Camden Town ain't burning down (part 1)
Alpha!Reader x Alpha!Kyle, everyone cheer, we are having another AU based on this little thing
Warnings: omegaverse, alpha x alpha, non traditional omegaverse dynamics, ruts are not that horny when you are lonely and hot and really really want to sleep, platonic intimacy,
You stare at the ceiling for some very long 10 minutes, listening as behind the wall something bloody happens.
It is three in the morning.
And Kyle, good bloke and decent roomate usually, has apparently decided to rearrange his furniture.
Not that you don't support your mate's decorational freedoms and very fine sense of aesthetics.
But why in the hell he needs to do it now?
Something suddenly slams against the opposite wall separating his room from yours, your heart lurching with it.
For a very long moment there is silence that stretches thin and ringing.
Treacherous hope settling in oyur chest that maybe he's done now.
Maybe, everyone can get some fucking sleep now.
But not five minutes later, something else gets dragged across the floor and your patience snaps in half like a twig stepped on.
You roll out of bed, cussing under your breath as you pull your sweatpants on and push your feet in the unlaced boots.
This is absolutely not how you envisioned your night.
The walk to the Kyle's door takes less than half a minute.
What takes longer is you, standing right there, working up the courage to knock.
The night air of your shared kitchen is cool, bordering on cold, it smothers the hissing flames of your initial annoyance and settles anxiety in your chest instead.
There hasn't been a sound from his room since you left your own.
Nothing at all, the space suddenly dead silent.
Kyle has heard you too, you realise a little too late, ears finally catching the sound of his breathing.
Breathing, that is a bit too close to the door.
That's not unnerving at all, you think, rubbing your face and trying not to think about aliens taking over his body, because really, now is not the time. If you wake up Ghost this late, he just might make skewers from both you and possessed Garrick.
The creak of floorboard right behind the door only confirms your suspicions.
He knows that you know that he knows that you are there.
Might as well just be out with it.
"Kyle?" Your voice is hoarse and raspy, palm bracing on his doorframe because God knows you are tired. "Mate, what's going on?"
Kyle is silent for what feels like another eternity spent hanged in a dark cold hallway before he answers — audibly frustratted to spit out just one word.
Ah, well, that explains a lot.
"Let me in." You rub your dry eyes again, a little lightheaded. He probably just forgot about it completely and the dildo of consequences has arrived unlubed and unbidden.
Happened to the best of us.
"No." The bristle in Kyle's voice just makes you annoyed in turn, because it's not like you are going to see something you never encountered before and it is clear that he cannot sleep.
Otherwise you two wouldn't be up in the middle of the night.
So you push down the urge to tell him not to be daft and take a deep breath, bracing on his doorframe instead.
"I'm in rough shape." He adds, when he does not receive a verbal protest that he expected.
"More news at 11." Comes out before you can think it through, earning you immediate 'sod off, mate'.
Well, it is almost like some progress has been made.
(No, not really, but it's late, he's clearly clawing up the walls if the noise is any indicator and you just want your quiet.)
"C'mon. If you get the urge to rip my throat out with your teeth, I will leave. But you even sound like shite right now."
Feeling like one too, Kyle would say — forehead pressed to the cool wood of his doors.
When you insistently tug on the doorknob and push it against him, Gaz makes low annoyed sound, still slumped against the door and making no move to peel himself off of it.
He knows it's late as hell, he knows that him moving the furniture around wasn't your idea of good night's sleep. He really really knows it.
Only the first thing that hit Kyle less than an hour ago was suffocating heat, his face burning — shirt on him soaked and sticky.
He hates the feeling. Hated since he hit the puberty and what doctors promised would become routine for him, never actually did.
Kyle never liked being too hot, never liked sweat and the sweltering heat that was his frequent company.
Rut always hit him like a truck that then reversed and drove over him, grinding his bones into shards — restless urge to do something itching under his skin.
Bloody hell, the rut was supposed to come later, he was supposed to be golden till Friday.
But there is nothing to be done now, so he drags his sweat-sooden t-shirt off and tosses it with too much force, chest heaving. This is fucking childish, he is not fifteen years old anymore, he should be able to handle it normally.
Only the air is too stuffy, he has no bloody den because he couldn't prepare with all the work, he forgot to eat his supper so now he is also hungry.
Hungry and mad, Kyle's alpha rumbles inside his skull. Already more active than he'd like it to be.
Which is when he finally checks his phone, that was left charging on the nightstand and feels a strong impulse to toss it out of the window.
2:38 in the morning. Friday.
Well, yeah, of course, why won't he just go fuck himself then?
Friday is today and he forgot.
Kyle groans rubbing his face, skin itching from sweat, urge to bristle intensifying because fuck, he feels awful, his eyes are dry and he is soaking, why is it even so hot in here?
He will admit moving the bed in an attempt to make some semblance of a den in the middle of the night was not the best strategy, but he just…he was tired and too hot and he wanted to get some sleep before morning comes and he has to pull it together.
But alpha, stubborn creature that it is, fucking refuses to sleep without a den, refuses to let Kyle doze off and buzzes under his skin with unhelpful inkling to go take care of something for his pack. Laundry, maybe. Anything at all, something that he can do to be useful, to help and to take care.
Instead he fucked up the 'let's move our bed' part because he pushed it too and it fucking slammed against the wall, the mattress somehow slipped off of it as the result and he had to drag over the floor too to get it back.
Safe to say, Kyle was not off to a good start.
And now you were here too, squeezing through the cracked open door (he really needs to start locking them) like you bear distant relation to cats and are able to fit through any opening as long as your head does.
You smell like smoke and something herbal when he takes a deep breath, trying to work through the blistering migraine that makes him half-blind and exhausted.
Thank God, your scent is nothing like captain's cherries that give Gaz mild nausea on a good day.
"Hot in here." You comment and the urge to growl is promtly chocked down in favour of silent glare.
Yeah, he is aware that it's hot.
He is currently sweating buckets if you haven't noticed.
"Yay or nay to open windows?" You offer quieter, not standing too close when Kyle already feels like he is getting boiled alive. No need to overwhelm annoyed and aching alpha any further.
He takes a deep breath when the hot ache passes through his abdomen, down to his thighs and wraps itself around his lower back.
The idea of cold air is as welcome as it is nauseating.
"Nay to open windows." You note down, eyes slipping off his face before Gaz can ask if there is something so bloody interesting there that you have to stare. "Okay. How bad is it on the scale of 1 to fuck off?"
"9." Kyle mumbles almost immediately, pressing his back to the expanse of the door to look at you properly, not in the best headspace to leave you behind his back. Wood heats up frustratingly quickly, his lower back now cramping even more. "Heat's worse."
You nod and glance around the place, taking note of the absolute mess of his bed and glistening sweat on his torso and dark shape of what appears to be a shirt on the floor across the room.
Neat disciplined Kyle doesn't throw his clothes on the floor and doesn't wreck his bedroom in the middle of the night.
Neat disciplined Kyle is the golden boy of the Taskforce for a reason, only seems like even gold of his gets molten and pliable when the rut hits.
"Gimme your hand." You murmur, offering him yours palm up at which he looks at it like it might as well be a snake that you are giving him in a weak moment. "Trust me." Your voice is low and gentle which Kyle catches immediately, eyes narrowing, but humours you nonetheless, giving in.
"Fuckin' hell—" is breathed out with a start because your palm is dry and cool. Your palm doesn't heat up when he grips it, slicking your skin with sweat.
"Not so bad now." You say, not really expecting an answe and slowly pull him away from the door, closer to the chair next to his desk. He needs to sit down before his knees give out or the exhaustion slams him down into a wall when he tries to push through on his own. "Permission to stick my nose in your dresser? You should change." You glance at Kyle's bare torso, his sweatpants clinging to his legs and sergeant winces.
Sound plan, ignore his battered pride though.
"Okay." Is rather dragged out of his chest than given willingly you'll take it.
"I know I'm no cute omega, brother. Just bear with me a moment." You hum, practically sticking your whole head in his dresser to find where Kyle keeps his change of clothes, trying very hard not to smile when you hear him chuckle.
It's dark in his room, the only source of light being moon and judging by how he tries to stay in the darker corners of his room, turning the light on to look around is not going to be the smartest idea to execute.
"Still with us?" You ask, careful and just as quiet, approaching him slowly. Relaxing only when Kyle gives you a curt nod, glancing up from under the heavy hover of his furrowed brows.
"Okay, good." Your voice is low when you press your palm to his forehead, checking the temperature and he leans in without thinking about it.
Burning up and aching, eyes blurry and dark when you leave his clothes on the desk and your second palm joins to cup his cheek. Holding him in a cup of cool palms, small callouses on your index fingers scratching his skin just a bit when you stroke it slowly.
It's a blissful relief, vulberability that still prickles hot with shame for the anticipation of it, but you are so wonderfully quiet.
You don't ask questions and don't joke about it and don't try to fill the silence with chatter.
Your hands just hold his face for a minute, not talking even when Kyle's shoulders slump and he hangs his head lower, shuddering out a sigh when your left palm moves to wipe the sweat off his nape.
"Better?" You speak up after a while and he hums, peeling his eyes open to look at you again.
Aching still pulsating in his lower back, still buzzing through the bones of his thighs and pelvis.
But his face isn't on fire anymore. He can breathe again, even if just a little.
"Okay. Good." You breath out slowly, each words dipping into his ears like a coin tossed in a still fountain water. "Let's put you back in one piece, mate."
Kyle smells like star anis and hot honey, like exhaustion and rut, like getting dipped into tea headfirst and staying there to get stained and never breathe in again.
You use a pack of wet wipes from his desk to wipe the sweat off of him.
Taking a few moments to warm up the first one, before you cup his cheek again, angling his head. Slow and methodical, starting with his forehead and down to his jaw. Tossing it out when you reach his neck and taking the new one, because Kyle still can't stand anything hot touching him and things heat up fast around him.
You stand between his knees, when you pull him in so he rests his forehead against your stomach while you wipe down his nape and shoulders. Grazing against his shoulder blades and retreating when he tenses up.
Not going any lower, point taken.
He is quiet and pliant by the time you nudge him to lean back so you can get his throat and collarbones. Stretches out first his right then his left arm, so you can wipe them down too all the way to the tips of his fingers.
Gaz doesn't say a word when you nod at him to get his hands up so you can help him in a clean t-shirt.
Almost soothed by the time you stroke the fabric on his shoulders, so he starts cooling off.
"Want to drink something?" You catch his eyes in the dark of the room and don't know whether his alpha is circling its way up to the surface of Kyle's consciosness. You aren't omega and if he gets meaner, you won't be able to help him much. Would be lucky not to agitate him further if it comes to it.
But for now he seems stable. Seems like he is still Kyle.
He shakes his head, more lucid now that you helped him a bit to cool off.
"I'll get you water. We left a couple bottles in the fridge after drills." You say anyway and leave, giving him time to drag his sweatpants together with the boxers off and change into dry ones.
You guess that he did the same thing to his legs that you did to his upper half, because by the time you come back the wet wipes are gone completely. But, evidently, it helps, Kyle's legs are stretched out, chest slowly rising instead of heavy heaving he had before.
Good thing you indeed left water last time you two trained with rookies, having two bottles now — ice cold, condensation slick under your fingers — is a godsend.
Kyle watches you, lazy and languid, maybe expecting you to say something else now or excuse yourself and go to sleep now that he no longer seems to tie himself in knots, but you give him a short nod and his shoulders sink down again, relaxing.
The bottles you leave on his desk, right next to him before taking a look at his bed.
Kyle hates sweat and hates stickiness. His alpha probably hates the lack of the proper den and the surrounding mess.
And given how soaked he was before, you can take a wild guess that his bedding aren't much better.
"Got clean sheets, mate?" You glance back at Kyle and he, significantly more soothed nods at the bottom drawer.
Of course, he does. You'd be more surprised if he didn't have any.
On the other hand, once you found out that Ghost had only two hoodies. Black of them washing out into dark grey, sleeves fraying from how worn they were. The man refused to buy new ones and was fairly content that his whole wardrobe one could fit into a box of matchsticks.
Plastic cracking snaps you out of it when you fish out fresh sheets and glance over your shoulder at Gaz, who twisted the cap off a bottle and was in the process of inhaling it.
Can't bring sergeant to water, but can bring water to sergeant and apparently, he will even drink it then.
You know that the current relief is temporary. The next episode is a couple of hours away.
Rut comes in waves, effects of which vary from alpha to alpha to some degree, but overall remains the same in its results.
Rut turns up the heat and bleeds you dry, restarts all of the systems to prepare for the next cycle and takes a large toll on a person, demanding a lot.
It is generally easier when someone is around to help out, alphas — pack creatures that they are — don't do well in solitary.
And while omegas mostly adjust better to being alone and betas do well without outside assistance, alphas like you and Garrick don't seem to manage just as good.
Maybe that's what captain meant when he talked about weaker sexes, you chuckle to yourself, while you change the sheets on Kyle's bed, remembering Price's off-hand jab about alphas being the most sensitive creatures out of everyone he worked with.
You can't really make a burrow instead of Kyle, given that you don't know how he likes his space during rut, but you can give him a clean space to work with instead.
Which should be something, when one is in pain and bracing for another rut-induced heatwave.
"Mate, I—" You start, cutting yourself off, because by the time you are done with his bed, Kyle is looming right behind you.
You didn't hear him get up and walk over.
Gaz has enough energy to smile at you as you gesture at his bed.
"My saviour." He croaks out, swaying ever so slightly. Leans more on you when you help him to sit down, his palm hot and heavy where he keeps it on your hip. Probably still lightheaded.
"Just a 'thank you' will do, mate." You huff out air, grinning and Kyle's eyes crinkle when you nudge his shoulder for him to lean back on the cool sheets. "On a more serious note, next time just let me know and I will help. Ruts can suck for a lonely soldier." Your tone is lighter now when you pass him unopened water bottle and tuck it by his neck, making sure it will cool him down some more.
Kyle looks at you for a long moment, quiet before he finally lets out a small hum, more of a vibration than a sound. Halfway to purring.
Perhaps, if there were more light, you would have noticed the reddening glimmer around his irises.
But the room is dark and Kyle is tired, his palm moving to your knee when you sit down, perching on the edge of his bed. Stays there until he doses off, too tired to say whatever it was that he thought.
When you gently press a palm to his forehead, checking for fever, his chest vibrates with slow purring. Barely audible, but satisfied.
This time, actually real.
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