Chapter Text
Grace twists his fingers together behind his back while Simon inspects his gift and looks faintly nonplussed. Having only one arm, he can’t exactly hold the massive pile of fabric up and inspect it at the same time, so he lets several long loops of it spill over his elbow while he digs his fingers into the soft weave.
The Alpha suppresses a sad little whine when a bulky section of blanket slumps to the floor in the doorway. He knows logically that letting the gift touch the ground is not a commentary on his craftsmanship or Simon’s opinion of the gift; just an accident. But something about his face or his scent must go all pathetic and desperate-looking, because Simon notices his discomfiture with a start and bends to lift up the fallen cloth. Unfortunately with just one hand he only succeeds in unfolding more of it onto the floor. He growls in frustration as Grace kneels down to help him gather it back up.
“Sorry about that,” the teacher chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably should’ve, uh… set it down somewhere.”
“S’fine,” Simon grunts, tucking his chin over the pile of fabric in his arms to keep it in place. Again, Grace knows this is only a way of securing the load, but his overeager hindbrain interprets it as Simon burying his nose down into the blanket all cozy-like. Cute, says his hindbrain, and he has to clench every muscle in his throat and upper chest just to keep his subvocal chords from crooning the thought aloud.
Sue him, his hindbrain is chatty. He’s a woefully under-medicated Alpha Prime who hasn’t had to worry about social conventions for approximately a decade. He never expected to see another human being so long as he lived. Let alone a gorgeous Omega with big sad eyes and soft-looking curly dark hair and cool scars and god, that chest and bicep could make a grown man weep, and he smells so freaking good, and—
Stop right there, Ryland, he scolds himself as he watches Simon turn and pace further into the room. The Omega left the bedroom door standing wide open. Grace reaches to close it behind him before he leaves, when Simon’s voice stops him in his tracks. More specifically, his subvoice.
Come, safe, welcome, he croons, and Grace preens a little when he realizes he’s invited inside.
The high-pitched burbling chirps that emanate from the younger man’s upper chest aren’t words, per se, but to another human’s ears the animalistic tones of subvocal noise are like a whole supplemental language. Where Grace is hopelessly chatty, Simon has been taciturn so far. Grace has a hard time parsing Simon’s thoughts and feelings without that supplemental language underscoring their short, overly-polite conversations. The Omega is quiet. Admittedly the ability to subvocalize at all is still a major improvement from his first six months here on Erid, when he was rendered subvocally mute by what he’d been through. But still. It’s been an awkward, halting start for them.
Grace has always (unfortunately) been very loud in that department. Suppressing the majority of his subvocals was a reflex baked into him since he first presented early as an awkward teen. Being a Prime is practically a handicap in modern society, no matter what the romance flicks think. Surprise ruts and overpowering pheromones and extra long fangs and claws aren’t sexy, they’re an inconvenience at best and a mess at worst.
So… yeah. Grace is trying his best to dial it back, but it’s been a long time since he had to worry about this stuff. Subvocals are instinctive and linked more directly to the autonomic nervous system than a person’s normal voice. Everyone has a certain degree of conscious control over them — enough to either allow or suppress the noise — but many people find it nigh impossible to choose what kind of noises will come out. For the sake of social nicety, professional settings on Earth generally expect people to keep their subvocals understated. Chirping and purring and crooning at each other is something you save for your friends and family, in informal settings.
On Earth, Grace struggled bad enough with that as it was. Then he spent eight years of his life hurtling through space in a tin can, at first alone and then with only a rock-spider-alien for company. Said rock-spider-alien did eventually learn the very basics of what each subvocal sound signifies (purr, croon, trill, = good; chirrup, hum, rumble = neutral/ various/ context-dependent; growl, snarl, whine = bad; wailing or roaring = bad bad bad). But Grace’s Eridian friends and family don’t really understand his subvocals as a language the way another human being would. They think the noises are pretty, of course, but much like Grace can’t even hear (let alone parse) the infrasound that indicates tone in spoken Eridian, his friends can’t parse his subvocals’ specific meaning.
The result? He… kinda lost his filter.
Like, seriously, it’s bad. He never had the kind of iron control that Stratt had over herself (the woman was so utterly silent, and her scent so militantly covered, that no one was even sure what her secondary gender was), but he at least used to be presentable in polite society, minus the occasional slip-up that people usually forgave or excused on account of him being a Prime. It admittedly took twice as much work for him to mask in public than other people and he found it exhausting, but he could do it.
Now he’s fighting for his freaking life to not spill his guts all over every conversation with Simon. The past few weeks since Simon moved into his home have been a mad scramble to A) violently scrub every permeable surface in this house with enzyme cleaner to get rid of his scent-marks, which he’s been told many times are overwhelming but to which he is completely nose blind, and B) regain a fraction of the subvocal manners he had before his time on the Hail Mary completely eroded his standards.
Now Simon is here, living in a modest suite of his own just off the ground floor of the house. The rooms were built for him to have both privacy and the option of a common space with his only human packmate. (And they are pack despite the newness of their friendship, or soon-to- be pack, since humans are such intensely social animals and they’re each others’ only options.) Simon is here, smelling like dark chocolate and coffee and occasionally the bitter dark notes of a red wine, all tannins undercut with something savory or sweet or tart depending on his moods. Simon is here, moving through Grace’s house with the tentative caution of someone who doesn’t yet believe that they’re allowed to be here. Simon is here, closed-off and traumatized and vulnerable and still hurting after all he’s been through, and Grace cannot under any circumstances let slip how devastatingly attracted he is to him.
Sue him for being a typical Alpha Prime, okay?! He can’t help what he feels, and what he feels is the overwhelming urge to wrap Simon up in soft things and bundle him into a nice warm safe nest and scent him to hell and back until he smells of nothing but Grace and then growl and snap at anyone who comes near.
But that’s not fair to Simon. The Omega is incredibly brave, fiercely independent, and resilient enough to survive an ordeal that should’ve killed him many times over. He doesn’t need Grace coddling or infantilizing him. At the same time, he’s also emotionally fragile and he deserves a space to fall apart and put himself back together again in peace. That was certainly what Grace needed in his first year on Erid, once he settled into the biodome and his instincts finally caught up to the fact that he was really, truly safe at last.
Simon needs quiet, steady, consistent support. He needs a reliable, respectful, trustworthy packmate. He needs a friend. He does not need a fussy, high-strung Alpha Prime trying to lay a claim he absolutely hasn’t earned.
(Not that there’s anyone here for Grace to prove himself against. His instincts both celebrate and mourn the thought. A good old-fashioned dominance scuffle would be really cathartic, and he’ll never get that ever again. But losing said scuffle, and Simon’s respect with it, would kind of suck. Nothing he’s not used to, but still. Suck. Despite Grace’s strength and the instinctive ferocity that comes with being a Prime, he’s surprisingly bad at Alpha-typical dominance. He tends to second-guess himself too much after a lifetime of resisting his first, most base instincts. He knew the sting of humiliation after failed posturing many a time on Earth. At least there’s no chance of suffering that here.)
No, Grace can’t bring his own baggage into this despite how bad his heart flutters whenever Simon turns those mismatched brown-red eyes towards him. He is not going to make it weird no matter how much of a mess he’s been. He’s going to be so normal.
Example: an Omega just invited him into their space and he does not skip across the threshold with a gleeful trill. He just follows Simon through the workshop and back to the bedroom with his hands still wringing behind his back , quiet and demure.
He drinks in the details of the space as he goes. He hasn’t been inside the new suite since he showed Simon around on move-in day weeks ago. It was empty and smelled of fresh paint back then, like a new rental unit. Now the studio is full of books and plants and the hesitant beginnings of various projects, lit by the skylight and some fairy lights strung around the rafters. The space is thick with the ambient scent of Simon’s contentment: mocha, rich and a little sweet.
The bedroom beyond has less character: something Grace is hoping to rectify with this gift, which is absolutely not a courting gift. The ovular bed, large and made with a nesting Omega in mind, is just so… so frightfully bare.
Alphas don’t really nest the way Omegas do, with structure and permanence and custom. Alphas do get a lot of satisfaction over being allowed inside of an Omega’s nest, and they feel safer in an approximation of one, but they’re also generally lazy and don’t have a natural eye for these things. Their instincts are more territory-focused; as long as the den and territory is secure, they can take or leave the nest inside of it. Grace just throws soft things into a messy pile on his bed during his (annoyingly frequent) ruts, and roots down into the center of the mess for comfort. Once he comes out of it he gets overstimulated by all the extra cloth and puts it all back away, returning to his new habit of making his bed neatly every morning. (Rocky hates mess and will harass him constantly from his side of the house if he detects any disordered bedding outside of his rut cycle.)
Omegas, on the other hand, need a permanent nest. They need a safe den to return to even if they leave their normal routines for days or weeks at a time. The knowledge that they have their nest waiting for them at home is essential to their hormonal regulation and general health. Woe betide the fool who disturbs that nest in their absence. Omegas are, as a general rule, gentle and non-confrontational right up until you threaten their den, pack, or pups. Then they turn even more aggressively territorial than Alphas. In the story of human evolution, it was the Alpha’s job to proactively scout and ward off threats to the territory. As the last line of defense between predator and pups, it was the Omega’s job to go nuclear on anything that made it past their Alpha. The instinct lingers even thousands of years later. A threatened Omega is many times scarier than even the most aggressive Alpha Prime.
Imagine Grace’s shock and sorrow when he casually mentioned to Simon that he can and should ask for any nesting materials he likes, only to find out that the Omega hasn’t had a “real” nest since he was a pup in his mother’s den. Grace felt like he’d been gut-punched. Meanwhile, Simon brushed the concern aside like it was nothing.
“It’s fine,” he shrugged, “I can make do with a spare blanket. This is already way nicer than what I’m used to.”
That simply would not do. Grace immediately offloaded every spare bit of textiles he had minus his own bedding, the curtains, and a couple throw pillows on the couch. In the meantime, he vowed to himself that Simon would have dedicated nesting materials of his own before the month was out, if he had to knit every stitch himself.
(He didn’t have to make it, he could’ve asked the fabrication team to whip something up. And he did; more pillows, cover-sheets, properly circular blankets and several bottles of artificial scent extracts are all in the works as they speak. In the absence of other pack members to scent the Omega’s nest, he’ll at least have a variety of perfumes to add. But Grace is still an Alpha and he still has his pride, gosh darn it! A proper nest is supposed to be made of pieces from everyone who cares about you, and the fact that Simon has nothing, has never had anything, was enough to reduce him to tears. Nothing was going to stop him from contributing personally to Simon’s first real nest.)
“So… what is it?” The Omega wonders, snapping Grace out of his reverie. He gives himself a shake. The ovular bed bears the messy beginnings of a nest, which looks remarkably similar to the impromptu cloth-piles Grace makes when he’s rutty and hormonal. But he sees evidence of a bit of weaving behavior at the edges where Simon has fussed the corners into place around the outer berm. Simon lets Grace’s gift unfurl into an equally messy pile on the edge of that berm, his brow pinched in confusion as he tries to unwind it all with one arm. The bulky knit fights him a bit, so Grace dares to step closer with a little subvocal purling noise.
May I?
Simon just nods, silent, and between all three of their hands they get the mass of cloth resolved into a shape. The green yarn is woven into a cross between a giant infinity scarf and a thick, warm afghan blanket. Simon’s eyes widen as he once again thumbs the soft knit in his hand.
“It’s a nesting blanket,” Grace explains shyly. “You, uh, I know it looks huge but you can double up the loops however you want. Like this—“ he indicates, and tugs the blanket a bit closer to himself so he can turn it over on itself in a figure-8, then fold it back until it’s a circle again, smaller in circumference but twice as thick and still big enough for a grown adult to lie flat within it. “The fabrication team has more in the works in case you want to stack the borders of your nest higher, but I thought I’d get you started.”
He steps away politely and clears his throat, hands hiding behind his back again to fidget. Simon looks from him to the blanket to the nest and back.
“You… did… you made this?” He stammers. This time Grace can’t help his blush, or the churring rumble of pride in his chest.
Look, all for you! Is good? You like? His subvoice says before he can stop himself. He talks over it. “Y-yeah, you can tell? Sorry if I dropped a stitch or two. I was rushing to get it done.”
“What? No, it’s— thank you, Grace. This is…”
Mine, so good for me, all mine, comes the pleased trill of a happy Omega, and Simon claps a hand over the base of his own throat in surprise like he can’t believe that just came out of him. Grace laughs it off with a deepening rumble, meant to soothe.
So pleased, says both his purring and (no doubt) the weakened pulse of his scent. He’s wearing his patches of course but there’s only so much they can do when he’s unmedicated.
Simon’s body unfurls in response to the instinctive pleasure cues of a relaxed Alpha. He clears his throat and tries again.
“Thank you,” he says more clearly, sounding only a little choked up. He’s bent his head so his long dark curls fall in a screen across his face, hiding it from view. “This is… you and Adrian have done so much for me. More than… than anybody. I can never thank you enough, or repay you the debt I owe.”
Grace nearly chokes on the growl he suppresses at the mere idea of a debt. It’s his turn to clear his throat in an attempt to hide his knee-jerk reaction.
“You owe us nothing,” he insists, as gentle as he can be. “It’s the least you deserve. It’s the least anyone deserves.”
Simon’s hand goes white-knuckled around a fistful of blanket. Grace still can’t see his face to read it, but based on the extra hint of bitterness in his scent, he’s not feeling anything good in that moment.
(The shift in pheromones would be too subtle to betray anything to most people of any designation, but an Alpha Prime’s nose is more sensitive than most.)
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew,” the Omega whispers
“Knew what?”
More bitter tannin-smell, souring ever further like red wine turning to vinegar. “…I was imprisoned for a reason.”
Grace feels only a moment of hesitation, then swallows it. “From what Adrian told me, it sounded like you were a prisoner of war.”
Adrian would know. They’ve been acting as Simon’s guardian and proxy since he was rescued and brought to Erid. Apparently a black box of some sort was recovered with him, and a small contingent of Eridians reviewed the contents as part of the threat assessment before they ever considered bringing the then-unconscious Simon to Erid at all; let alone letting him live with their Star-Savior.
After reviewing the data, Adrian said that very little about Simon’s ordeal made logical or scientific sense. The best theory they could come up with is that Simon is from some horrible parallel universe where a much more virulent strain of astrophage rapidly blotted out every star and killed every planet, leaving only a handful of space stations and ships to carry the dregs of humanity. Those dregs split into factions who fought each other for limited resources. Simon was sent against his will by an enemy faction to investigate a so-called ‘blood moon’. On it he encountered some… some alien consciousness that tortured him for awhile before spitting him out, mutated and half-dead, into this universe.
Adrian also said that the recordings were horrible and they’re glad Eridians don’t dream, because (in their words) “that shit was nightmare fuel”. But based on what they heard of the first part of the journey, and the sparse database in the drives, Simon was scapegoated for deaths he was trying to stop. Any other violence that earned him the title of ‘butcher’ was in the context of war. Adrian hasn’t given Grace access to those files and he hasn’t requested them. He would probably only find them upsetting. What’s done is done and be trusts Adrian’s judgement enough not to pry.
When Simon doesn’t respond immediately, Grace prompts him.
“You were a soldier, right?”
“…Yes.”
“Right. Well, where I come from, soldiers aren’t considered criminals for killing enemy combatants. Not unless they do actual war crimes. Sure, you’ve done things you’re not proud of, but… the past is one thing. The future is another. People change. God knows I’ve changed a lot since I left Earth. I’ve done things I’m not proud of too, but you don’t think I deserve less than basic human decency, do you?”
“Of course not,” the Omega snaps, the beginnings of a growl rattling in his chest at the very idea. Grace throws his hands up and takes a step back, keeping his chin tucked down in a defensive posture.
“Well, there you have it.”
“But it’s different for you! You saved two planets! I’m just —“
“— Just what? The only other human being I’ll ever see for the rest of my life?” Grace snaps despite himself. “Sorry if I’m a bit attached to him! Sorry if I don’t wanna hear you badmouth yourself!”
Simon blinks, taken-aback, and Grace is immediately mortified when he realized what he said. How he said it. But to his surprise, Simon flashes him an approving little smirk. There you are, whispers a quiet croon of approval.
Oh… he liked when Grace got a little mad? That’s weird. That’s new.
“Point taken,” Simon admits, throwing up his hand. Grace risks a smile back, and for once he bares his teeth in it. Most people found it threatening when he did that given the unusual length of his canines (another Prime thing, but the dental visit to get them filed would’ve been expensive and he was chronically broke.) Simon seems to take it in stride. Grace jokes,
“Besides, even if you can take me one-handed, I know you never would. You cried over an aloe plant.”
“Fuck off, it was one time,” the Omega grouses with a theatrical roll of his eyes. He grabs up one of the donated throw pillows from his nest and chucks it at Grace’s head. The Alpha catches it, laughing, and resists the urge to bury his face in it. Again, that mocha-rich smell of contentment, all soaked through the fibers. He watches as Simon starts to pick apart his messy nest one-handed, scattering blankets and pillows and — hey, that’s where his ‘I had potential’ t-shirt went! But he’s so flattered to see something of his in Simon’s nest that he says nothing.
(Well, technically the entire nest is his stuff, but still. A spare blanket is one thing, a definitely unwashed shirt of his is another. He wears that. It rubs all over his glands all day. Simon liked his scent enough to bring it into his nest! A deeply personal place where he’s meant to feel safe!)
He once again snaps out of his reverie when another bit of fabric hits him in the face. He sputters and drops the pillow to catch the t-shirt in question, which Simon just pitched at him.
“Here,” the Omega grunts, “you can have that back, gimme the one you’re wearing.”
He blinks stupidly, making an inquisitive chirruping noise instead of saying ‘huh’ like an idiot. Simon huffs at him.
“Your shirt. That one doesn’t smell like you anymore.”
“Oh,” he blushes, and strips off his t-shirt without even thinking about it. He’s quick to shrug the ‘I had potential’ shirt on, in part because he feels rather shy about partial nudity in front of Simon and in part because his hindbrain is doing cartwheels at the thought of combining their scents so thoroughly. But when he looks up at Simon (now fully clothed) he notices an annoyed little frown pinching the Omega’s brow. He’s holding the fresh t-shirt kind of close to his face, and as Grace watches, he parts his lips ever-so-slightly to taste the air. Grace’s blush deepens when he realizes just how deeply Simon is scenting.
“This doesn’t smell like you either,” the Omega grouses, narrowing his eyes at Grace. The teacher cocks an eyebrow.
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Okay, well— not as strong as it should, anyway. And neither does the blanket.”
“Oh! It’s probably ‘cuz of these,” he shrugs, holding up his wrist with the palm outward to show the clear silicone disc adhered to his skin over the scant gland. Simon cocks his head.
“What’s that?”
“A scent patch. Rocky and I had to cobble them together ourselves but I think they do a half-decent job.”
“Of what?”
“Neutralizing excess pheromonal odor. You didn’t have scent patches where you’re from?”
He shook his head, glaring at the patch like it personally offended him. “Seems like a waste of resources. Why are you wearing them?”
Ah, there’s Simon’s obsession with resources again. He’s lived his entire life until now in a situation of extreme resource scarcity; it took a long, long time to convince him that he didn’t have to earn his keep through labor, that for now his only job is to recover, and if he does want a job later it will be purely voluntary, a way to pass the time. All their needs and many of their wants are provided for here, and easily, at no cost.
Grace shrugs. “I mean, I’m a Prime.”
“So?”
“So… I’ve been told my pheromones are, um… a bit much.”
“What, so you slap a bunch of plastic over your glands? In your own home? Isn’t that uncomfortable?”
“Meh, only if I leave it for too long,” he waves off the thought like a pesky fly. “And it’s our home now,” he reminds with the hint of a smile. God, it feels good to say that. “It’s important to me that you’re comfortable here, too.”
“Okay, well. I’m plenty comfortable. You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind! Seriously, I’m kind of overpowering without them. I used to wear ‘em religiously on Earth. I never set foot out of the house without them.”
“Yeah but you still got to relax when you were at home. You should be able to relax. Are you seriously wearing one of those on all your glands?” Simon wonders, squinting and taking a step closer. He tilts his head to peer at Grace’s neck and the Alpha resists the urge to duck his chin defensively (or, more embarrassing, lift his chin and show throat). Sure enough, if you look closely there’s the faint circular shadow of the edge of three matte silicone stickers: one on each scent gland on either side of his neck just under the corners of his jaw, and a third lower down on the right side where his untouched bonding gland is. And yes, they’re everywhere. Wrists, sternum, underarm, and inner thighs. They can’t smother every hint of scent — you have to be on heavy-duty suppressants for that, which, he was on suppressants for awhile on the Hail Mary until they ran out— but they reduce his scent to a mild haze rather than an overpowering reek.
“Y-yeah, they’re everywhere,” he mutters, embarrassed by the scrutiny. Still Simon doesn’t let up, those striking eyes boring into him.
“… How ‘bout you let me decide if you’re too much for me. Go take ‘em off.”
Squirming with every conceivable feeling except discomfort, Grace leaves to do so. He could’ve used Simon’s en-suite bathroom instead of his own, but he doesn’t want to push his luck with Simon’s space. Best not to be presumptuous.
He pauses on his way back out of the bathroom to make eye contact with himself in the mirror.
“What are you doing, Ryland?” He murmurs under his breath. This whole interaction is skirting dangerously close to flirting. He swore to himself he wouldn’t do that. The younger man needs to know that he’s not subordinate to Grace in any way despite their respective ages or who was here first. He’s safe here. That includes being safe from Ryland. The Alpha has already got his work cut out in making himself unimposing; he’s two inches taller than the Omega (albeit slimmer), less physically disabled (albeit not entirely abled; starvation and 8 years in space left a lasting mark on his health that will never truly fade), with prominent fangs and a history of aggressive territoriality. He shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea. Sure, maybe he got used to the freedom after years of living with a species who A) doesn’t share atmosphere with him and B) can’t smell anyway. And maybe the scent patches itch more by the end of the day than he remembers, from back on Earth. And maybe his instincts howl with the urge to go around and replace all the scent marks he scrubbed out weeks ago when Simon first moved in. But that’s no excuse to indulge this madness.
But… Simon didn’t just ask, he told him to. Surely he has his own reasons for wanting to be able to smell Ryland better. It… it might make him feel safer on an instinctive level to know he’s protected within an Alpha’s territory. And that’s a perfectly innocent impulse. Children, parents, siblings, close friends, anyone who’s part of a pack will generally feel relaxed while within the scent-marked territory of their pack’s primary Alpha. (A role he occupies by default).
Yes, surely that’s it. Simon’s hindbrain probably craves reinforcement of any sense of security he can get, after what he’s been through. His whole life he’s been denied the space and tools to fulfill his natural impulses as an Omega. If this is something Ryland can do to make him feel safe, of course he’ll do it. Plus, Simon was so demanding and sassy when he asked for — no, demanded this! He’s been so taciturn and cautious until now, polite to a fault and always making himself smaller like he’s afraid to take up too much space here. If he feels safe enough to test boundaries with Ryland, far be it from him to discourage that! Matter of fact, he should reward it by giving Simon everything and anything he asks for so long as he asks like that.
Okay, that’s enough, he scolds his hindbrain. He’s not a child for you to spoil and he’s DEFINITELY not your mate. Be normal about this.
He tentatively sidles back into Simon’s section of the house and pokes his head through the bedroom doorway. In the couple minutes he was gone, Simon tore his whole nest apart and positioned the bulky loops of the gifted blanket on the bare bed to make a generously-sized nest. He’ll be able to weave in the rest of the materials from there, and dress it with a second set of bedsheets. He’s surprisingly dexterous with just one hand.
He also seems to have (finally!) fallen back on his instincts, because even though he’s never made a proper nest before, he’s already much improved from his earlier haphazard pile. Things are being laid out in a much more deliberate way now, piles of material sorted out to pick and choose from. He turns his head when he hears Ryland, eyes zeroing in on him and visibly dilating when the Alpha’s unguarded scent fills the room.
“Oh,” the Omega breathes, and starts crooning like he’s not even thinking about it.
Oh yes, here, come here, let me get the measure of you. Look, I’m so pretty and soft, don’t you want to be near me?
…Or something like that. Omega subvoices are generally higher pitched and predisposed to gentle, alluring sounds, which often come off as juvenile compared to Beta or Alpha sounds. It’s probably why his subvocals are so shy, Grace idly speculates, turning to close the bedroom door behind him for absolutely no reason. He was the Butcher, he had to come off as intimidating, which is hard when y—
He turns back and his brain checks out mid-thought. Simon is very up in his business, good golly when did he get that close? He smells like chocolate. Like, so much. Grace is dizzy with the sharp, dark cacao richness of it. He starts crooning before he even thinks about it.
Lovely soft thing, come here. Look, I’m so non-threatening. Do please come investigate me. I’ll hold still and let you do anything you want.
…Or something like that.
He stands there and deliberately relaxes, arms hanging loose at his sides as Simon takes that final step that brings them chest-to-chest. Grace can’t help but sink into the pleasant haze of his hindbrain taking over. When Simon nuzzles his way under the corner of Grace’s jaw to bury his nose in his scent glands, he tilts his chin up and lets it happen without a thought. A purr of sheer wordless contentment rattles out from his ribcage so hard that Simon can probably feel the vibration, the sound so deep it’s nearly inaudible. He’s been told his purr is one of his better Alpha Prime features, and by golly he’s gonna use it.
It’s vulnerable for an Alpha to show throat like this. He would never have let someone this close in the presence of another Alpha or Beta. But something about this feels so very right. He lets his head tilt back on his loose neck and sighs with pleasure as Simon starts to slowly, carefully rub against the underside of Grace’s jaw and the side of his throat with his own scent glands. The Omega’s hand latches onto Grace’s shirt, at the waist. His own hand thoughtlessly cups underneath Simon’s elbow as if to hold him up, keep him there, keep him close. He starts to ever-so gently sway them both back and forth as they scent each other, cheek to cheek, their stubbly beards scratching together with a satisfying sort of friction as they rub and nuzzle together, warm skin on skin. There’s something so mammalian about pressing close to someone and breathing in their scent through your mouth so you can taste it.
Grace feels drunk, he feels high on the thick cloud of ‘happy Omega’ smell hanging in the air around him. Simon must be feeling similarly dazed, because very soon he begins to purr.
The sound stutters and turns over in his chest like a faulty engine. There are a couple hesitant false starts. Grace ratchets his own purring up a notch and slowly, with only a bit of a rusty hitch, Simon’s subvocals rise up to meet his. The higher-pitched, chirpy counterpart blends in so well with Grace’s own sounds. There are no words for the joy of feeling it buzz against his sternum, and in the soft of his neck where Simon has buried himself.
This is the first time he’s ever heard Simon purr in a way that wasn’t just sad, half-suppressed bursts of self-soothing.
Grace’s own nervous system catches up only belatedly, and by then it’s much too late. Simon’s got a death grip on his shirt and Grace has got an armful of happy Omega he can’t stand the thought of disturbing. Thus, he doesn’t even try to escape or hide it when he starts to tremble: at first faintly, and then harder, then graduating to full-body shivers. Tears well up hot and thick in his throat, his breath hitching around them and interrupting his purr. The pitch of Simon’s purring changes, higher and louder as if to cover up the gaps, occasionally punctuated with sad, cooing little interrogatives.
What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Dear one, take comfort, I’ll fix it, what’s wrong?
“S-sorry,” he quavers, his voice wet and husky and a bit pathetic. “B-been a long time since… since anyone… I haven’t been t-touched in like, a really long time…”
“Me too,” Simon slurs. He sounds sort of sleepy now, his speaking voice little more than a deep gravelly rasp. He leans harder into Grace and doesn’t retreat when the Alpha’s arms come up around him, clutching as if for dear life. Grace lets his head fall to Simon’s shoulder a split second before the sob rips out of him like a serrated knife, tearing and bleeding on the way.
God, when was the last time anyone scented him? At least ten years (relative to him), but he thinks it might have been even longer. He can’t remember. In all the holes in his memory there may have been a passing touch of wrist glands or a brief hug where Marissa rubbed their chin and jaw into his shoulder a bit, but this? A proper scenting between packmates? Oh, it’s been so, so long. He hasn’t had a real pack (that included another human being) since Linda dumped him and that was decades ago. The loose, informal work pack he formed on Stratt’s Vat didn’t fully scratch the itch, only abated the worst of it. Stratt was maybe the only person he would’ve bared his throat to, and she betrayed that too in the end.
He’s pack-bonded to Rocky and Adrian now but he’s not an idiot, he knows it’s not wholly returned. Not in the way his instincts need. The Eridians have social instincts of their own but they don’t match with his. They consider him family and treat him as such, but there’s no scent marks of theirs in his home to prove it to his hindbrain. The best he gets is the occasional wafted-away stink of ammonia when they come in and out through the private airlock in his living room. They hug with him all the time with their xenonite exosuits, they sing to him, they provide and advocate for him, but there’s something soft and squishy and human missing from their love. He didn’t realize how much that absence ached until suddenly the hole filled with Simon. Now he feels like he’s full to bursting. The seams of him strain to contain everything and fail. He could dissolve into a puddle at the Omega’s feet. He could scream from all the lonely agony purging itself at long last, a decade of built-up stress pouring out of him in a disastrous cascade. His subvocals are a pathetic, whining, wailing, half-purring mess.
It hurts, oh it hurts I’m sorry thank you feels so good don’t stop oh I was so alone I was so afraid and alone don’t leave me please I’m sorry thank you thank you thank you.
He can’t even imagine what his scent is like right now. He must be drowning Simon in it. He was meant to just be here delivering a gift, maybe helping Simon nest a bit if he were so lucky as to be invited. Now instead he’s weeping all over him. But the Omega never so much as twitches. Just holds him with the same stoic ferocity and keeps purring. The tones have changed again to appeasement, to a slightly awkward attempt at comfort.
Hush, don’t cry. I know it hurts. Okay okay okay safe safe safe we’re safe. All is well. Look at me, focus on me, listen to me, I’m right here, you’re okay.
It’s quite the role reversal for them. Grace spent the first six months of Simon’s recovery doing everything in his power to reassure the Omega of his own safety. He didn’t realize how much he himself needed it.
Slowly, very slowly, Grace’s frayed nerves settle back into his body and his howling hindbrain recedes to a manageable whimper. It takes several long minutes of crying: that exhausting, full-body kind of crying that makes your diaphragm hurt. He scrapes the last of his conscious thought off the floor and heaves a sigh. His arms fall limp at his sides. Simon gives him one last rub with his jaw, a fresh sweet burst of dark chocolate to send him off with. Then he lets go and takes a step back, clearing his throat to silence the purring. Grace digs his knuckles into his swollen eye sockets.
“Sorry,” he rasps again. “That was dramatic.”
“Not really,” Simon shrugs, looking surprisingly awkward. “Felt good. The scenting, I mean. I’m sorry I… I didn’t mean to make you, um…”
“S’okay. I, um… I didn’t realize how bad I needed that.”
“You said it’s been a long time,” Simon nods. Then he seems to reconsider this. “Erm… how long, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Grace chews on his lip. How to answer that question?
“At least ten years. Maybe longer. I don’t… I don’t remember,” he admits in a whisper. Even Simon looks horrified, and Grace manages a wet-sounding chuckle. If he’s outcompeting Simon in the trauma Olympics — a man whose skin is a patchwork of 30% graft scars all over his face and body— that means it’s bad.
“Okay that… that’s fucked up, Grace. Even in prison I had a cellmate most of the time, Jesus.”
“I mean, you could argue Rocky was a great cellmate,” he laughs. “He just… y’know. Doesn’t have an endocrine system.”
“Right, well… if you ever need my ‘endocrine system’ again,” he makes air quote with the one hand, “you just let me know.”
“That’s okay,” Grace begs off, waving it away. “You don’t have to force yourself to—“
“— Who said anything about forcing myself?” Simon cut him off archly. Aaaand there goes Grace blushing again. He finally remembers the original purpose of this whole exercise and clears his throat to ask,
“You, um…. My scent isn’t like, gross to you? Not too much?”
Simon shakes his head. “No. S’good. Very good.”
Grace smiles. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“Good! I’m glad. Uh… so you don’t mind if I start scent-marking the house again?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks. Do you want me to scent anything for your nest?” He wonders perhaps a little hopefully, then coos with pleasure when Simon thrusts out the t-shirt from before. The Omega takes the cue to turn back to his nesting while Grace rubs the cloth over his bared wrist and neck glands, purring to let out a gush of pheromones all over it. “Out of curiosity,” he wonders, “what do I smell like, to you?”
Simon pauses his nesting for only a moment, hums thoughtfully, then wonders,
“No one’s ever told you before?”
“Someone probably did, but I don’t remember.”
“Huh… well, I don’t really have much to compare it to, but most of the time your scent is sort of… cool and soothing? Like, um… you know that smell when the weather team does fog over the water?”
“Petrichor,” Grace supplies. Simon snaps his fingers and points at him.
“Yeah. That. ‘Cept I’m guessing you probably smell more like the real Earth version of that. There’s more… layers? To it? I dunno, it’s hard to describe. Sometimes when you’re extra happy it smells like the herby stuff in our toothpaste.”
“Mint?”
“Is that what mint tastes like?”
“Closest we could get around here, yeah,” he nods.
“Gotcha. Then yeah, like mint. And then just now when you were upset it was kind of metallic. Honestly not too bad though.”
Grace opens his mouth to ask what kind of metal when suddenly a memory unveils itself in his head. Him and Marissa at the hotel bar after the infamous UNESCO conference where he tanked his academic career, the pair of them drinking away his sorrows. Once she got deep enough in her whiskeys, she found the funny side of the story.
“Oh Ry, you should’ve seen the look on all their faces!” She cackled with glee. “I knew you were seeing red cuz it reeked in there, you bled right through your patches! They were all scared shitless, like you were gonna strike ‘em with lightning or somethin! Smelled like it too!”
“‘S’that what I smell like?” He slurred, morbidly curious.
“Oh totally,” she nodded along. “When you’re all mega-Alpha pissed? You get your hackles up and you smell like straight-up—“
“—Ozone,” he whispers.
Simon lets out an inquisitive chirp, prompting him to repeat himself, but Grace waves it away.
“Nothing, just remembered something. Old friend.”
He suddenly feels drained by the afternoon’s dramas. He hands the t-shirt back to Simon.
“I, uh… I’m gonna go see what Rocky’s up to,” he hedges, and Simon dismisses him with a grunt and a wave. He seems preoccupied with his task.
Grace leaves and drags himself up to his bed for a lie-down. Rocky will be home from physical therapy soon. He’ll put on his exosuit and come in through the bedroom airlock and they’ll cuddle in bed and talk about it, which will make them both feel better. Maybe Adrian will have some special insight; they’re closer to Simon, and they know Ryland pretty well too after being involved with his own recovery for the past two years.
But until then, he’s got a lot to think about.