Chapter Text
Soap’s had a clear trajectory for his life in mind since he was small, so much so that he’s thought up a callsign for himself before he’s even reached secondary school.
“Why ‘Soap’?” Amelia MacTavish wonders aloud, head cocked as she shares an amused smile with dad.
“That’s not how callsigns work usually,” George MacTavish adds, looking chuffed despite the skeptical lift of his dark brow. “It’s something you’re given.”
But Soap, indomitable and righteous as the sun, can’t be swayed. “Soap,” he declares again with a stubborn nod.
His parents had worked in the military long before he was born, both of them slowly untangling themselves and integrating into civilian society by the time he was in primary school.
The glimpses of photos, the bedtime stories told of their past lives had all served to put him on a path to the military, whether intentional or not.
“Likely an alpha,” his mother declares with stalwart conviction, never mind that he’s only little, and such a thing can’t be known for sure until he’s an adult.
He’d been born with a set of wicked baby fangs in his jaw, and an inert gland in his neck, but those traits only serve to rule out a life as a beta. The hormones presenting him as either an alpha or omega won’t come until well into adulthood.
His alpha father isn’t exactly a mild and meek sort, but he goes along happily with Amelia MacTavish’s opinion nonetheless, certain that Soap will likely one day present as an alpha and sign up the military the moment he’s able.
-x-x-x-
By the time he’s sixteen, Soap is far taller than his omega mother and alpha father, and rambunctious and hot headed, he’s almost a living, breathing alpha stereotype.
Or he would be, if he’d presented as anything yet.
He’s got a set of razor sharp fangs in his jaw, and a gland that pulses thrums uncomfortably in his neck, but he won’t be allowed to sign up until his secondary gender decides to present itself.
Hurry up. The fridge rattles as he slams it closed, and he bristles at the unimpressed glance mum sends over the lid of her laptop.
“Sorry,” he mutters dourly.
“Is that John?” Someone calls through the screen, and mum pushes the laptop to show Soap his George MacTavish’s grinning face.
“Dad!” Soap materialises by mum’s side, practically vibrating with excitement.
It’s been months since he’d heard dad’s voice; he’d been shipped off to some far off corner under annoyingly secretive circumstances, and while Soap’s tried to put on a brave face, hearing his voice only hits him with a bout of melancholy.
Dark hair shaved close to his scalp, George’s light eyes inspect Soap with a concerned, subdued air.
“When will you be home?” Amelia asks, squeezing Soap’s arm gently.
George’s face doesn’t quite fall, but it cracks just enough for Soap’s smile to falter.
“Not for a bit,” he says casually, and Soap can see the deep grooves of exhaustion sinking beneath the pits of his eyes. “Couple of weeks.”
-x-x-x-
A ‘couple of weeks’ turns into a month, then several, and Soap begrudgingly adjusts to this new normal, until he arrives home just before his eighteenth birthday to find a stranger in dress uniform comforting his distraught, wailing mother.
Soap stops in his tracks, chest collapsing as a ragged sound bursts from his lungs.
No. No.
Soap stares at the silent tears dripping down her face, and he just knows.
Mum notices him standing at the edge of the sitting room and rubs at her swollen eyes, reaching a hand out towards him. “John - “
Soap turns and runs straight out the door, unwilling and unable to accept the truth.
Deep down he knows that George MacTavish won’t be coming home after all.
-x-x-x-
Soap isn’t quite the same after that. Neither is his mother, either.
What were once occasional flashes of anger and petulance in his childhood become an almost daily occurrence in the aftermath of George’s death, and the subsequent shouting matches with his mother are just as frequent.
And it all comes down to -
“You’re not signing up,” Amelia declares, flicking her mane of brown hair behind her shoulder. “That’s final.”
His parents had indulged his keen insistence that he’d one day follow in their footsteps into the military, but in the wake of his father’s death on a botched mission, his mum had completely changed her tune.
Soap stares at her in disbelief, before his eyes narrow. “I don’t need permission,” he growls, chest puffing out. “Only omegas do.” He kicks the front door shut behind him with deliberate force. “You should know that.”
She herself had met his father in the military, and she’d once told Soap of the fierce debates she’d had with her own parents as she begged and cajoled to be allowed to join.
“And I’m not a fucking omega,” he finishes with a smirk.
Not like you.
Amelia dumps her handbag on the coffee table with a thud, lips pursed as she sends him an unimpressed look. “Language.” He rolls his eyes, and she adds, “You won’t be able to join until you present either way.”
Soap scowls at the floor, incensed by the reminder, and the cruel words are out before he can think to stop them, “Dad would’ve let me.”
Her face stiffens, and Soap’s regret is near instantaneous.
Soap might have lost his father, but Amelia had lost her mate of over twenty-years.
I’m sorry, he thinks, but the words are tangled on his tongue.
“Well he’s not here, is he,” she snaps, voice shrill with emotion as she shakes her head. Her shoulders slump as she stares at him, eyes haunted. “Don’t ask me to bury you, too, John. I can’t do it.”
She turns and trudges heavily up the stairs before he can respond, and Soap watches her go, more ashamed and conflicted than ever before.
-x-x-x-
In an effort to hide from his mother’s sad, disappointed eyes, Soap clambers up the ladder to the loft space in the roof, sneezing wildly as he pulls himself into the musty perch.
Soap waves a plume of dusty air away as he crawls amongst the haphazard mess of old boxes, eyes watering as he carefully slips a Stanley knife through taped cardboard. His dad had left little in the way of sentimental items behind, and crouched in the dark in the roof, Soap felt like a thief plundering the wreckage of his parent’s past as he sifted through their belongings.
There’s not much of interest beyond stacks of yellowed paperwork, musty old books and toys from his childhood, and he’s about ready to admit defeat until he notices a white square on the ground.
A Polaroid?
Soap turns it in his hand, blinking down at the three figures with widening eyes.
It’s a very old, faded picture of his mother and father at the start of their military career, their faces unlined and hair free of grey, posing in cargos with a similarly young albeit unfamiliar giant of a man just to the side of them.
Who’s that?
Soap’s met a dozen or so faces from their past, but he knows for sure he’s never met this one.
Between the dark hair and light eyes of his parents and their close proximity to each other, the stranger seems to be the odd man out, all golden blond hair and pale skin as he stands off slightly to the side.
His body’s angled away as though he’d been caught unaware, but there’s a wry sort of quirk to his eyes, with his plush lips pulled up in the ghost of a smile.
A buzz of electricity dances along the back of Soap’s neck, and he flushes at his own absentminded staring.
Soap forces his eyes back to his father, but the sight of his blinding smile only sinks a deep ache in his chest.
I should give this to mum, he thinks, absently trailing a finger over his parent’s faces. But his eyes keep sliding towards the stranger beside them without conscious thought, and he ignores the twist of guilt in his stomach when he pockets it instead.
-x-x-x-
Soap’s eighteenth birthday comes and goes with little fanfare, both himself and his mother still trapped in a seemingly unending malaise as they struggle to navigate the tense impasse they’re locked in.
He still hasn’t presented as an alpha, but he keeps his impatience quiet in an effort to avoid upsetting the uneasy tension between them.
Because while his father’s death has sent Amelia MacTavish into a fearful spiral, it only seemed to strengthen Soap’s convictions.
He’ll follow in their footsteps and sign up, whether she likes it or not.
A terrible, insistent thought cuts through his subconscious, Even if I do present as an omega.
It won’t happen; he knows he’s built more like an alpha than not, but he can’t help the tiny frisson of uncertainty that flourishes as the days turn into weeks, without any sign of his secondary gender revealing itself.
-x-x-x-
It’s a balmy Autumn night when Soap startles awake, mouth dry and eyes crusted over as he takes in the black sky through his bedroom window.
He’s not slept well in months, and he stares at the ceiling in resignation, irritated by the insistent buzz pinging the corners of his brain.
Soap lets his eyes fall shut in search of sleep, but there’s a strange friction in the air he can’t place, and he pulls himself out of bed with a bitten off sigh. He pads downstairs in search of water, instinctively avoiding the creaky step on the way down, before the sound of low, hushed voices from the sitting room stops him in his tracks.
He glances at his watch in disbelief. It’s late, he thinks, taking in the dim light emanating through the archway.
Soap wracks his brain, wondering why mum would allow visitors at this late hour -
Maybe she’s on a date? Soap’s lip curls in immediate disgust, because the idea is as nauseating as it is unlikely. Mum would sooner tear out her own mating gland than move on from Dad, and especially not so soon after his death.
“I appreciate you coming,” She whispers, voice strained in a way that had become sadly frequent in recent months, and Soap immediately understands.
Someone’s here about Dad again.
Soap grips the handrail, warring with himself. He considers retreating back upstairs, but his curiosity has him drifting closer to the light, body tucked in tight against the wall as he peers around the doorway.
Mum’s hunched over on the couch, a box of tissues pulled close to her on the coffee table, but his eyes slide past her towards the familiar stranger perched in Soap’s favourite armchair.
You.
Huge arms relaxed across his spread legs, the man from his stolen Polaroid nods at his mother from his place on the chair, and despite his seated pose, Soap can tell from the way he fills his chair that he’s big, all wide shoulders and long legs.
And he’s an alpha, too, from the faint, lingering trace of something warm and woodsy swirling in the air.
“Would’ve come earlier if I could,” the stranger says, and Christ, his voice isn’t what Soap expects at all. It’s a deep, roughened sound, and Soap can’t quite discern anything beyond the fact that he’s British, and military, if that photo was anything to go by.
Maybe not active duty anymore, Soap thinks, taking in the ruffled, unkempt curl of golden brown hair on the top of his skull, a far sight from the buzz cut he’d sported in the photo.
Mum’s voice is muffled by the tissue pressed against her nose. “George would have understood.” She lowers her hands to her lap with a tremulous, uncertain smile. “Didn’t expect you’d be able to.”
Soap frowns, questions burning hot in his skull as he listens to their stilted small talk.
“Did you see George much?” She ventures, voice wobbling. “Before -“
“No,” he mutters. “Hadn’t in years.”
He trails off, and Soap watches his mother sniffle with downcast eyes.
“I’m sorry, Amelia.” The man says, clenching and unfurling his fists, “I should’ve come earlier.”
“To do what? You never visited George and I before,” She laughs brokenly, then sighs. “And you know it’s Amy.” A pause, and then, “How many times do I have to tell you, Simon?” She says pointedly.
Something like victory washes over Soap, because now he’s got a name to put to the face.
Simon.
Simon’s shoulder rises in a lazy shrug. “Don’t do nicknames.”
An awkward silence follows, and Soap watches the stranger’s every move, the way his face turns to politely inspect the photo frames on the mantelpiece.
His eyes fall on a photo of Soap himself taken just before dad’s death, saluting the lens with an idiotic grin in the back garden, and Mum notices the man’s observation with a bright little smile.
“That’s our John,” she whispers. “I don’t think you ever met him, did you?” Simon shakes his head, and she adds, “He just turned eighteen this past Summer."
It’s the happiest Soap’s seen her in months, and it unfurls something warm in his chest to witness it.
The man hums absently, eyes sweeping across the other photos for brief moment, before he looks at her again. “How is he?”
Soap stills, because it’s one thing to eavesdrop idle small talk, but another to overhear a conversation about himself.
From the little spark in her eyes, Soap suspects she’s gearing up to chew the man’s ear off about him.
Please don’t, he begs, but it’s too late.
“He wants to sign up, even after what happened to George,” she admits quietly. “He hasn’t even presented yet…” she trails off with a grimace, before sending Simon a brittle smile. “Don’t suppose I can persuade you to talk some sense into him?”
“Me?” The man’s expression barely shifts, although his voice hums with surprise. “Never met him - what makes you think he’ll listen to me over your old contacts?”
“Old friends,” she corrects gently, before sighing. “None of them are SAS.” She offers him a pained, humourless smile. “And I know my fool boy’s had his eyes on running with you lot from day one.”
What.
Soap bites down hard on his tongue to stop the surprised noise escaping his lips.
In all of his years, Soap had never once voiced that particular dream aloud, and he stares at her in utter astonishment.
How did you know?
“If that’s the case, I wouldn’t worry,” he hears Simon murmur. “His footwork’s too sloppy for stealth work, I’d say.”
Too distracted by his alarmed gawping at his mother, it takes a moment for the words to fully register, and Soap jerks his head to find Simon staring right back at him, mouth quirked.
“Oh, fuck,” Soap blurts loudly, blood running from his face.
Mum’s head swivels with alarm, her surprised face morphing into embarrassed fury. “John William MacTavish,” she growls, lifting from the couch like a vengeful spectre. “What are you doing up?”
Eavesdropping, obviously, he thinks, swallowing hard. He briefly considers making a run for it, before his shoulders sag in defeat.
Simon unfolds from his seat with a slowness that has Soap on high alert, feeling awfully like prey as the man lumbers towards his hiding spot with a deep, rumbling sigh. He slowly offers his hand, and Soap reaches out to grasp it without thinking, suppressing a shiver as he watches Simon’s huge, pale fist swallow him whole.
Soap stares at the barest hint of inky skin peeking out from beneath his long sleeves, briefly overcome by the hot curl of alpha pheromones taking over his senses.
Hasn’t this guy heard of suppressants?
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise they’re both just standing stock still, hands pressed in an intimate clasp, and Soap lets go with a nervous little laugh.
“How’d you know,” Soap grumbles to cover his mortification.
Simon points a lazy finger across the hall, right at the warped, telltale shadow cast from Soap’s body by the doorway.
Oh.
He stares down his nose at Soap’s startled face with a slow, considered blink.
“You must be Johnny,” Simon says, eyes creasing.
Johnny.
Soap goggles at him in astonishment, because no one’s ever gotten away with calling him that, least of all not on first meeting.
The words are flying out of Soap before he can think to stop himself, “Thought you didn’t do nicknames?”
Mum sends him a glare over Simon’s shoulder that spells doom, and Soap receives the message, loud and clear.
‘Don’t be rude,’ her look demands.
“Rambunctious,” Simon says mildly, head cocked to the side, and Soap narrows his eyes.
It’s the most polite way someone’s ever called him a brat right to his face, Soap will give him that.
He’s too unsettled by the strange, languid twist of heat warming his insides to do much more than stare, more unmoored and bewildered by another alpha than he’s ever felt in his life.
I like it, he decides, lips turning up into a small, impish smile without conscious thought.
-x-x-x-
Soap’s interruption seems to signal the end of Simon’s short-lived visit, and mum flutters around him as he slowly heads for the front door.
Soap sits on the bottom stair with an arm hooked around a bannister post, rendered oddly mute as he watches Simon prepare to leave.
“Where are you staying nowadays?” Mum asks, handing Simon his long, dark anorak.
“Got a place in the Highlands.” At her baffled expression, Simon adds, “Off the grid, in the Cairngorms.”
Soap’s intrigue only deepens, and he absently wonders why this strange old Brit decided to settle his roots deep in the Scottish Highlands, of all places.
Mum looks at her watch in growing alarm. “That’s hours away,” she says, aghast. Concerned ire transformed her features. “You’re not going all that way tonight. Take the pull-out,” she orders, waving impatiently towards the sitting room.
Soap doesn’t think the prospect of a long night drive will faze someone who’s supposedly in the SAS, and he expects Simon will decline her offer without a second thought.
But his eyes flit to Soap for a considering pause, then away.
Soap’s heart stalls in his chest, and he doesn’t miss the knowing curl of Simon’s mouth when it does.
“If you’re sure,” Simon murmurs, seemingly oblivious to Soap’s jolt of surprise, and he curls his toes into the wood, willing the heavy, frantic beat of his heart to settle.
From the barest smirk playing about Simon’s mouth, Soap suspects he can probably hear his heart, too.
Fucking alphas, he thinks, mortified.
“Of course,” Mum cries, practically snatching his jacket back from his hands as she ushers him towards their rust-coloured couch.
His stomach gargles strangely as Simon drifts by in a cloud of alpha musk, and Soap clambers to his feet with a frantic wave, gritting out a strained, “Goodnight,” as he retreats up the stairs, away from the weight of the stranger’s dark, knowing gaze.
-x-x-x-
Soap goes back to bed, mouth still dry and mind wide awake, curling himself in a stubborn ball beneath the covers as he tries in vain to fall back asleep.
From the sharp, quivering beat of his heart in his chest, he knows sleep is a distant, unlikely dream.
Soap stares at the ceiling, hand pressed against his churning middle, wondering at the cold sweat pooling at his nape, and the odd heat burning a trail beneath his skin.
Am I sick?
He watches the dark night’s sky turn grey as the sun rolls up the horizon, breath slipping out in tight little puffs as his body quivers with intermittent shivers that leave his teeth rattling in his skull.
Soap slides the flat of his feet against the bed, bemused by the strange buzz of sensation where skin meets cheap cotton.
What, he thinks, breath hitched. Is happening to me?
A memory of woodsy, tantalising alpha has him teetering upright without conscious thought, and he rolls out of bed in a daze, wobbling dangerously as he puts his shaky legs beneath him.
It takes him several shambling, unsteady steps forward before Soap realises the scent lodged in his brain isn’t a memory at all.
A shadowy figure fills the space of his bedroom door, and Soap blinks glassy eyes at the shape, until Simon comes into sharp focus.
Brow furrowed in concern, Simon stares at him, eyes roving over his shivering form.
“Alright?” He asks, and Soap blinks furiously.
Why are you in my room? He wants to ask, but all that comes out is a garbled, confused string of words.
The man takes two steps forward, lidded eyes swirling almost black in the morning light, and Soap makes the mistake of taking a deep breath.
The scent of Simon so close is a shock to the system, and he whimpers at the slow trickle of warmth from his backside.
What is that?
In the space of two blinks Simon stands before him, eyes trained unnervingly on his face as his nostrils flare.
He thinks he should be embarrassed, but he’s not sure why.
Soap sways ominously on his feet, blinks once, then falls forward as his eyes roll back. He collides with a wall of powerful muscle just as thick, powerful arms snake around him, and Soap groans as a deep rumble reverberates somewhere from the depths of his own chest.
He rubs his face against his warm pillow in confusion. What is that sound?
The noise intensifies as a hand strokes along the curve of his spine, pulling a satisfied little purr from his mouth.
Purring?
Distant alarm bells sound in his mind, because he knows, he knows…
Alpha’s don’t make that noise.
The hand stops, and Soap’s brow furrows, mouth dropping open to demand more, until -
Simon bends his face abruptly into the crook of Soap’s neck, and he stills, shivering as a nose presses right against the swollen lump of his gland.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, lips moving against his over-warm skin as hands tighten on Soap’s hips, before Simon lifts his face away with a sigh.
“Amelia,” Simon calls calmly over his head. It’s only a few moments before the telltale thump of footsteps creak from the hallway, and his mum’s shocked intake of surprise heralds her sudden arrival.
“John!”
Soap cracks his eyes open and peers from the safety of Simon’s chest, long enough to take in mum’s worried face swimming in his warped vision.
“What’s…” Her words stall with a cut off breath, and he whines at the smaller hand that gently touches his forehead. “Oh, John.”
“Thought I heard a noise,” Simon says smoothly, and Soap wonders at the lie, but she waves him off with a tut.
“Let go of Simon now.” Mum tugs at Soap’s hands where they curl into his shirt, and he snarls with a snap of his fangs. “John!” She splutters.
Rather than protest, Simon’s chest vibrates beneath his head with a near silent, rumbling laugh, and Soap’s heart does an airy little flip at the sound.
“It’s alright, Johnny,” he soothes, gently untangling himself from Soap’s grasp. He smiles a little at Soap’s forlorn expression, handing him off to his mother with an indulgent crease of his eyes.
Johnny.
The name echoes on repeat in his addled mind, a giddy feeling overtaking the strange anxiety lurking in the wings.
“You said he hadn’t presented,” Simon murmurs, talking as though Soap wasn’t there even as he stares right at him.
Mum shakes her head, a palpable tone of relief in her voice, “He hadn’t.” He squirms in her hold, annoyed despite the gentle warmth of her arms.
Wrong, his brain shrieks, wide eyes darting to Simon’s unreadable face.
“Mum.” Soap’s voice wavers between ire and confusion, hands curling into talons on her arms.
She ushers him towards his bed, ignoring his distressed growls as she presses down on his shoulders. “Lie down,” she orders tartly. “You’re in no state to stand.”
Why not? Soap sniffs with a petulant air, mood immediately soaring at Simon’s open mirth, and he beams right back.
Mum stares at Soap, exasperated and reluctantly amused as she stands before him, hands on her hips. She wipes at his sweaty forehead with a frown before stepping back. “Watch him for a moment, will you?”
She doesn’t wait for Simon to answer, stalking out of his bedroom without a backward glance.
Leaving him alone with the delectable, devastating alpha who made every nerve end in his body sing. The same one who calls him Johnny and smells of perfume tailor made to gut punch him with every breath he takes.
Soap drops to the bed in a dead weight, nuzzling his face into his pillows in a sudden burst of overwhelm. So lost in his mindless little daze, it takes him some time before he registers the shadow darkening his shivering form.
Simon exhales loudly, and Soap relishes the shaky quality of his breaths with a secret little smile, until he’s momentarily struck dumb by a waft of pheromones, and he fists the sheet with a throaty whine.
“You smell nice,” Soap slurs, voice muffled by his pillow. If he were more cognizant, he’d be ashamed of his own candour, but his brain seems to be falling out of his ear with every slow, heavy thud of his heart.
Mum returns before he can respond, and Soap scowls as he’s encouraged to lie on his back, lip jutting as a warm, damp towel is pressed to his sweat-soaked brow. His heavy eyes fall open, and he ignores her exasperated, concerned face to seek out Simon’s unique brand of restrained indulgent amusement.
“S’pose I shouldn’t be surprised that you can control yourself around omegas,” she says, sending Simon a quietly relieved smile.
Omegas?
Soap bares his very sharp, alpha fangs at her in outrage. “Not an omega,” he snaps, but it comes out slurred and garbled on the way out. “Dunno…” His voice takes on a low, breathless quality as he groans, “…What you’re on about.”
As if to punctuate his point, a hot, invisible hand takes grip of his insides and turns them molten, and Soap writhes, confused by the wet sensation pooling at his fluttering hole.
Simon shifts on his feet, and mum gets a funny look on her face, nose wrinkling as she looks between them both, before her features smooth out with a dismissive shake of her head.
“John...” Her voice rings with that unique politely irritated quality that only comes about when she’s trying not to scold him in front of guests, and Simon smirks at him from behind her back.
“That’ll be me, I think.” Simon laughs softly as he quietly retreats towards the door. He holds the doorknob and casts a final glance his way. “Thanks for the pullout.” He pauses to take his fill of Soap, before his fingers fall away from the handle. “Be good for your mum, Johnny.”
And in the space of a blink, he’s gone from Soap’s life just as soon as he’d arrived.
-x-x-x-
Too exhausted to put up much of a fight against mum’s concerned fretting, Soap falls into a fitful slumber soon after Simon leaves, and it’s not until the sun’s setting over an orange horizon that he snaps awake with a violent jolt.
Chest heaving and heart racing, he leans up on his elbows, instantly wide awake and utterly discombobulated as he takes in the sweaty sheets tangled around his bare legs.
He frowns down at himself, perplexed. When did I take those off?
His pyjamas are strewn all around his room, as though he’d ripped them from his body in his sleep, leaving him only in a pair of very tight, very damp set of boxer briefs.
“Must be sick,” he tells himself, ignoring all of the signs pointing to a far more insidious truth; that he’s presented, not as an alpha, but a bloody omega -
No. He grits his teeth stubbornly. It’s not that.
Overloaded with a litany of bizarre aberrations, his eyes fall to his bedside table, heart lurching in his chest as he takes in the sight of his partially open drawer.
Why’s that open?
His mum had learned the hard way not to snoop in his things; or at least, she’d learned not to be quite so obvious about it.
Soap’s fingers shake as he pulls the drawer open, mouth dry as he peers inside.
“Fuck,” he whispers, falling back into bed with a heavy thud. “Fuck.”
Because inside the drawer, the Polaroid that he’d greedily hoarded for weeks, the one of his parents and that beautiful, strange alpha called Simon -
It’s gone.