Chapter Text
“You are going to put yourself into a tizzy.”
Soap scoffs, stuffing an obscene amount of food down his gullet, watching with amused interest as Gaz frowns at him. His best friend dangles a forkful of egg in the air, like he might very well stab Soap for disagreeing with him.
“You sound like my mam,” Soap grumbles, that frown between Gaz’s brows deepening as he waggles the fork to and fro. “No one says tizzy, Gaz,” John continues, a cheeky wink just because he can get away with it.
“Plenty do,” Gaz says, an offending sniff, yet he still hasn’t eaten his bite, and because Soap knows this man so well, he knows Gaz won’t relent. He’s hunting for information, a confirmation that Soap has taken care of his growing — problem. One John really doesn’t want to talk about, and yet one Gaz is clearly not going to let John get away with it. “And you’ll get yourself in said tizzy, Tav. You know as well as me that this isn’t good for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine he says." Gaz grumbles, shoving his fork rather aggressively into his mouth and biting down on the tines just to annoy Soap. “This is going to bite you in the ass. Just bloody talk to him.”
John makes a face at him, one for the absurdity of the statement, and two for eating his breakfast like a heathen. “Oh aye,” he says, smacking Gaz’s fork with his own. “I’m sure that will go off real well.”
“It could,” Gaz remarks, pointing his fork directly at Soap, both of them battling them against one another like little light sabers. Much in the way best friends do. “You haven’t been on the receiving end of comms, listening to you two. Sickening it is.”
“Oh here we go,” Soap grumbles, mushing together his egg and peas. He hates peas. “We’re not that bad.”
Gaz makes a show of stabbing his eggs particularly hard, the twat. It’s the wet kind, something John has never really understood about military breakfast. How the fuck could you make eggs watery? But he’s never questioned it, mostly because he’s gained a sweet spot with the staff, and they usually give him extra helpings, wet eggs be damned.
“That’s beyond the point, Tav.”
“Because you know I’m right,” John tells him, scraping his teeth on his fork in a way he knows irritates his friend, just to prove a point. That earns a sigh from the man across from him, Gaz’s steel-toed boot knocking a bit too hard into Soap’s shin, something that tells him silently, you’re a fucking idiot, but you’re my idiot.
Soap thinks he likes that most about Gaz — the man worries but he never pushes too hard. It’s been like that since basic, both of them sticking to the other like glue. Training was hard, Soap won’t deny that, long days and grueling nights. But they’d made it through, there for one another through the thick and thin of it.
Soap knows why Gaz is complaining now, knows that Soap is being perhaps a little careless, and that’s fine. He’s handling himself, nothing is going to go wrong.
“You’re still takin’ the suppressants, yeah?” Gaz asks finally, eyes narrowing like he knows the answer, but wants the confirmation.
Soap snorts, “Now ye really sound like my mam. What’s next? Going to ask when I’m plannin’ my spring wedding?”
“Like anyone would want to marry your ass.”
“Oi,” Soap grunts, flicking watery egg onto the man’s plate. “M’ a fucking catch, mate. Don’t you forget that.”
“If you’re such a catch, then why aren’t you spending your heat leave with someone, hm?”
Soap frowns, adding a bit of brown sauce to his eggs and stirring it up until it most definitely resembles watery shit.
“I’m fine.”
Gaz doesn’t look convinced. “The suppressants can only do so much. They’re not a cure-all. You can’t just —” he waves a hand, exasperated. He lowers his voice looking left and right, “I understand your reasoning, but it’s not healthy.”
“He is not the only reason,” Soap hisses, stirring grumpily at his eggs. “I don’t like serving myself up like some fuckin’ prize on a plate, aye? It’s not like it is with you — ye have a partner, a mate.” John’s eyes flit to the healing scar on Gaz’s throat, a claim from their captain himself. It was an entire shit show when Price and Gaz came out as mates, the upper brass throwing a big fuss, but there was nothing they could do. The SAS wouldn’t separate mates, and while it hadn’t been deemed as ideal, the paperwork was the final nail in the coffin, no one able to say a word because Price had it documented and no one fucked with John Price.
Soap was thrilled for his best friend, his fellow sergeant and omega someone John loves dearly. But Gaz knew, which is probably the reason he was bothering John so much about it, that omegas couldn’t skip too many heats without taking a knot.
It’s something Soap has always hated about himself, something he wishes he didn’t have to deal with. He knows the science, knows the risks of holding off for too long. John isn't trying to be reckless, it's not like that. He's not some teenager with a crush, but at the same time, something is keeping him from seeking someone else out. It's like a physical pressure against his chest, a voice in his head he can't quite hear.
With suppressants he can skip the need to get knotted, his heat annoying, but bearable. But Soap really doesn’t know if that’s the case anymore. His heat leave is scheduled for three months from now, but it was the last one that John went through that had nearly taken him out.
Usually he rode out his heat tucked in the safety of his nest in Glasgow, miserable, but nothing that a bit of paracetamol couldn’t help with. He’d even bought one of those artificial knots, something he used over and over, sweating like a damn dog all the while, and willing himself not to imagine the person he was very much thinking of while using it.
But even that hadn’t made the cut during his last heat, John spiking a fever so high that he knew he was in trouble.
He’d called Gaz at three in the morning, knew the man was nearing his own heat leave, and knew he would answer without hesitation. It had taken three hours for Gaz to reach him, his own scent cutting through the haze of John’s own. And while it wasn’t enough, Gaz had scented him over and over, trying to dull the pain, trying to break the fever. It wasn’t the same as an alpha, but omegas could scent one another, a reminder that they weren’t alone.
John had made Gaz promise not to tell Price, and he hadn’t, only telling their captain he’d gone to visit John, to keep him company during the worst of his heat. Price had understood, and didn't question Gaz’s words for a moment, mostly because he was disgustingly in love with the man.
Price would never force his boys to take a knot, would never pressure John, but he would get medical involved. John didn’t want to put Price in that predicament, especially when this entire ordeal was his whole damn fault.
So when he came back from leave looking like hell and feeling worse for the wear, Price scented him without hesitation.
It was that familiar, steady scent that finally broke through the last of the fire burning hot and insistent in John’s belly. Price nudged him closer, solid and certain, until John’s breathing evened out and the tension bled away—his body responding on instinct alone, John always aware that his captain would protect him.
Always.
But Price, astute as ever, had made John go to medical anyway, a checkup that proved nothing alarming, just that John needed to up his suppressant dosage. That had been enough for Price, just a signed clearance form and he was back to work like nothing happened.
And it seemed to be working. Soap feels fine, he is fine.
There’s nothing to worry about.
John’s body is on fire.
He wakes up gasping, shirt molded to his skin and drenched in sweat. He tries to suck in a breath, but everything hurts, his lungs, his ribs, his thighs coated in slick. This is the second time this week he’s woken up like this, his body a raging inferno, his scent thick and heavy in the air.
He tells himself he’s not going into an early heat, but all the signs are there. He has three months before his leave, and he knows he’s not going to make it, even going as far to schedule an appointment with medical to increase his suppressant dosage.
But right now it’s barely three in the morning, and John stumbles out of bed, the sheets tangled around his legs as he reaches blindly for his keys. Gaz’s room is just down the hall, and John quickly slips his shoes on, knows the soothing presence of his best friend will be enough to get his body to calm down before he can get to medical tomorrow.
He’s not surprised when Gaz answers on the second knock, eyes bleary with sleep, but one look at John and he’s ushering him inside, the door slamming closed behind them.
“Tavvie?”
John lets Gaz crowd into his space, the omega purring softly as he releases a gentle scent. Gaz reminds him of the beach, sand and grit, the faint bit of coconut lingering in the air, and John can feel that fire in him settling as his best friend presses in close, grounding him without asking for anything in return.
He lets Gaz guide him to his bed, the both of them wrapping around the other, John with his nose burrowed into his friend's neck. He says nothing, Gaz only running his finger soothingly up and down John’s spine, settling him in a way nothing else can.
Gaz is his brother, the one person in the world John can trust with anything.
And he trusts him with this too.
“It’s getting worse.”
Gaz nods his head, a small kiss to John’s brow as he pulls the covers over them. John has slept in the same bed with Gaz before, the two of them bunking on more than one occasion. They bonded early on over the fact that they’re both omegas and sergeants. He tucks his face into the crook of his best friend’s throat, and there, beneath the man’s usual scent, John can smell something else.
The comforting scent of their captain.
Cigars and ash, smoke and pine. It gentles him further, like a warm embrace for a job well done, and he sags the rest of the way, his body heavy against Gaz’s own.
“I know, Tav,” Gaz says softly, his words soft as he continues to release a gentle scent, meant to soothe, to quell the edge of his anxiety. “John, you have to try.”
It’s the use of his actual name that allows John to realize how serious Gaz is, the way there is no teasing tone or bickering. He knows what Gaz means, knows he needs to try and solve this problem now before it gets worse, and he nods despite himself, resignation pulling heavily at him.
“I promise,” John tells him, hating the way tears prick at his eyes, the bite and sting, because he shouldn’t be upset. And when his shoulders begin to quake, John can’t help the rush of shame, the prickle of it like its own heat against his skin.
Gaz murmurs soft words, shushing John gently as the tears slide hot and desperate down John’s cheeks.
John MacTavish isn’t a weak man, but in this moment, pressed into his best friend’s scent and arms, he feels unbearably and achingly weak.
Just for tonight John lets himself lean into it, lets Gaz wipe the tears from his eyes, lets his best friend hold him tight, as if these strong arms can shield John from the worries of tomorrow.
The worries that John will face head-on, because he’s not a weak man.
And he won’t allow himself to be one.
Medical gives him more suppressants. John comes up with some half-baked lie, something about his heats being more potent than usual, and that he wants to get a good handle on it before it arrives.
The nurse doesn’t really question him, nodding along as John prattles about. It’s easier than he thought, and with a new dosage he should be fine.
Although that won’t stop what he plans to do tonight.
He’d left Gaz’s room this morning with a plan that they would meet up later tonight. There’s a pub about a twenty minutes drive from base where John has found a few hookups in the past. It's a decent place, cheaper beer and even cheaper food, but John isn’t looking for anything but a quick fuck.
He doesn’t want to get knotted, but he’s starting to think he doesn’t have a choice. Especially since he won’t risk ruining his friendship with Simon, knows that despite how much Simon cares for him, the man won’t take well to John asking him to fuck.
It’s just fucking, he knows that. He can get rough and dirty with the tall bastard for a few hours, relieve the tension and the heat threatening to cook him from the inside out, except John knows it won’t be like that.
He knows he’ll give himself away. Knows that he’ll make it fucking obvious that he developed feelings for the least attainable person in the entirety of the SAS.
Knows it, but still has feelings, because apparently John liked torturing himself.
And that’s fine.
He’ll go out tonight, fuck the first decent alpha he finds, and finally get a handle on his heat. And maybe by the time his heat does arrive in three months, he’ll be brave enough to say something to Ghost about it.
Maybe, but very likely not.
The bar is crowded as fuck.
John can feel eyes all over him, knows his smell is probably attracting unwanted attention, but Gaz is here, scenting John softly, their scents combining to keep John’s breakthrough heats at bay. John has been making eyes at a lad all night, hot enough, blonde hair, and he tries not to think about why he was immediately attracted to him.
But John is no weak omega, if the fucker wants something, he’ll sure as hell come over here and say something. So he drinks, Scotch burning bright down his throat as he laughs and shoots the shit with Gaz.
Already a few other alphas have come over, John just baring his fangs in warning, their smell completely wrong and irritating his nose. He might be desperate, but he’s not that fucking desperate.
“Look like big blondie finally got his head out of his ass,” Gaz whispers low against the shell of John’s ear.
John huffs, not bothering to look as he leans against the bar, swallowing his drink. He can smell the alpha before he sees him, the smell of burnt rubber assaulting his nose. It’s not the worst one he’s smelled tonight, but it’s still off-putting enough that John wishes for a fleeting moment that he had never even come.
He has no idea why it is that every alpha in existence stinks to him.
But he’s not going to worry about it tonight.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
John winks at Gaz as he spins in his bar stool, glad for the sheer bulk of his own body, the way this alpha knows he’s not just some measly piece of prey to fuck around with. “Depends on who’s askin’,” John replies easily, earning a huff from the alpha in turn.
“Name’s Tom,” he says easily, grinning, a flash of white teeth, and John feels a bit nauseous about all of this. “What’s your poison of choice, lad?”
John bristles at the lad comment but chooses to ignore it. This is the first alpha he’s met all night that doesn’t smell that terrible. “Scotch,” he says easily. “Mind ye, I’m no’ easy date.”
Tom settles beside him, his bulking mass reminding John so much of Simon that he feels his chest ache. “Is that what this is, a date?”
“Aye, right and proper this is,” John teases, flashing the man a grin, watching as Gaz meanders somewhere on the other side of the room, apparently satisfied that they’re not going to have to knock Tom’s teeth in.
Tom flags down the bartender, ordering two drinks, a Scotch for John, a gin and tonic for himself. “So what’s an omega like you doing here?” Tom asks, eyes trained forward as he watches the bartender make their drinks. “Bar has a reputation, you know.”
“Aye,” John responds easily enough, thanking the bartender as he sets their drinks down. “M’ well aware what the reputation is.”
Tom cocks his head, taking a small swallow of his drink. “Is that what you’re looking for then?”
John glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Havenae finished my first drink and here you are jumping straight to the point.” He swirls his glass, the amber liquid catching on the light from above, “think you might be a shite date.”
He says the last part with a wink, but believes it too. Tom is nice, handsome even. But the man didn’t come to the bar tonight to woo anyone over, he came to fuck. Same as John.
“Might be a better shag then,” Tom says with a shrug, and what a way to get to the fucking point.
“Hm,” John says in return, lifting his drink in the semblance of a cheers. “You might be.”
John finds himself thrown against a shitty motel mattress two hours later. Tom is a decent enough guy he supposes, big in all the right places, especially that massive cock hanging between equally meaty thighs.
John is already stripped down, slick between his thighs, cock straining in the cool, staticky air of the room. The sheets smell musty, like cigarettes and dust, a sourly tang that makes his nose itch, but he’s not asking for class tonight.
He needs to get a knot, needs this goddamned fire to calm down, and then finally he’ll be back to normal.
He kisses Tom back, going through the motions as best as he can, the man at least showing him the proper attention, lips wrapped around John’s cock, fingers ghosting around John’s already lubricated rim.
“You’re too pretty to be at a bar like that, sweetheart.”
John grimaces, hates the fucking endearment. It makes him think of a time a few months back when Johnny had been sparring with Ghost. Sparring had become a way for the both of them to blow off steam, John taunting Ghost for months that one day he would pin the fucking tank.
And that day, John had.
He’d swept Ghost’s leg out from beneath him, targeting the ankle he knew caused the man trouble. Maybe a cheap shot, but no one would pay the same type of kindness out on the field where strategy didn’t matter.
He’d seen the proud expression in Ghost’s eyes, the man wearing just a plain balaclava, a faded skull print on the front, and those eyes, bright and golden beneath the fluorescent lights in the gym.
Ghost hadn’t been wearing eye grease, and seeing his expression so bare and open had caused John to purr, the sound vibrating between their flushed skin. Purrs were common enough for omegas that he didn’t need to explain why. John figured he’d let Ghost think it was because John had finally pinned him, and not at all for any other reason.
Ghost had only grinned at that, the mask pulling around his mouth. “Proud of yourself, sweet’eart?”
And now hearing that word on this man’s lips, it’s nearly too much. John tries to stay in the moment, fingers fisting into Tom’s blonde hair as the alpha sucks his cock, and John admits, it’s not the worst experience he’s ever had. For an alpha who clearly had been looking for just a fuck, John can say at least Tom is attentive.
“Gonna let me knot you?” Tom grits out, sharp fangs skimming against the inside of John’s thighs, fingers ghosting over his wet rim. “That’s what you need, right?”
Yes. It’s what he needs.
It is.
He nods his head, a small whine passing his lips as Tom begins to stretch him open, his scent wafting over John.
It’s rubber and metal, grease, foul and viscous, clinging to John’s skin.
It completely envelops his senses, and it’s wrong, so wrong in his nose that he snarls, baring his teeth, that searing heat prickling at his skin. He can tell he’s getting close, Tom beginning to fuck his fingers in and out of him, callouses brushing against his prostate, but John isn’t thinking about him, can’t focus on anything but the ceiling above, the popcorn texture that’s probably a health hazard.
“There you go,” Tom murmurs, kissing the weeping head of John’s cock, the alpha’s own smearing messily against the inside of John’s thigh. “Almost ready for me.”
John tells himself that’s what he wants, but when he closes his eyes he sees the shadow of a mask, the steady, unyielding weight of a man who says everything and anything without ever speaking a single word. John curls his fingers in Tom’s hair, but it’s Simon’s hair, Simon between his legs, Simon murmuring soft praise as John inches closer to the edge.
John’s breath hitches, a jagged sound that Tom likely mistakes for praise, but it’s a plea. He’s chasing a phantom, letting Tom’s foul, viscous scent pull him under until the man actually in his bed becomes nothing more than a vessel for the one who isn't here.
And when he begins to come, one name is ripped from his lips, jagged and desperate.
“Simon.”
Tom freezes for a long moment, eyes darting to John. “Simon, hm?” He chuckles, one hand spreading John’s thighs even wider, the blunt head of his cock nudging against John’s hole. Tom strokes himself from root to tip, his knot already beginning to swell. “So that’s why you were at the bar tonight.”
He begins to push in, but John can feel panic clawing at his chest, the voice that screams at him to stop. “But, Simon isn’t the one fucking you tonight, is he?”
And John snaps.
He has Tom pinned against the floor in seconds, and John doesn’t think before he buries his fangs into the man’s throat. It’s not a bite meant to kill, more so a warning, blood curling hot and metallic on his tongue. “Back the fuck off.”
“What the —”
But John doesn’t give the alpha a moment, shoving off as he quickly dresses, hands shaking the entire while. Tom is still frozen from where he’s been shoved against the floor, a trickle of blood pooling at the base of his throat, the taste of copper on John’s lips.
And John doesn’t look back as he wrenches the door open, the door smacking into the wall as he trudges out, not daring to give voice to the reason he’s leaving.
Simon can never sleep.
It’s late at night when he trudges to the kitchen, tells himself he’s going to make a cuppa, maybe some of that Chamomile shit that Price tells him to drink when he has nights like this.
The problem is, Simon always has nights like this.
He’s halfway to the kitchen when he catches the faint smell of blood, rancid and coppery, and while Simon thinks he has a pretty good nose, usually able to detect who a person is by scent alone, this is unfamiliar. It makes his hackles rise, his pace increasing.
“Who the fuck —” he snarls, and yet he pauses in his tracks, the anger leaving his bones. Because standing at the kitchen sink, arms braced on either side is …
“Johnny?”
John shudders, his shoulders sinking some. His smell is wild, that normal smell of sunshine and rain tainted with something else, something darker, like a sheen of oil covering his skin.
He approaches gently, Johnny still facing forward, entire body tense as a rod. “What —”
John spins on his heel, eyes wild, unrestrained, a feral untapped energy. And Simon doesn’t hesitate, reaching forward, a large hand cupping John’s jaw. “What the fuck happened, Johnny?”
John doesn’t meet his gaze, eyes downcast, brow furrowed. “M’ fine, LT.”
“You’re not fucking fine,” Simon snarls, and it’s then he notices the bit of blood on John’s lip, the same he smelled earlier. John tries to turn his head, but Simon captures his jaw, sweeping his thumb across the blood without a second thought.
“Back off, Simon,” John snarls, fangs bared as he pushes against Ghost’s chest. It's not the first time Simon has seen Soap like this, but it doesn't deter him, gaze hardening as he keeps his eyes locked on John's own.
“Not until you tell me what the fuck this is about?” Simon pushes. “Did someone try somethin’ with you, Johnny?”
“The fuck you care for,” John spits, chest heaving, the barest tinge of blood against his fangs. “I said I’m fine.”
Simon grits his teeth, has no idea what the fuck Soap is being so stubborn for. “I asked if someone touched you, Sergeant.”
John’s eyes snap to his, hardened at the edges. “Is that an order?”
Simon bristles, “Do I need to make it one?”
John curses low under his breath, his anger fading into something else, something Simon can’t quite read. “I went out,” John begins, and then something in him shifts, that wall he’s had in place since Simon walked into the kitchen, crumbling at his feet. “I was looking to get touched, Lieutenant. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Simon stiffens, taking a step back, grateful for the balaclava for the first time in a long while. It’s not that Johnny can’t go out, can’t touch other people—Simon doesn’t own him. But the want still flares at the back of his mind, possessive and vicious, bright and boiling, impossible to ignore.
Mine.Mine.Mine.
“And the blood?”
John huffs, turning his face away. “Got a little too handsy for my liking.”
Simon feels his own blood boil, glancing at the smear on his fingertips. He can smell the remnants of beer on John’s skin, the acrid stench of cigarettes and cheap perfume. But despite it all, he can still smell John beneath it all. That lovely smell, one that reminds him of the soft grasses of the Scottish highlands, of the warmed earth on a hot summer's day. Johnny had taken him to the highlands a few years back, an op they had been on bringing them close enough to John’s hometown that they’d stopped over for a visit.
Simon had finally met John’s parents, two people so full of love that he could see where Johnny got it from. A man like him couldn’t have been molded from anything less. They’d bunked together, shoulder to shoulder in John’s childhood bedroom, talking shit and laughing until John had passed out, head cradled against Simon’s shoulder.
He doesn’t want to admit how long he’d watched the steady rise and fall of Johnny’s chest.
Doesn’t want to admit how long he’d watched the way John’s lashes flutter in sleep, or the way his fingers had somehow reached toward Simon’s warmth.
And now as Simon reaches for that comforting scent of the one person he trusts more in the world, he’s assaulted with grease and grime, and it makes his stomach twist in knots. So much that’s he’s tempted to stalk the streets, to sniff out the sorry fuck that put their fucking hands on Johnny, and put a permanent hole in their head.
He blows out a breath, fists clenched at his side. “Did you handle it?”
John wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye.”
"That's --" Simon begins.
John shifts, shoulders squaring like he’s about to pull away, to retreat in those walls he keeps around himself, in much the same way Simon does.
He’s moving before he can think it over, fingers closing around the back of John’s nape before Simon crushes the man to his chest. He feels John’s vain attempt at struggling, at pushing away, but Simon scents him softly, watching the way Johnny calms beneath his fingertips.
“Good,” Simon chuffs softly, John’s entire body shuddering as he sags against Simon’s chest, like all the fight has drained from him at once. His fingers curl around Simon’s sleep shirt, the chill seeping through the thin cotton.
Scenting is something Simon doesn't offer. Price has taken that role in their team of four as their captain, offering his own when it's needed. Soothing and grounding, a reminder to stay together as a unit. Price is reassuring in a way that Simon doesn't know how to be, a constant reminder that he is the anchor that keeps the 141 grounded.
Simon lifts a hand, rubbing absently over the cloth covering the mating gland on his throat. The one Roba thought he tore from Simon’s skin so long ago. He doesn’t remember much of those days in Mexico, only blood and pain, a man trying to bring Simon to his knees.
But he’d survived, Simon refusing to give in.
He’d paid Roba back in the end, his fangs ripping through the man’s throat, the blood, something he still tastes on his tongue in the darkest of nights. Simon had escaped hell, had left with his life, but the damage to his gland had been done.
It had healed with thick scarring, raised and bumpy, hyper sensitive in a way that makes his jaw tighten. And while he knows it can still be marked, Simon having had enough doctors poke and prod at it over the years, he’s not sure anyone would want to do so.
And maybe that’s why Simon has never willingly scented someone. At least, not until right now.
Scenting was offering something raw and intimate, a piece of Simon that he was sure had been crushed beneath the grueling sands in Mexico. But for the first time, Simon wanted to give that part of himself to someone.
He could feel the confusion and anger radiating from Johnny, and while he wasn’t sure if doing this would earn him a punch to the jaw, the fight is beginning to drain from Johnny, the man purring softly, huffing Simon’s scent like it’s a bloody drug.
Something fierce and protective clogs in Simon’s throat, his fingers ghosting over the length of John’s spine, soothing, gentle motions. He has no idea what John was planning tonight, or any idea what the fuck is going on, only that he knows this ache won’t go away, knows that when he’s around John it gets worse.
Something inside of him screams at Simon, but it’s like the words are muddled, too far away to grasp, like sand slipping through his fingertips.
John tucks his nose into the crook of Simon’s neck, cold against the fabric of his mask, and Simon can only hold him tighter, letting his own scent wash away every trace of the other alpha.
“Johnny.”
The name comes unbidden to his lips, Simon able to feel the shiver that wracks Soap’s body, the goosebumps that prickle his skin. John’s fingers tighten in his shirt, warm breath against the cloth at Simon’s neck. He’s so close, the scent of him soothing over Simon’s own skin like a balm to the ache that lives buried deep inside of him. "Simon."
Fuck.
He knows he should say something, do something, but he’s frozen, rooted to the spot.
Johnny is his best friend. His best fucking friend in the entire world and while he knows the man won’t speak on what happened tonight, Simon is offering whatever comfort he can.
But maybe it’s not his to offer. Maybe the reason Johnny went out tonight is because he’s looking for something.
Something Simon can’t give him.
He jerks away like he’s been burned, Johnny’s eyes wide, glassy in a way. There’s trust shining there, but Simon watches as that expression shutters, shifting into one of confusion.
Simon clears his throat, the need for tea already forgotten as he spins on his heel toward the door. “Med kit’s under the sink. Clean it up.”
John makes a noise from behind, disgruntled and low. “That an order, too?”
Simon pauses, eyes darting over his shoulder. “No.” He sucks in a breath, ignoring the ache in his chest, “I’m telling you as your friend.”
The next day when John wakes he feels like he’s been run over by a truck. He has morning duty, and trudges through getting ready, his entire head fuzzy and spinning. He knows he needs to get his shit together, and tells himself a cup of caf will do the trick.
He throws back the curtain at his shower, shitty and basic, a pipe poking out from the wall with a semblance of a head, but it’s his shower, and John is surely not about to complain. He’d even drilled holes into the wall last year, adding a small shower caddy so he wouldn’t bust his ass trying to reach his shampoo and conditioner bottles on the ground.
He cranks the heat, steam already beginning to rise and rushes in, hissing at the temperature, but he needs it.
John is still reeling from last night, from the way Simon had pulled him close, the scent of him still ingrained in John’s skin. He’s never known Simon to willingly offer his scent in such a way, but he doesn’t want to read too much into it. He tells himself it’s because John had clearly been distressed, Simon only trying to soothe the anger that had been crackling beneath John’s skin.
But John also knew that Simon was distressed too.
The look on his face, the clenched fists at his sides. John wishes his own mind hadn’t been clouded over in anger, or he might have asked why Simon felt that way.
He tells himself it’s because they’re best friends, because if Simon came in with blood on his lip, John would be angry too.
But that answer doesn’t satiate him, and he’s not sure anything will. He only hopes that getting release last night, as fleeting as it may have been, is enough to keep the breakthrough heats at bay.
He’s been scented by two different alphas in the course of 24-hours, realistically, he should be okay, but John also knows that what’s happening with him is beyond normal.
He leans against the wall, his cock heavy and flushed, pressed against his thigh. He can feel the slick building between his thighs, the low thread of need thrumming in his belly. And with a resigned sigh, John fists his cock, fingers working between his ass cheeks, and takes care of this problem before it ruins his fucking day.
It’s raining when he finally makes it to the training field, Price’s figure a stark contrast against the mist and fog. It’s not often their captain makes the venture out this early, and John can’t stop the nudge to the man’s shoulder as he approaches.
“Bit early, cap,” John says in greeting, the older alpha offering a small smile, a beanie pulled over his short brown locks.
“Some of us have been up before dawn, sunshine,” Price offers.
John huffs a laugh as Price knocks his head lightly against John’s own. “Something going on this morning, then?”
Price makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Simon’s been sent out. Op with Jameson’s team.”
John snaps his head so quickly, his forehead nearly collides with Price’s own. “What did you say?”
“This morning,” Price continues, blue eyes trained forward, tracking the recruits as their boots disappear into the mud puddles beginning to form on the field. “0500. Jameson has been in my damn ear for weeks about this.”
“How long has Simon known?”
Price shrugs. “Best not to ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Soap.”
John curses low under his breath, “The fucking bastart, he didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t think he told himself until he showed up at the helo this morning.”
John swallows hard, jaw tightening as he drags his gaze back to the field. He won’t say anything, won’t show an ounce of emotion. But Price knows, he always does.
They stay quiet, side-by-side for a long moment, the sound of boots slapping the wet earth and shouts cutting through the rain. But it all feels distant, muted, like he’s submerged underwater.
John wants to be angry, he wants to shout, to scream, to demand that Simon give him a damn answer for why he stormed off last night. But the only one he can assume is that the man regrets scenting him, that even though they’re only friends, it had tipped the boundary. The line in the sand that neither of them will cross.
“Jesus, he’s a right proper cunt.”
A corner of Price’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to say worse than that.”
John scrubs a hand over his face, rain slicking his lashes together. He can’t help but remember the way John felt crushed to Simon’s chest only a few hours prior, the warmth of him bleeding through to John’s chilled skin. He’d felt so safe, protected, enveloped in the smell that still lingers on John’s skin.
And if Price smells it, and John knows he does, thankfully the man says nothing about it.
He blows out a breath, “This is because of me.”
Price is quiet for a long moment, rain beading on his beanie. “That’s a dangerous line of thinking son, you of all people should know Simon doesn’t make decisions lightly.”
“No,” John says in turn, fists clenched at his side. “He makes them without telling a fucking person, is what he does.”
Price grips John’s nape, pulling him close, their foreheads touching for a brief moment. “He trusts you to hold the line, Soap. And you need to trust him too.”
John frowns, Price’s blue eyes roving over his face, nostrils flaring, likely aware of exactly why John is so bloody pissed. “I do,” he finally admits, allowing for his captain’s hold to settle that knotted coil in his belly. “How long?”
“A month, maybe less.” He shrugs, “maybe more. We can never know for sure.”
John feels his shoulders sag, a small chuff from Price in return. “He’ll come back Soap, because he knows what’s waiting for him at home.”