#ghost challenge

It takes a second. Simon shoots a look at Soap to silently convey incredulity, but he might as well take a blade to the neck. The seat across from him is empty. Before memory strikes, he’s on his feet, bursting through the van’s doors and parting the reception committee. He doesn’t register faces or sounds, shutting out all distractions to carve an efficient path to his target.

God help anyone bold enough to try and stop him. Ten minutes is a courtesy, not for him, but for whatever unlucky officers tasked with the cleanup.

The walk eats three minutes.

Beneath a percentile of pressure, the rake pushes in place and the lock yields. He catches the door before it slams, and the moment it clicks shut, his nose twitches. The room reeks of damp earth and pine, a hearth in a lonely, snowed-in cabin. It gathers the force of an avalanche, pummeling into him and stealing his breath. It settles an invisible weight on his chest and limbs. Buried to his neck in memory, he forces himself to move. He’s dug himself out of the ground before. He’ll do it again.

There is no time for reverence. The proper personnel will arrive shortly. Price can only distract them for so long. Simon empties the contents of the bedside cabinet onto the neatly made bed and takes what he’s looking for—the spare dog tags, a sketchbook, and any traces of them. A photograph flutters out, dated two years earlier. Johnny and a slightly younger woman with the same grin in front of a Christmas tree. He hears his sergeant’s lilt as he pockets the picture and other goods.

“Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Simon doesn’t think of himself when he slips into his quarters. He thinks about the sister, and his own family. 

The days pass, surreal yet sharp and excruciating, as if he’s a surgical patient and the anesthesia didn’t take. Attends the debrief. Doesn’t hear it. Shrugs off the offers and orders for assistance and counseling. They’re given a week to sleep and heal, time Simon spends studying Soap’s sketchbooks and scouring public and private records to learn more about the younger MacTavish. It strikes him on the drive to the cliffs, Johnny’s ashes in his bag, that he’ll never see him again. That the sister will never see him again.

He goes for a drink alone, walking across town to avoid Price and Gaz, and plants himself at the end of the bar. A few beers in, and a vaguely woodsy smell turns his head. The ghost of Johnny at the edge of his vision dissipates, leaving some scruffy man in his sights. He finishes his drink, eyes locked with the stranger. His designation doesn’t matter. He’ll do.

Until he doesn’t. 

Simon barely touches the man on the walk to the park. Doesn’t bother committing his name to memory or looking at his face. One thing leads to another, and eventually, the man’s on his back in the grass. He paws at Simon’s chest and whines, baring his neck pathetically. It turns Simon’s stomach, and before anything really happens, he retches into the bushes. The stranger sputters and stumbles into the dark.

He sits beside his mess until dew forms. 

The following day, he beats Price to his office. The old man doesn’t insult him by walking on eggshells, he listens. Asks if Simon is sure.

“That isn’t what we heard in his will.”

“No, but it’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Price stares long and hard, then acquiesces. “I suppose you’d know.” He raps his knuckles on the desk with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start the paperwork.”

In hindsight, it is a mistake to believe your teacher when he says the forms are anonymous. How feeling nervous or scared is okay and that the answers will guide discussion in the coming weeks. You faithfully believe him and answer honestly. When he turns up for a home visit, you’re shocked, and your parents are mortified.

The three of them quickly align. They emphasize how normal this is, that they all took the test when they turned sixteen, and that you still have a few years to learn more about it and to come to terms. Pamphlets are shoved into your hands before you’re excused to your room so the adults can speak privately.

Whatever he tells your parents lands you in a stale, uncomfortable counselor’s office. This time, you know better when she tells you the sessions are confidential. It takes three months of careful lying to mollify your parents adequately.

At a family gathering, your aunt proudly announces that an older cousin finally completed presentation, a whole three years after her test. A year later, that same cousin shyly admits she dropped out of university, a hand on her round belly and a baby on her hip. It’s only then you start truly seeing your omega relatives. How they stick to the sidelines, huddle in the kitchen, and fuss over everyone else’s comfort. Docile and pliant.

For years, you pray to God to turn out differently. To be nothing. And if not nothing, please, make you a beta like your father or an alpha like your mother or brother. Amen.

You cry for hours after your results. Your parents do their best to convince you it’s a blessing, but you see the results for what they are—a countdown. 

School automatically splits your class into new health electives, fracturing years of relationships in one fell swoop. New social hierarchies form over the course of an afternoon, and you find yourself on the outside of old circles. It gnaws and bites like flies to see former friends turn their noses up at you. Cracks and shifts your insides, uncovering anger as old and boiling as a deep-sea vent. You let your grades slip to the bare minimum because what’s the point? Won’t some alpha take care of you anyway? Barf.

Your parents weather the fallout. They invite that cousin for tea with all four whelps in tow. It’s hard to hear her proclaim the wonders of life as an omega through shrill cries and fussing. That night, your mother’s patience snaps after you declare your life over. The fight goes nuclear, ending with your banishment to your room when she asks if your cousin’s life is over, and you say ‘yes’. While you may be sorry, you don’t regret it.

The next morning, you find Johnny at breakfast. Just like the test, you see his sudden, surprise visit for what it is—an olive branch. You wonder when your parents called and begged him to request a short leave. Parents know their children’s weaknesses. You’re thick as thieves. Before your results, the last time you cried was when he left for basic.

Johnny drags you around town to tackle a list of your favorites, dismantling the defensive wall you're hellbent on building. Anger festers under your skin, begging him to say the wrong thing.

Yet, if anything, your hissing and snapping amuse him. He ruffles your hair and dodges your fists, and you find chances to throw an elbow into his ribs. However, you're both far from the even playing fields of childhood, and punching him is punching stone.

"What's eatin' you? Somethin' happen?" He jeers, goading you on the walk home.

"You know what happened."

"Yeah," he admits with the sharp edge of a laugh. "You turned into a thin-skinned cretin just 'cause of a test."

You see red, and Johnny humors you. Takes a few desperate kicks and slaps before grabbing you by the forehead and stiff-arming. Stocky, but a reach longer than yours. You’re hissing and spitting when tears spring to your eyes, and a frustrated sound heralds a break in your voice.

It all comes out. How it’s like your future is a foregone conclusion. That you don’t want to undergo presentation, bonding, or, most of all, have an alpha dictate the rest of your life.

For perhaps the first time, your loudmouth brother shuts his trap. Doesn’t say a word. No snarky comments or unserious answers. He just lets you wail. In retrospect, it’s clear that he swapped a cudgel for a knife. Dissected your rage with a mind trained to defuse explosives.

That Sunday after mass, he hugs you and makes a promise before he leaves. Years later, half-listening to an officer who asks if there’s anyone they can call for you, you wish you remembered what it was.

In the hours following the officer’s departure, you go through the motions—numb and shell-shocked. The tide’s out, and you stand on shore, waiting for the crushing grief.

Aunt Marion sits on the sofa, going through the address book to inform people, one by one, of Johnny’s passing.

You’re in the kitchen fixing her supper and creating a mental to-do list when you overhear her tell someone, “I’m filing for change in guardianship in the morning. John never did have the time to find that girl a proper mate. You still have that matchmaker’s number, right?”

There’s no time to process the first loss with a second snapping at its heels.

Your brother’s headstone is not standing for more than an afternoon when a suitor shows interest. He circles like a vulture, the disgusting creature. You wish you could say you weren’t expecting it.

The portrait of your best friend bears witness from atop the mantle. In uniform with a buzzed head and a serious expression, it’s him, yet nothing like him. The Johnny you know—knew—would be grinning ear-to-ear, greeting folks, lightening the mood, and scolding your relatives for not footing the bill for a proper venue. He’d be angry they’d put it on your shoulders or invite this many people.

You hadn’t wanted any of this, either. You knew him best, but nobody listens to you. As Johnny followed your parents into death, you’re left alone, subject to the whims and mercies of an aunt who sees only your designation. 

The court swiftly transfers power to your aunt. Omegas cannot roam about without anyone to account for them, after all. Johnny was declared your ‘guardian’ following the crash that took your parents. Didn’t matter if you were an adult, a whole twenty years old. The title always amused you with its inherent pompousness.

Guardian. You don’t find the archaic term funny anymore, not when a neighbor cuts through the room, intentions clear. Your nostrils flare at his vinegariness, the feeler he sends to test the waters. It sets your teeth on edge, encouraging the oncoming migraine. Why the foulest-smelling alphas think they can go without scent blockers, you don’t know.

God grant you the audacity.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Johnny was a good man.”

“John,” You swiftly correct. ‘Johnny’ is reserved for family. “John was a good man. Who are you?”

The man smiles, and his pupils unnervingly dilate. “Alan. I live three down.” His gaze briefly flits to your neck.

You bristle. This is why you opted for a turtleneck that morning. The awful gut feeling some boorish idiot would seek you out now that you changed hands. To act so bold at a funeral reception. “Well, Alan, from three down, you can–”

“You can find refreshments through there.” Aunt Marion interjects, the older woman floating into view, reeking of powdery florals. She does not need to posture. A slight tilt of her head and intrusion into your personal bubble banishes the man into the next room, with her eyes fixed on him until he disappears.

"Good riddance," she mutters. “Alan Findlay. The gall. Like I’d let that cur have you or this house.” She sniffs, grimacing. “Go take another blocker. Now. You’re distracting the guests.” 

You knew your aunt’s intervention was not for your well-being, but you still wilt. This is how things are and always have been. Johnny simply shielded you from it. Unbonded omegas are bargaining chips. Hares set loose in front of sighthounds. How foolish, thinking you could outrun centuries of tradition and deny nature. Aunt Marion is entitled to the house, your future, and the money that comes with both.

You trudge upstairs, and on the landing, you swallow a hard lump in your throat. Steady now. You start toward the bathroom but freeze at the sight of Johnny's door. There's a sliver of light beneath it.

No one should be in there. No one has been in there since he last deployed. Your heart lurches against your ribcage, anger curling your fingers into fists as you reroute automatically, marching to catch the trespasser. Another greedy relative with sticky fingers, no doubt. You turn the knob and push, and the curse on the tip of your tongue promptly fizzles.

A colossus stands in front of Johnny’s wardrobe, clutching one of his shirts. You do not so much as enter your brother’s room as you run face-first into the wall of the man’s scent. It bludgeons the olfactory with leather polish and tobacco, cedar and amber. Familiar, somehow, and powerful.

“You’re the sister.” His free hand hovers beside a cloth mask tucked beneath his chin. He’s clad in black like a mourner, though you don’t recall him. The deep voice prickles, snagging on something sharp in your chest. Pink and pale scars etch over his chin and mouth. You briefly study them before your eyes dart to the shirt and then his face.

“Yeah,” The hairs on your neck rise at how his scent and facial muscles relax in tandem. 

“Were you smelling John’s shirt?”

“Yes.” He says without hesitation or a shred of shame.

And it’s the lack of shame, the nerve to enter a dead man’s room, that does you in. The last straw. You flatten against the open door and gesture into the hallway. “Right, okay. Get the fuck out. Now.”

To his credit, he complies. The shirt remains clenched in a fist. 

“Leave it,” You snap, but he closes in. Citrus wrinkles your nose, beckoning you to relax. What have you accomplished by antagonizing a man this size? An alpha? This is not your brother, not someone likely to entertain your irritation. Your neck cranes, head hitting the door with a quiet thunk, and you stare into eyes the color of pitch, ringed by dark circles. Instincts like cicadas, buried to avoid that which would exploit them, dig their way out of the ground. “Stop–”

“Your aunt. She’s in charge of the house and you, yeah?”

Your mouth dries. You don’t answer.

His nostrils flare, and a chill runs down your spine. Apparently, he finds whatever trace of your pheromones agreeable enough to hum. Then he hooks a finger in the mask and drags it into place over his nose and mouth. 

“You don’t smell like him at all. Blockers or no.” He tosses the shirt onto Johnny’s desk as he lumbers past.

You’re left adrift, clutching the door for dear life. The earthy smell lingers. How long had the stranger been in here that he’d gone and stunk up the room? Your hands shake hanging up the shirt, and you avoid looking at anything else as you slink out, proverbial tail tucked.

In the bathroom, you knock back a second blocker and a pain reliever, drinking sink water cupped in your hands. You glance at the prescriptions on the shelf. Blockers and suppressants. They look different, equally distressing, and comforting now that you’re alone. You close the medicine cabinet, and something slips into the sink. A frown forms instantly at the sight of the stupid, ugly Kevlar bite guard. Johnny brought it home one leave, swearing up and down it was safer than commercial. An extra layer of protection to be worn during the weeks bookending your seasonal heats. Humiliation accessorized. Downstairs you go.

Aunt Marion waits in the living room, flitting about, excitedly chittering to her husband. The moment she sees you, she brightens further, aglow with a sense of accomplishment. Dread calcifies your stomach.

“What have you done?” 

Undeterred, your aunt smiles and pats your hand. “Only what John would’ve wanted.”

Cedar and myrrh, stone and soil—a burst potent enough to cow the eldest member of your family, forcing her to retreat a step. You feel a presence at your back and slowly turn to face a wall of muscle wrapped in black. This close, your nose finds the word it was looking for. Sepulchral.

“This is Mr. Simon Riley. He served with John,” Aunt Marion nervously chirps. “He’s made a generous offer for both the house and your bonding price, pending the validation of his bloodline and such.”

It’s a knife to the gut.

As far as you know, the various blood work and lineage reports come back satisfactory. However, their contents are a mystery, as you’re not allowed to request copies without his permission, and you’re not about to ask. You don’t even know how to reach him. He said a dozen words to you at the house, then vanished after speaking to your aunt.

The following week, you nearly wear a track on the floor with your pacing. No announcement regarding an impending bonding appears in the paper. It isn’t required, but it isn’t out of fashion. You suppose more modern rituals are exclusive to immediate family nowadays, without the need for public acknowledgment. You shudder at the thought. If you’re to be humiliated, you’d rather have as few witnesses as possible.

Another week passes. You receive letters and packages in his name, ‘S. Riley’. Hard proof that despite his absence, this is his home, not yours. Then, a deposit appears in the house account Johnny opened. You don’t touch it. You won’t legitimize a thing if you can help it.

You return to work. Everyone expresses their sympathies, and you call the omega representative in human resources to apprise them of your status. Their smile is tight on the screen when you dodge their questions and ask to simply update the paperwork from ‘J. MacTavish’ to ‘S. Riley’. Every day, you listen for his return and wonder if you’ll find him sitting in Johnny’s chair. It sets your teeth on edge.

A month turns over in limbo. You briefly wonder if you’re the sibling who died, now cursed to languish where you only glimpse your brother in the periphery, with a monster stalking the fenceline.

Christmas is a date that happens. You refuse an obligatory invitation to your aunt’s home and donate the gifts you already purchased. New Year passes the same way; miserable and isolated like any other. And then, thirty-three days after he buys your life from underneath you, Simon reappears on the second day of the year.

“Gonna let me in?” Simon grunts, toting two bags and car keys.

“Not gonna command it?” You sneer, confused over the delay, certain of his tricks. He’s going to try and bond you, sooner or later.

Simon stares. There’s no malice, only exhaustion. Sweat and musk batter your nose, acrid and disgusting, masking his usual spoor. It’s strange. Perhaps you’re noseblind to him already. You step aside.

Simon removes his shoes and jacket, rolling his shoulders with audible albeit muffled pops. He grunts at the packages, turning one over in a single broad hand before evidently deciding to deal with them later. He starts upstairs.

“First on the right”

He pauses halfway.

“My old room. It’s for guests now, but you can have it. Just. Don’t go into John’s room.”

He grunts again, but he listens.

Simon cloisters for two days. His scent returns to normal, slowly rolling over the house like a thick fog. It doesn’t seem to be an early rut, as he’s made no noise or sudden moves. Nothing to suggest a return to a bestial nature. You force yourself to continue your routine.

One morning, you find dishes in the drying rack and the paper on the table. Outside the back door, a half-smoked cigarette. It’s him, obviously, apparently skulking about in the small hours. As if the house needs another ghost. 

His presence, no matter how spectral, frays your poor nerves. You forget a quarter of the shopping list one day, cursing through the door with arms full of bags. 

“You didn’t use the money.”

You whip around to find Simon with a book tucked under an arm. He moves practically undetected between his light feet and pervasive scent.

The deposit. Right. Simon is joint owner of your accounts now.

You return to the groceries, jaw working at the irritating flatness of his tone. “I don’t need it. I earn my own wages, and I intend to continue working.”

“Didn’t tell you to quit. I said you didn’t use the money.”

“I don’t want it.”

The floor creaks under his foot, but he stops the second you tense. “It’s for you. For bills and expenses.”

“I don’t. Want it.”

“Johnny said you’d be difficult.”

“And he never fuckin’ mentioned you.” Regret immediately rises in your throat, demanding that you apologize, but you choke it down. You do not know this man. Law or not, he is a trespasser.

You do not hear him leave, but he gives you a wide berth. The next day, he’s gone again, but he leaves a note with his number.

Back to work. Use the money. - S

A couple of weeks later, after running out to collect your holds at the library, you return to Simon’s car in the parking space, a pair of mud-caked boots inside the door and a hastily half-unpacked bag on the table. The previously weak musk of Simon’s is refreshed and intense, drifting through the house. Begrudgingly, you put your stack aside and tidy a little. You pluck a knit hat beside the bag and squeak at the smell of rust and iron. The garment plops into the bag, unfolding into a skull-print balaclava, the bulk of which carries a red stain. Dry, thank the Lord.

You heave his bag to the floor with a huff and find another note.

Went out. Back late. - S

‘Late’ is generous. Hours pass. You fix dinner, stow the leftovers, finish your laundry (in case he needs the machines), reorder suppressants, and cozy up to crack the spine of the latest installment of a horror series. The patter of rain against the windows and the mountain of blankets ensconces you into a state of languor.

The key turning the lock startles you from sleep. Bleary-eyed, the back of your hand wipes drool from your lip, and the other leverages you off the sofa. Your vision gradually clears to reveal Simon’s hulking shape, filling the front door. Dripping and soaking wet, a puddle of rainwater pools at his feet. Without a word or acknowledgment of your presence, he peels off the paper mask adhered to his nose and chin and drops it alongside his flooded shoes. His socks and anorak go next, and before he discards any more articles of clothing, you make yourself useful.

You march past, movements automatic, into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

A minute later, he shuffles in, dressed in sweats and a dry shirt. You deduce he swapped clothes with whatever’s in his bag. An aborted ‘welcome home’ sits on your tongue, but your nose catches something metallic. Blood.

Simon leans over the sink and promptly shoves a hand under the running water. From what you can see, his knuckles look bad, but he doesn’t appear injured elsewhere. You grab a bag of frozen peas.

“Pat it dry and give it here,” you grumble, dropping a towel by his arm and wrapping the peas in another.

His hand is a mess—knuckles raw and bloody, skin torn in places where he clearly punched something or someone. It’s ice-cold but not actively bleeding. You hold the makeshift cold compress in place and apply pressure. Another stilted silence passes, and you catch a whiff of citrus.

“Were you drinking? Are you drunk?” It sounds more accusatory than you intend.

“Yeah.”

“So this isn’t from work?”

“No.”

“Is it from–” 

“Scrap.” 

“Oh.” You squint. “So you got in from a work trip. Went for a pint. Made a new friend.“

Simon’s eyes snap to you. “She’s cracked the case,” his hand creeps toward yours, giving you time to let go before he steals the compress and pulls away. “Needed to blow off steam.”

“That’s idiotic,” You snap, traipsing behind him to the living room.

In response, he chuffs once like a warning shot. You keep your distance as he sinks into Johnny’s chair, groaning, and throws a heel onto the ottoman to drag it closer. Head rolling against the high back, his eyes flutter close as he relaxes into the cushion. He grinds his molars as he appears to forcibly unclench his muscles. You fetch the first aid kit. 

The slight curl of his lip makes you almost regret being nice. You set the tea and the kit on the side table, perking at the sound of him mumbling something suspiciously close to ‘thanks’.

Part of you considers retreating to give him space and go to bed. Johnny always spent the first several hours of leave decompressing alone. Yet you return to the blankets and book. This is still your house, even if your name will never appear on the deed.

Simon breaks the not-quite-companionable silence by dropping the wrapped peas on the table and exchanging them for the kit. Over your book, you grimace at how he uses his teeth to tear open an antiseptic wipe, then silently gag at the sharp bite of isopropyl in the air.

“You didn’t use the money. Again.” Simon finally says, smearing antibiotics into his split skin. 

“I told you–”

“It’s not my charity, if that’s what’s keepin’ you. It’s the survivor’s grant.”

The tension in your jaw could crack a tooth. Labdanum and firewood billow from the armchair. Scowling, you slap the book shut. “Stop.”

His face is expressionless, voice goading. “What? Not doin’ it for you? That not a nest for me?”

You straighten, shoulders rising to your ears and lip pulling into a sneer. He’s saying it to get under your skin, and it fucking works. 

“No, it’s not a fucking nest and no, I don’t find your stench comforting, thanks.”

Simon tosses the ointment and leans forward to drape his thick forearms over his thighs. The purpling bruises on his knuckles glisten in the lamplight. His studying agitates, his pupils like needles on your face. Then he asks the question that makes you hit the ceiling.

“You broken?”

At nineteen, you go to bed on Beltane and wake to a bombardment: sharp, needling botanicals of lemongrass and mint tempered by frankincense and lavender. Eye-watering and suffocating. You slip out to the nearest clinic, and the sickly-sweet smelling nurse beckons you to sit so she may deliver a killing blow.

“Hyperosmia is uncommon during early presentation, but it should mellow.”

Her words run together, drowned out by an internal doomsday clock striking midnight. Milennia’s worth of inherited horror and fear knitted into marrow catch up all at once. She holds your hair while you vomit and updates your chart as you wash up. She tells you to return if it doesn’t resolve in a month or two.

It doesn’t. It never does.

Hours of appointments, dozens of scans and tests, and enough paperwork to rival the holy book. You know the ENT by name, but she never provides a conclusive answer beyond ‘genetic lottery’. Certainly doesn’t feel like a win.

It’s a cruel twist to be repulsed twice over.

“What’s wrong? Are you broken or somethin’?” A greasy-haired man sneers, chest puffed out with a hand planted above your head. Of course, a nitwit corners you the one time you leave the house. All the scent blockers in the world cannot deter the repugnant or unscrupulous. His proximity pushes a pungent, sulfuric acid reminiscent of a leaking battery on you, flaring in offense when you visibly recoil. He repeats himself, teeth bared and foul.

The bastard assumes you’ll fawn. Assumes you’re alone.

It’s difficult to keep a straight face as Johnny scruffs the stranger, bringing him to heel. Your brother compels the miscreant to apologize and then sets him loose, satisfied he’s neutered the man. He scolds you all the way home and curses himself for letting his sister out of sight.

On his next leave, he brings a bite guard. You cringe at the ugly device, but Johnny insists. Spouts some nonsense about not always being around to save your hide, reminding you that you can’t arm yourself. His near-mythic anger leaks into every word. He forgets you’re a mirror.

“I’m not wearing this. This is fucking medieval.”

“Just when, y’know, ‘round those times. ‘Til you find someone–”

“I won’t find someone. I don’t want to find someone. I don’t want anyone.” The admission slips out so quietly you don’t think he hears it.

“–I can try to smuggle some of the blockers they give us, but ‘til then, when it’s, y’know–” “Christ, Johnny, save it, I’m not gonna listen to my brother–”

“Then fuckin’ listen to your guardian, because I’m only gonna say this once.”

It stops you like a slap to the face. He’s never lorded his appointment over you. Never.

“So you don’t want a mate. That’s fine. I’ll support you, like I always fuckin’ have. I’ll sing it out in the streets if you’d like. Hang a sign on the gate. But has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone? That maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

The two of you putter on the corner in silence. He rakes his nails over the stubble on his cheek. He murmurs a c’mon and herds you home, cutting his leave short by absconding the next morning.

“You broken?”

Two words to dredge up the ugliest parts of your life, your twin irregularities. You suppose you could distill it simply as you’ve had to counselors and doctors throughout the years. Yes, actually. My nose makes it difficult to leave the house without a migraine, and nobody’s ever stirred my loins. Aren’t you lucky? A terrible two-for-one special you handsomely overpaid for.

“Coulda just said that.”

Embarrassment shrivels your tongue. Of course, you spoke aloud. The impulse to apologize and flee attempts to puppet you, limbs twitching involuntarily at the idea of running for hills and leaving civilization altogether.

Simon rises before you formulate a response and takes the makeshift compress to the kitchen. On his way back, he fishes something out of his bag. The floor creaks when he stops to loom over you, offering a closed fist.

Your palm opens, and he rewards your compliance with a flash of steel. A single dog tag threaded with a thin ball chain. Your brother’s name reflects the light, and you grind the heel of your hand into an eye socket.

“They told me there was nothing left.”

“There isn’t. Found that lyin’ around.”

Your throat constricts, and a weak ‘thank you’ sputters out. The shadow of a massive hand lifts your head, and you press into the cushions, away from Simon’s reach. 

“I just told you I’m not into that.” You hiss, brow furrowing.

He pauses. The smirk on his face doesn’t match the ​​doleful look in his eyes. “You’re not my type.”

“Been thinkin’, Lt, what if after this, we take leave together?”

Simon rolls off the mattress and grabs his shirt off the floor. Should’ve known it’d come up again. Soap’s a glutton for punishment. The drama. The angry, desperate make-up sex. No other reason he’d keep stirring the pot. The man’s piss-poor pillow-talk and refusal to keep things simple detract some, but not enough to make Simon move on. Knows the other alpha too well for that, got him living in his head and bedroom most nights.

“Could go to mine, meet my sister. Told you she’s a bit like you, remember? Surly, introverted, a menace.” Soap sprawls into the forfeited space. “She’s an omega, but—”

Simon pokes through the shirt, face blank and mouth shut. The way ‘omega’ comes out of Soap’s mouth, a letter at a time—the reluctance, the glint in his blue eyes—he’s sharing something special. He’s talked about this sister before, but this is different. Despite all the times he’s had Soap on his back, it’s rare for the mutt to willingly show his underbelly. It’s too intimate, incongruent with his nature. Simon course corrects.

“Yeah? Tryin’ to set me up with your sister? Dirty dog.”

The effect is instant. Soap pushes upright to sit at the edge of his bed, posture shifting to broaden his shoulders, chin tucking a fraction. His lips pull back as he barks something like ‘not a fuckin’ joke’ and that Simon is a ‘disgusting bastard’. Touchy subject, this sister.

He goes to leave, swiping his balaclava from the desk.

Soap staggers after him with one leg in a pair of shorts and grabs him. He’s got tenacity, but Simon’s all mass. In seconds, he removes his sergeant.

Simon listens to Soap’s ragged breathing, studying the flicker of genuine anger in his eyes. Storm clouds over the ocean, barely restrained. He shouldn’t rile Soap like this, not with everything else going on.

He doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna tell me she’s special?”  

“No, she’s not—she’s normal. Different, but normal. Sensitive, is all.”

Simon releases him, unimpressed. “If she’s half as sensitive as you, she must be a crybaby.“

“Not like that.” Soap taps his nose. “Chronic pheromonal olfactory acuity. Rare genetic thing. Could pick you out of a crowd.”

“Shame. Laswell could’ve recruited her.” Conditions like that have their uses, but with her designation, it must be hell on earth. He says as much.

“Aye. It is. I’m careful about who I introduce.”

There it is, Soap skirting the issue again. Thinking if he meets the rest of the MacTavishes, it’ll legitimize their screwing. Convince him to throw their careers into the shredder. The brass looks the other way when alphas relieve stress; it prevents incidents, but they care if it becomes something else.

“Think about it?”

He does.

Soap’s chewing on something. Rather, something’s chewing Soap. Could be anything. Mexico. Graves. Hassan. Well and out of danger, his good knee bounces incessantly, the tap of his boot louder than the radio.

“Soap.”

“Lt?”

“Out with it.”

Soap opens. It doesn’t take much these days. The stress of the last couple weeks is still burning off, especially with Shepherd in the wind. Their world’s constricted, pressurized, a few bad days from implosion. People like his sergeant need talking space to alleviate it, among other things. 

“I put in for leave,” He starts. “Goin’ home in a week.”

Simon glances at the men playing cards on the other side of the room, then jerks his head to the door. Soap falls into step, tea abandoned, and waits until they’re outside Simon’s quarters to continue. 

“Said you’d think about it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Inside.”

He’s got him trained. In Soap goes, shirt halfway off before the door’s locked. 

“Ghost–”

“Not Ghost right now,” Simon tosses the balaclava across the room and reaches for Johnny. He cuffs him by the nape of his neck and reels him in. Soap shudders into the kiss, holding Simon’s hand in place with his own, almost giving in, but—

“Simon,” He pulls away. “Don’t do that.”

“Not doin’ it for you?”

“No, you’re shutting me out. Goin’ away.”

“‘I’m right here.”

Soap frowns tiredly. “Why don’t you want to come? Meet my sister?”

“Couldn't possibly intrude.”

He slowly shakes his head. “I’m askin’. I want you to meet her. She’s all I got left. Besides you.”

Simon’s nose twitches. Could make this easier on himself and enforce the pecking order like old times. But he doesn’t. What he does is worse. Meaner.

“And what am I?” Simon closes in, crowding him to the wall. He roughly reclaims Soap’s throat, chest rumbling at how perfectly it slots into his grip. He knew Johnny was his the first time he took him apart. Saw how the other alpha leaned into it. Offered his neck. Renounced nature itself in the heat of the most natural act.

“You know what you are.”

Simon tuts. “I know what you want me to be, and I told you my answer before, didn't I?” He adjusts to cup Soap’s face and drags his nose over the other cheek. “Say it. Tell me what I told you.”

“We aren’t–”

“Go on.”

Soap slackens in his hold. “We aren’t mates. Can’t be.” 

“Can’t be,” Simon repeats, grazing his teeth over the thrum of his sergeant’s carotid. A pulse like gunfire. “That’s right.” 

“I want to be.” It’s not a whine; it’s hardly a complaint. It’s a statement of fact delivered with resignation.

So do I, he admits privately, before pressing his lips to Soap’s neck, then sinking to his knees.

Soap tries again after the dam, persistent as a dog after a bone. Simon lets him crawl into bed, thinking they’ll celebrate Graves and Shepherd eating each other alive, getting one in while they can. Instead, he receives a tired earful.

“It’s fucked, sir.”

He toys with the brown hair flopped over his shoulder and breathes deeply and slowly. Relishing the subtle undertones of the man on his chest, he grunts. “Gonna need to be more specific.”

“Could’ve wasted the bastard years ago. Now we’re stuck chasing him.”

“It’s the job.”

Soap’s stubbly cheek presses to Simon’s pec, eyes closed. “Haven’t been home in months.”

“This about the runt MacTavish?”

“Don’t call ‘er that.” He slaps Simon’s stomach. “She’d bite your head off.”

He snorts. “Sounds like a ray of sunshine.” His gaze slips to the door. They’ll need to dress soon. Laswell works fast. “Miss her?”

“Missed her birthday. Way things are going, I’ll miss Christmas, too.”

Simon shifts beneath Soap’s weight. Here it is, the shit pillow-talk. Another blatant attempt to manipulate the impossible. He huffs dismissively. “Put in for leave anyway. Makarov’ll be down for a dirt nap within the week.”

“You’re confident, Lt.”

“Gloves off, Johnny. Old man won’t stop you this time.”

That seems to do the trick. For a few easy minutes, his sergeant remains silent. Simon admires the droop of Soap’s dark eyelashes on his skin and even breathing. Closest thing to heaven he’ll ever see, he thinks. 

Soap’s arm tightens its hold as he slightly flares his scent, a plume of woodfire as inviting as his words. “Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.” His eyes open as he drags his chin to rest it on Simon’s pec. Soap can’t pin him on the sparring mat, but he can with a look. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

To you. Doesn’t have to mean anything to you.

“Think about it?” 

A faint waft of tobacco and musk leaks into the room, and Simon nudges Soap off as Price pounds on the door.

“Kate’s got something. Briefing room, three minutes.”

By the time Soap pries himself off the bed, Simon’s half-dressed. He avoids the mirror. Knows what he’ll see. Disappointment.

“You’re not my type.”

It’s maddening, the Escher staircases his admission builds in your head, each step a question that may go nowhere. He’s been anything but forthcoming. Didn’t introduce himself at Johnny’s funeral, didn’t explain a thing.

Before you can interrogate him, he disappears. It’s past midnight when you lumber to your bedroom, and out of habit, you glance at Simon’s door. It’s shut, not a flicker of light beyond, but Johnny’s is open a crack. You hesitate. It’s different this time. Simon is no longer a trespasser. He’s not doing anything illegal. Just wrong.

You tiptoe and peer inside. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but you smell him. Leather and tobacco. Cedar and amber. Myrrh, tilled soil, and poppies. How on the nose for a soldier to smell like death itself. But poking through the thick, funereal brume is juniper and pine. The hours preceding heavy snowfall. It’s an odd combination, grounding and sharp, petrous and serene. A graveyard in the dead of winter.

His breathing is too controlled for him to be asleep. It’s a standoff, and you’re not keen to see it through, so you turn around and go to bed. Between four and five in the morning, realization strikes. You knew Simon long before you met him.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone?”

The wool is hooked from your eyes. For years, your brother marched home reeking of blood, iron, and something else. Someone else. From what little he shared, you knew his task force was small and covert, close quarters a given. You assumed the military dispensed provisions for their alpha-dominant population. It didn’t occur to you that their solution was in-house.

You grimace in revulsion, but the feeling drops away into guilt.

“Maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

A near decade under your brother’s custodianship, and you thought you made it easy by becoming a near-recluse. You weren’t so naive to think it’d last forever. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. Eventually, Johnny would’ve co-signed a lease, and you’d start the quasi-independent life you dreamed of. He’d have the space to start his own family. All planned out. You didn’t want to be a lifelong burden, but with his early death, that’s all you ended up being.

Now you’re somebody else's problem, assumed out of pity.

Your gaze wanders to Simon in the living room. There is no delicate way to ask. He probably wouldn’t appreciate beating about the bush.

“So you and Johnny, you were, uh, an item?”

Simon’s focus breaks from the book in his lap, peering over a pair of wireframe glasses. His cheek bulges, seemingly chewing his response before spitting it out. “Yes and no.”

Insufferable man. Patience isn’t something you’ve historically possessed in spades, and with him, less so. “I’m assuming ‘no’, considering your neck.”

He snorts and slaps the book shut. “Like I’d let that mutt bite me.”

“Jesus wept,” you drop the baking tin onto the counter, head shaking. “You’re incapable of holding a serious conversation.”

You fiddle with the baking paper, face heating in frustration. All you want is honesty. To get to the bottom of your situation, to his situation with Johnny. You stew in exasperation and pour the lemon filling. You don’t notice Simon until he’s at the edge of the kitchen.

“Johnny said you were all he had left.”

The bowl nearly slips from your hands.

“And Johnny was all I had left.”

“So you—”

“So I did what needed doing. You need looking after,” he says, working his scarred lip and continuing, his voice a hair thicker. “And Johnny’s gone. It’s that simple. Nothing more.”

You need looking after. You noisily set the emptied bowl on the counter and disregard the instinct to make nice. Comfort him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon coughs. “Law says you do. I reckon I’m the best suited for the job.”

The confidence startles an incredulous laugh out of you. “I must’ve missed that in his will, the one where it states my aunt ought to be the one ‘looking after me’.”

His eyes narrow. “Want me to return you? You’d prefer her to match you with the nearest alpha with half a brain? Bonded, wed, and bred by Spring?” 

You angrily sweep the dirty dishes into the sink, a blistering anger coursing through your veins. “You’re disgusting.”

The mirth bleeds from his eyes. “No, I’m realistic. Something funny in the MacTavish line. Fucking dreamers, the two of you. Wanting things you can’t have.”

The remark causes your invisible, primordial hackles to rise. “What is that supposed to mean–”

Simon cuts you off with a single step into the kitchen. “Fuckin’ hell, do I need to spell it out?” He closes in, pointing a finger. “You aren’t interested in nobody, and I’m not interested in nobody but Johnny.” 

He towers, chest expanding, using every bit of his mass to intimidate and keep you listening. To pacify you. “You can’t do a whit without a guardian’s or alpha’s say so, and I happen to be in the business of not giving a shit.”

You lock into a brief staring contest, and the beep of the oven breaks it. He wordlessly moves so you can slide the lemon bars into the heat. You inhale deeply, drinking in the tart citrus as a palate cleanser, and shut the door.

“So, what, I’m your cover story?” You ask carefully.

“Whatever gets it through that thick skull of yours.” 

It’s not enough to stop the alarm bells ringing in your ears, but it quiets them. “And you’re not going to—You don’t want—”

“Already had a mate, not interested in another.”

There it is. “So you and Johnny were mates.”

Simon swallows, his thick neck contracting. He rubs his neck, hand skimming the slight protuberance on his neck. “Need a smoke. C’mon.” He turns, apparently certain you’ll follow.

You do.

A tiny ember lights his crooked features, and bluish-gray smoke curls into the air. He settles against a bare patch of stone some paces away downwind. It tests your self-control to not spout a line of questions. His silence obliges you to settle beside the frame, arms crossed in thinly-veiled agitation. 

The paper’s half-charred, a neat cluster of ash in the tray when he finally speaks. He clears his throat, dipping his chin to gaze into the garden. Each word pushed out grudgingly as if evicted from some deep part of himself. “Johnny and me…We didn’t bite or bond. Surefire way to get discharged.”

You do him a mercy and stare into the cloud-heavy sky. “So when you said me and him wanted things we can’t have, that mean he wanted it? To be official?”

“She’s cracked the case.”

It’s stupid, his selective sentimentality. Still. It crowbars a smile out of you. Reminds you of Johnny. “He was always strong-willed.”

“That’s a generous way to put it.”

“How long were you together?”

“Off and on, four years.”

Thick as thieves, your foot. It eats you, your brother’s lack of faith. Your emotions must plume because Simon’s head swivels in your periphery. You need to increase your dosage, regardless of his claims.

“Can’t blame him for not tellin’ you. Probably thought it was for the best. You, however,” Simon stubs the cigarette with a dry cough. “Couldn’t shut up about you. Called you the ‘runt MacTavish’.”

“No he fuckin’ didn’t.” You wheel instantly, and his shoulders shake in a laugh. It looks almost wrong coming from him, yet you snicker. Your nose lifts in the air mid-giggle, and the breeze carries a clean scent. You relish it while you can.

It doesn’t escape Simon’s notice. 

“He told me about your condition.”

You frown. “You knew and made me say it anyway? Prick. What else did he tell you? I’d like to set the record straight.”

“Once told me when you were twelve, you stuffed the neighbor’s postbox with garlic because you thought he was a vampire.”

Through time and space, your mother’s bony hand pinches your ear. She had dragged you, sputtering and whimpering, over to Mr. Stewart’s doorstep to apologize all those years ago. 

You defend yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Because Johnny said he’d shave my head in the middle of the night if I didn’t!”

Simon chuckles. “I’m sure she had it coming. Don’t need to justify it to me.”

But you do. You explain how, to your childish mind, someone who only ventured out of their house at night and a severe widow’s peak was a bloodsucker. Johnny took the idea and ran with it, convinced you the garlic was a foolproof test. ‘Course he’d tricked you,

The cold evening air moves you indoors. The pair of you settle into your respective places, Simon in the armchair with a glass of bourbon and you nose-deep into a cup of chamomile. The night passes through swapped stories, mainly about Johnny but some about the rest of the MacTavishes and, reluctantly, yourself. With no alcohol in your cup, you can’t blame your unburdening on a drink.  

It’s not lost on you how Simon pointedly avoids the openings you leave for him to talk about his family. It leaves your brain to hatch all sorts of theories, yet for the first time since he arrived, you don’t feel inclined to grill him. 

On the landing, when you both wander to bed, you stop him. “You can move into Johnny’s, if you’d like. I imagine it’s, ah, comforting.”

He exhales. “You sure?”

“I was gonna sort out his things eventually, but that’s probably best left to his mate.” The words rush out in an embarrassed rush. Humiliatingly mushy. You don’t make it a footstep before a giant mitt ruffles your hair. The animal in you freezes, then jerkily flees. “Yeah, yeah, big oaf.” You mutter as you duck into your room, listening to him chuckle, then do the same.

“She gonna show or what?” Garrick asks, craning in his seat, subtly sniffing. “Came all the way here to pay our respects.”

“She’s just late.”

“Like Soap, then.” Price‘s posture is confident and easy. He’s handling this better than the sergeant.

“Better.”

“And you’re sure she’s alright with us paying a visit?”

“She trusts I’m careful about who I introduce.”

Price hums. “Trust’s good. Been nearly a year. It get easier?”

Easier’s a choice word. Things are smoother, Simon guesses. He and Runt got a good routine going, a decent dynamic. She’s no longer petrified whenever he’s within arms reach, doesn’t stare at him like she’s expecting the worst. She uses the money, cooks for two, and puts him to work on leave, keeping up the house. 

The night in the park, he thought about eating lead for breakfast. He trudged back to base with the intention to do it but clapped eyes on that stupid photograph. Heard Johnny’s voice again. I don’t want you to be alone.

Even in death, his sergeant’s a solid bridge. The foundation of a fucked up home. 

A familiar blend of heather and rain draws his attention to the entrance. In his chest, something settles.

You’d been reading your book, when you looked up noticing him staring “you can borrow it if you want? Price says we’ll be sitting tight for a while”

You weren’t kidding, three days later and the exfil still hadn’t shown up. Ghost devoured your book in the meantime, it was actually pretty good, a story about two sisters that had been separated during German-occupied, war-torn France. A little too heartbreaking for his liking but still a good read. One quote amongst the many you had underlined in gray lead pencil had stuck with him: “if I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."

Days later you’d been sitting on the break room sofa, talking with another female soldier and as he passed he dropped a novel onto your lap. Not a fiction story like you preferred, this one was a memoir of a retired Navy SEAL who was also a Guinness world record holder and an ultramarathon runner. He’d met the man once, respected the hell out of him, for an American. “Thought you’d enjoy this” he offered to your questioning glance as he passed.

It quickly become a habit between the two of you, packing a novel in amongst your supplies for missions to swap during to periods of waiting. Almost like a little unofficial book club. Sometimes, you’d find yourselves together in the break room decompressing after a long mission discussing the books you’d read over cups of tea. He’d learnt you preferred fantasy, dark romance and mystery while he enjoyed thriller, true crime and the odd biography.

He also learnt that you weren’t above the odd prank either, during one particular downtime, he was reading the book you’d brought along and, as he was invested in a pretty graphic sex scene involving a gun, Soap had spotted the book’s title, it also didn’t help that he had been imagining it was you underneath him in that same position. Once Gaz had caught onto what was happening he knew he’d been hearing about it for weeks. He caught sight of you giggling away behind his copy of the historical non-fiction he’d lent you about America's first considered serial killer.

He retaliated by bringing what he imagined you’d think was the most boring book in his collection, all 411 pages of a nautical historical fiction about a young naval lieutenant newly promoted to master and commander. He was right, you’d read the entire thing, under sufferance of course.

He found himself watching you as you read, the way you chewed on your lip as you concentrated, the way you smiled when you read something you enjoyed and frowned when you didn’t. He even learned to love the little notes and quips you left in the margins of his books when at first it annoyed him. He’d watch you, hoping to catch you glancing over at him, above the pages of your book, sending a soft smile his way.

The last mission had been a mistake, anything that could have gone wrong did, and you had born the brunt of it. You’d been raced to the medbay unconscious and barely breathing, they’d had to intubate you immediately and had moved you to a hospital off base for treatment. He hadn’t left your side since.

He spent his time devouring any medical textbooks he could find on your condition, so much so that Gaz was convinced, if allowed, he could perform your surgery.

Price had visited a few days later, citing mission reports as the reason for his delay, bringing with him a box of your belongings, “some comforts from home” he’d muttered. At the bottom of the box, buried underneath a well-worn sweatshirt and a teddy bear that was signed by friends and family from back home, his hands brushed against a small paperback.

The cover was tattered and pages dogeared and a little note on the inside cover from someone he could only guess at being your grandmother telling you how this was her favorite story as a young girl and how she hopes you love it as much as she did. It was clear that you loved it as much as she had hoped as his eyes trailed over sections you had underlined and the little notations you’d made in the margins, it was like a window into your soul as he found the first page a started to read aloud to you in that quite hospital room.

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.” His voice thick with exhaustion and emotion as he read. He read to you throughout the night and into the next day.

Your heart monitor flatlined just as the story ended and Jane and Mr Rochester were reunited. Even though the doctors and nurses said you probably hadn’t heard anything, he liked to think you’d held on long enough to hear him finally finish your favourite book.

Days later Ghost found himself standing at the front of the large crowd of mourners, surrounded by colleagues and friends alike as they lowered your coffin into the ground. He couldn’t move as the others dispersed, your younger brother clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by. Price had stayed with him, Gaz and Soap stood close behind, giving them a moment.

“Did you tell her?” Price had asked him.

“Tell her what?” He muttered, watching as they filled in your grave.

“That you loved her” Price murmured, chewing on the end of his cigar.

“No” he shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance”

“She knew, lad, she knew” Price sighed, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

She does now, he thought as he absentmindedly scratched at his chest. The sandiderm covering the fresh tattoo itched like crazy underneath his suit. The simple line-work done immediately after your passing, your favourite quote, directly over his heart: "I am no bird; and no net ensnares me”

List of books mentioned:

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins

Haunting Adeline by H. D Carlton

Devil In The White City by Erik Larson

Master and Commander by Patrick O’Brian