Chapter Text
It starts off as nothing. A slight scratch at the back of his neck. A faint whisper of a pulling sensation in the pit of his stomach. A restless, dreamless night’s sleep. Soap chalks it up to his usual post-mission adrenaline comedown, that’s usually what has him crashing and burning the moment he steps back into the security — the sanctuary — of Credenhill.
It’s the first time he’s been back since joining the Task Force, and he’s thankful that Gaz has been put in to the three-man room Soap used to have to himself.
They both enjoy the majority of military ribbing and pranks, but neither of them subscribe to the pretence of: “if it’s not secured down, it’s fair game.” They agreed — quietly, whispers hidden by the thrum of a plane engine — from the outset that they’d treat the space like a safe haven for the both of them. Neither had mentioned the word ‘nest’, reluctant to be so cliché as two Omegas of the six Omegas in the SAS, but the implication was certainly woven into the exchange.
So they have extra space to dump the stuff they usually have to strategically place in lockers and wardrobes. Their Bergens are shoved into the third chipboard wardrobe, pressed up against their No.1s, and the handful of decent-looking civvies they both have, leaving their own wardrobes for all the uniform they use regularly, alongside what Gaz has dubbed “tactical civvies'', that they use during during missions that don’t require their full gear — or require blending into a civilian crowd.
Everything else, they push closer together. On most days, their beds are barely half a metre apart, with only a small bedside cabinet separating them, but they frequently push them together when the impulse for closeness is overwhelming.
And Soap likes how Gaz’s scent — fresh smelling, like a sun-filled, mild spring — mixes with his own almost immediately after they get settled together, like they’re supposed to live comfortably, side-by-side.
It’s the first time since joining the forces that Soap’s had a space, in relative privacy, to share with another Omega, and he truly relishes in it. Neither of them have to wear their anti-bite collars when they sleep, nor does it matter when their pheromones spike in the dead of night when a nightmare takes hold. It’s everything neither of them have had since leaving home, and they never voice it aloud, but it passes tacitly between them when they fall asleep with their noses pressed to one another’s neck.
But that scratch, that pull, that inability to sleep deeply, stays, uncaring that Soap’s got someone who’s almost always there to comfort him.
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They’re so dull in the beginning Soap doesn’t actually notice that those sensations abate, only when he’s out with the rest of the Task Force. They eat together, they train together, and they spend most evenings together in any space that isn’t rank designated, always encouraged by Price — who’s always been big on pack bonding.
“Helps you out in the field,” he’d said, when Gaz had asked about the near constant team-building they were doing, whilst en route to Brecon for a training exercise. “Want to get us to the point where we can communicate through scent alone, where we can move and breathe as one, because that bond’ll save you more times than any training exercise ever could.”
That had sent a ripple of approval through Soap, not only as an Omega who adored the idea of having a pack, but as a soldier who’d always struggled with bouts of homesickness. If he could have a family away from home, which the 141 was quickly becoming — especially after Las Almas and Chicago — then Soap could only begin to imagine the new heights he knew his skills would get to. He always worked better in teams, despite being competent and happy enough to run solo, but there was something comforting about feeling the weight of someone looking over him through the scope of a sniper’s rifle. There was something comforting about a nearby voice guiding him through unfamiliar territory over the soft crackle of their comms. There was something comforting about a throwing knife being thrown with such precise force that it takes out an enemy assailant instantly.
And there was something even more comforting to Soap about being that person for the other three members of the task force. That not only did Soap have someone there to protect him, but that he could be relied on and trusted to protect in return.
And he’d never felt that way before. Not even with the cohort of trainees he’d joined up with nor those he’d gone through Selection alongside — nor any squadron or cell he’d been with since. Even though he’d spent months, years even, with those people, and built steady bonds. It wasn’t the same.
He got along just fine. Was saved and saved others in return; laughed until he cried during downtime in the mess; he’d proven himself and gained all the right attention from his superiors over and over again. But that’s all it was: fine.
There was no thrill that shook through him as he knocked the shoulder of his Lieutenant; there was no pulsating need to survive at the mere sound of of his Commanding Officer’s voice calling out for him; there was no sensation of complete and utter relief at the mere thought of their Captain and another Sergeant rushing to their aid. Not like there is now. Las Almas alone, in that rapid fire set of days, brought him closer to feeling like he was part of a pack, rather than simply working alongside others.
And that’s what he chalks it up to, when his body begins to turn on itself.
It's when Price and Ghost are pulled down to London; Price headed for Whitehall and Ghost to Regent’s Park, that Soap’s hands begin to shake and that soreness in the back of his neck sharpens as it spreads down his arms. He wakes up, gasping in the night, his sleep still dreamless and unable to rest, despite t-shirts from Ghost and Price crumpled up on his chest. His sharp breathing startles Gaz from where he’s curled up against Soap’s stomach, his Omegan instincts seemingly satisfied by the scent coming from Johnny’s body and those t-shirts to not be in a similar state as Johnny.
Their eyes, glossy and glinting from sleepiness in the darkness of the night, meet once Gaz is certain they’re both protected and secure in their room. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask Soap about nightmares or why he’s got discomfort marring his scent, and opts to shuffle up the bed to nuzzle into Soap. As he does so, he draws closer more items of clothing that smell of the two Alphas in their newly forged pack, hoping that will help just as much as his cuddling does. It’s a natural instinct for Omegas to want to comfort each other, to assuage anything painful, and Gaz knows just how tactile Soap is.
Soap appreciates the touch, truly. He absolutely adores the closeness. Because the nuzzling, the scent sharing, is so heartwarmingly familial that Soap can begin to ignore how the pain is ebbing through his body. Gaz is purposeful in a way that Soap has longed, ached, for since he’d last had someone this close to him. He takes his time pressing his nose, cheek, and side of his neck to Soap’s, until neither of them can pinpoint where their scents meet. As if they’re parts of a larger whole.
It’s pleasantly fuzzy.
But it’s not quite right.
Soap finds himself thinking of a dark, cramped bedroom in a Mexican safe house. Thinks about how he’d felt a body much larger than his own - much larger than Gaz’s, too - flush against his back. He thinks of how a mouth had slid up the side of his throat, marking him with a faint lick to soothe the distressed, pained, betrayed pheromones rolling off him in waves. He thinks of how the slight irritation from the rough, damp material of a balaclava was quelled by the soft press of that tongue.
He thinks of how large hands had held him close, so he couldn’t pull open the neat line of stitches holding his shoulder together — so that he couldn’t sneak a look at the unveiled mouth of a perpetually masked man.
He thinks of a scent escaping from where it’s always been hidden away from him; military strength scent inhibitors weakened by the pouring rain and a swim through a flooded tunnel. He thinks of how intoxicating it had been to have that glimpse that revealed something previously unknown. He’d wanted to twist, to lick over a scent gland himself, to dig out and reveal those pheromones in their full glory. He wants to surround and surrender himself to them.
But he’d kept still, uncharacteristically submissive to his Omegan nature, and silent until he felt teeth. They didn’t bite, no matter how much his instincts had urged him to beg and plead for it. Instead, he had felt sharp, Alpha canines simply graze across his skin. Reassuring. Teasing. His neck had prickled, his mouth had let a soft keen escape, and he’d felt something within himself snap into place.
He thinks of how his discomfort had almost immediately faded at the slightest hint of being bitten and marked. The sting of being hurt by someone he’d trusted still bubbled beneath the surface, but it had dulled down by that one press of a mouth. It told him so much that had gone unspoken. He was still trusted, and he was the man laid in the arms of someone he’d both die and kill for in a heartbeat. He may have lost something, but he’d gained this.
He thinks of how he’d melted into the creaking bed beneath him with a feeling of such safety that he’d slipped into slumber, whining contentedly.
He thinks of how having that — the closeness, the teeth teasing a bite, the scent — once again, would drive all of his pain away.
But the Alpha is out of reach, gone from his side, leaving only the solace of a brotherly Omega bond to pacify him instead.
It’s enough. At least, for the time being.
But he doesn’t know for how long.