Chapter Text
Ghost’s scent is faintest at his throat.
It goes against everything Johnny knows, everything in nature. He hasn’t had much of a chance of getting close and personal in the eight months he’s been with the 141 but transport gets tight, even for them. The Lieutenant doesn’t carry the neutral, clinical scent of blockers on his hidden skin, not the way he does on his wrists. It’s like his scent just isn’t there.
It unsettles him sometimes, this void where the very essence of Ghost should be. But it makes the rare occasions his ironclad control slips seem cataclysmic, danger close with no hope of disarmament. It’s anyone’s guess who it’ll be turned on; the enemy or Ghost himself.
It’s these rare slips that let Johnny figure out his Lieutenant has a… complex relationship with Omegas. He knows it isn't something so pathetic as biological prejudice; Ghost’s never doubted an Omegan soldier or stooped so low as to go easy on them. It has nothing to do with skill or societal norms. Something about Omegas makes his Lt’s scent go flat and steely, as close to distress as he thinks he’s capable of, and it makes something dark and old rise in his chest whenever he sees it flare to life.
He could certainly fucking agree with him now.
Johnny’s senses are duller than most - chemical fumes and explosions don’t really gel well with the ears and nose - but this Omega’s either thick as a brick fucking wall or he doesn’t care about the clear fuck off spoken by every inch of Ghost’s body.
He’s turned away, overlooking the far field where the other trainees are working on the obstacle course. The same one the Omega he’s carefully keeping in his periphery should be running instead of purring loud enough to set off seismic activity in fuckin’ Glasgow.
Lotta fuckin’ nerve, purring at an Alpha you don’t know from a hole in the wall, Johnny growls, fingers digging into his bicep. Never so much as stepped foot on this base and he may as well be flashing slick at him for all his subtlety.
The Omega laughs, coquettish and fake as fucking plastic, and ducks into himself; all small, delicate frame and fluttering lashes, his hand coming up to cup the side of his neck.
And sure, he could just be rubbing an ache out.
If his fingertips weren’t centre fucking bullseye over his scent gland.
Cherries and sickly blossom sap soaks the air, thick and cloying enough that it makes it to Johnny leaning against the admin building. It’s bloated with intention and an indignant rage broils off him, strong enough to make his own nose curl. His skin’s hot with it, his scent patches little more than a fashion statement against the deluge of rust and burnt oil.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
His bleeding rust soaks the air in a thick cloud of concentrated, angry Alpha, loud as a territorial growl and just as potent. It’s sour and pungent and the strength of it drowns out the subtle distressed smell Ghost's been staining the training field with like a chemical spill since the Omega decided to vibrate his fuckin’ throat at him.
It’s light, a reluctant tell; to anyone else, the slime of decomposition would blend in with his tilled soil. But Johnny knows better; he recognises the twist of wet compost imbuing his natural earthen scent with a sweet rot that has no place haunting his Lieutenant.
It catches on the breeze, wafting towards them and makes the Omega twitch, shaking his head to try and clear it, and he searches for the source over Ghost’s shoulder. His purr dies out, eyes blowing comically wide when he catches his glare. And maybe he’s not a complete airhead; he reads the threat loud and clear.
The Omega shrinks and lets out a quiet, near subharmonic whine; appealing to Ghost as an Alpha to protect him from the unfamiliar threat, the little fucking rat-
Ghost flicks his eyes over his shoulder and the hike of his shoulders almost seems to settle at the thunder in his eyes; unfazed by the unbridled rage spilling into the air like fallout or the fact that he’s aiming it all directly at an Omega subordinate. He turns back to the Omega and whatever he says makes an embarrassed flush blot his cheeks. He slinks off, his tail between his legs, without Johnny having to take so much as a step towards them.
Good fuckin’ riddance, he sniffs and pushes off the wall.
“How’s it goin’, Lt?” he chirps, all but trotting up beside Ghost. He knocks his elbow with his own, letting him know the rage-hate-leave scent wasn't for him; never for him. He replaces it with happy-friend-Pack, replaces rust and carcinogens and sap with sun-warmed metal and burning sparklers and Alpha.
And Ghost knocks him back, easily turning his back on the lingering Omega like he never made his scent go tight. “Sergeant.”
Johnny butts his forehead against his sternum instead of crowding into his throat and proudly chuffing the way he wants to; the way his instincts beg to.
He earned his way into Ghost's Pack, into becoming not just a member of the 141 but someone accepted and welcomed. He won't jeopardise his hard-won progress by pushing his inner Alpha on him, no matter how much it screams at him to appease the higher-ranked Alpha in their Pack, to soak the empty void of his scent with his own so he’ll never have to endure its absence.
Johnny nuzzles into him and feels the gradual unlocking of his muscles as his scent sinks in, chasing away the saccharine, pervasive cherry of the pushy Omega.
Ghost pats his shoulder, his hand slipping up behind his neck, and he lifts his head; grinning up at him as he cups his nape in a faux-scruff. Something deep and instinctive inside him prickles, his lips twitching with the need to hike up and bare his teeth; to sink his fangs into the hand restraining him and chew down until he renders flesh from bone.
But he smothers it. The same way he has every time Ghost’s done this.
If he were anyone else, if the hand encasing his glands and delicate nerves belonged to anyone else, he'd never let him get close to scruffing him. But it's Ghost and Ghost does strange things; things Johnny knows reassure him on a deeper level than any rumble or chuff could ever hope to. It’s right there in his scent; the fear-rot pulling back until he’s all riverbed and fresh, wet earth. Until he smells so strongly of home, it leaves him almost scent-drunk.
So Johnny goes lax, pressing into his gentling grip the same way he would Price’s wrist when he scents him, and turns just enough to bare his twitching fangs in the thinnest facsimile of a smile at the distant Omega’s back.
So long, skank.
All Ghost has to do is aim him in the right direction and he'd bring the Omega back to him in pieces; would gift him his torn-out throat so he could never purr at him again.
Ghost thumps his temple into his and Johnny’s eyes blow wide as a puff of air tickles his ear. He almost clocks him in the chin with how quickly his head snaps up; his metaphorical tail whipping behind him. It’s the closest thing to a chuff he’s ever heard from him; the closest thing to base, instinctual approval from his higher-ranking Alpha. His chest rumbles without any conscious input; choppy and broken after years of inhaling explosive and corrosive fumes.
Shit!
Johnny gnashes his teeth, forcing the rumble back down to die in the depths of his chest, and tips his head back as much as Ghost’s grip allows; baring the column of his throat. He presses up, keeping the line of his throat long and open, to nibble appeasingly at his clothed jaw; a question and an apology in each bite.
I didn’t mean to, please tell me you know I didn’t mean to.
He’s almost frantic with it, rust bleeding back into his scent, when Ghost squeezes his nape and he goes limp; almost hanging from his grip. He huffs again, a reassurance and silent order to settle.
Johnny keeps still as he leans in, bracing for a swift correcting bite, but Ghost just takes the tip of his ear between his teeth; lightly shaking it with a teasing growl.
“Lt?” he chances and he lightly chews his ear, practically mouthing it through the material of his mask.
Like he’s being invited to play.
Johnny ducks out of his grip, Ghost easily letting his nape and ear slip free, and cackles as he dive tackles him. Just for Ghost to not even budge with the impact; bowing over his back, he wraps his arms around his waist, effortlessly picking him up and tossing him away.
He hits the ground and rolls, popping up on all fours. Staying low, he playfully growls right back, a wild smile splitting his face. Ghost meets him with a sneeze, knees bent and arms at the ready, and his grin grows impossibly wider.
If he can't hunt for his Alpha, can't rumble for him with blood staining his teeth, he'll happily wrestle with him instead.
His bones ache.
They feel like metal, hollow and twisted beneath his skin; warped with rust and ice. Johnny can almost taste them on his tongue; metallic flakes sloughing off his brittle bones, dissolving into his blood, into his saliva, the taste making his lips twist into a grimace.
He shifts, trying to get away from it, the bedding below him stiff and unfamiliar. It’s not the softness he remembers being enshrouded in, not the nest that felt safer than home; safer than a dream. His whole body hurts and he’s cold; so, so cold.
And Ghost isn’t here.
Ghost isn’t here.
A growl bubbles in the back of his throat, weak yet sulphurous in its bite as it scours his throat; his burning fingers clenching into fists, claws struggling to extend through his fatigue. His Alpha lingers at the back of his teeth, ready to push forward and devour. His eyelids tremble as he forces them open, immediately blinded by the low light escaping the borders of the curtains. It makes his eyes water, pain like an icepick stabbing behind his sockets, a flash of dizziness roiling through him, and his growl hitches.
“Sergeant MacTavish, stand down,” a stern voice comes from his left. Johnny can’t place it but it’s so unmistakably British it involuntarily makes his hackles drop, his growl petering out. “You’re on home soil.”
He forces out a grunt, squeezing his eyes shut when it rolls over his throat like gravel on flesh. He reaches up for it- and freezes with a breathless gasp when his fingers go rigid; burning agony bleeding down his knuckles, his fingertips pulsing like an exposed nerve.
“I wouldn’t; you’ve had a rough week, Sergeant,” the voice advises a bit too fucking late. “Welcome back.”
Back?
Johnny’s nose curls, pain pulling his lips tight over his fangs, and he tries to ease his fingers out of their claw. Setting it knuckles-down on his chest, he breathes through the sharp flinch that runs through him; his fingers brittle, porous, filled with ice.
Ice.
Russia.
A shiver ripples over his body, a wash of pain following swiftly behind it. He didn’t know he was over water until he was in it; didn’t know something could be so cold. It rushed into his mouth, through his ears, his nose, froze over his eyes and leeched into his lungs; a worthless, waterlogged anchor weighing down his chest and dragging him deeper.
He tried to claw his way back up, to fight the ice chasing the blood from his veins, but he just cut straight through the water; frictionless and sinking. He looked to the heavens for salvation and saw nothing but an empty, mocking sky.
One that matches the gaping emptiness around him now.
Where’s Ghost?
“This is the first time you’ve been coherent since Lieutenant Ghost dragged you in here. It’s inadvisable to be in a Feral state for longer than forty-eight hours; you blew that clear out the water. Drops incoming,” they warn in rapid succession and Johnny barely has time to process it before his eyelid’s pinched open and a thick drop is placed in his inner corner.
He rears back into the pillow with a wince, the liquid clinging to his eye like a raindrop on sand, struggling to be absorbed by the grit.
“Other eye,” they order and don’t wait for him before forcing his other eyelid open and repeating the process. He feels it roll to the back of his brain and tongues away a gag. “According to the Lieutenant, you were Feral for six days before being exfiled and it took another two for you to come out of it, even with med support.”
Eight days… He’s never been Feral for longer than a few hours; the rush of adrenaline and heightened input leaving him jittery and climbing the walls for days afterwards. If they’re telling the truth… he was under for almost two hundred.
No wonder my fuckin’ eyes hurt.
He doesn’t feel like much of an instinct-led predator, all fangs and wild drive to fight, to protect; to survive. More like a deflated mass of frozen muscle stretched over hollow bones.
“That why I feel like shite?” Johnny grits out and winces, his voice garbled and thick with overuse.
He forces his eyes open again, riding out the flashbang of light and pain cutting through the swollen pressure in his head, and doesn’t know if he should be worried or relax when he sees the person talking to him is none other than Big Micky; aka the reason rookies are scared to set foot in medical and the most terrifyingly competent Beta he’s ever met.
“You’re going to be rough for a while, Sergeant,” they tell him, dry as the Sahara and twice as judgmental. Good ol’ Micky. “The body isn’t meant to be in such an elevated state for so long or be on an extended course of stabilisers. And that’s without the hypothermia and frostbite.”
I did get that, then. Explains why his fingers feel deep-fried.
His head rolls on his neck, almost too heavy to move, but he has to look. Being alone in bed feels so utterly wrong, so dissonant, that it has his inner Alpha charging the cage of his ribs; ramming them with wild abandon to try and break free and find... find…
“What else?” Johnny makes himself ask and pushes past his headache and the wild beat of his chest enough to wink. “Be gentle with me.”
They scoff, all too used to his bullshit, but the absence of haunting shadows refuses to let him relax. They read him his chart with all the compassion of a receipt, reinforcing their warning of just how bad a time he’s in for; going Feral alone would be enough to leave him feeling strung out, the fatigue draining him along with his body trying to level out after such an extended hormone dump, but not responding to the stabilisers? He’s not looking forward to that comedown.
He appreciates the utilitarian approach when they get to his fingers - pretty much top of the line when it comes to body parts he needs - and says they were caught just pushing the danger zone of frostbite.
“You’re lucky Ghost is diligent in his med training,” Big Micky emphasises and his heart stutters. “He knew to drain the blisters as your skin warmed back up and managed to feed you antibiotics. You owe him a thank you, Sergeant; I don’t doubt we’d be looking at tissue death and surgery otherwise.”
Johnny looks down at his hands, at the bandages carefully encircling them. Memory is different for everyone when caught in the binds of Ferality; he’s always likened it to tunnel vision, a pure distillation of what’s directly in front of him. Fine details fall by the wayside; murky, iced-over fragments that feel as distant as the warmth smouldering in the depths of his belly.
He doesn’t remember Ghost setting a needle under his skin, the pain and relief from the pressure as the blisters drained. Doesn’t remember if a conversation preceded it or if a rush of silt and dead leaves was enough for him to go limp; the familiar, safe scent enough to soothe the sting. He doesn’t need to, though, does he?
It was Ghost. That’s answer enough.
Big Micky’s voice echoes in the background as they explain keeping an eye out for pneumonia and other bacterial infections from whatever was swimming in the water that ended up in his lungs, but he’s mostly out of the woods now. Aside from self-surveillance to make sure he stays that way and a pointed lecture about pain management while the stabilisers work out of his system, his only other souvenir from Russia is a smear of pale red freezer burn along his cheekbone that they absently say they expect to fade instead of scar.
“And Ghost?” Johnny interrupts, gingerly pressing his fingertips together to see how far he can push before pain forces him to stop. “Did he need treatment?”
They cross their arms with a glare that would drop lesser men, clearly not appreciating him asking about someone else’s health instead of his own. “The Lieutenant, at least, knows how to keep himself warm,” they grunt pointedly and he ducks his head, giving the covers a sheepish grin. Just for them to mutter, “Even if he can’t keep himself hydrated.”
He immediately snaps back up, the daisy chain of pain lighting up his body not even registering through the surge of adrenaline. “He was dehydrated?”
They give him a baleful look. “Severely. You were full to the brim but it seems the Lieutenant didn’t feel the same need. He went through three lots of bolus just to get him stable, then he was on a steady drip before he pulled his lines and left some time last night. Against medical advice.”
Big Micky shoots him a look that warns just how much he’ll regret it if he follows Ghost’s example but Johnny’s too busy trying to think through the sudden barrage of emotions body-slamming him.
He left last night?
Ghost has a sensitive nose, more than any Alpha he’s ever met. He’s sniffed out rookies’ unexpected Pre-Ruts and Heats and pulled them aside to warn them, can pick out scents even under blockers and more than once alerted them to hidden enemies just from the faintest traces of them on the wind. If he was coming out of Ferality overnight…
He knew. And he left anyway.
It rings in his head, almost drowning out Big Micky’s aftercare instructions as they run through his discharge. Eight days they were together, with Johnny at his most vulnerable and his most volatile; eight days of Ghost watching over him, taking care of him, saving him. And he just left? Like the scent of fresh tilled soil doesn’t still cling to his skin, like his body isn’t crying out in grief for the one no longer against it.
Like his lips aren’t still trying to curl into an instinct-built shape.
Johnny shoves it aside when a Private comes running up to him on his way back to the barracks, an order from Captain Price on his nervous tongue. He doesn’t get any better when he latches onto the order with near-manic desperation. He clings to it, to the normal drudgery of a post op debrief that waited for no man nor beast like there isn’t a gaping void at his back; the empty air chill against his skin.
He only stops in his room long enough to change before he’s shuffling into Price’s office. It’s gonna be layered jumpers and his great nan’s - may God rest her weary soul - fuck ugly scarves for the foreseeable future until he can finally force the acrid cold from under his skin.
The cold that’s everywhere but his stomach.
Everywhere but his lips.
He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, chasing a taste he doesn’t even know if he should name, and stills as the door falls shut behind him. His eyes flickered to the far corner, the one with the best eyeline of the window and door. They always do. Because he knows who he’ll find.
Ghost’s mask looms from the shadowed corner; a macabre relief, suspended and watching over them with an eyeless gaze and Johnny’s legs tremble from the weight of the pure safety that envelopes him. His braying inner Alpha finally settles enough to curl up under his ribs, whole and sated.
His scent’s locked up tight, always is, but Ghost’s suppressants have failed before; moments when even he couldn’t deny the humanity bleeding from his chest. There’s no anger in the air, no disgust or regret; just a clinical void where rain-soaked earth should be.
“How you feelin’, Sergeant?” breaks the silence and Johnny almost flinches. He didn’t even notice Price on the opposite side of the desk, a ring of documents spread in front of him. From the glint in his eye, he knows it, too.
“Like I’ve been reversed over by a dump truck,” he scoffs, like their strained standoff didn’t just happen, and settles in next to Gaz, his eyes practically dancing as he takes in the layers of scarves and sleeves peeking out from under each other. He wraps up the stubborn remnants of his unease and buries them at the bottom of his lungs where the rest of his fears linger, just waiting for the right breath to ignite them.
“Out with it, you prick,” he sighs, drenching it in obnoxious resignation, and Gaz immediately breaks out into snickers.
“You look like a fuckin’ marshmallow,” he chokes out, covering his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking, and it has some of the lingering tension seeping from his gut.
“Fuck you,” Johnny shoots back, a smile edging his lips.
It just makes his laughter worse, snorting uncontrollably as his other hand flails at his clothes. “Like one o’ them toddlers- that get stuck in those starfish snow suits!”
“Fuck you!”
“Children; eyes to the front,” Price interrupts but he sees his whiskers twitching. “Still ten, three, and ten, Soap?”
He throws his hands up and shimmies his fingers, swallowing a grimace at the ache that shoots from his fingertips up the muscle fibres of his forearms. “Wiggling an’ hanging low, Sir.”
“A relief to us all, I’m sure,” he drawls and flips open a half-filled mission report. “Took care of the bulk while you were napping; just need your side o’ things, Sergeant.”
Johnny straightens his back and rattles off the start of the op; the clean drop in the snow, working their way up to the place and the few hours they needed to verify their intel had been sound. Everything fell into place just like it had on paper.
Until it didn’t.
“They bugged the intel; place went into lockdown the second we started the download,” he growled, still pissed he hadn’t spotted the worm before alarms started blaring even with the memory covered in three layers of frost. Every computer in the bloody place corrupted itself and they had nothing to show for their efforts. “Was right ‘bout it bein’ an older facility; only had shutters on the windows instead of plates, easy enough to blow off.”
“Did you get a look at them?” Price asks.
“Definitely not Konni; way too amateur hour,” he answers immediately. “Not very well thought out either; we couldn’t get out by they couldn’t get in to get us, they scrambled like they didn’t know the specs o’ the place.”
“Could’ve been a test,” Gaz suggests, eyes slightly distant as he mentally wades through the intel.
“Testin’ them or us?”
“Both,” Ghost grunts and Johnny locks up so he doesn’t jump out of his skin. He glances at him out the corner of his eye but he’s still facing Price, his eyes hidden by the raised brow of his mask. He lingers for a heartbeat, two, for him to catch his eyes in turn, to just look in his direction so he can bridge this chasm widening between them.
Nothing.
“Lookin’ into a third party to pad out ranks; Konni can only replenish so quick at the rate we’re puttin’ ‘em down,” Price agrees, and he swallows, something like resentment and something far more afraid brewing in his gut. Price works the pen in his hand like he wishes it’s something far deadlier. “And to see if we’re still predictable.”
“You think he planted the intel,” Johnny reads between the lines, forcing his focus on the one thing he can actually fix. “Sacrificed an old base to see if we’re still on him.”
“And we marched to his tune like he’s the Pied fuckin’ Piper,” Gaz growls, shoving back in his chair.
“If Makarov’s lookin’ to outsource, we could be up against a whole new wave of hell,” Price warns and a thickness smothers the room like a physical weight. His lip curls and he smooths down his beard, flicking to a different page of the report. “What about the safe house; was it compromised?”
“It was half buried; looked like it hadn’t seen life since it was built,” he scoffs. “I was fuckin’ useless at this point, could barely walk. I was just slowin’ Ghost down, exposin’ us both, but he got us inside. From there, it’s…”
Johnny trails off; the rest of the night distant, tinted with frost and pain and overturned earth. His eyes drop to his hands, covered by three layers of gloves, and tries to make them feel as warm as the hole Ghost’s burning in his head without ever actually looking at him.
They were warm at some point but he thinks it came too late; pain already sinking its claws into them when they were so much as brushed. But the cold was slowly chased away, even as the pain lingered. It couldn’t reach him wrapped in stale blankets on something too soft to be hardwood or earth; the air feeling oddly close when he could’ve sworn the briefing said there was only one main room.
Johnny pulls back even as the moment his lips leave flesh, a near-pained whine crawls from his throat; interrupting the rumble that’s been as much of a constant as the gloriously fatty milk dancing on his tongue.
He needs to stop. He’s taken too much. Taken too much of the warmth for himself. The Nest will grow cold. Selfish. Selfish, greedy Alpha.
Omega will suffer.
‘Shh,’ curls around his ears like music, light purrs on the wind, and he doesn’t fight the hand pulling him close once more. Can’t fight. Would never. Never hurt Pack. Never hurt Pack Omega. ‘S’alright, Johnny. Just keep drinking.’
He whines again- apologetic, grateful, blissed. He has no will to defy Omega.
Omega’s wrist rubs against his throat and he almost chokes on his chuff at the fresh rush of his content scent - like cream and the little shallow creek he used to play in as a pup, all mud and submerged twigs and decaying leaves - reluctant to drop his breast now he’s been given it again.
‘Drunk with it,’ he huffs but it mostly goes over his head; only the warm, amused tone reaches him under the soft haze and it makes him melt into him even more. ‘Not used to this, are you? ‘M not either. S’been too long for us both.’
He shifts his aching body as much as he can, coiling around the body beneath his, willing the warmth in his belly to spread to him too. Must protect Omega while he’s so vulnerable. Must give back. Help.
Thrive.
“Mostly just remember bein’ cold ‘nd my hands hurtin’,” Johnny shrugs. “Then somewhere in there, I felt warm again. Guessin’ that’s Ghost’s hard work.”
His eyes flicker over to Ghost still staring straight ahead. I won’t say anything, he promises, tinged with desperation. You know that. Right?
But he doesn’t waver; like the six days he dedicated to keeping him alive mean nothing.
Like what they shared means nothing.
His Alpha howls in his chest, rejection burning at his gums; pulling his lips back in an agonised snarl as rot seeps into the roots of his teeth. Hates us! Omega hates us!
He drops his gaze down to the desk, his jaw set in a tight line.
What did we do wrong?
Price hums and Johnny fights not to shrink even further as he glances between the two of them. “You had us all worried, Sergeant. The storm caused a communications blackout; by the time we made it to you, we had to dig out the safe house. We didn’t know what we’d find inside.”
His heart sinks, and with his Alpha so loud in his chest, he lets out an apologetic croon, ignoring the burn of it against his ragged throat. He didn’t even think about Price and Gaz in all this. They had to wait almost a week before finding out if they’d lost half their pack in one fell swoop.
There could’ve been anything waiting for the exfil team behind that door; the remains of their Lieutenant and Sergeant, equally torn apart in a Feral rage. His drowned, frozen corpse waiting to be brought home donned in the Scottish flag, Ghost kneeling unresponsive above him…
A boot knocks against his own and he blindly presses back into it. “Did I…?”
“Attack?” Price finishes for him and Johnny blinks when he chuckles warmly. “Not even close. Ghost had you managed; we found you suckling on his scent gland like a teething pup.”
A flush stains his cheeks, bleeding all the way down his collection of scarves to heat his chest even as he shares a snicker with Gaz. That felt familiar. He was long gone by then; he didn’t even take in the change of environment from the safe house to the helo to medical. He was deaf and blind to everything more complex than scent and instinct so long as his one constant didn’t change.
But Johnny remembers.
He remembers the bite of the cold and the way it burned like fire, remembers the weight of the blankets and then a body against his own; the press of a swollen chest against his cracked lips. He remembers the heat running down his numb throat better than he's recalled the taste of anything.
And he knows it should've been impossible.
It was only him and Ghost on that mission. Only him and his Alpha Lieutenant. And Price may have bought Ghost's explanation of painstakingly feeding him watered-down rations but Johnny knows what he tasted. He hasn’t tasted an Omega’s milk in… fuck, it’d have to be twenty years by now. Not since he was a pup getting ready for bed and his da would tuck him in with a warm mouthful still lingering on his tongue, his sisters in their beds still smacking their lips from their own mouthfuls, or when he’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced the branches scratching on his window were some boogeyman coming to steal him.
It’s been a long time since he was allowed to be afraid of the boogeyman; since he was allowed the comfort of being soothed.
But it’s not something you just forget.
Price flips the folder shut with a bodily sigh and ingrained habit makes Johnny follow as he gets to his feet and gestures him close. “C’mere; still reek of medical.”
His eyes fall shut on a chuff and he can’t stop from pressing into Price’s wrist, the meat of his hand notching just under his ear as his nails scratch through his hair. Always a touch of rough involved, getting scented by their Pack Alpha; like he needs that extra grounding to make sure it gets through their thick heads since he can barely smell himself these days.
He hangs his mouth open, lets the sharp of Price’s peppercorns and pine needles coat his tongue, and an unconscious chirrup bleeds through at the comforting taste.
“Good to have you back, son,” he rumbles, low, a familiar subharmonic lilt reaching under all his layers to warm his bones.
“Can’t keep me away, Sir,” he promises.
Gaz slings his arms around his neck and Johnny chokes out a laugh as he tugs him back into his chest to nuzzle into his cheek with a throaty bleat; his temple clumsily digging into his face but he doesn’t let him tip over. He bleats and grinds right back, little more than pups roughhousing on the carpet, sparklers blooming with fresh laundry straight out of the dryer; all soft blankets and childhood sheets, so warm they felt like magic.
He turns with a bright grin, looking for rich soil and leaf litter to complete the cycle-
But Ghost’s already disappeared, not even a hint of rain-dampened earth lingering behind him.
Johnny blinks at the empty doorway, leaning away from Gaz to settle back on his feet.
“Guess he’s sick o’ bein’ cooped up with you,” Gaz teases but he drags a consoling wrist over his armpit, soothing the muted burst of rust seeping from his glands.
He hesitates for a heartbeat, grabbing his forearm to push him deeper into his chest. “‘Scuse you, I was a model roommate.”
“Mm, only slept and ate for a week, what more could you ask for?”
He pushes out a playful growl and chomps the air in front of his nose.
“He just needs to get himself resettled,” Price rumbles, gathering up his files. His eyes flicker up, shooting him a knowing look. “Happy ending aside, you were pretty out of it with no chance of exfil; it’d have any man on edge.”
Especially one like Ghost, goes unsaid but Johnny still feels it settle heavily around his shoulders.
The wooden edge of the bench digs into the back of Johnny’s knee with every gentle sway, skin catching on the chipped veneer but it doesn’t stop the restless movement.
He can’t feel his fingertips anymore; bloodless with the brisk cold, not dampened at all by how still it is, but he stopped needing sight or feel to work his way through the beads of his mother’s rosary a long time ago. The polished grain’s as familiar as his fingerprints and just as embedded within him; its catgut chord as well known as the strings of his heart.
He works his way around the decades, the crucifix hanging heavy against his wrist; each Hail Mary and Our Father still lingering on the tip of his tongue even after all these years of silence.
‘Don’t know why you wear that thing, Johnny,’ shatters the chill quiet and, unbidden, his shoulders sink down; relaxing into the bench-top.
Would you believe me if I said I don’t either?
Johnny splays his fingers out, the crucifix dangling between them. He drew it once; asked his mam with bated breath if he could hold it, just for a little while, so his chubby fingers could get the face right. He always thought Jesus looked different than in any other crucifix he saw, something about his small agony so much more personal, more real.
Now he knows it was because it was hers.
‘Was my mam’s; gave it to me when I presented,’ Johnny answers, weaving the long lengths of beads around his fist.
The gravel scuffs and Ghost steps up to sit on the table by his knee, his back to him, feet firmly planted on the seat as he rests his forearms on his knees. He looks out into the night and something about the absence of his gaze lets him keep the rosary out instead of tucking it away like he usually does around others. Then, Ghost’s not just anyone.
‘You really think ‘e’s watchin’?’ Ghost asks but there’s no derision in his voice; no judgement.
‘Fuck no,’ he scoffs anyway. ‘Be a lot more lightning and doom if He was lookin’ my way… S’not really why I keep it, anyway.’
He trails off, flexing the rosary back and forth over his knuckles just to feel the familiar turn of the beads on their cord; the subtle chitter as they rub together, smoothed by decades of worry. Ghost doesn’t push; just offers a gentle silence, as easily kept as it could be broken.
‘They’re for her, you know?’ Johnny mutters, almost involuntarily; eyes captured by the dull glint of starlight on polished wood. ‘The rosary; the Hail Mary’s. Always hear ‘bout the Father ‘nd the Son ‘nd the Holy Spirit… never hear ‘bout the Mother.’
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
‘You ever miss the idea of someone?’ he asks, the words tumbling from him like they’d been waiting to mount his tongue. They bulge at the back of his throat and he can trace the gored trail they took from the depths of his lungs; filling his capillaries on their way up like so much puss. ‘Want to hear their voice… what they’d say to you if you were anyone but who you are?’
Ghost works his jaw, chin jutting out like his teeth are suddenly too big for his mouth.
I hope you don’t, Johnny suddenly realises. You don’t deserve to know this feeling.
But what is a ghost if not a shadow of who someone once was? A shade to either fear or see right through? A memory with no one left who wants to remember?
That’s all Johnny is, too.
He’s the disturbed groove in the hardwood floor; proof of movement, proof of life. He’s chair legs scratching repetitive trails as they’re pulled out from under the dining table. He’s the bright laughter that sang in the air, the pounding footsteps of pups chasing each other down the stairs; the dents in the corner frame where knees and shoes clipped it on their turn in after being called to dinner.
But the house has long been abandoned. The kitchen is silent. Dust hides the grain and muddies the paint.
And Johnny’s the only one still there.
No one ever asks, but the memory of happiness is worse than its absence. He remembers how it used to be before the silence descended upon their house; before footsteps were carefully measured and tension was thick enough to drown in.
To this day, Johnny doesn’t know what Wayne MacTavish found the greater sin: that the gentle kiss he’d seen given to his son was by another Alpha or another boy, just as tentative and lost as him. Doesn’t know if it would change the ache of an open hand on his cheek; the distant balm of another Alpha’s kiss still on his tongue.
‘My first son, the first Alpha of my blood. Instead? We got you. You make God look upon His creation and weep!’
He can barely feel the sting of the cut his wedding ring opened on his cheekbone through the heat of his face; a shamed flush staining his skin.
Johnny runs his tongue over his bottom lip. He’s not breathing. Not sure he remembers how. If he tries, he can still taste Darcy’s clumsy lips on his. He drags his damp eyes up from the floor; to his older sisters hidden in silence on the staircase, wide-eyed with horror, covering each other’s mouths. To his mam staring at them from the doorway, her hand tangled in her ever-present rosary.
And looks into the shadow of nothing when she walks away.
Ozone seeps into the edges of Johnny’s scent like a chemical spill, weeping down his neck; sepsis from a spoiled wound.
What is the Father if he never hesitates to forge the nails to be driven through palms into the cross? What is the Mother if the manger will never see the return of the babe’s footsteps after his long journey to become a man? Who is the Son who sees Judas in the eyes shared with his own?
Heavy eyes roll to the broad expanse of Ghost’s back. Broad, strong. But so achingly weathered.
What did you have to lose to become the Holy Spirit?
Johnny flinches as Ghost abruptly shoves off the bench; crumbling wood chips falling in his wake. ‘On me.’
He slowly levers himself upright, watching him stalk off towards the barracks. ‘Ghost?’
‘On me, Sergeant,’ he repeats without so much as a backwards glance.
He blinks away the swelling in his eyes and scrambles to replace the rosary around his neck, tucking it under his shirt, and kicks off the bench; the splintered edge catching in the tread of his boot and breaking off.
The rush of hot air as they step inside the barracks almost burns against his chilled skin, the dryness catching in his throat, and it takes him a second to breathe through it. It struggles to work its way under his skin as he follows Ghost to the officer quarters and he shakes out his hands, his confusion growing as they walk straight past Ghost’s room only to stop in front of Price’s.
Ghost waits for him to fall in beside him and Johnny’s eyes widen as he opens the door without even knocking. The heavy scent of pollen hangs like a fog over the whole room, almost enough to make him sneeze, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why.
Price has a sleepy-looking Gaz cooped up with him in the middle of a snug nest; the blankets so tightly interwoven, they form their own structural support, holding itself up without the need for those expensive wall pillows nesting companies try to extort. A veritable mountain of jerky sits on a cool box at a safe distance, likely filled to the brim with ice to sate the itch in his fangs and the painful need to bite.
The steel blue of his irises looks sharper than ever, like they could cut down the borders of his sclera and swallow them at any moment.
But they grow warmer than he’s ever seen when they fall upon them hovering in the doorway; the bright rush of pine needles and chestnuts almost matching the strength of the loud chuff Price lets out.
‘Thought you got lost,’ he drawls, a rumble carrying the weight of each word.
‘We were down one,’ Ghost answers like it explains anything about why they’re interrupting their Pack Alpha staring down the barrel of Pre-Rut. It’s the most tempting and warm time of year to be near an Alpha; those days before the terrible, aching need when they’re all affection, drunk with the happiness and safety of Pack.
It’s also the most personal time of year an Alpha can go through and Ghost just burst through the door without so much as an ‘Incoming’.
‘Sorry, Sir; didn’t know it was your time o’ the month,’ Johnny immediately backpedals, dropping his eyes to the floor and tilts his chin to the side, exposing his throat as he starts to back out.
‘Where do you think you’re goin’?’ Price cuts in.
He risks lifting his eyes - eye contact with a hormonal Alpha is a quick way to get dead and Price’s baseline strength is nothing to scoff at - but they’re still just as warm as when he walked in, practically dancing. Gaz tips up from his side, takes one look at him, snorts, and rolls right back over.
He glares at the back of his head, quickly cutting it off at Price’s amused huff.
Johnny swallows, checking over his shoulder with Ghost- who rolls his eyes and shoves him forward. ‘Get in the nest, Johnny.’
He bares his fangs in a voiceless growl and his eyes crease around the edges. Bastard.
‘Beautiful den, Sir,’ he compliments before even thinking of setting foot inside, carefully lining his boots up with the others around the nest. It may have been years since he’s stepped foot in a Pre-Rutting Alpha’s den but he knows better than to do it empty-handed.
Another bellow-like chuff erupts from Price’s chest, the healthy pride of an Alpha’s space coming thick and fast in his scent, and he chances stepping over the wall; not so much as twisting his foot as he sets it down in case it disturbs the nest.
Just to yelp as Price yanks him into the thicket of bedding, hooking his arm around his chest to get as much contact with his scent glands as possible, and grinds his cheekbone into his temple. The pressure behind his eyes returns and he squeezes them shut, pressing back into him hard enough to give himself rug burn from his beard. He almost trembles as Price noses the corner of his eye, breath coming unsteady.
‘Alright, son?’ he breathes, just for them, voice warbling with the force of his rumbles.
He lets his jaw fall slack, lets the tension flow out of his chest, out of his lungs, under the weight of his Pack Alpha’s sent. He catches Ghost’s eye, watching them - him - unblinkingly.
‘Aye,’ Johnny whispers back and tries to push the gratitude into his eyes. ‘Am now.’
Ghost’s shoulders roll, settling in a low, easy slope and tips his head.
Price pulls back and cups his numb hands between his own, brusquely rubbing warmth into them with a discontented huff. ‘Always get so bloody cold. What are you, nine’y?’
Gaz butts between his shoulder blades, rolling into the new divot in the nest, and he presses back as much as he can without losing contact with Price. He swallows, his voice thick in the back of his throat. ‘You’re one to talk, Sir; when did you start dyeing out your greys?’
‘More often now, pest,’ he snarks, looking seconds away from gnawing at the knots in his hair and licking him clean. His eyes flick over his shoulder and Johnny frowns as Ghost nods back and steps out of the room, the door closing behind him with a gentle click.
Ghost’s been here far longer than he has, has called Price his Pack Alpha longer than any of them; if anyone deserves a place in the nest, it’s him.
‘He’s keepin’ watch,’ Price explains without him asking and his eyes drop to the bottom of the door, at the faint shadow cast over the floor, holding them all in the safety of its gentle shade. ‘Does ‘im good to have us all like this.’
Johnny rolls the taste of that in his mouth, his eyes stuck on the door, and sinks deeper into the warmth of the nest. Price’s thick rumble calls his own from his chest, Gaz huddling in close at his back, already steadily going lax against him as he drowns in the scent of happy Alpha. He’s surrounded by Pack, his Pack, and it’s almost perfect.
The shadow shifts just beyond the door.
That’s all Johnny does.
He remembers.
Which is how he knows exactly what he tasted that night wrapped in stale blankets and Ghost’s scent; curled together in the dark, skin warmth slowly and dedicatedly shared. He knows why his lips warmed at the same rate as his insides, as his armpits and crotch, but with a far less artificial heat. He knows what Ghost gave up for him.
It’s why he knows he'll likely never taste it again.
Ghost's been a growling ball of tension since they got back, forcing everyone to keep their distance lest they feel his sharp bite. He hasn’t stopped, taking on extra training duties and PT, going from the gym to the range and back again; his restlessness an oppressive weight suffocating the whole base. Johnny would gladly choke if it meant Ghost would just talk to him.
He hasn’t stayed in the same room as him longer than physically necessary. He doesn’t come to the rec anymore, or the mess or the crumbling bench no one else uses when the nights get too long and too close. He hasn’t so much as looked at him and the sudden distance is tearing him apart, piece by bloody piece.
It's easy for the other soldiers to see it as anger; as the fallout of being in an enclosed space with another Feral Alpha under stress for too long.
‘Lucky it didn't trigger Reactionary Rut,’ they probably think, whispering to each other like it stops their faces from screaming it whenever he passes by. ‘Lucky they didn't tear each other apart.’
Johnny knows he's lucky. Knows in his bones how close to Death’s door he was this time and he only has Ghost to thank for pulling him back from the brink.
And he knows Ghost's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He watches him dump another rookie on his head, a pup still tripping over his own feet, and he can’t take it anymore. This thing they have between them, the comfort and the maybe they’ve been dancing around- it’s fractured.
He doesn’t want to watch it break.
He doesn’t want to live with only the memory of it.
“When I say watch your left, it’s not a fuckin’ suggestion,” Ghost spits as the rookie struggles to righten himself, blood no doubt rushing to his knocked-about head and making him even more uncoordinated. “Pick that up before you fuckin’ lose it.”
Johnny circles the near-shivering pack of trainees, their blockers nowhere near enough to hide their fear of the Ghost in a bad mood, and slides up beside him, keeping himself in full view the whole time.
“Oi! Quit makin’ us all look bad and go lap the perimeter,” he barks at the cherry who completely freezes under his attention, worse than a deer under a set of high beams.
It's kinder than what Ghost will do to them if he lets him keep going.
Ghost who went prey animal-still the second he saw him enter the gym.
“H-how many times, Sir?” the rookie gasps out.
Johnny gives him a dry look. “‘Til I tell you to stop, Bambi,” he drawls like it’s obvious.
He flushes to his unfortunate hairline and he watches him slink off with his tail between his legs, the rest of them following just as meekly; the door slamming shut behind him and echoing out in the now empty gym.
“That’s his callsign sorted,” he huffs like it’s any other day. Like his heart isn’t beating hard enough to crack the brittle guard of his ribs and limp to Ghost’s feet. “If ‘e makes it that long. What do you think, Lt; drop out or discharge?”
“Boltin’ before the week’s out,” Ghost glares at the closed doors, something bitter creeping beneath the dry growl of his voice, and it makes his stomach turn.
Johnny runs his tongue over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath. “Ghost-”
“Busy,” he grunts and it scours him, fitting beneath his skin just to tear it free; leaving his nerves bloody and exposed. He turns his back on him and scratches his hand-wrap free, unwinding his fists and making a beeline for the locker room. “Take it to Price if it’s important.”
He trails after him, fawn-legged. “Ghost, please just-”
“I said leave it, Sergeant,” he hisses, voice thick with a warning snarl but-
“I know what I tasted!” Johnny throws out, a final, desperate shot in the dark, and the line of Ghost’s spine goes rigid, his hands faltering.
A violent twitch runs through them and he rips the rest of the wrap free with prejudice, shoving it deep in his hoodie pocket. But it doesn’t stop the waft of trapped, scent-drenched sweat from reaching him. Abandoned, sun-bloated meat and decay-ridden earth, bones left to bleach and crack, their marrow spilling into the ground and making Johnny’s breath catch; the ripe fear of it sticking thick in his throat.
Don’t feel that for me, he wants to beg. You’re not supposed to feel that because of me.
Ghost’s eyes flicker back to him, just for a second. “You hit a couple things on your way down, Johnny?” he scoffs but it’s brittle, wrong; a walking corpse of an imitation of their normal, blood spilling past its lips with every twisted word.
Johnny swallows the phantom offal blocking his throat. “What you did for me… in Russia… I know what that risks-”
“I didn’t risk shit,” he cuts off, steely with warning, and turns on him, the whites of his eyes stark and screaming in their visibility. He inhales deep, blowing out the wide barrel of his chest, and the Alphan posturing would be impressive, powerful.
If Ghost feeling the need to protect himself from him didn’t just hurt.
“I’m not talkin’ rank,” he spits. “Or designation prejudice or fuckin’ gender essentialism- you hid it for a reason. You do everything for a reason and I’m not gonna sit here and pretend that means nothin’ when you threw it away for me.”
Johnny catches himself with an unsteady breath and flexes his trembling hands; the echoes of sharp pain sparking down his tendons into his nail beds. Ghost’s eyes twitch down, just slightly, and he clings to it.
His jaw flexes, teeth gnashing together, and he shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
“Like hell I don’t- you think this is new?” he pushes, desperate and pleading for him to hear him. “You saved me. No matter how you did it, what it took, it was you. Just like you’ve saved me a hundred times over in a hundred different ways. I’d be lost without you, Ghost. I always have been.”
Ghost’s pulse beats wildly in his neck, visible even under the thick of his mask, drawing his eyes down to his shoulders; still pulled back and wide, hackles raised high. His hands aren’t quite at his sides, ready to lunge forward and attack. Ready to brace over his soft spots and defend.
It cuts into him, scoring his flesh to the bone, and Johnny doesn’t give himself the reprieve of looking away as he sinks to his knees and traps his wrists between his thighs and calves. His thighs press tight together, same as his armpits, immobilising himself and strangling his own scent glands, and Ghost’s eyes flare like he’s standing danger close to a depressed land mine.
He takes a deep breath and tips his head back to face the ceiling, throat bare and offered on a silver platter.
Supplicant. Submissive
His tongue darts out over his bottom lip.
And he whines. High and soft; a pup presenting himself before his Alpha.
Johnny wasn’t sure he could even make these sounds anymore; worried he’d choke on his submission. It’s been so long since he’s pushed the soft cries from his throat; so long since he had anyone who cared enough to answer. But they fall from his lips like he never forgot them, beckoning and plaintive.
His rosary burns against his chest, each bead searing into his skin. But it’s nothing compared to the heat rising from his belly, embracing his lungs as they rise and fall with each pleading whine and holding them in a gentle caress.
This place, this position, splayed at Ghost’s feet like a hound, restrained only by loyalty and devotion, it feels right; divine in a way being on his knees for some unknowable, apathetic God never felt.
Ghost lets out a shuddering breath above him and Johnny’s eyes flutter shut as he feels his fingers curve around his throat, ghosting over his skin like they aren’t sure of their welcome. He keeps his careful stillness. His fingertips dance along the edges of his glands and he could almost wet them with the strength of his scent; tentative embers and caramel pushing out with every breath. They brush over them, spreading it along his skin, and his whole body falls slack as they shift behind him to firmly grip his scruff.
Possessive. Dominating.
Alpha.
Johnny’s mewls catch in his throat, tangling with the wildfire roar of his rumble; his whole throat vibrating with it and he feels Ghost’s hand on him tighten, like he wants to catch the sound in his palm and keep it for his own. He would give it to him; God, he would give him anything.
Please don’t let me go.
The force of Ghost’s grip ripples, drawing him up higher on his knees. "What am I gonna do with you, little Alpha?" he questions, barely loud enough to hear; like it wasn’t meant for him.
He almost keens anyway, pressing back into his hand, limp, until it’s all that’s keeping him up. He grinds his wrist over his scent gland and Johnny’s mouth drops open; sucking in deep lungfuls of his scent, rolling tilled earth and old metal on his tongue like smoke.
“Anythin’,” he promises, breathless. “Can do anythin’.”
“Big thing to promise, Johnny,” Ghost warns, the grip on his scruff tensing.
“Not big enough,” he immediately denies. He sucks in his bottom lip, chasing phantom heat. A heat that will never leave him again. “What happened, what I know… it changes nothin’. You’re my Alpha; now and always.”
Alpha used to mean more than just gender, more than physiology. It used to mean protector, leader; firm in guidance and loud in pride. Johnny’s known too many Alphas who walked around thinking their second gender was a birthright; divine in their surety that they own the social hierarchy without ever caring to do anything to deserve it.
None of them earned their title the way Ghost does.
“And when that isn’t enough?” Ghost challenges, a bite edging into his voice. “When you want somethin’ I’m not willin’ to give?”
When you remember what I am?
Johnny hears it clear as day; the acidic indictment of a man who’s been all too intimately reminded of what he is, in all its cruelty and inevitability.
He would do anything for just one more comforting taste of Ghost’s milk; to revel in the open union of their scents as they both sink into the depths of sated instinct. He would do anything even if it meant never experiencing it again.
He just wants his Ghost back.
He tips himself further back, hanging from Ghost’s hand; opening up his shoulders and offering his vulnerable belly to knife and claw and fang.
“Then you put me back in my place.”
Ghost’s grip- spasms; sharpening claws digging into his skin. White spills into his irises like ink flowing through water and Johnny’s breath catches at the sheer beauty of it; the way his amber bleeds away into silver before settling into the same pure white of his sclera. The barest hint of opalescence betrays their depth, his pupils little more than pinpricks hidden beneath clouds as, for the first time he’s ever seen, Ghost allows his Omega to rise and take over.
And maybe it’s not the amber void he always pictured, but he could spend forever staring into his silver skies.
His fingers flex against his nape like he doesn’t know if he wants to rip them away or tighten them; to hoist him into the air until his legs curl up to his chest, immobilised like the contrite pup he is. Johnny doesn’t dare move.
Ghost lets out a low sigh, the wide round of his chest falling.
And his scruff gentles, becoming little more than a guiding hand as he brings his face down from the ceiling and tilts him forward; his forehead softly butting against his thigh.
Johnny slumps into his leg and he barely shifts with his weight; the steady rock he’s always been for him as he nuzzles into his thigh and breathes deep from his hidden scent gland. A whine falls unbidden from his lips as he takes in the depths of his soaked soil; like an ancient riverbed, inevitable and stalwart in its endurance, carving through the earth as it feeds all it encounters. He can almost caress its high banks, lock his fingers in the tangled mangroves and mineral-rich soil. And through it all, that barest hint of milky cream enriches it all. So complex, so full of life.
He nuzzles into the rough of his jeans, mouthing blindly at nothing, following the memory of a swollen gland between his lips. He can still taste the sweat of his skin, dripping with pheromone-rich oils, so familiar it felt like home. He’s enveloped in Ghost; his legs bracketing his body, his shadow keeping him hidden. Keeping him warm.
Exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Even God would weep for this.
“What have you done to me, pup?” Ghost murmurs above him and Johnny frowns as it conjures something; a faint memory, an echo, buried in ice and frost.
‘Look what you’ve done to me, Johnny.’
His frown deepens and he slowly lifts his head, dragging his chin up the meat of Ghost’s leg to press into his thigh, losing the pillow of his scent, and his tongue recoils. His own scent’s turning, souring at the very idea of Ghost’s regret; curdled rust spilling into the air, strangling the delicate balance of moss and cream, sharp enough to make his eyes water.
“Ghost?” he whispers, tentative; his shoulders curling in, almost shrinking out from under his hand.
But Ghost just hushes him. He passes his wrist back over his throat, skirting up his jaw to edge his lips and he melts back into him at the burst of fresh-pulled greenery and cream flooding his senses, nuzzling into his pulse. His other hand sinks into his hair, holding him steady as he goes limp, suckling at his gland, his scent chasing the sulphur from his tongue.
“Alright. Alright, Johnny,” Ghost quietly concedes and Johnny feels the weight of his surrender; feels him pull his first full breath as he hands himself over to him with open, scarred palms. His rumbling chirrups shake his chest in answer as he runs his fingers down the line of his mohawk; the grateful sounds of a pup accepted. Of the lost finally found.
“We’re not alone anymore.”