Summary Left for dead in the Alaskan wilderness during what was supposed to be a romantic getaway, you are found and rescued from the brink of oblivion. Your savior comes in the form of a masked man who not only refuses to show his face, but is reluctant to let you out of his sight.
Thrown off a mountainside and into a world of proxy wars and super soldiers there is one thing that you become irreversibly certain of-
Wolves roam these forests.
Pairings Simon âGhostâ Riley x afab!reader, task force 141 x afab!reader
Tags AU - Werewolf, Retired Task Force 141, Protective Simon âGhostâ Riley, Pack Dynamics, Chronic Pain, Physical Disability, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, post mw3 au where everyone is alive, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Question: what happens when an omega with covid who has lost their sense of smell crosses paths with their scent match?
AN: welcome to this not fully flushed out sickfic oneshot. not my usual pacing or story telling style. but hey, there is a first time for everything. i tried to keep the reader as gender neutral as possible, but if I missed something feel free to let me know if the comments.
Part two | AO3 | Tips | other fics
You weren't exactly new to the building. You had been living here for over six months, squirreled away in your flat, working on articles for the magazine you wrote for. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to offer you your freedom, offer you a place in society that wasn't secondary to some bonded knotheaded alpha.
stop. breathe.
in for 4.
You shook off the dark thoughts that typically followed any thoughts of alphas because that typically led you down the path of one specific alpha. You hadn't admitted to you therapist that you had been holed up in your flat for weeks now, working around the clock on articles, made more difficult by the fact that you wrote lifestyle pieces but hadn't seen the sun in days. Instead you lived vicariously through videos and posts and stories other people posted online.
The problem was that you want to be out there. You want to be visiting cafes with friends, trying the newest overpriced dessert from some trendy place in London that would be replaced by another new trendy place in less than six months. You wanted to be out there with other people.
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 justâ" 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 aâŠfriend."
"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.
"Butâ"
"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 saidâ"
"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.
You know he loves you, there's no secret about that. Ghost is far too blunt and uncaring to put up an act. Still...you notice how underneath the fat he's all muscle and strength and fit. Underneath your fat it's just...fat.
"Lovie? Wots wrong? Yer not eating yer food." Ghost narrows his eyes on his first night back from a two month op.
You've made his favorite, the exact meal you cooked on your first date together. Rich, creamy pasta and buttery garlic bread. You don't touch it, despite how much you want to, despite loading ghost's plate up with two servings.
Instead, you pick at the salad you've come to hate over the past weeks, and mumble "I'm uh...I'm trying to lose some weight, si."
"Huh?!" Ghost gasps, sounding absolutely devastated. "Why would you do that, love? What's wrong, did I do something??"
"Whatâ no!" You flush, avoiding ghosts face even when he takes your hands, "it's just...isn't it embarrassing? Walking around with me when you look so good? I hear what people say..."
People astonished that someone as hot as ghost would take pity on an ugly, fat thing like you. With your double chin and belly that hangs out of nearly every pair of jeans you own.
Ghost, he makes an absolutely wounded noise.
"Embarrassed? Fuck, no lovie. Do y'know how 'ard it is keeping my hands to myself in public?" Ghost grunts, doesn't hesitate to walk around the table and kneel by your seat, looking reverent up at you "how much i want to just leave it all behind and move away with you? How i think about you, all of you, during bad missions?"
Ghost moves the salad out of the way like it personally offended him, spoons that delicious pasta and your favorite amount of sauce onto a plate instead. "I want you, got it? C'mon, eat. Need yer energy before I eat you tonight."
That makes your face burn with more than just tears. So you eat, and god is it good. Ghost smiles with every bite, happy to share this moment with you, happy to keep you fed, happy to have you.
âLemme tell ya, âStar Warsâ always had the vibe of being in the most whitest, elite space. Itâs a franchise thatâs so white that a Black person existing in [it] was something,â Boyega said in the documentary. âYou can always tell itâs something when some âStar Warsâ fans try to say, âWell, we had Lando Calrissian and had Samuel L. Jackson!â Itâs like telling me how many cookie chips are in the cookie dough. Itâs like, they just scattered that in there, bro!â
