#alpha!soap

hold for seven.

You told yourself, and your therapist, that you were fine. Of course you were fine. How could you not be fine?

out for eight.

Since moving to the apartment building you'd fallen into the habit of waiting as long as possible before doing laundry. Once you reached the point of no return, like tonight, you would drag down weeks of laundry and hole up in one of the corners of the dreary laundry room and wash the endless piles of clothes, spending most of the time grumbling to yourself about the fact that you never left the apartment how could you possible have so much dirty laundry.

Tonight was no different. You were probably close to a heat judging by the way you had tore everything off your bed, including the pillows to get a deep clean. Or by the way your nose scrunched up when you entered the dingy laundry room. This wasn't a luxury building, it didn't cater to making omegas feel comfortable, it barely met most of the standards for safety and well being. Then again, you were likely one of three unbonded omegas based on the neighbors you had met. The other two you had met were bonded, older, and perfectly happy with their packs on one of the pack floors. Those flats had in-unit washer dryers.

Once your first load was started you hopped up onto the washer, letting the warmth of the machine bleed into you. It was cold down here, the rickety heating struggled enough on the upper floors, but down here it was always non existent.

Logically, you knew that you should probably pull something of your own out of the dirty pile and throw it on until there was something clean and dry to wear. But logic didn't always win out against omega instincts, especially this close to a heat.

Especially, when you had spotted a particularly comfy looking sweatshirt on top of the lost and found pile.

It should bother you that that specific article of clothing was touching other articles of clothing, all with unknown levels of cleanliness. It did bother you, the logical you that worries about things like scabies, or crusted over mystery messes. But your instincts are going to win out logic because you can't stop thinking about it.

It would look perfect in your nest.

The thought doesn't surprise you, it does disgust you because you don't know who's sweatshirt it is, or where its been, or if it will even smell good. It could stink, but your omega is already so locked on you can't help the way you slip off the machine, taking measured slow steps towards the offending pile of lost clothes.

What if the owner comes back and sees me wearing it?

That is enough to give you pause, hand already reaching out to pick it up. Your gaze flicks to the door, its closed, its been closed, and only once have you ever seen anyone down here when you have done laundry this late at night. John. He was an alpha by the looks of him, but he must have been on scent blockers, even with your keen senses you hadn't picked up a hint of his scent, not from him or the pile of monochrome clothes he had been tossing into the machine.

It wasn't uncommon, many industries relied on industrial strength scent blockers, suppressants, the works in order to work at peak capacity. Doctors, teachers, soldiers. You couldn't imagine the man with his broad shoulders, stack of muscles and carefully shaved mohawk being a teacher or a doctor, but then you didn't like to make assumptions. Enough people made assumptions about you based on your designation.

After that first run in you had never seen him in the laundry room again, but you did see him from time to time, leaving the building, standing in the mail room taking out an obscene amount of envelopes, slinking back into the building late in the night smelling of booze. No matter how rough he looked he always had a bright smile for you.

You can't take it anymore, you snatch up the sweatshirt, bringing it to your nose and taking a sniff.

in for four.

hold.

If you weren't going into a heat before the scent on this sweatshirt was sending you over the edge. You could not do something as embarrassing as slick in the basement laundry room over someone's dirty abandoned sweatshirt.

Fuck.

There was no way you were leaving this behind now that you had gotten a whiff of the scent. It was a surprise you hadn't zeroed in on it the moment you stepped foot in the room, but there were so many conflicting scents here, it had been just one in a million. But now, pressing it to your face, god, nothing has ever smelled better.

You would ignore the obvious implication that whoever's sweatshirt this was was a scent match.

The reality though was that in all the months you had lived here you had not once gotten a whiff of someone who smelled even remotely like this. Like leather, like smoke, like salty sea air. It is hard to ignore the image it creates, a bonfire on a beach, the sun already dropped below the horizon, skin pressed against a warm body, fresh sea air clinging to their skin so heavily you could taste the salt as you lap it from their neck. A purr rumbling in their chest as you nuzzle their scent gland.

a fantasy.

Scent matches were the things of romance novels, soulmates, alphas who fought for omegas and provided and were shitty people and shitty alphas. It didn't work that way in real life, there wasn't some made for you alpha out there who would take one sniff of you and then sweep you off your feet.

You haven't always been this jaded, but you were now and even as you press the worn sweatshirt to your face you know it doesn't matter. Whoever this alpha is they aren't going to change anything about your life, even if you are scent matches. However, you could cling to this stolen piece of clothing and dream a little while you finish the rest of your laundry. Over time, the scent would fade and you would be left with someone's stolen sweatshirt tucked carefully into the corner of your nest.

It's a familiar disappointment. A familiar existence. An existence you tell yourself you are fine with. That you are over what happened with your last alpha. That you don't need anyone else. No alphas, no betas, no omegas. You are fine. This is fine.

stop. breathe.

in for 4.

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

"They cannae ban me from base," the Scot grumbles from the sofa.

Simon doesn't respond. They've already had this fight, hell, Price has already had this fight and if the fury of their captain had not been enough to shut up Johnny then there was nothing Simon could do.

"They can, and they 'ave. So shut it and get back in the bed," Simon all but growled.

It wasn't uncommon for the two to battle for dominance, an alpha alpha pairing was rarer but not unheard of, neither of them willing to fully submit to the other. The only time Johnny submitted fully was in bed, and that was out of the question in his current state.

"Ah dinnae like the bed," he says with a deep frown, thick brows knit together as he glares up at the other alpha.

"F'r fucks sake why not?"

"Disnae smell right."

Simon fights back another sigh. This thing between them is new, its delicate, a tenuous thing threatened on all ends because of their careers, their designations, society, the lack of claiming bites, the lack of official paperwork. But most importantly, neither of them really know how to go about this properly. An omega would know what Johnny needs, would have scent marked the whole goddamn flat the first time they came here. But Simon wasn't an omega, he rarely felt like a proper alpha, none of those protective instincts he heard people talk about.

maybe he should call price.

"Need me t' scent them?"

Johnny considers the question, twisting his body to look into the darkened bedroom. Simon knows he could better elevate his injured knee if he was in the bed. His sorry excuse for a sofa is barely big enough for the two of them sitting, forget stretched out knee up on pillows.

"It smells stale," he murmurs, not meeting Simon's eyes.

Simon knows he hates this, being injured is bad enough, admitting he needs help, admitting that the stale smell left from months of disuse is messing with his instincts? Instincts typically buried beneath industrial strength suppressants?

Simon doesn't need a bond to know it is killing Johnny.

"I'll do the wash if ye promise t' sleep in the bed tonight."

Johnny nods eagerly, his scent warming. Its a rare moment for Simon to even be able to scent him. Neither of them needed their scent blockers while they were on leave, but typically they were prepared to be called back to the field, most leaves cut short by a late night phone call from Price. But this time Johnny had a minimum of 6 weeks before he could even attempt physio and Price had convinced anyone who mattered that the two of them were a package deal. So begrudgingly, Simon is taking some long overdue leave.

Simon is not used to the domesticity that comes from being with Johnny. Years of circling around each other, attraction and camaraderie keeping them close and than an op gone too long, a supply drop missed and the two had scented each other for the first time.

scent match

The word bounces around Simon's head as he drags Johnny's bedding down to the basement. The building is not the fanciest, a far cry from what either of them could actually afford and yet not surprising to Simon considering they spent very little time off base and Johnny at least had family to go home to even if the lot of them were betas and civilians who struggled to understand Johnny.

Simon had never considered it a possibility that he would have a scent match, for a multitude of reasons, first and foremost being the fact that he had always assumed he would die in the field. Couldn't expect someone like him to meet a scent match when he had spent his whole adult life drowning in scent blockers and suppressants. The odds of finding a match in the military, let alone on his team, was so astronomically small and yet, here he was, doing the laundry of his mate.

The laundry is blessedly empty and while Simon could make the trek back up to the flat but he thinks that maybe he needs some time alone to sort through his own thoughts.

And he is alone for a while, the hum of the washer working over the sheets lulling him into a trance, he muses that it must be what it feels like to mediate. The only time he feels this kind of peace is when he is in a blind, hidden from view with a sniper scope up to his eye, every thought, every feeling focused on the crosshair. Only now, that focus is on the endless spinning of the machine, the clear front of the machine a window into a technicolor of fabric.

The sound of the door opening comes as a surprise, his defenses down as he tries to distract himself from his tumultuous thoughts.

Simon doesn't turn right away, despite years of military training screaming at him to turn, to assess the situation, to make a plan of attack, to protect himself.

But its hard to talk himself off that ledge, the tension bleeding through him, ice in his veins as he wars with himself not to turn around. There's only one set of footsteps, dragging what must be a laundry bag. He can easily handle one assailant. No problem.

He doesn't realize he is holding his breath until he inhales deeply, trying to center himself before turning and trying to act like a normal bloody person.

Had he not already experienced scenting Johnny for the first time he would think he was dying in this moment.

bergamot, a sweet orange cake in the summer, asphalt baked beneath the sun.

Simon never had a happy summer as a child, he doesn't know what it feels like to think back fondly on that time, to feel nostalgia over summers that seemed to last forever, but as the scent invades his senses he believes he knows what it might feel like in this moment. He thinks he might understand the magic of those memories.

The moment is broken though when the footsteps stop and the person, with the second most delectable scent he has every smelled, takes a deep breath and sneezes. The sound is wet, a pathetic whimper follows it, a sound that has him grinding his teeth as he turns to face whoever it is threatening to turn his whole world on its side.

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

The last thing you want to be doing at this very moment is laundry. The stuffy old alpha doctor at the clinic had barely even looked at you before writing it off as "a summer cold" and letting you know there was not much they could do for you even though you were on day five of thinking your head was going to explode from the pressure. You couldn't even smell how gross and sweaty and likely foul your sheets and clothes were, but the thought of what it might smell like was enough to have you dragging your ass down to the laundry room.

You did feel a bit bad that you are subjecting the rest of the building to your illness, but you had no choice and there is never anyone down there at night anyway.

Your laundry had been packed in a daze. Your feet dragging as you shuffle down the stairs to the basement, luckily not crossing paths with another person.

should have showered, you think, deciding clean pyjamas were not eneough.

Your thoughts come to a halt when you step into the laundry room. There is an alpha, because there is no way the monstrosity of a man is anything but an alpha, standing frozen in place next to the machines you usually use. He's tense and when he finally takes a breath, his fists clench at his sides, back straightening. You can only imagine how terrible you probably smell to him, there's no other logical reason for the response.

You frown, picking up your sweatshirt and giving it a sniff. You don't really feel well enough to worry what the strange giant of a man thinks of you in this moment.

All the sniff does is mess with your sinuses, the breath catching in your throat as you breath, the tickle in your nose hard to ignore. When you sneeze it feels like your brain is rattling around in your head and you can't help the whimper.

You rub the sleeve of the sweatshirt you're wearing beneath your nose, hoping you aren't a snotty mess on top of everything else.

"Sorry," you mumble turning away.

You decide the sweatshirt is probably dirty now too, pulling it off and dumping it into the wash with the rest of the clothes. You try and fail to ignore the way the man is staring. The alpha. You don't recognize him, but then again the building is big enough that you don't know everyone here.

It irks you though, as an omega you usually rely on scents to get you through the world. Sure, its a pain to be attacked by a barrage of what everyone is feeling, but in moments like this, if you could scent him you could get a better read on him. Because right now, as you dump detergent into two of the machines, peering to the side, its hard to tell what he is thinking but its harder to ignore the way he is staring.

maybe he's a germaphobe and that's why he's down here so late.

It's a realistic enough assumption, better than jumping to the worst which is that those glares are menacing in a threatening way and not just in a you were a menace to his peace of mind way.

"Sorry about the sniffling and sneezing, I really thought no one would be down here."

Your words are no more than a whisper that scratch against your raw throat. You really shouldn't be here, you should be in bed, but even the thought of being in the dirty excuse of a nest you had been burrowed into for days makes your skin crawl.

You're not sure if he even hears the words, his body still stiff and now that you have no distraction to hold your attention you turn to him.

Then you take a step back. His honeyed gaze tracking your every move. If you had been well, or in better control of your instincts, you might have reacted differently. You aren't even sure what it is you are doing, but your heart is pounding and something close to fear crawls down your spine.

"I can just—" you start but he cuts you off.

"Not a problem. Can't help it, yeah?"

You nod but you aren't sure what it is you are agreeing to.

"I haven't seen you around before, did you just move in?"

You should just shut up. You should set a timer on your phone and make the exhausting journey back to your flat, back to your empty nest and come back when the wash is done. But you can't look away from this man, this alpha.

"Stayin' with a…friend."

"Oh," you perk up a bit, as much as you can in your condition, "maybe I know them. What's their name?"

You might hide out in your apartment, not quite ready to face the outside. Maybe a bit broken by circumstances and fate and an alpha who had promised you the world. And maybe the obsessive need to know everyone had been a result of that distrust the world had bred into you, but over time it had become something else and now your neighbors, even some from the pack floors were your world, your little sliver of life.

So odds are, if this man is staying with someone here then you know them.

It is hard to not try and guess who it is as he stands there, seeming to digest the question like it isn't the most straightforward thing. It is straightforward to you, even when your head has that distinct stuffy feeling like the only thing between your ears was cotton.

Maybe it's Olive, the omega from 2B. She's a firecracker, a personal trainer at the gym who has on more than one occasion hit on you when you have run into each other in the mail room.

Or maybe Theo, the beta who lives next door to you. He has no shortage of friends who visit. The last time you had chatted with him he had let slip he was being courted by a pack, maybe this was one of them? It had been quiet through the walls since Theo had started getting courted but that didn't mean someone from the pack hadn't been over?

Maybe one of the alphas? There are a handful of unbonded ones in the building.

"Stayin' with John."

"John with the dog or John with the stupid hair?"

The alpha lets out a bark of a laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his scarred face breaks into a grin that is far more feral then you typically saw in polite company.

"Johnny's goin' t'love that."

Johnny.

Johnny.

Johnny.

The name wraps itself up in what is left of your thoughts. It fits him because of course it does.

"He's back?" you ask, you haven't really ever spoken with him, but you have noticed him enough, noticed enough about him to figure out he travels for work, is away for long stretches and when he is here it's sporadic, unpredictable. You have spoken to him enough to know he isn't from the area, the accent hard to miss.

"Aye, on bedrest, fucked up 'is knee."

You try and fail to hold back a cough as you go to answer, instead the sound that comes out is a wheeze, a hacking cough follows.

The alpha all but glares at you as you try to regain control of your body, curling in on yourself as you breathe deeply.

in for four.

The familiar fear that you have done something wrong, something unbecoming of an omega catches you off guard. You can't hold back the whine that slips from your lips.

"Seems like you should be the one in bed though," he says, tense again but making no move to leave. "Got someone who could finish that for you?" he asks, waving a hand at the laundry that continues to spin at your side.

You almost laugh. John, Johnny, has this man, and this man has him. And you have you, yourself, and no one else. And you would laugh if you knew you could have without it feeling like you have swallowed glass.

"Just me," you say, voice rougher than before.

Maybe you should go lay down.

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

Johnny is restless. He hates being injured, but its worse this time with Simon here, Ghost, his scent match.

The Ghost is his scent match.

his mate.

Johnny hasn't fully come to terms with that reality yet. Price had taken it in stride, hadn't even bothered to pretend to be surprised when it happened. He actually had the audacity to already have the paperwork prepared for them to be an official pack, only thing left was a bonding bite between the two of them.

It is Johnny who is stalling, Johnny who clams up every time the two of them move in a direction that feels anything like intimacy. He can't explain it, even when Gaz poked and prodded for information, wrongly assuming it was Simon who was dragging his feet.

It isn't Simon, it's him. It's him and his stupid secret.

With Simon out of the flat he can spiral about it. The bed hadn't really smelled that bad, it had been an excuse, a gentle encouragement to get Simon out of his hair for a bit. The other alpha had been hovering and Johnny knows he should appreciate, he is so very lucky to be scent matched to someone like Simon, someone who can understand the fucked up mess that is Johnny's mind, Johnny's life.

But there is one small problem, that could have remained a small problem had he not gotten injured.

Johnny is still lost in his thoughts when the door to the flat bangs open, Simon stumbling in, his face a twist of emotions, anger the easiest to read.

Simon has always been hard to read, between the lack of scents in the military, the mask that was firmly in place when they were on base, and the closed off nature of the other alpha. But here, without suppressants coursing through their veins, scent blockers left unpacked, Johnny doesn't even need to see Simon's face to know something was wrong.

Very wrong.

"Are you okay?"

Simon's shoulders heave as he takes in a deep breath.

"Why didn't you tell me," he says accusingly, his stare heavy.

Johnny swallows, the edge of anger turning Simon's scent to wildfire, something untameable. Its almost enough to burn out everything else, but not enough to cover up the slightest tang of oranges.

"Ah dinnae ken, ah mean, ah did, but it dinnae mean anythin'."

"The omega doesn't know?"

"Ah wasnae sure, dropped a scarf runnin' out the building one day. Ah was on the way tae base, picked it up thinkin' ah could return it. Fuck, Simon, ah was at the end of a dose, didnae even ken what it was at first. Never smelled anythin' like that til," he trails off, looking over at Simon who is still at the door, fists clenching and unclenching.

"And you didn't say anythin'? There's leave for this kinda thin'."

"Leave? Tae dae what? Pack up with a random omega who's name ah didnae even ken?"

"'ow long?"

"Aboot six months," Johnny says, the confession almost a whisper.

"Fer fucks sake," Simon growls, stalking across the sparse living room, dropping down to his knees next to the sofa. "Why didn't you say anythin'?"

"Say what? Ah meet a nice omega, a civvie who disnae ken aboot the blood on mah 'ands?"

Simon doesn't respond, instead he reaches out a hand and cups Johnny's face. His skin is warm, fingers and palm calloused and rough. Johnny's hands are no different. These aren't the types of hands that get omegas to come home to, these are the hands of killers.

Johnny and Simon are meant for each other, made for each. But you, an omega with a kind face, and a soft smile every time you crossed paths? You are too good for the likes of them.

"But—"

"Nae, disnae matter that the omega is a scent match. I cannae be what they need, you cannae be what they need."

Simon doesn't respond right away, he studies Johnny, the too intense stare makes Johnny look away. He almost wishes Simon would put the mask back on so he doesn't have to see all of the emotions playing out across his face.

"You are a good man, John MacTavish, and if you wanted that omega down in the basement, you would make them the happiest omega around. And if this is fate, or whatever bullshit people think scent matches are then it won't matter that you and I are gone all the time, or 'ave blood on our 'ands, or are the most boneheaded alphas that omega has ever met because if it is meant to be then it will work out. We can make it work out. Together."

"Who are ye, and what 'ave ye done with my Simon?"

"Your Simon? More like my Johnny," he growls out, leaning forward to capture Johnny's lips in a searing kiss.

It's not their first kiss, their first kiss had been all instinct, the overwhelming coming together of two forces of nature. All the others since, the stolen moments together, the attempts at bonding, Johnny had had this secret, this worry looming over him because he knew that for as strong as he was in the field, how long he spent training, no amount of physical strength would make him enough of an alpha to care for an omega properly. Not the way an omega would deserve.

With Simon at his side in the field the 141 was unstoppable, maybe they could be unstoppable as a pack?

"Keep kissin' me like that and we are goin' to 'ave tae move this tae the bedroom." Johnny's smirk is met with a deep frown.

"The doctor said—"

"Och, ah dinnae care what the doctor said. Ah want ye more than ah can even say."

Simon chuckles, "yer an insatiable slag."

Johnny laughs, yanking Simon back in close. If not for the twinge of pain from his braced knee he would have pulled the alpha down the rest of the way.

"Ah can smell them," he murmurs into Simon's neck.

"Poor 'mega's sick, down there sneezin' an coughin'."

"What?" Johnny sputters, pushing back on Simon until he can see his face again. "Why're ye up 'ere then?" Johnny asks, distress clear on his face.

"'ad to know if you knew. Y'want the 'mega?"

There aren't words to describe the way he wants you. It isn't all instincts either, even though your scent had lingered in his mind for far longer than it had on the scarf, especially after he got his dose of military-grade suppressants. But it didn't matter, in the same way nothing had tamped down Simon's scent, the only thing that had been able to block out the memory of your scent was the shock at smelling Simon for the first time.

"Still dinnae think we're good fer them, but ah havnae stopped thinkin' aboot them."

Simon hums in response, falling back on his ankles. Simon kneeling at his side doing something unholy to the Scot.

"Not sure I'm the best one to approach an omega who didn't realize we were scent matches," says, looking unsure of himself.

"Disnae matter, y' said if it's meant tae be than it'll work oot. Goan and get our omega.

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

As soon as the door closes behind the alpha you let out a long sigh, body sagging against the machine. When that isn't enough you let your body slide down the machine until you come to a rest on the cold floor. As an omega you are familiar with fevers, even more familiar with dealing with them as you ride out heats alone.

in for 4.

You try to steady your breathing, focusing on the warmth behind you, the rumbling of the machine not too unlike that of a purring alpha or omega. You let your eyes close, a familiar fantasy awaiting you. You imagine its your bonfire alpha wrapping you in his warm embrace, purring as you suffer through this never ending cold.

You should set an alarm. You're not certain you can handle the alpha coming back and finding you sleeping on the grimy basement floor. He probably already thinks that you are a mess of an omega. Can't even keep your nest clean. Can't take care of yourself. A sorry excuse for an omega.

You hear the door open, it feels far too soon for John's alpha to be back to switch out his loads. Great, another neighbor who will see you at your lowest, really just your luck.

You're so caught up in your spiralling thoughts that you don't hear them approaching, you don't realize they are speaking to you until the back of a hand is pressing against your sticky forehead.

"Christ, you're burin' up."

It is John's alpha. Had you dozed off? Maybe more time had passed than you thought.

"Just a cold," you murmur already missing the warmth from his hand when he pulls it away.

The whine that escapes you is embarrassing but has the desired effect when his hand returns, this time cupping the side of your face. You lean into the firm pressure, not at all bothered by the rough skin, or the sharp inhale from the man whose hand you are currently pressing into.

This is arguably a new low for you, so you might as well fully commit to this nightmare.

"You need water, and rest, and maybe a trip to A&E."

"Doc says its nothin'."

He lets out a huff, knees cracking as he bends down next to you. His arms are warm as they wrap around you, hugging you close to his chest as he stands. You nuzzle in close to his neck, cold nose rubbing against where you know his scent glands would be. Its incredibly rude but he doesn't move you. You let out a whine when you can't smell anything, stuffy sinuses keeping his scent from you.

"What flat are you in?" his voice rumbles through his chest.

"The one with the flower pot," you mumble back.

You aren't fully sure this isn't a dream, for a moment you are so sure, so certain you smell the scent from the sweatshirt, but then, that doesn't make sense because John's alpha wasn't here. But he's here now and he's taking you to your flat, and then everything will be fine.

You're certain you've overdone it the next time you can piece together enough words to resemble a thought. You knew you were sick, you knew your own body but you had let that waste of a doctor gaslight you into gaslighting yourself that it wasn't that bad. But it was, it was bad enough that you were having a fever dream, one where you could just make out that people were talking to you, but not what they were saying.

"Back with us, bonnie?"

You peel your eyes open. Its dark in your room, as it should be given the hour, only, it isn't your room because you painted your wall the first chance you got, and your bed has four posts that you carefully hang curtains from to create a nest, with fairy lights threaded through it. Your room also does not have a stupidly handsome alpha with blue eyes and a grown out mohawk.

"John?" your voice is barely a whisper, it hurts more than ever to speak.

"Aye, gave us a bit of a scare."

"Us?" you rasp, but you already know the answer.

"Aye, Simon's grabbin' yer last load from the machine."

You know how you should react, you're an unbonded omega who is beyond sick currently tucked into the bed of an alpha you barely know. The alpha part is an assumption, you faintly remember Simon purring so you had been correct there and while the scarred alpha from the basement has given you a whole new understanding of the meaning brick shithouse, John has always been bigger than the average man.

You close your eyes, pulling the blanket over your face. It's hard enough to think without seeing John, propping himself against the doorway, blue eyes bright with humor, a brace attached to his left leg, holding the knee straight.

"How'd I get here?"

"What was that? Cannae hear ye?"

You peer out from beneath the throw, glaring at John.

"Simon went down tae check on ye, dinnae sit right with us, leavin' ye down there alone. Ye were in a right state."

You think if you laugh the way you want to you'll regret it, but a right state is an understatement. How could you have been so dumb? What if someone else had found you? Someone not so pretty and kind and, fuck are you thinking this or saying it out loud?

The door opening interrupts your thoughts.

"For fuck's sake Johnny, told you to stay on the bloody couch."

The alpha stops in the doorway, dropping the laundry bag you know is yours and with an ease that is surprising despite his size picks up John. John gives out a chirp of surprise, arms scrambling to hold onto the alpha before he is unceremoniously dropped onto the bed next to you.

"Ye great oaf, cannae just be pickin' me up like that. Coulda jostled my knee."

"Tell you t'stay on the couch," he grumbles before turning to you. "How you feelin'? Need anythin'."

"Am I dreaming?"

That would explain the odd calm you felt despite your circumstances, only you typically don't have a pounding headache in your dreams. If it is a dream then it wouldn't be a problem if you rolled over and nuzzled into the alpha next to you.

"If yer dreamin', then ahm dreaming, bonnie," John says, closing the distance between the two of you and breathing in deeply.

"Fuck, ye smell so good bonnie," he says against your skin before he is being pulled away by his mohawk. "Shit!"

"No manners, this one. Sorry about 'im." The other alpha, Simon, holds John for a moment longer before dropping him to the bed.

"You need something warmer t' wear," he adds, moving towards your discarded laundry bag.

Its presumptuous of him. Neither of these alphas seem to know how to properly interact with an omega. His hands rummage through the bag, you fight down a growl that turns into a whine when the item he pulls out in the sweatshirt.

"Mine," the word is out before you can stop yourself.

The alpha looks up shocked, pale face flushing as he holds up the sweatshirt, you scramble out of the bed, legs shaking as you cross the room to snatch the sweatshirt away from the man who is a complete stranger, not that you really know John either.

Your heart is racing, lungs struggling to keep up. You feel lightheaded, but the adrenaline pumping through your body as you glaring up at the alpha like you could actually do something to someone his size.

There is nothing for you to do but pull the sweatshirt on over your head, its oversized, previously belonging to someone much larger than you.

"Bonnie, where did ye get that sweatshirt?"

You don't turn to look at John, instincts driving you hard to not turn your back on the alpha in front of you. Instead, you take a step back and then another until your back is against the wall and you can see both men. Simon with his wide eyes and John with his wide grin, a grin that looks very out of place.

You feel lightheaded, this is too much, you need to be in your flat, in your nest. You should grab your bag and hightail it out of here.

"It's mine," you repeat.

"Nae goin' tae try and take it, just wonderin' if ye ken who's sweatshirt it is."

You don't know, you tried, for weeks after finding it to find the owner. The name on the back was the only clue, but no one in the building shared it. Not first or last name. No one came looking for it and more importantly no one had smelled near as nice as the sweatshirt.

You pull the collar up to your nose and take in a deep breath, still nothing, not even the faint smell left behind from a fresh wash in the building's machines.

"Did ye meet my mate?" John asks, pushing himself up on the bed so that he is resting against the wall.

"Not really."

Fuck, you were tired. So tired.

"Well, bonnie, this is my mate, Simon Riley."

You turned to the giant of a man.

Simon Riley.

Riley.

Riley.

You don't have the energy to fight your instincts, to argue that logically this doesn't make sense, its too convenient, its too much of a coincidence. Instead you stalk forward, pulling up on your tippy toes to try to scent the man that John claims is named Simon Riley. Riley like the name emblazoned on the back of the sweatshirt.

You breathe deeply, desperate to catch even a hint of the scent that has haunted you for months. Instead your left dizzy, legs like jello as you step back. The giant of a man grabbing your arm gently as you sway.

"Let's get you into bed, yeah?"

You don't fight him on it, giving into the instincts that are telling you that you should roll around in the bed and make sure it smells just like you.

"Want me t' kick Johnny out? You need t' rest and you can do it 'ere, but if you want I'll take you to your flat, just wasn't sure what you meant by the one with the flower pot."

You also don't know what you could have meant by that.

"I should go back, I don't want to be a bother."

You force yourself to say the words even though everything in you is screaming that this is the alpha that smells like a bonfire on the beach, that if only you could scent you would be wrapped up in the warm embrace of smoke and salt.

You want to breathe him in and never let it go.

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

Simon's certain it was only adrenaline holding you up as he guides you into the bed. He gets his confirmation from the droop of your eyes as you burrow down beneath the blankets, fresh from the wash and still a hint of warmth in them. He passes you the bottle of water he had set out earlier, you drink from it lazily before drifting off.

Johnny watches you raptly, fingers twitching at his side as he stops himself from reaching across the bed to touch you. Simon knows John means nothing untoward by it, that his instincts are riding him hard to offer you comfort however he can. Simon knows this because he feels the same way, instinct driving him to bundle you up in his arms, hold you close.

"We should let them rest," he says making no move to leave the side of the bed where he hovers over you.

"Aye," Johnny agrees making no moves of his own.

They stay like that longer than reasonable, long enough that Johnny falls asleep himself, body twisted in a way that Simon knows can't be comfortable and likely to leave him with a crick in his neck.

With a sigh, Simon moves to Johnny's side of the bed, maneuvering him until his knee is properly elevated and tucked beneath his own blanket. Simon considers if it would be odd to continue his vigil over his two mates, but decides that he should make himself useful.

Simon doesn't know what to do to make an omega comfortable in a domestic capacity, he doesn't know from personal experience either, his father had not been the type of alpha to offer comfort or care. The only thing he knew was what he had been trained to do. In their line of work they often crossed paths with omegas in distress, they had to be prepared to assist, to act.

You weren't in distress but you were in need, in need of care, in need of someone else to look out for you while you were ill.

In need of something Simon wasn't sure he knew he could give, despite his words to Johnny earlier.

He'll need to get groceries, Johnny and him had been living off takeaway but if they convinced you to stay they would need more than cheesy toast and chinese. Even if you don't stay, Simon can't live off scraps for six weeks. He's not much of a cook, he's not sure if Johnny is.

Bloody hell, the two of them barely know how to live with each other, how to be mates. And now this?

He expects to feel the usual discomfort at the unknown, he is nothing if not a creature of habit, but the apartment is warm with your scent and Johnny's. Yours' sweet on his tongue, even with the burnt taste of sickness while Johnny's is fresh and tart, a summer breeze through tall grass, tart dark berries on his tongue.

The way he would feast on the two of you.

Johnny has a single tinned soup. Simon warms it for you on the stove, testing the temperature with his finger before waking you up.

You had shifted in your sleep, your body gravitating towards Johnny who needed the rest as well. When he wakes you he watches the moment you come to, eyes wide with confusion before you wake up the rest of the way. He helps you sit, letting you feed yourself even though he has the strongest urge to do it himself, to hold the spoon in his steady hands and watch you as your lips wrap around the spoon.

Instead he busies himself with putting away Johnny's clothes. The Scot is a perfectionist in the field, but at home his space is chaotic. Simon tries not to focus on the way socks are with pants, or that boxers are haphazardly shoved wherever there seems to be free space.

"You don't need to take care of me," you say when he takes the bowl away.

Your eyes are already heavy, he forces you to drink water anyway, not happy with how warm you still feel.

"I don't but I want to."

"Why?" you ask, your eyes already closed, hand already reaching out for where Johnny lays on the bed.

He knows you won't remember asking, you won't remember him answering but he says it anyway, "because you smell like something I never dared to dream of. Because Johnny wants you and I would give him the world. Because I think there is a version of this where we can make you the happiest omega in the world."

Simon thinks its a properly romantic thing to say even if you weren't awake to hear it. He thinks about it more as he putters around Johnny's flat, cleaning and organizing the kitchen. He watches a video on his phone about how to properly stock a pantry. He feels like an idiot looking it up, but the video has thousands of views so he must not be the only one who didn't know.

At some point Johnny wakes up with a gasp of pain. Simon brings him his painkillers, he has days left of the good stuff, its been less than 48 hours since he was discharged and subsequently kicked off base by Price. It feels like a lifetime as Simon watches his mate chug down water before dropping back down into the bed, the pain written across his face in the way his lips twist into a grimace, brow knit together. He doesn't even make a move to get closer to you.

You appear only once. Eyes bleary with sleep, the arms of the sweatshirt dangling further than your finger tips, your feet bare against the wooden floors. You mumble something before disappearing into the bathroom.

It was late when he brought you here, even later now that he can't avoid sleep any longer. He changes into clean shorts, forgoing a shirt. Its already warm in the flat and as he hovers next to the bed he knows it will be warmer once he convinces himself that slipping in next to you is the right move.

"C'mere," you mumble.

He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed you rolling over, pulling the blanket from your side to expose the empty space on the bed created by you curling in next to Johnny. It will be a tight fit, maybe not ideal in the long run, but in this moment Simon doesn't know if there is a long run, in his line of work he never knows if there will even be another day at the end of this one, so he slips in next to you.

You are demanding in your sleep, pulling his arm over your waist, forcing him to press his chest to your back. Close enough now that he can feel the tremor of a purr rattling around your chest. He tucks his face in close to your neck, nuzzling your scent gland, letting his own scent soak into your skin hoping it will be enough to chase away the sickness that clings to you.

Simon lets himself drift, the warm press of your skin against his, your purr, Johnny's heavy breathing, all of it is a comfort he's never known before.

He's not sure if its a dream, or his own last thoughts before sleep pulls him under but he pictures your face, overcome with something he doesn't know how to describe when you finally scent him, scent Johnny. In the dream you don't know about their jobs, about their pasts or their futures, you just know that the three of you were destined for each other.

and johnny is especially clingy now that your bump starts showing at five months pregnant, carrying not one, but two pups at that.

he's ushered you into the bedroom again, helped you arrange the large nest to your liking before pulling you right into his loving arms as you rest with your back against his bare, furry chest.

it's nice, peaceful. you feel loved and cared for in a way that has you purring, though it's not the lack of attention or affection that's been stressing you out, it's

"my turn," simon grumbles lowly as he enters the shared bedroom. he's been looking for you for a minute too long for his liking, and finding you curled up against johnny again leaves his wolf snarling and his stomach churning with the acidic need to protect and possess his pregnant omega.

"move, mactavish."

behind you, johnny stiffens. "negative. ah need this."

the tension rises at once as they snarl at each other; air thickening as their usually calm and soothing scents turn bitter, nearly causing you to gag.

"stop," you trill, squirming in johnny's embrace as the puppies move inside your bulging belly, sensing your distress. "no more fighting. i need you two to start getting along again."

johnny's growling almost stops completely when he senses your shifting mood; it lowers to a soft warning that vibrates against your back while simon approaches the nest, towering with his broad shoulders squared in a display of alpha dominance.

and even though he's not meaning to intimidate you, you duck your head naturally.

"he's been hogging you for days, love! i miss you," simon huffs, pinning johnny with a sharp glare; tawny eyes glinting with fury as he watches the other alpha's hands caress over your bump. "these pups are mine and so are you."

you wince when johnny's growl rises again.

"she's mine, too! the fuck are ye on about? ye can rest with her later."

"i want to rest with her now."

"johnny." craning your head back to gaze at him, you let out a soothing chirp. "make some space for simon, please."

johnny tuts and huffs, melts underneath your stare when you blink your eyes up at him so prettily, and he relents with an annoyed chuff.

and simon looks all too smugly about it, when johnny obeys your request.

you're shifted and moved carefully, manhandled with the utmost care by the roughest pairs of hands on this planet, until you're laying on your back, staring at the ceiling in the dimly lit bedroom while both of your massive mates sandwich you between them.

yet they're still acting like a pair of petulant toddlers, fighting over who gets to have their favourite toy as they keep growling at each other, holding eye-contact over the ample swells of your breasts.

as you let out a deep sigh, johnny nuzzles your shoulder apologetically.

"ah cannae have one moment with ye without tha' big geezer bloody growlin' at me."

"one moment? tch," simon countered, rubbing his mammoth palm over your baby bump self-soothingly. "you've been spending way more time with her than me."

while they continue to growl at each other so quietly, anyone else wouldn't be able to hear it, you keen softly: "i just want you two to get along again."

eventually, you reach up to cover their eyes with your hands respectively; blinding them like one would a predator to calm them down and cutting off the view of each other.

"enough," you hiss warningly, their sour stench agitating your omega and maternal instincts. "no more fighting, you're upsetting me and our pups, and i cannot deal with it anymore."

both men go silent immediately once they can hear and smell how much their behaviour is affecting you. they take deep breath, nuzzle against your warm palms, and start to relax into the mattress of the nest at last. for now.

as you lower your hands again, johnny scoots even closer to you.

"ah jus' wan' tae be with ye, bunny."

on your other side, simon wraps one heavy arm around you, careful as he rests his hand on your pregnant belly. "and i need to be with you, pet."

"and i need you both equally," you remark emphatically. "this pregnancy is already taking a toll on me and i need you both to take care of us."

whining softly, you squirm between them on the mattress, trying to get more comfortable.

"i'm scared as much as i'm excited."

finally, realization seems to dawn and click inside their thick skulls, and then your alphas share a long look full of understanding and raw determination something you haven't witnessed in months.

suddenly, a concoction of wet oakwood, warm brandy, and featherlight soot mixes with that of sugarplums, clean cotton, and dried cloves, and you inhale it deeply as you feel a new wave of fatigue seep into your limbs; turning them heavy and full of lead until you're practically pinned to the mattress.

and while johnny gently nuzzles your sensitive scent gland, simon continues to rub and feel up your swollen belly, cherishing every single tiny kick and flutter of his growing pups as you arch into their gentle ministrations with a happy, content purr.

"can we turn off the light? i'm tired already," you keen and yawn throughly, snuggling even closer to both alphas to steal their warmth while scent marking them as well.

they can't help themselves but coo at the sound of your yawning, finding it both endearing and adorable; all too aware that you're growing tired more easily as pregnant and ripe as you are now, and needing more attention and tender, loving touch all things only they can provide.

neither of them can quite handle how precious you are, especially now. it fills them with a strange, possessive pride to know that they're the cause of it though one of them in particular.

johnny pulls the duvet over you, making sure to keep you warm and comfortable next to him, before flicking off the bedside lamp.

"lemme hold ye, hen," he mumbles under his breath. "cannae sleep if ah don't."

he curls himself around you like a needy mutt, and buries his nose into the crook of your neck, nosing along your skin, determined to leave no space between you two while simon nuzzles the crown of your head, inhaling and huffing your scent like an addict, his muscular legs all entangled with yours.

"rest now, pet," he rumbles with his hand still splayed over the curve of your bump possessively below the duvet.

You slept. And you slept. And you slept.

But, Simon held tight to his promise to you. He didn’t leave your side for any longer than necessary, and necessary held a very… loose definition to Simon as you laid on his bed, all but comatose. In the three days since you had shown up at his door, Simon had left the bed maybe five times to relieve himself, and a handful of other times just to growl somebody away from the door who had missed the memo that Simon and you would be out of commission for the foreseeable future. The rest of the time, he just laid next to you, curled up like a guard dog. Sometimes he talked to you, but most of the time, he was just watching your chest as it rose up and down, his fingers resting delicately over your wrist to ensure your heart was still beating. That you were still here.

It had been three days. And you still hadn’t woken up. The worry in Simon’s heart was becoming hard to keep down, and the neglect of his own body was starting to catch up with him. He hadn’t done any work, hadn’t showered, and had barely eaten the food that the team had left at the door. He was going insane with panic, with fear, at the thought that he lost you. That he had killed you.

He never knew what he had had until it was gone.

Simon was spiraling. He sat in the corner of the bed, making sure to keep his thigh pressed against you, but his head was in his hands as his fingers tugged relentlessly at his dirty blond strands. It was his fault. All of this was. He didn’t know how to be a good alpha, let alone any sort of partner that he knew you needed him to be. He was so completely lost in his own tortured mind that he didn’t even hear Soap as he slipped into the room.

It wasn’t until the tray full of food that Soap was carrying clattered to the ground that Simon even noticed he was in there. Simon’s head snapped up, his hackles rising as a vicious growl ripped through his throat. The sound was a clear warning to get the fuck away from him and his mate, but all Soap did was roll his eyes in complete exasperation and take a step closer to your sleeping form.

Simon’s growl intensified at the intrusion, his muscles rippling in preparation to fight. It didn’t matter that this was Johnny, one of the few people on this earth that Simon trusted wholeheartedly. His mate was dying, and Simon’s alpha was tearing itself apart, identifying anything and anyone that got too close to you as a threat. But, the other alpha ignored him. The only sign that Simon got that Soap even heard his posturing was the low, return growl that left Soap’s lips as they curled up to reveal his alpha fangs.

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap grumbled in reply as his hand came up to rest on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently over the joint. Soap’s focus was entirely on you, completely ignoring the massive bulk of Simon just on the other side of you. Soap and you had always been friends, and you had sought comfort in him over the last few months of Simon’s neglect. Guilt gnawed at him that he wasn’t enough, that he couldn’t help prevent the bond sickness from stealing you away, but that guilt was far overshadowed by the rage he felt towards Simon.

“How could ye ever do this to ‘er, huh?” Soap muttered, the words low and dangerous as he finally glanced up at Simon. “She was good. More tha’ good. She was a great fuckin’ medic, better teammate, and now look at ‘er.”

Simon’s alpha growled in response. He knew he had fucked up, destroyed you in ways he was only beginning to comprehend. He would take you yelling at him, telling him how shit he was, but hearing it from Soap, another alpha, was a whole new level of shame and guilt. Simon wasn’t built to hold this much emotion, never taught how to properly deal with his feelings, and he was at his breaking point. His rage was rising, like water that had been left on the stove too long without proper supervision, the bubbles breaking free over the steely confines of the walls he had built around his heart.

The very same confines that had kept him from you.

Simon’s eyes zeroed in on Soap’s hand on your shoulder, and he lost it. He scrambled off of the bed, his movements uncoordinated due to the lack of sleep and sustenance, but still full of the undeniable power that lived within the massive bulk of the alpha. He slapped Soap’s hand away, and grabbed at the straps of his tactical vest. Simon picked the smaller alpha up and spun to press him against the wall, Soap’s head cracking off the drywall. But, it wasn’t enough. Simon hated himself. Hated Soap. Hated everything that he could even remotely tie in as a factor to your comatose state on his bed. Simon gnashed his teeth in Soap’s face, pure, unbridled alpha rage pouring off of him.

Soap just smirked, completely unfazed.

“Oh, I see. Now you can be all protective over ‘er when she’s dying, aye? When it’s yer fuckin’ fault that she wasted away like this? You should’ve been better!” Soap was close to yelling now, his own hands coming up to Simon’s throat. Soap wasn’t going to kill him, no, the only thing that that would accomplish right now is causing more harm to you. But, dammit, if he wasn’t close.

Soap squeezed at Simon’s throat, his alpha claws digging into the mating bite on the side of the larger alpha’s throat. “I should rip that fuckin’ bite right off of ye, ye know that right?”

Simon roared, jerking his neck around to get Soap’s claws as far away as possible from the scent gland that held the imprint of your smaller omega fangs - the last thing truly tying him to you. He was far too gone with his rage, his alpha bursting against the confines of his skin, to even begin to formulate a response. All he could see was the red-hot haze of his rage, of his grief, the anguish that had settled so permanently into his bones over the last three days.

Soap grinned, a mean, sadistic thing that did little more than show off his alpha fangs. It was a challenge, an expression eerily similar to what a predator does when defending their territory. But you were not Soap’s territory. He knew that. He wasn’t trying to vye for your affection or to stake claim on you. His goal was single-minded: get Simon pissed enough to finally admit that he needs you, that he’ll fight for you, for your health, and that he’ll never abandon you this way again.

And if he wouldn’t? Well, Soap wasn’t looking for an omega of his own. Mainly just saw you as a constant in his life, in his pack, but he would single-handedly rip out that mating bite that glared, swollen and red from the strain of the bond, on the edge of Simon’s throat with his own claws and claim you as his own, if it meant fixing you, giving you some sort of stability.

“Ye did this to ‘er! Yer neglect, yer fuckin’ issues, made ‘er this way! All because your head was so far up your goddamned arse you couldn’t see it! She deserves better! She deserves an alpha who will take care of ‘er, not someone who will abandon her for months on end in hopes of getting blown to pieces!”

“I know!” Simon roared in response as he lifted Soap away from the wall again and slammed him back into it. “I know!” His grip on Soap started to falter as tears welled up in his eyes. He let go of Soap with one hand, the smaller alpha falling back to his feet on the ground as Simon scraped his hand across his face to prevent the tears from falling.

“I… I just… I don’t know how to do this, Johnny. It’s not like I grew up with a…” Simon trailed off, his voice thick with tears and regret as he completely let go of Soap to run his hands through his hair in anguish. “My father was an awful man. A horrendous example of an alpha. He… the things he did, Johnny, to me, to Tommy, to my poor fuckin’ mum… the only promise I made to myself when I left that place and let it burn to the ground was to never be like him. And that meant keeping myself as far away from any omega as I possibly could. I never wanted this! And then the brass gave that ultimatum, and shoved us together, and… and I sure as shit wasn’t gonna be the reason that she got kicked out of the place that she worked tooth and nail to get to! I didn’t know how to be an alpha! I didn’t know how to protect her, and I had no one to ask! I just… I… I just didn’t know…”

Soap stood against the wall, mouth agape as he looked down at the massive, trembling form of the man he considered his best friend. Somewhere in his monologue, Simon had completely collapsed onto his knees, his head back in his hands, but Soap was too busy listening to the raw, honest truth falling from Simon’s tear-stained lips to even begin to try and guess when it had happened. Soap was in shock. But, he was at even more of a loss at how to comfort the other alpha.

Soap crouched down beside Simon, his hand awkwardly, yet gently, patting his shoulder as Simon’s hulking form shook from the force of his silent tears, his agony. Soap sighed as he rubbed his other hand over the back of his own neck. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

“Ghost, I… I think you need to go talk to Price. Maybe get in with the base therapist.”

Simon stiffened under Soap’s touch as those words left his mouth. He didn’t want to go talk to Price, even if he was his captain and a part of his pack. He didn’t want to have to admit to his failures to the same person who gave him orders, signed off on his paychecks. And a therapist? Yeah, he talked to a therapist, he’d just about be signing off on his own discharge forms.

Soap felt it. How his words affected Simon. He sighed again, a low rumble reverberating from his chest in an attempt to provide some comfort to the larger alpha. It was normally a move reserved for comforting a pup, or a distressed omega, but Soap was truly at a loss of what to do here. He had never seen Simon break down like this.

“Ghost, Price can help. He’s been with his bonnie lass for years, and they’re happy with pups runnin’ ‘round. Just… you can’t keep doin’ this to ‘er. And if that means you need direction, need to see how to be an alpha… at least talk to Price. She deserves an alpha who can be there for her, at the very least.”

Simon nodded slowly, wiping his hand across his face again. He felt weak, like a failure, but he knew he had to try.

You never knew what you had until it was gone.

Yeah, well, he knew now. And he wasn’t ever going to let it go again.

Simon lifted his head, his watery brown eyes meeting Soap’s determined baby blues. There was still anger in Soap’s eyes, but he was shoving it away. No point in kicking his friend while he was already down.

“I… I can’t just leave her here.”

“I’ll stay with her,” came Soap’s immediate response. You had sought solace in him over the last few months, and as another alpha from your pack, you would probably be the most comfortable with him around, even if your alpha was gone.

Hearing Soap’s immediate reply made something in Ghost’s alpha twist with distress, aching at the idea of another alpha taking care of his omega, even if it was another member of his pack. A low growl born of his alpha’s displeasure of the situation rumbled out of his throat for a moment before he quickly cut it off by clearing it. Simon knew this needed to be done, and sooner rather than later. He had to fix his ways, to see what it meant to truly be the type of alpha that you needed, that you deserved. But, before he agreed, he had to know one thing.

“Do you love her?”

Soap froze, his head rearing back slightly in shock. Did he love you? “What?”

“You heard me. Do you love her?”

“Simon, she’s a part of our pack. She always has been, even before you and her mated. So, yes, I love her, but not… not like that.”

Simon nodded slowly, his joints aching as he stood up to his full height again. Everything hurt. His muscles were sore from lack of movement, sleep, and nutrition, and his heart and soul felt as if they had been ripped to shreds. Your end of the bond felt like it had been shrouded in impenetrable inky blackness, which just made him feel even more empty. Gods, it used to annoy him to no end to feel your neverending presence in his mind, but now he would give anything, his own life, just to feel it again.

Soap breathed out a silent sigh of relief as he saw the acceptance in Simon’s nod. His best friend was going to be okay, both of you would be. He had to believe it. And, in classic Soap fashion, he couldn’t help but try to chip away the sour, somber mood in the room by cracking a joke.

“But, ye fuck it up again, and I really will rip that mating bite right out of ye, ye can bet on tha’.”

Simon glared at him, but it was the first bit of normalcy he had felt in… months. He shoved at Soap’s shoulder, but all it did was make the smaller alpha’s cocky smirk widen.

“Fuck off, Johnny,” Simon mumbled half-heartedly as he pulled off the tank top he had slipped on after you had fallen asleep, and he tucked it gently next to your head to ensure you still had his scent while he was gone. He ran a gentle, almost reverent finger down your cheek, smoothing an errant piece of your hair back behind your ear. He sighed softly, his guilt threatening to break free again, but he quickly stepped back from you and tugged on a sweatshirt. He glanced at Soap, his gaze glinting with a possessive protectiveness.

Soap, knowing exactly what was running through his mind, put his hands up in a placating manner.

“I won’ touch ‘er. Just don’ be gone too long, aye?”

Simon grumbled something under his breath but nodded, grabbing his keys and shoving them in his pocket before he opened the door. He paused in the open doorway with one last, longing glance back at you filled with all of the pain and regret and guilt swirling through his veins before he finally stepped through and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

—

He didn’t want to be here. To be doing this but he would, if it meant fixing you. He stood in front of Price’s office door, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he tried to muster up enough courage to knock. The light was on, so Simon knew Price was in there. Hopefully he was just doing paperwork, and not anything… else.

Simon sighed loudly, scraping a hand down his face before he shook out his arms. He just needed to open the door. And, you know, pour his heart and soul out to the Captain, but that would come after. However, he didn’t get the chance.

“You gonna stand out there all day or are you comin’ in?”

Shit. Simon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he took a deep breath. He could do this. For you, he could. He had to. He shouldered open the door, but he kept his gaze on the ratty red carpet of Captain Price’s office. Mmm, low-pile. Probably feel really scratchy on his face when Price inevitably-

“Ah, Simon. I’ve been expecting you.”

Fuck. Simon felt untethered, for lack of a better word. He couldn’t get a read on Price’s expression as the older, greying alpha moved his glasses off of the bridge of his nose and carefully folded the arms in to set them on the giant wooden desk in front of him. Simon made a point to keep his gaze away from the gouged out claw marks on the surface of the desk. Simon swallowed thickly and looked back down at the carpet in front of him. He had never had to ask for help before, at least, not like this. Not anything that meant showing his weakness, his losing hand, the fact that he’s a shit ass alpha.

“Uh, yeah. I… um, sir, I need… help.” Gods, kill him now.

“Yeah,” Price breathed out harshly as he stretched his arms back around his head. “Yeah, I’d say you do.”

Simon winced at Price’s words. He sounded like a disappointed father, or, at least, what Simon imagined a disappointed father would sound like, and he felt like he had been brought into the principal’s office after painting graffiti on the side of the building during recess. He finally brought his gaze up to the older Alpha, taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Captain, listen, I-”

Price cut him off with a raise of his hand as he stood up. Simon watched with wide eyes as Price grabbed a cigar out of the humidor that had always laid on his desk. Price grabbed his lighter, and placed the cigar between his lips before he turned away from Simon and looked out the window in the back of his office. A few moments later, and Simon heard the shink of the lighter catching, and he watched as a thick plume of dark grey smoke rose above Price’s form.

“You should’ve come to me for help sooner.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Price questioned, looking back at Simon over his shoulder.

“You’ve been running for years, Simon. Even before she came into the picture. And I let you. I shouldn’t have, but I kept hoping you would figure it out. And then, well, you didn’t. And then I watched you continue to close yourself off, to keep your distance. I watched as you brushed her off over, and over, and over again. And, I admit, as the pack leader, I should have stepped in. Should have forced you to stay on base and figure your shit out, but, tactically, it would’ve been a mistake to keep you here. So, we’re here now. What’s happened has happened. How are you going to fix it?”

Simon stood there, slack jawed and wide eyed as Captain John Price just essentially ripped down every single one of his defenses, his excuses, in one fell swoop. He wrung his hands in front of him, feeling exactly like he had been flayed open, all of his weaknesses and failures laid out in the open like intestines.

“I… I don’t know. That’s why I came here. I was looking for… pointers, I guess. Of how to be a better alpha- fuck, how to just be a good alpha. How to treat an omega. I wasn’t ever… I didn’t have good role models for that shit, and I just- well, Johnny said-”

“Will you actually listen?”

“What?”

Price took a deep inhale of the thick, grey smoke and held it as he turned to look at Simon face-on, studying Simon’s shaking form, the wild, lost look in his eyes, before he exhaled. Price kept his face schooled in a neutral expression, but he really did feel for Simon. He had once been a lost alpha like him, confused on how to even begin to take on the responsibility of an omega, how to take care of them. “If we have this conversation, will you actually take what I say into consideration? Or are you going to attempt for a few days, get frustrated, and then give up?”

Simon winced as Price continued to lay into him with that same cold, calculating gaze he used when discussing potential battle plans. Simon sighed softly, letting his head fall back to stare at the ceiling for a moment before he rolled his shoulders and looked at Price. “I have to fix this.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Price grinned around his cigar and sat back down at the desk, his fingers tracing idly over the claw marks in the surface of the wood. He gestured his arm out, inviting Simon to sit across from him. Simon squeezed into the chair, his large bulk making the chair creak in protest. He leaned back, trying to feign a confident, or at the very least, unaffected air, but all of his thoughts just kept coming back to you, his knee bouncing in a very distracting fashion as he fought every urge to just run back to his quarters, just to check on you.

Price smirked and steepled his hands in front of him, resting his chin on his thumbs. “You’re scared, ain’t ya?”

Simon nodded, biting down on his plush lower lip.

“Good. Means ya care. You’re just shit at showing it.”

Simon’s lips pressed into a thin line, but what could he do? He couldn’t protest the truth. He was already flayed open, might as well attempt to dissect and treat the diseased portions where he has been keeping all of his shit coping mechanisms.

“Did you ever court her?” Price asked, watching Simon skeptically. He could guess at the answer, as the relationship between you and Simon was far from traditional.

“No, I… Price, the brass gave us an ultimatum, you know that. I didn’t have time!”

“Not before, you didn’t, but what about after? You still could have courted her. Maybe then you would’ve trusted each other more, and we wouldn’t all be in this situation. Do you even know her favorite food? Flower? Song to dance to at 3 am in the kitchen? Color?”

With each question, Simon sank further and further into himself. He felt like the worst alpha on the planet. And, honestly, he probably was, or else you wouldn’t be still laying in his bed practically comatose.

Captain Price sighed and rubbed his thumb over the deep-set lines in his forehead. “Alright, well, those are good places to start, I guess, but… being an alpha isn’t all about gift giving and protecting. You have to listen to her. And I don’t just mean the words out of her mouth - although those are still very important - I also mean her pheromones. Her body language. Her microexpressions. All of the things she doesn’t say.”

“What!? How am I-”

Price put his hand up again to stop the tirade that he knew was about to come pouring out of Simon. “You pay attention. That’s it. It ain’t rocket science, Simon. You’ve led how many teams through how many missions? I’m sure you can figure out if one omega prefers dark or milk chocolate.”

Simon sighed loudly, the sound trailing off into a growl. He felt so stupid. He had been too focused on himself, on his own trauma and his own issues that he had completely neglected the bare minimum for you. He had so much to make up for. He slammed his forehead down into the desk in frustration, the force making the pens on the desk jump. “I should’ve just allowed the brass to kick me out. At least then she could’ve been forced to mate someone who could actually provide for her.”

Price shrugged, leaning back in his own chair as he puffed on his cigar. “No point in thinkin’ like that. You guys are mates, and that bond stayed together for a lot longer than I ever thought it would. That means somethin’, you know. So, you’ve really only got one option. You’ve gotta fix it. Listen to her. Pay attention. Make her feel cared for.”

Simon nodded, his forehead still pressed against the cold wood of the desk, but something Price said kept sticking in his brain, ruminating like a dog trying to lick peanut butter off of the roof of its mouth.

“That means something?” Simon asked, looking up at Price, skeptically looking for clarification.

Price just grinned and pretended to zip his mouth shut before waving Simon off. “Go back to your girl. If you still haven’t figured it out in a few weeks, come talk to me. But remember, court her. Especially after all of this. Show her you care. That you can be a good alpha.”

Simon furrowed his brow, not thrilled about not getting an answer about what Price meant, but got up from his seat. He had been dismissed, and all he wanted to do was get back to you.

Courting. Courting. Right. He could do that. Right?

Soap must sense it, because every single day he pushes harder. He laughs too close to Ghost’s shoulder. He drops into a seat that isn’t his. He looks sideways at Roach with that challenge in his eye, waiting, daring Roach to twitch.

But Roach doesn't react, hardly spares him a glance at first. He forces calm into his breathing. Keeps his scent locked up tight, if not for Ghost then solely for the peace of every other soul on base.

But of course, one day Ghost leans back just slightly at one of Soap’s louder jokes. And Roach knows there’s the barest smirk underneath. Barely hidden amusement that Roach has come to know and love.

Roach doesn’t even remember deciding to move, but his tray clatters to the floor, food spattering across the tiles. Soap is in his face in an instant, teeth bared.

“Thought so,” Soap growls. “Knew ye had it in ye.”

The air shifts. Other soldiers push back from tables. The tang of Alpha fills the room, hot and thick and a warning that this is no small scuffle.

Roach drives his shoulder into Soap’s chest, and suddenly they’re a snarl of fists and elbows. Soap swings wild, grinning through the blood that splits his lip. Roach answers with a punch that rattles Soap’s jaw.

Ghost is on his feet. He doesn't bother stopping them, in fact he's happy to let them tear each other apart a bit. They’re too far gone, hindbrains gnawing at each other like wolves over a carcass.

Gaz swears under his breath and moves in quick, catching Roach around the arms from behind, boots digging for purchase as the man thrashes against him. “Roach, stand down! bloody hell, mate!”

Roach heaves against the hold, teeth bared, trying to lunge at Soap again. Soap looks about ready to return the favor, chest heaving, a crooked grin still splitting his face through the mess of blood.

Then Price is there, his hand snapping to the back of Soap’s collar, dragging him back with all the force of a scruffed pup. Soap snarls, but Price just hauls him back.

The room goes silent, save for Roach’s labored breaths and Soap's frantic thrash.

“Walk,” Price says, voice flat as stone.

They're dragged like guilty schoolboys, Soap wiping blood from his mouth and Roach still straining against Gaz’s hands.

The whole mess hall watches them go, the stink of Alpha tension following them.

...

Price doesn’t waste his breath once they’re in his office. He shoves Soap down into one chair, jerks his chin for Gaz to dump Roach into the other, then steps back to the door.

“Sort it,” Price says. Then he’s gone, leaving only the sharp slam of the door behind.

Silence fills the room. Roach stares at the floor like he’d rather chew through steel.

Ghost stands between them. The Omega in him keens hot and loud, every nerve lit from watching two Alphas bare their teeth for his sake. He wants to pace, to curl, to lash out, anything to bleed off the storm buzzing under his skin.

“Pathetic.” He finally growls.

Both men’s heads snap up. Soap’s grin falters, Roach’s jaw locks. Ghost steps closer, looming, voice grinding through clenched teeth.

“You think you’re Alphas? Brawling like dogs in the bloody mess hall?" His mask tips toward them, dangerous, unreadable. “You want to fight for me, fine. Prove you can keep yourselves in check first. Otherwise, you don’t deserve a fucking inch.”

Soap swallows hard, for once without something cocky to throw back. Roach finally lifts his gaze,but he doesn’t speak.

Ghost prowls a slow line between them. His hindbrain hums, almost purrs, at the way their eyes track him. At the restraint it takes for them not to lunge.

“Good,” Ghost says, then he leans in near Roach's ear, close enough he feels the heat of his breath through his mask. “You want me? Control yourselves.”

Roach's hair stands on end, chest heaving. The moment he lays a gloved hand against Roach’s jaw, the fight bleeds out of him. Just like that.

“Bloody hell,” Ghost mutters, almost fond. “You’re a wreck.”

Roach’s lips part to answer, but Ghost doesn’t give him the chance. He pulls Roach up out of the chair, tugs his mask up, and presses his mouth to Roach’s. Roach melts forward, desperate for it.

The sound that rips out of Soap is a feral snarl. His chair skids back as he surges up, every inch of him screaming challenge.

Ghost doesn’t even stop kissing Roach. One hand cups Roach’s face, while the other shoots out quick, catching Soap by the collar and yanking him forward.

“Down,” Ghost growls against Roach’s mouth.

Against every snarling objection inside the Alpha, Soap obeys. He drops to his knees. His hands flex against Ghost’s thighs, his head bowing.

Ghost finally pulls back from Roach, breathing rough. He shoves his boot forward, pressing it firm between Soap’s legs. The Alpha jerks, hips rutting hard against the leather, a broken sound spilling from his throat.

“That’s it,” Ghost says, commanding behind a satisfied purr. "Good boy."

Roach trembles under Ghost’s touch, lips swollen from the kiss, eyes wide at the sight of Soap practically grinding against Ghost’s boot.

Ghost tips Roach’s chin up again, mouth curving against his in another kiss, while Soap’s breath hitches, desperate and needy against the press of Ghost’s boot at his cock.

Soap’s nails dig into Ghost’s thighs as he ruts slowly against the boot, his breath gone ragged. Ghost pulls at his hair, forcing his head back, until Soap’s eyes meet his.

“You want me that bad, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice is a gravelly rasp. “Then use that mouth. Make yourself useful.”

Soap doesn’t hesitate. His hands push Ghost’s thighs wider, his face burying against the heat of Ghost’s groin. Ghost braces himself on Price's desk. Even with the fabric between his heat and Soap's mouth, Ghost's instincts keen at being worshipped this way. When Ghost finally tugs his sweats down, Soap dives in with tongue and teeth desperate and sloppy with need.

Ghost groans, one gloved hand threading in Soap’s mohawk and holding him there. “Good boy, Johnny,” he grits out, hips twitching.

Roach inhales long, wide-eyed and body trembling. Ghost releases Soap's hair and strokes his hand down Roach’s chest. The touch is almost tender compared to how he handles Soap.

“C’mere,” Ghost murmurs. Roach leans forward instantly. Ghost palms him through his trousers, slow and deliberate, watching Roach’s breath stutter.

“See?” Ghost says, loud enough for Soap to hear around the slick sounds of his mouth. “You hold yourself together, you might get what you want.”

Roach groans, head falling forward onto Ghost's shoulder, his hips rocking into Ghost’s fist as Ghost works him in steady, ruthless strokes.

Soap whines into Ghost’s heat at the words, rutting harder against the boot, his tongue pushing deep, desperate to please. Ghost grinds against Soap’s face while his other hand keeps pumping Roach.

“Pathetic,” Ghost growls again, breath sharp, caught between the slick heat of Soap’s mouth and the weight of Roach’s cock heavy in his hand. “Both of you, so fucking pathetic for me.”

And they are, Soap shaking against his boot, mouth hungry against Ghost's slick, Roach grinding into Ghost’s hand with a broken sound, nose buried in Ghost's neck, inhaling every hint of the Omega's so often locked up scent. My omega's scent, Roach's hindbrain growls.

Ghost's own instincts thrum with savage satisfaction, shuddering under Soap’s tongue, the slick wet heat dragging moans out of him he can’t quite bite back.

Then Roach shifts, crying out as he spills into Ghost's hand.

Ghost hums, grabs his wrist, and drags his hand down.

“Go on,” Ghost rasps, hips jerking against Soap’s mouth. “Show me.”

Roach’s pupils are blown wide, and he nods, and slips his fingers down between Ghost’s thighs. The first push makes Ghost choke on his own breath, his whole body jolting forward, his instincts keening so loud he can hardly think.

Soap groans at the change in angle, at how Ghost’s hips grind down harder onto his mouth. He’s rutting shamelessly against Ghost’s boot now, cock straining in his trousers, dampening the fabric. Every muffled moan he makes vibrates through Ghost, a hot ache that tightens and tightens.

Roach works Ghost open with steady fingers. He presses deep until Ghost’s thighs quake, until Ghost’s growl breaks into a desperate groan.

“Fuck—Roach—” Ghost’s hand shoots up to cover his mouth, but the sound still rips out of him, his body flooding with heat. Scent spilling freely from him now.

It’s enough to undo them both.

Roach jerks hard against Ghost's side, gasping, spilling again, from the scent, the heat, from the feel of Ghost clenching around his fingers, finally getting a taste of what he's wanted. Soap cums with a strangled noise, rutting helplessly against Ghost’s boot, hips shoving forward as he soaks his own trousers.

Ghost cums last, head tipped back, voice hoarse as he finishes on Soap’s tongue, every tremor wringing through him while he clenches around Roach’s fingers and rides Soap’s mouth raw.

When it’s done, Ghost stumbles back a step, chest heaving, gloved hands braced on the desk. Soap's panting on his knees, lips wet, trousers ruined. Roach stumbles back a step, leaning against the chair, eyes glazed over and locked on Ghost.

And Ghost, haloed by the light coming through the window, pulls his mask off to reveal flushed cheeks,

“Now. Are we sorted?” He growls.

Soap and Roach glance at each other, an entire conversation passing before Soap smirks. Then their still starving eyes glance at the Omega glowing before them. They both nod.

"Aye sir, sorted." Soap grins.