneeling over the toilet, sick. A quick flush and you took a moment. Your suspicions were confirmed when you had borrowed a few HCG tests from the supply closet. It showed a double line indicating pregnancy, which you were in disbelief about.

You knew exactly who the father was. You're attending. He was sweet, funny, and well-adjusted for everything he'd been through. A pregnancy would throw off your career, you'd have to take time off- You'd be Nauseous and aching all the time. You didn't anticipate Jack being upset about it, but it would change everything. Would it really be worth that?

As you exited the bathroom stall, Dana had entered, her bag slung over her shoulder, her sunglasses on her head. She gave you a soft, sympathetic look. She had picked up on what was happening and gave a sharp smile. "You alright, Hun?" she asked. You nodded, going over to wash your hands. Dana lingered by the wall. "I had the worst of it when I had my kids," she said. "Sick as a dog, every morning." You nodded, not feeling sociable in that particular moment.

She sighed, finally. "Does he know?" She asked you pointedly. Dana had a way of knowing everything, while it seemed like she hung around the nurses' station all day- in reality, she was the all-seeing person that picked up on everything- sometimes before the ED even noticed. She was observant in that way. A quiet and knowing presence that felt comforting. "No, he doesn't." You were hoping someone else would come in, and that would make the conversation move along, and you'd go back to work.

"Well, this is a stressful place for someone in your condition," she offered gently. "I don't want things to change," you said. Your relationship, your career. Anything really. Your body fought against you as your stomach cramped from being emptied and agitated. "Things will change- that's unavoidable," Dana said, stepping closer, offering a glance. "But then everything will be back to normal. It just takes time. Talk to him, don't leave him in the dark. He deserves to know." You nodded. "Thanks, Dana." you said gently. "Of course. You take care of yourself." She said firmly.

Change had been on your mind the rest of the shift and onward. You'd have to tell Jack- and the rest would know soon enough. You'd have to let the hospital know, and then you'd be bedridden and pregnant. You were terrified to say the least. Your rendezvous with your attending would be over, and everyone would know. As a senior resident, you'd worked hard to work your way up, and all of this now could jeopardize that. You expected the very worst case scenario, single mother working part time in the ED. It all felt like too much to swallow.

You hadn't eaten in a few days, at risk of it coming back up. You were burnt out, tired. You only had a few patients, none of them incredibly urgent. A little boy whose mother was in hysterics over her son's broken arm- It was warming seeing a mother be so worried over such a minor injury. and a teenager who had sliced his hand open while trying to cook up some elaborate recipe for his girlfriend. Sweet interactions you were thankful for. The patients kept you going on that day. And after just a few hours, the late-night lull began, and you had been dodging Jack since the evening started.

You found solace in an empty room behind the fabric curtain, a small sliver of privacy in between tasks. You leaned over the railing of the empty bed, taking a moment as a wave of nausea and weakness washed over you. Jack entered, his expression softening when he saw you were in discomfort. "Hey," his voice is soft and low. "Everything alright?" he asked, approaching you slowly. "Yeah," you said immediately. "Can we talk later?" you asked hurriedly.

"Of course," he said. He stiffened and crossed his arms. "Is everything okay, though, really?" he pressed again. You wondered if Dana had told him anything. "I'm fine, Jack. just a little tired," he nodded. You tried to straighten yourself up, but faltered slightly. Jack was there on a moment's notice with a hand over the small of your back, offering his support.

You wanted to tell him then and there, but it felt wrong- the door was open, you were feeling dizzy, and everything was still overwhelming. You nodded again as the wave passed and turned forward to face him. You were inches apart; you could smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his body.

The moment was interrupted by Lena, who slung the curtain open. "There you are," she said. Jack straightened up again, stepping away. "We have an incoming car accident. Semi-blocked traffic. Could be a dozen injured, maybe more." You exhaled. Things were about to get busy. You both rushed out, ready to have useful hands. You shook off the dizzy feeling that grew weaker.

You had all spread out and began tackling tasks- Doctors of the ED rushed past as patients came in, one by one. EMT and triage were slammed in just a moment. The hospital got busy and fast, and loud. Skilled hands administered care to each patient, and you had hopped on a case as it came in. An unconscious pregnant woman whose airbag had deployed and broken her nose. You took each of her vitals and searched for any signs of injury. The EMT doing the handoff was prompt. "She's about 6 months pregnant. Slid off the road, she's lucky she avoided the pile-up. She wasn't hit by the semi. We suspect she lost consciousness when the airbag deployed." The EMT says, you got to work, the typical routine.

The woman regained consciousness slowly and then grabbed your arm in panic. "The baby!" she shrieked. "Is my baby okay?!" She said, trying to lean up, her nose smeared with blood and her face puffy. She'd have some bruising for sure. "Stay still, I will make sure the baby is okay," you reassured her. That's all she cared about in that moment. She was placed into a room, and you finished your general assessment. Once the initial panic had washed over her, she began to cry.

"I just-" she sighed. "This is my fault," she whined. "My husband and I got into an argument, and I ran off with the keys," she mumbled in between sobs, ignoring the pain that troubled her and worrying about her unborn child first. "There is no fault here; you're safe. I will have one of the nurses call your husband. We will take good care of you." You said in the professional tone you always used. It felt like some kind of sick irony.

The next step was an ultrasound. The woman was incredibly lucky her injuries weren't severe or worse. You both waited in agonizing anticipation as you used the machinery to look for the baby, a healthy-looking sign on the screen. It picked up the baby's heartbeat, which was steady, and the woman wailed in relief. "Oh my god," she exclaimed. "The baby is looking healthy, unharmed." You said definitively. The woman wailed and cried her tears of joy and relief. "Thank you so much," She uttered. "Just take it easy, okay?" you instructed her.

A man calling her name rushed through the halls. They made the sweetest couple. This was the husband. He rushed into the room to be at her side, kissing her forehead. As you entered your notes into her chart, he, of course, had a million questions. "Is the baby okay?" was his first. "Yes, the baby is doing fine." The man burst into tears. "Your wife is very lucky. Her nose is broken, and she's a little bruised, but both are looking very healthy otherwise. We have some tests to run, and we'll get you guys back home safely as soon as we can." You nodded, beginning to exit the room.

The husband began another slew of 'thank you,' and you had to step out, A sudden sharp pain growing in your abdomen. You tried to seem calm, but there were tears in your eyes. Emotions were running high. Your pain level was increasing, and you rushed to the bathroom.

When you realized you had passed the pregnancy, everything melted away. Your anxiety, your anger, your fears. You just felt at a total loss. The thought of having Jack's baby was terrifying, sure- but now it felt like that decision was taken from you. You wanted to blame yourself- for working too hard, for letting this happen. Jack would be furious if he knew you weren't taking good care of yourself. You were scared of his reaction, scared that he'd be upset. You just wanted him to be near you, to comfort you and hold you. But in that moment, all you could do was clean the tissue from your underwear and move forward. You were in the bathroom for 20 minutes, not a long time for a regular person, but in the ED that felt like forever.

When you had cried enough for your eyes to be puffy, your cheeks rosy, and your face pale, and the shaking had calmed down, you had to put on a brave face and walk out there like nothing happened. Mid shift, and your whole world had changed, and then shattered. You walked over to Lena quickly at the nurses' station. "I'm going to step outside for a minute." You said. Lena gave you a pointed look, and nodded.

What you hadn't noticed was Jack seeing this interaction. He shed his gloves, watching you, the life drained out of your expression, your body language weak. His heart skipped a beat seeing you like that. He assigned Dr. Ellis the case and excused himself in an instant. Worry plastered his face. He rushed after you, finding you sat just outside the ED watching the quiet and empty street with the stars above you. The tears fell gently down your face.

He sat next to you, his gentle presence calming enough. "What's wrong?" he cooed gently. "Hey, talk to me."

You shook your head slightly, wiping the tears from your cheeks. "Jack," you began in an unsteady, shaky voice. "I lost the baby," you said with finality. He knew it was his. He knew what it meant; his heart dropped in his chest. "Hey," his tone switched from worry to comfort. "That's not your fault," he said sternly.

"I didn't even know I was pregnant." You continued. "I was terrified to tell you. And now it doesn't even matter," you said with a casual tone. He gazed into your eyes, trying his hardest to take on the pain. To take it away from you and bear it himself. "I had no idea," he said softly. "I had my suspicions, but I trusted you," he trails on. "And I don't blame you for this- or for not telling me." his honesty makes you feel less anxious.

There's a moment that passes by. "You know that I love you, and you shouldn't have had to carry that pain alone," he says. You lean your head on his shoulder, and his arm comes up instinctively with a gentle rub. You look out at the quiet night, distraught over the unfortunate circumstances. "I'm sorry, Jack." he shook his head. "Don't be." he says.

"I'm going to send you home, go back to my place ill take care of the ride. Relax, order some takeout, and get some rest. Doctor's orders," he retorts. You smiled softly. "You aren't my doctor," you said. "Medically, no," he teases. "Regardless, as you're attending, I'm sending you home to rest. Your body has been through something traumatic, as your Boyfriend," his words hung in the air. "I want you to be okay, not just at work." That was the first time he had called himself your boyfriend, you had always danced around the labels, but it made sense. It felt right.

You didn’t open your eyes when you woke up. Your head ached, absolutely pounding.

Fucking wine.

And even tho you had a hangover that was just as bad as a kidney stone, the warmth you felt around you was intoxicating. It had you sighing softly and curly further into said warmth.

Except, said warmth loved.

Said warmth had a heartbeat.

Said warmth smelled fucking amazing and painfully familiar.

Forcing your eyes open, your whole body tensed when you were met with a muscular chest. Then the feeling of strong arms wrapped around you registered—

Oh shit.

Immediately, you sat up so fast it had Gojo jolting away. His voice rough and gravelly from sleep, his eyes squinting as he looked up at you. “What’s wrong, sweets?”

“You— You. WHY are you in my bed?” You tore at out bed so fast you were tripping over your own feet. Almost busting your ass as you yanked on a hoodie over your shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. “Did we— oh god. Oh no.”

Your skin crawled. You were mad. So mad. Mad and sick. Your stomach hurt. Why did you do this?

“What? No. You got drunk last night off wine, and I took you home. You kept whining about wanting me to stay so… I did.” Gojo shrugged and rubbed his eyes, before sitting up, back against the head board.

“..oh.” Now, that anger was replaced by embarrassment and that sick feeling only deepened.

Ok. So this is my fault.

“Relax, we didn’t do anything.” Gojo crossed his arms, biceps flexing as he did, “but we could if you wanted to.” He winked.

“You are insufferable.” You rolled your eyes, finally calming down. Putting a hand on you temple, trying to calm the migraine— you made your way into the kitchen. “This is so fucking stupid. Fucking wine.”

Chugging down a glass of water, you stared at the stove top. That was, until you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist.

And oh, that feeling of warmth and that familiar scent. It felt so nice, and yet so sickening.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” Gojo murmured against your shoulder, not missing the way you side eyed him.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember?” His brows were furrowed now, almost offended.

“No??”

“You said you loved me. That you missed me.” Gojo filled in the gaps, and turned you around in his hold. Eyeing you with so much hope.

You stared at him for a long time, a long long time. Debating whether or not that was true, regardless it didn’t matter. “So what? Not like we’ll ever get back together.” You pulled away, huffing at the way your heart ached slightly as his shoulders slumped.

“Wait what?” Now Gojo was pulling you back. “It does matter, because if you do love me, we can— no we need to get back together.”

“And why would I? You’ll just become an asshole all over again. Remember? ‘Why the fuck are you so clingy?’” You did air quotes before slapping his hand away.

“But— but come on now, I’m— I was stupid. I took you for granted. I’d never do that to you— not ever, ever again. I will spend the rest of my life making you see how I’ve changed if I need too.” Taking a step closer to you, “please, please just give me another chance. Do you want me to get on my knees? Want me to beg?”

You glaring at him, “yes.” You didn’t think he’d do it. When you’d dated him before he was all pride. ‘Worlds strongest’ this and ‘chosen one’ that.

However, your breath stalled in your throat when he knelt down in front of you, literally on his knees as his hands found your hips. His eyes almost puppy like as he literally begged you.

Like a sinner at an alter, pleading for forgiveness.

You hated how much you like it. How it made you so happy to see him like this. So weak that he’d beg— on his knees.

“Please baby, I swear on everything— I swear on my eyes that I’ll never hurt you again. If I ever do— you can have them.” He pressed gentle kisses to your knuckles.

You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “…you ever, and I mean ever, talk to me like you did— behave like you did, to me again— I’ll hold you to that swear.” Your hand held his jaw, fingers digging into his jaw.

He nodded so fast, and when you pressed your lips against his, he was just as fast to stand up. Kissing you like a man starved and you were a tall glass of ice cold water.

Gojo’s hands held your hips in an iron grip, pulling you flush against him. Lord he was moaning into the kiss, murmuring about how thankful he was— how much he missed this, missed you.

You weren’t much better. Your nails clawed up his arms, his chest, dragged through his hair just to tug slightly hard.

“Missed you so— fucking much.” He grunted against your lips. Already hard and throbbing and oh so pathetic.

“You really are a desperate ex.” You smiled against his lips.

“Yeah, ‘m desperate for you. Sure as shit not your ex anymore.” He leaned down to press bites and nips all across your shoulders.

Now that had you smiling. “Yeah. Not my ex anymore.”

Your next kiss was sweet, all love and adoration.

"And leave all this for you to take care of? What kind of husband would I be?" He watched your face fall at his response and almost broke out laughing. You'd never make it as a spy with every thought that went through your head on full display across your face. Endearing. "Come on, lets get started on this shelf."

You trudged after him with a dejected sigh as he walked towards the hallway, peeking through doors until he came to your bedroom. Taking a step inside he was hit by a wave of your scent, so much more concentrated in this room than it was throughout the rest of the house. He couldn't help the way his steps fumbled to a stop as he stood there and breathed you in, all the way to the bottom of his lungs.

How did you smell so good? He couldn't place the scent but it was burrowing into his brain, making a home between the synapses that were still firing. It was warm and light and welcoming and he couldn't get enough of it, taking deep, greedy drinks of it as he slotted the scent into the bucket he was quickly labeling 'home' in his mind.

Coming back to himself he stepped to the side to let you through the doorway. You inched past him, careful not to touch before directing him to your closet and the shelf that was sitting on the ground. He frowned at the distance you kept between the two of you, a there and gone expression as he made plans to ease you back into casual touch. This was no way for spouses to act.

"No one new in your life to help you get this set up?" he probed as he pulled out tools. He looked up at you from where he was crouched, peering at you with his best approximation of an honest question. You fought with yourself before answering—

—with a lie. "There's someone, he's just away on a business trip right now."

He'd done his due diligence before re-introducing himself into your life. Prior planning and all that shit. Price would've been so proud of him. He knew you were single. That you had been for a little while but had been making ends meet on your own. Truthfully this nebulous partner was better off not being around. Johnny was the bigger dog in this fight and he wasn't going to back down. You were his wife—for better or for worse.

"A business trip, huh?" he repeated, letting a hint of doubt color his tone while maintaining eye contact as you shifted on your feet. He held you in place for a moment more before releasing you graciously, "Well, I'll just have to meet him when he gets back."

"Ye-ah," you croaked, voice cracking on the word, "I'm sure he'd love that."

Johnny watched as you fought with yourself, trying to decide whether to stay and be subjected to his questions or leave him alone in your house. The need to keep an eye on him won out in the end. Better to know what he was doing than be blindsided at a later time.

You started with your walls firmly in place—raised and fortified against him and anything he could manage to say to sway you. But it was clear you hadn't been expecting the charm and easy way with words he had. He watched them poke holes in your defense. Each, you did that? garnering a bashful head nod. Every, this is really well done, love, lowering your reservations. One piece at a time. He used his words like weapons, precision strikes aimed at your guard, working towards softening you up to him. It was clear you hadn't taken into account his flirty nature when you were planning on keeping him at arms length.

The first half of the morning went by much the same. Conversation never ceasing although there were times you certainly wished it would. He had a way of knowing exactly what to ask to make you squirm and he exploited it with abandon, chasing your stuttering explanations and wide-eyed looks of panic. The first real hiccup came when he asked you to go to the hardware store with him around noon.

I think I'll stay here.

Nothing he could say would sway you, you were adamant about staying home. He even sweetened the pot—promising a questions for a question the whole ride, you could ask anything you'd like. But no. You wouldn't be going with him. You'd stay and wait.

He accepted your decision but that marked the end of the free-flowing information.

When he got back the conversations continued—he never was one to sit by quietly when he could be flirting with a beautiful person—but there was a marked difference from the conversations of the morning. No longer did he give you peeks at his history since you'd been gone. He kept those tightly buried and manipulated the conversations back around to you, keeping the focus off him.

He watched you get more and more frustrated with every run-around. Something close to glee bubbling up in his chest at your angry face, nose all scrunched up and brows furrowed. He wanted to kiss the little lines your frowning caused, pepper them all over your face if you'd let him until he came home to those lips he couldn't keep his eyes off of.

Soon.

He'd have you in his arms soon. He just had to hold out for the right time.

Even the mundane questions no longer got an answer. "Where'd you learn to do that?" you tried, watching the way he took apart your sink with an ease that betrayed his comfort with the task.

"Wanna learn yourself? Come here, I'll show you how it's done," he coaxed you closer to see what he was doing. "This bit here is where things get trapped. Always make sure to have a pan underneath to catch the run-off—"

It was so smoothly done that you never realized what he'd done. You likely wouldn't until you were thinking about your day once you were lying in bed.

By the time it was late afternoon and he was wrapping up for the day he had managed to learn quite a bit about you—your favorite food, your disdain of dusting, where you grew up—while you were limited to what you had gleaned that morning before the trip to the store.

"I'll be back tomorrow, aye? Same time as today and we'll keep knocking out that list," he said as he packed up his bag, cleaning up his leftover mess and turning to look at you once more.

You'd relaxed quite a bit throughout the day, your shoulders no longer up by your ears at the sight of him. It filled his belly with warmth at the thought of you softening up just for him. Showing your vulnerable underbelly. He wanted to see you relaxed underneath him in bed but that would wait for another day. He knew you weren't quite there yet but he was optimistic.

He remembered how you two used to be dynamic in bed. The sounds he could pull from you and the way your skin felt against his lips was burnt into his brain, something no bullet could take away. He looked forward to the day you'd let him re-learn your body, he was already more entranced with you now than he had been walking into this. Just goes to show he had great taste when choosing a spouse.

"You really don't have to," you tried, a hesitant look crossing your face. "You've already done so much today that I couldn't impose."

Impose. How funny.

"Nonsense, hen. I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that his hands darted out to cradle your jaw carefully between his warm, work-roughened hands as he tilted your face, leaning down to press slightly chapped lips to yours. They separated in a small gasp that he took advantage of eagerly. His tongue sliding inside to map the contours of your mouth, tongues tangling together.

After a moment he pulled back, leaving you panting and dazed, a far-away look in your eyes. With a smile he darted down to press one more kiss to your lips before stepping back, giving you room to breathe.

You came back to yourself quickly and cleared your throat with a, well then, before gesturing towards the door. He felt his heart expand in that moment, another piece of you that he would keep tucked away for himself. He made a vow to fluster you as often as he could just to get that look back on your face.

\\\

"And that's the last of it," you smiled at him from your position, crouched beside him as you held the light on the front stairs.

The week passed surprisingly quick with Johnny coming over ever day. You'd gotten to know him a little bit better each visit, his sense of humor coming to light easily but his reliability hiding behind layers that you were only starting to unearth the shape of.

After the first day and you turning him down on the drive to the store and the subsequent stonewall of information, you found yourself caving when he asked the next. Same rules as before—a question for a question while you were on the road. You'd like to say you held strong and told him where to stuff it but the truth is you capitulated embarrassingly fast. Yesterday's afternoon was a study of frustration when he refused to answer anything you asked. Even something as small as if he needed a certain tool got a run-around response as he got up to get it himself. It was beyond annoying.

You had stood on the porch that second day hesitantly, still not eager to give this stranger that much power over you just yet. But his offer meant maybe you'd get some of the answers you were looking for and so you found yourself giving in, caving in on your previous obstinacy.

Surely one ride wouldn't hurt.

You white-knuckled the entire trip there and back but nothing untoward happened. Johnny kept the conversation flowing as usual, asking you questions and offering up glimpses of himself when you inquired in turn. Pulling into the store he didn't let you try for the handle, jumping up to get around to your side before you'd even unbuckled your seatbelt, as if it would wound him if you were to open your own door.

You were slightly ashamed to admit it but you half thought he was going to steal you away as soon as you got into the vehicle. Drive and simply not stop, taking you wherever he wanted. However it was straight to the shop and then back home once more, no detours—planned or otherwise. You let out the breath you weren't aware you were holding, shoulders lowering at the sight of your home.

All that stress and you still didn't get the answers you were looking for. While he held true to his end of the bargain and answered your questions, the answers left something to be desired. Your why me's received a because you're my wife response and each why are you in my house got a just until everythings all fixed up, love.

But now you were done. Everything on your list checked off—including a few items Johnny himself pointed out during the course of the week. You were pleased to say your house looked better now than it did when you first moved in. No squeaky doors, no wobbly steps. It was picture perfect.

Johnny turned to you, holding his toolbag and leftover materials. "Come with me one more time to return these pipes I didn't end up needing?" he asked, his gaze steady as he held yours, bright blue eyes pinning you in place. You'd have thought exposure therapy over the week would have eased the intensity when he turned his full attention on you but it hadn't. It was still just as gut-wrenching as it had been that first night.

You thought about turning him down. Saying no and leaving it at that. But you were still curious. And hopeful. Hopeful that now you were done, he'd give you a satisfactory answer of why you, why your house, why now.

So you did. One more ride couldn't hurt.

The trip there was uneventful, Johnny jumping out to get your door just as the truck rolled to a stop, the same as he had every trip and then the pipes were returned and you were back in the vehicle once more, seatbelt firmly in place.

It was fine until he turned left out of the parking lot instead of right.

You froze for a brief moment, watching the new scenery passing by your window. "Where are you going?" you asked, thinking (hoping) that maybe he had another return to take care of, something he wanted to do while he was out before dropping you back off at your house. You felt your heartbeat starting to pick up it's tempo despite your reassurances to yourself.

"We're headed home, sweetheart."

"But—it's the other way," you tried, waving your hand in the vague direction of your house like it would spark his memory, voice still steady but starting to become tight with anxiety.

"We're going to our home, not yours," he didn't react as you dove for the door handle. You were still going slowly enough it wouldn't hurt too badly to jump out onto the road, maybe just a few scraped extremities to show for it. But when you tugged on the latch nothing happened.

Pulling firmly and jamming your shoulder against the door got you nowhere, it was sealed and wouldn't open from the inside. With horror you remembered all the times Johnny jumped out to get your door for you. Had you ever opened it yourself? Whipping your head back to him, you watched as he sat there smiling, taking you who knew where.

"Now that it's all fixed up," he continued as if there hadn't been any interruption, "We can sell it as is—fully furnished. I'll send some friends over to pick up your clothes and any small items you want but there's no reason to double up on all our furniture so it'll be included in the sale."

"What," you croaked, eyes wide as you stared at him in disbelief.

The email appears in his inbox while his team is getting they're routine medical checks. The words NOTICE: Medical Check Denied flashes on the subject line and he groans outwardly. He gets them for recruits that don't meet weight or injured themselves and try to walk it off. Below it reads the automatic generated line of:

"Captain J. Price, this email is to notify you that the following soldier is not fit for active duty and cannot..." he rubs a palm down his face in irritation. He's not in the mood today. He'd slept wrong last night, leaving him barely able to turn his head to the right, the coffee pot exploded yesterday because some idiot left it empty with the warmer on, and he hadn't even had his smoke break this morning because of paperwork piling up.

He's hoping it's one of the grunts so he can designate filling the spot to his lieutenant. Dragging his mouse to click on the email, he lets his eyes scan it.

Only his brow furrows at the name listed. Your name. "God dammit," he grumbles with experation. He knew your streak of best behavior would end, he just didn't know when.

Ever since that night where he'd pinned you down and fucked you into submission he'd felt the guilt and shame gnawing at the back of his mind. His biggest pain in the ass and the most infurating subordinate he had broke him. Him!

He couldn't deny the effectiveness his inapproariate behavior had on you. You could still barely meet his eyes. You hadn't denied a single order from him since. Gone were the days that you mouthed off to your Captain and in were the days that you followed orders. A miracle that had the rest of the team nearly as baffled as him.

When Simon pressed a few weeks ago about what'd he'd done Price had managed out a calm, "Finally found a punishment that stuck." But refused to elaborate more.

He hates that he has to adjust his trousers a bit at the simple sight of your name on his monitor. (Because as pained as he is to admit, that night had been playing like a broken record in his head in every quiet moment of the last month.) But he narrows his eyes to see just what you'd done now.

Captain J. Price, this email is to notify you that the following soldier is not fit for active duty and cannot be deployed.

Your name sits on the next line by itself in all caps. Tauntingly.

Due to PREGNANCY this soldier is not permitted to be deployed. The attached forms will need to be filed within a week of this email to further this case. Any inquaries must be sent to the Human Resources Department to fight this case.

His heart stutters before he finds himself roaring out a louder "GODDAMMIT!"

He sees red because of that little shit! Furious over the fact that you could possibly be so reckless. It only lasts a moment. A breif moment where he's cocking his arm back to throw his hat.

Then he's shouting "FUCK!" because he realizes he can't even *blame* you. Not certainly. Because it is entirely pausible he is a party to this incident, and if so, there will be hell to be paid by both of you.

A knock sounds. The lazy rap of it tells him it's probably his lieutenant. The door cracks before opening and sure enough, Riley is peering at him with a bland expression. "Someone piss in your coffee?" He grunts.

"Where is she?" He hisses at his lieutenant who doesn't even have to ask. He already knows from the veins on the Captain's forehead.

"Sent her and the other two Sargeants to medical for their physicals twenty minutes ago. Need me to fetch her?" He rumbles in that Manchester accent.

"Immediately."

He gets a nod of affirmation and off his lieutenant goes, no questions asked. It takes all of ten minutes before the knock returns and the door to his office is opened again.

"In ya get." His lieutenant orders, irrately at you.

What Price is not expecting is the tears streaking your face as you slide in, too terrified to even look at him. You sniffle and flinch as Ghost slams the door behind him and leaves you to be displined.

Price wavers a beat, silence filling his office asside fro. You descreetly sniffling and wipijg your eyes. He begins sternly, trying his best not to fold to those pitiful hiccups. "Well? What've you got to say for yourself?"

You finally look at him with puffy eyes. "Wh-what are you... refering to, Captain?" You manage to croak.

"The email from medical I just got about you being unfit for active duty!" He bites out, short tempered.

You sob. Actually sob. "They already emailed you?" Your disbelief is clear. He marches around his desk to loom over you.

"How many men have you been entertaining exactly?" He demands sharply and more tears well up in your eyes at what he's insinuating.

Your lip wobbles and you shrink before murmuring. "Just you..." all at once his heart aches. Guilt rushes back to him. Drowning him.

"I need the fuckin' truth," he bites out, softer than before. "I deserve to know the truth."

"You..." you sniffle. "Only you..."

Price sighs after watching you hold your ground despite everything. It's a wrench. A shock. Something that terrifies John.

"Shite..." he mutters lowly, then he's coaxing you gently against his chest and you go willingly as he pulls you into a deep hug. "Alright, I'm sorry for yelling." He hums. "Your not the only one to blame."

You tremble in his arms and toughen up as quick as you can. A moment of pity. It gives him a moment to plan. Consider his options. And by the time your drying your tears and sitting back he's got everything plotted out

"I'll get the paperwork started for your transfer." Your eyes widen at him.

"What!? But Captain-!"

"I'll have none of that," he huffs. "You are not allowed to be in the same unit as your husband if he's not the same rank. That is a conflict of interest." Your eyes bug at him.

"Husband!?"

"I'll book the chapel, too. Just worry about picking out a dress." He hums like your discussing mission objectives and not marriage, swiping a stray tear trail with a calloused thumb.

"Captain, I never agreed-" His palms press to your cheeks, tilting your face up towards his.

"The mistake has been made," he grunts out. "I'm still your Captain as of this moment. So I'm ordering you to go pick out a dress for the chapel. Don't you worry about anything else. I've got it covered, we'll have you in married housing by the end of the week."

"But, sir, we-"

"Ah, ah. Stress is bad for the baby." He insists and then his mouth is on yours for a firm kiss. "Go on. Got paperwork to file. You're dismissed."

Your world is spinning all at once, but don't you worry. He's got a plan for every situation and he's not one to botch much.

Let it not be said that social anxiety cannot kill.

The familiar auburn haired mimic stands in your doorway. Your door—ancient, borrowed, and mocking—creaks quietly as it wobbles in place from the force that it was opened with. A testament to his—its—excitement. Usually, it is so careful. Gentle. Soft fingertips on stolen chess pieces.

Your window is closed. Boarded. A choice you made only a week before. A silly attempt to escape the inescapable. You thought you could choose when to cut contact. He’s—fuck, its—proving you wrong.

Its smile is wide tonight. It’s always wide, but there’s something particularly menacing about it tonight, and it’s not just the blood dribbling down his chin.

People are screaming. The house echoes with it. The bones of the ancient mansion shake with the terror of its occupants, but there’s a sense of sadism too. As if even the house is on the side of the damned.

You have questions. Curiosity sets fire to the fear and burns it down to ember and ash. The alcohol roars. Liquid courage rushes through your veins, lighting you up from the inside out.

What is he?

Where are they?

What is this place?

“Who?”

His head tilts. It’s subtle. You shouldn’t notice.

You do.

“Nobody you cared about,” he answers. His teeth are surprisingly clean, despite the blood on his face. He hadn’t eaten any of whoever it was, then.

Did he need to eat?

“I care about everyone here,” you say.

He hums. A soft, contemplative sound in the back of his throat. Almost thoughtful. “Trudy.”

Trudy. Trudy, Trudy, Trudy.

You repeat the name in your head, trying desperately to put a face to it. You’re certain you’ve heard it before. Perhaps the dark haired girl who’d arrived with her family? Or the curly haired one in love with the painter—the one whose anniversary had been the reason for the party tonight?

You can picture their faces, but their names don’t come.

God, no wonder you spent most of the night in your room—you didn’t know these people.

He quirks an eyebrow.

You scowl. “Shut up. I did care about her.”

Did you, though, if you cannot even picture her face? If the sound of her name spoken from the lips of death brings you no pain at all, save for the distant twang of guilt?

He moves now, finally. A slow, measured step deeper into the room. The screams from downstairs die down when he shuts the door behind him. Blocks out your kin and his alike.

The world shrinks until it’s just the two of you.

You should move.

You don’t.

His eyes—as blue as the sea and twice as cold—lock you in place. He’s like a riptide. Your mind can scream, cry, and beg, but the harder you will yourself to run, the less you want to. You are tired—no, scratch that, you are exhausted, and where has running ever really gotten you, except for right here, back in his reach?

The hair at the back of your neck stands up when his fingers meet the curve of your jaw. He is wrong. Too warm. Too still. His chest does not move and his breath is not warm. Your heart doesn’t speed. Your palms do not sweat. Your brain is disconnected from your body, one screaming while the other simply waits.

He is wrong. This place is wrong. You are wrong.

Fingers dance along the line of your jaw, pinching your chin and tilting your head up. He likes to look at you. He likes when you look back.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” he clicks his tongue, amused, “Why? You know I always find you.”

Your eyes flame. Nostrils flare. His fingers turn sharp, claws brushing lightly beneath your eyes in warning. You hate the power he has over you. Despise the way your lip trembles at his words, but your tongue dares not speak what you want it to say.

It, you remind yourself. It is an it. Not a he.

The reminder is futile.

You know yourself too well to deny your own hopelessness. For now, though, you cling to your pettiness.

“Don’t,” you warn, a plea in disguise.

You don’t want to think of the before. When survival relied on how well you could hide, how quiet you could be, how low you could stoop before you lost the ability to live with yourself.

The talismans had been a lifeboat in a raging sea, but by the time Boyd had found them, you’d been drowning so long you’d gotten used to the burn.

“Don’t?” He asks, thumb pressing gently at the top of the bridge of your nose, trailing downward, before gently tapping the tip.

Your nose wrinkles. An instinctual, familiar reaction to the very same gesture he’d just performed. His thumb follows instantly, tracing the wrinkles with the barest of touches.

It tickles.

His smile melts when you sneeze, lips pressing together in a softer, more human expression. It’d be convincing if not for the blood.

You reach forward mindlessly, using the sleeve of your shirt to wipe at his mouth. He tilts his head into it, allowing you better access. His tongue flicks out to swipe along his bottom lip as if trying to assist you in the cleanup—or perhaps for one more taste of the life he'd stolen.

“Have you been hearing them lately?” He asks, catching your arm at last. He turns it in his hands, rolling your sleeve up to run his index finger over the spiderweb of blue veins in your wrist. His nails aren’t quite human, but aren’t quite not either. They’re in between. He wants you to feel the sharp edge of them, the unspoken threat of what he could do.

The question doesn’t make any sense to you. The answer is about as far away from you as the image of whoever Trudy may have been.

“Hearing what?” You ask, wincing when his nail nicks the crook of your elbow. An accident, because he lets you pull your arm away afterward, turning his attention to your hair instead. He catches a strand near your face, curling it around one of his fingers.

“You haven’t, then,” he decides, gently—playfully—giving the strand he’s wrapped around his finger a tug, “I’ve been wondering when they’ll start. Shouldn’t be long now. Quicker if you’d come home.”

Home.

Images of rock come unbidden. The smell of wet stone and moth bitten fabric. Something sweet beneath it. Decay and lake water. Rich and mineral.

Fingers curl into fists. Skin burns as nails carve crescents into palms. That had not been your home.

His hand catches yours once more, and he pries your fingers open, frowning. His frown is scarier than his smile. Something strange happens to his face, something shifting beneath the skin, and you will the monster forth. It’s easier to focus when you can see what he is.

He must sense your thoughts, because his head tilts, eyes gazing intensely into yours for a moment before his skin changes. Smooth gives way to rough and shriveled, skin like ancient paper. Those eyes, ocean cold, sink into his skull until they’re almost completely covered, only the smallest prick of black pupil visible. His jaw is open, sharp teeth jutting out in all directions, like some kind of deep sea creature.

You stare at the teeth. They’re so sharp, capable of ripping out a throat with only the tiniest bit of pressure, and you wonder how many found their end beneath them in only the few minutes it took him to find your door. Just Trudy, whoever she may have been, or were there more?

He guides your hand to his mouth, and you watch helplessly—hopelessly, maybe—as he runs his tongue across the small, barely bleeding nail marks you made on your own palm. He’s careful not to nick you with his teeth.

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as he carefully carves his own mark into your palm. His is deeper. Bleeds more. “What voices?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He’s too busy teasing the wound he’d created, the tip of his tongue poking at torn skin, dragging slowly up the slit of the cut. Even his tongue is inhuman like this. Too long, too narrow, too pointed.

You lose your patience after a moment and start to fight against his grip, annoyed. “What voices?” You ask again, trying to jerk your arm away. You can’t, of course, but trying annoys him anyway. So much so that he digs claws into your wrist, hot blood sliding over his fingers and down your arm.

The smile is back. You’ve angered him. It usually takes so much more. He’s on edge, maybe, but why?

“You’ll find out in time,” he tells you, “but for now…,” he pulls his claws from your skin to catch your hand in his once more, locking his fingers with yours.

His hand is warm. Always so warm, and calloused, too, despite the lack of blemish on the rest of him. The skin is soft, even so, and his thumb brushes against your knuckles in a reassuring swipe as he begins to drag you toward the door.

You weren't scared, but the sudden pull toward the door reminded you of what was going on outside this room, and you thought that maybe you should be. You were scared before, when he was outside, and you were scared years ago, when you first arrived. Maybe it was better that you weren’t. You always heard that it was better to die brave than to die a coward. You didn’t feel brave either, though.

Not that you wanted to be. You didn’t. You just wanted… well, your bed, and sleep, and..

“Howdy, darlin’.”

No.

Not him.

The rush of relief you feel at the sound of his voice is met by the rush of disgust the relief brings you and tears prick at your eyes, beginning to spill down your cheeks.

The cowboy tugs you forward by the arm, wrapping an arm around you. “Hush, now, baby, you know I don’t like it when you cry.”

The words would be sweet if not for the gleeful hitch behind them.

Smiley’s fingers are still locked with yours, but he lets go when he hears the sound of footsteps. You look up too, and start to shove weakly at the cowboy’s chest when you see one of your people. You don’t know his name, but you’ve seen him around. He’s… kind.

Smiley’s grin is downright devilish, and he puts one foot in front of the other, sauntering toward the terrified human, hands swinging at his hips.

The human runs. You hear glass breaking. Was he going out the window? He didn’t even call for you—maybe he doesn’t know your name either.

“Coward,” the cowboy chuckles, “didn’t even try to save you. What do you see in them?”

“Let me go,” you demand, or, at least, you try to. It doesn’t really pack the same punch considering your voice breaks halfway through and your nose bubbles wetly with snot.

The cowboy shushes you, resting his chin on the top of your head, running clean fingers through your hair. There’s no trace of blood on him, no sign that he’s hurt anyone at all, and you know that he probably hasn’t. It isn't out of kindness. He’d kill just as soon as the rest of his kin. But he likes to be clean for you, sometimes.

“Say please,” he drawls.

“Please?” You mumble, though no part of you believes he’ll actually let you go.

Alpha Price and his Beta that absolutely drives him wild. Like he’s an alpha, he can smell you insanely well and you call to him way more than an omega ever did but dear god you don’t even notice. At first he thought you were an omega that never used a scent block till he got your records illegally and he felt like pulling his beard out when he read over it. It makes sense now with how you act around him and his boys. You never seem to mind the postering or rough housing of the alpha’s on the team.

It would be easier if you were an Omega but he likes a challenge and he’s no stranger to getting exactly what he wants. It just means that he’ll need to time the heat and rut cycles but…Beta’s don’t go through major heat cycles like the way Alphas or Omegas do. You still get them but they’re not as hard nor as easily able to smell out that pre-heat scent. So, what does Price do?

Smells you damn near any chance he gets. He’s subtle about it at least. He’s a grown man, not a pup in the slightest, he’ll sniff around your usual spots to figure out your cycles. Sniffs quietly when you come into the gym or out of the showers, sniffs around medbay when you’re sick or hurt. Tries to find when you’re gonna get your heat so he can swoop in and mate you proper. He’s a patient man, has the patience of a mountain but dear god he’s blue balling every time he smells you. He has half a mind to induce a heat till he smells that soft, sickly sweet smell that makes his alpha go wild one day.

It was faint but he caught wind of it in the breakroom when he was making himself a cuppa in the middle of the night. He knew it was you, smelled you countless times and he broke his mug with how hard he clenched it. His hand’s a bit bloody but he runs down the hall to see you just barely making it inside your room to nest for the week.

He barges in like he owns the place and you’re quick to get to your feet. You nearly screamed till you noticed it was your Captain.“C-Cap?” You pant a bit, heat sweat sticking to you and his eyes are blown so wide it’s like his eye color was never blue. “I— uh? Sir?” Confusion is evident but he smells incredibly good to you right now. It makes heat pool to your belly, your Beta on edge but purring up a storm.

He doesn’t say anything just comes right up and grabs you. You should run, should scream, should yell at him but his scent is leaving your Beta in a mess. He’s been everywhere no matter where you are, that whiskey, cigar, cinnamon smell has been intoxicating even though it’s been so faintly everywhere you hang around. It caused your heat to come quicker than you expected and now you know why.

“Tried to hide your heat?” He growls against your neck. His nose pushing against your swelling unmarked glands. “Tried to hide from your Alpha?” He inhales you deeply, his nostrils expanding and filling his lungs up with you. You’ve never smelt better than right now.

“You’re not,” you choke out when he sucks a gland into his hot mouth. You nearly crumble if it wasn’t for him gripping you so tight when you feel the sharper points of his teeth graze your sensitive gland. You’d melt into a puddle and slip through his fingers if he wasn’t so iron tight on your arms. “You’re not m-my alpha.” You manage that but it brings something fierce to his blown out eyes. Challenging an Alpha is never good.

“Yet.” He nudges his thigh between your legs and grinning something dark when your heat muddled mind makes you grind against him. “Seems I’ve caught my Beta just in time.” You whimper at that, warnings blaring in your head but you’re getting too far gone. “What kinda Alpha would I be if I left you alone?” Groaning against your neck, he’ll have you marked before sunup. He’s sure of it. “Want me to make you feel good, sweetheart?” He flexes the muscles in his thighs causing you to hiccup a breath.

“Alpha,” whining and being helpless to your instincts as you grind harder over his thick thigh. Your Beta giving in despite the red flags raising up in the back of your mind. “Please, please, I-I need—“ he shushes you with a searing kiss. He’ll give you what you need. He waited this long for you and he doesn’t have the heart to punish you for that. Right now though, he needs to knot you before it bursts in his pants.