Chapter Text
She stares at her own eyes in the mirror of a cold gray bathroom. Fierce now that she stands here, prior to it all, on the steep and unforgiving precipice of importance—walking into the cavernous mouth of meaning that has every chance of chewing her.
Against her instincts.
Against her nature.
“We’ll take you on, if you’re willing to accept the risks.”
Her entire life has been spent hidden in plain sight. Unimportant. Unremarkable. And that way of life is what she likes. The mercy of going unnoticed, when others like her are torn up and eaten, stepped on and dragged screaming. Forced to kneel before whatever flea-ridden alpha has the means and methods of acquiring them. She has grown used to this; to slathering herself in creams and ointments and swallowing pills that suppress her weaknesses. They’re techniques her mother taught her, blackmarket products her father bought her, because for all his wealth and privilege and complicitness in the world order he still clenches his fists in the hall and snarls, not my daughter.
But Charlie isn’t weak, no matter what they all tell her. She can amount to more than a flower her father keeps shaded in the corner.
“We don’t get much interest from people like you. It’s mostly alphas who volunteer for the cause.”
She has spent years dulling her curves and sharpening her edges, building enough muscle to compensate for weaker bones and a dainty stature. It plays on her mind even as her breath fogs the mirror. Whether her skin is too soft or her complexion too flawless, too untouched by physical hardships and nature’s elements. Dangerous, yes—there is every chance this might backfire, every chance she might be sniffed out and discovered—but at least like this, she might manage to accomplish something, lead a life that has meaning and find a purpose that extends beyond spiteful survival. To help carve a future for the ones like her that haven’t been afforded the luxury of invisibility. She can’t deny how those thoughts fill her with a sense of righteousness. Something selfishly selfless—a genuine want to help others polluted by the bone-deep desire to show them all what she’s capable of.
She sucks in a breath and leans closer to the new version of herself that emerges. Such a difference it makes, in the rise of her cheeks and frame of her face, now free from the final remnant of the girl her father tried to keep sheltered. And with it comes another slither of confidence, another nerve eased into her deceit.
“Do you believe you’d be capable of killing?”
It’s all scattered at her feet.
Blonde, frayed, hair that has been bunched up and hacked away. Once upon a time, it’d been an asset that she clung to, a beauty that persevered even as she denied herself anything soft and girlish. But, it has long withered into a burden—a flaunt that draws eyes and garners unwanted attention.
Charlie straightens her back as her fingers run through it. Short and clean, with layered bangs that card into her eyes and dust her cheeks in a ruffle of ambiguity.
What makes you think I haven’t already?
˚｡𓇢𓆸
“You sure about this?”
Alastor stands against the wrought iron fence that surrounds the local garden, one hard-toed shoe tucked over the other while his hands grip the edges of the daily paper. Not a bad read, in fact—if one doesn’t mind the blatant human rights violations that pop up every two or three pages. He’s so engrossed in the deluge of violent scandal that he doesn’t immediately answer Husk’s impatient grumble.
Sure? No, not particularly, but who can afford the luxury of certainty these days? Is what he might like to say, because he’s merely a man with a bone and it just so happens to be the femur of that slimy looking fellow loitering on the adjacent street corner. But such honest admissions hardly inspire obedience, and that’s exactly what Alastor needs from those working alongside him.
“Losing faith in me already? It’s barely been ten minutes.”
“Try half an hour,” Husk says from where he sits on the fence’s lower bricks. A man slightly older than himself with scruffy black hair and hollow cheeks peppered with a day’s worth of stubble. Smoke rises from the cigarette that sits draped between his fingers, and thank god for that—Alastor much prefers it over the pheromone-laden stench of public spaces. “Bout time for a new watch, huh?”
Lingering beneath the tobacco is Husk’s personal scent, and it’s one of the few that Alastor doesn’t outright detest. Dry. Malty. Alcoholic in a way that reeks of whiskey. It meshes well with his own scent of cinnamon and clove, lending to a communal warmth and sense of companionship that neither of them would ever confess to enjoying.
He licks his thumb and turns the page, pausing as he does to glance at the struggling antique on his wrist. “Oh, please. It simply needs to be rewound. I’ve had this little darling for ten years and it’s never once disappointed me.”
“You’re late to shit all the time.”
“As I said. I trust these old gears to get me there when I need to be.” Or in some cases, ideally, not at all. He’s far too self-involved to worry about something as humdrum as punctuality. Oh, and the impatience —he’d rather be tardy than risk himself waiting—and then one has to consider the inherent dangers of excessive routine and predictability.
All of which is only somewhat related to the fact that he can’t afford a replacement.
The area is bustling for a Sunday afternoon. Small blessings, given the obscurity to be found in crowd density and all of its distracting sights and sounds. Distant murmurs of conversation are distorted by bicycles rattling over the cobbles. Dogs bark outside the butcher, merchants barter and jingle with pockets full of coins, and the steady flow of foot traffic disorientates anyone attempting to track a singular face. If only such noisy environments didn’t raise Alastor’s hackles. But, people like to gather, alphas in particular, if the frequent citations of pack bonding are to be believed. He dare not ask why it isn’t simply referred to as acquaintanceship or some other more intellectual term.
Fortunately, alphas are what many of them are, although still not nearly as numerous as their humble beta associates. They’re a rather inconspicuous lot. Level-headed and mildly scented, their talents as broad as the human mind can imagine despite their propensity to pass by unnoticed. He still isn’t sure whether that observation is grounded in reality or a mere manifestation of his own selective awareness. As much as it pains him to admit, his brain is naturally hardwired to focus on particular people and certain scents, those that may seem challenging or present some sort of threat—be it to his person, his pride, or a half-eaten croissant that he catches some nitwit staring at.
Some claim that the lack of omegas in the mix is causing a rise in dysfunctional social behaviors. Not that he believes it, being as functional as he is.
Now, Alastor fancies himself to be a man of forward thinking—as is the reason that he’s out here engaging in the resistance against an oppressive ruling class—and he wouldn’t ever say that he’s pleased by the dwindling number of omegas in the world. However, it is indeed comforting to know that on top of everything else, they needn’t worry about the possibility of some toxic trollop committing chemical warfare on the streets.
The places his mind wanders when running low on caffeine.
“This gentleman here,” Alastor says, gesturing half-heartedly through the smog spat out by a passing locomotive. “Did you see who he spoke to just now?”
“No,” Husk mutters, “you keep fuckin’ distracting me.”
“Can’t use your eyes and your mouth at the same time? A tragic affliction, indeed—and what a miracle it is that you’ve managed to survive into your thirties.”
“Shut up—” Husk’s hand hinges out to thump against his abdomen, the half-gone cigarette leaving a smatter of ash on his waistcoat, and Alastor stiffens. His shoulders square in response to the unwelcome contact. Bristling, because for as long as they’ve worked together the two of them are most certainly not that close.
The paper crinkles in his grip.
Alastor’s head whips down to him, voice roughening despite himself. “Touch me again and I’ll gouge your eyes out with this cheap newsprint.”
“He’s leaving. Look.” Husk points forward with his chin. Ignoring Alastor's threats yet again—a slight that warrants an aggrieved sniff of air. “What d’you wanna do?”
A dart of his eyes and oh, yes, the suspicious chap they've been tailing all evening is slinking down a narrow alley. Sudden enough that Alastor’s back lurches off the fence and snaps straight.
He spins around to face Husk, grin stretching high over his teeth as he speaks with a snarky wobble of his head. “Oh, fancy getting an éclair and taking a stroll through the park, darling?” Alastor scrunches the paper up and viciously smacks it against the other alpha’s chest. “ Get up , you imbecile. We’re going to follow him.”
Then, Alastor is stalking down the road, hazel eyes fixed on his quarry up ahead, tracking with predatory precision through the hordes of faces and bodies rushing past. He can focus when he needs to. Especially in environments where his sense of smell is at risk of being assaulted.
“Alright, damn, no need to get aggressive.” Footsteps sound briskly behind him, joining the pursuit, punctuated by the hiss of a cigarette as Husk flicks it into the gutter. “You got a rut coming up or what?”
Alastor stops in his tracks. Halts so abruptly that Husk nearly walks straight into his bracing spine. Of all the asinine, barbaric— He pivots on his heels and invades Husk’s space, locking eyes with the man as a growl passes abrasively through his teeth.
Husk staggers back. Putting enough distance between them to defuse the tension without sacrificing too much ground, although his posture visibly hardens, preparing for the possibility of confrontation. “What?”
The press of Alastor’s lips cuts off whatever animal noise he’d been making. He hates when he reacts like that, but as much as he’s attempted to train the response out of himself, there are still certain spots that are vulnerable to proding. “You needn’t concern yourself with my bodily functions,” he says, sharp as words can be without physically cutting. “Oh, and I’m not some brainless mutt, Husker—I’m far too civilized to fall victim to some boorish hormonal imbalance. It’s purely that you have a very unique way of getting on my nerves.”
His eyes track the flaring exhale of Husk’s nostrils and the slow clench of his jaw. Intuitively seeking a reaction and waiting to see it swing towards hostility or compliance, because no matter how friendly they are, his mind screams caution when tensions rise.
But of course, Husk’s gaze slides away with a grumbled, “Whatever,” and so continues their running streak of civility. Only once have they ever settled a quarrel with violence, many years ago when their association was still fresh and they found themselves locked in a territorial dispute over the sofa after a particularly nerve-racking afternoon. The entire ordeal had been rather embarrassing for the both of them.
With the matter settled, Alastor straightens his bowtie and resumes the chase—shifting back into gear as he dodges a pack of pedestrians who are leisurely crossing the street. Faster now. He realizes while ducking into the alley that stopping to defend his dignity was perhaps not the wisest choice. The man they’re supposed to be following has long vanished out the other end, and the stretch of shadows and graffitied brick feels challenging in nature; a taunt over his inability to control his own temper.
But Alastor doesn’t fail , and he most certainly doesn’t screw things up. His legs carry him faster than they ought to, strides long and purposeful as his instincts sharpen with some insatiable need to prevail. Over what, he isn’t quite sure, but it’s an indomitable force that drives him around the next corner, down the next back-alley stretch, until the sickening stew of scents fades into something plain and earthen. Damp brick cut by the occasional whiff of something putrid. Husk still tails behind him, keeping up just fine despite a curt request to slow down that ultimately phases through Alastor’s mind. Nonsense. He has a revolver, a switchblade, and every propensity to inflict grievous harm should the situation turn sour.
Another sharp turn, and—
They barge out of the alley and straight into a gathering of half a dozen alphas.
Alastor’s gut lurches with the lock of his knees. The man they were following is amongst those present, and he has all but three seconds to try and figure out what manner of business they’re interrupting. Expensive suits. Open cases. Fingers riffle through a wad of cash. Vials of some description, filled with a fluid that looks grayish purple. Then, all eyes turn towards them, startled and leering and sharpening with rising hostility.
“Our sincerest apologies, gentlemen!” His voice strikes a balance between apathetic and dulcet, feigning disinterest as his hand settles on Husk’s shoulder with a dull clap. They’re already turning back. “Seems we’ve wandered in the wrong direction.”
Around the corner and into the alley—because it’s the only option despite how the lack of cover now pains him—at a pace that refuses to betray his internal sense of urgency. Fuck. This day is only getting worse. If not by the notable possibility of taking a bullet to the back, then by the frustrating reality that he had just blown his chances of listening in on their illicit activities and introduced the risk of someone taking note of their appearance. Not at all what he had expected to walk into this evening. Drugs, was it? Far out of his wheelhouse, but he’s wise enough to know that those aren’t the sort of substances you might see on a typical night out. And the cheek of dealing in broad daylight makes him wonder all the more.
Don’t look back.
As soon as they round the next turn and are sheltered by another layer of brick, Alastor slows for just a moment, falling out of step while he lets out a long and very much living breath. Some reckless part of him insists that he could have handled them—but it’s the sort of prickle he had long ago learned that he shouldn’t ever listen to. He has enough occupational hazards as it is without his ego encouraging him into certain death. But in the end, sensible thoughts fail to soothe the smart or soften the thumps within his ribs.
Husk returns a sideways glance, eyes sharp with a scolding quip that doesn’t quite reach his lips. “What was that shit?”
“None of our business, I’d wager,” Alastor says while pushing up the bridge of his glasses. He’s a rebel, for God’s sake, not some boot-licking drug hound for the local authorities. Far be it for him to care about what the despicably rich are snorting at their afterparties.
Although he does harbor the fleeting hope that it might be something deadly.
˚｡𓇢𓆸
The two of them make the long walk back through the city. Streets grow quiet as the sun dips behind the chimneys of old brick buildings, still lighting the sky without casting bothersome rays into their eyes. Alastor has always thought himself to be more of a nocturnal creature. Either due to the thrill of stalking around unimpeded or the additional anonymity it affords him. He entertains them both with chit-chat and idle observations, delving too deep into something painfully mundane—his typical way of calming himself after receiving a hit of adrenaline that will otherwise have him pacing around the house until sunrise. Nothing worse than sitting still a healthy dose of fight or flight. The breeze helps as well, refreshing in how it bites through his shirt, let in by how his coat sits thrown over his arm and tucked into his elbow.
Down a side-street, in a line of old terraced houses, the little piece of brick they call home sits behind an cobblestone fence. Far enough from the downtown commotion to enjoy the peace and quiet and potentially hunker-down should the need ever arise. He’d hardly get away with dragging himself bruised and bloodied through the halls of an apartment complex. At least, not without humiliating himself or drawing undue suspicion, the very notion of which is unacceptable. Plain and simple.
As they approach, Alastor notices a blonde woman who has let herself into the yard—if a tiny tuft of grass and a few scattered stones could be referred to as such—and is now sitting up against the fence with her arms crossed. She's wearing a trenchcoat and dark trousers, cutting a slim figure with the slope of her back and the side-swept bangs of her short hair. Their pace falters.
“There’s a girl standing outside,” Husk says.
“Oh, really?” Snide words, accompanied by the arch of a brow as he looks at Husk incredulously. “And here I was, mistaking her for a wayward pot plant. Must’ve been her stillness that threw me.”
Alastor scoffs and continues closer. A beta, by the looks of her. It’s rare to see an alpha so slight. But even so, she does have strength in her shoulders and some command in her posture, her body confident in the way it carries her, plenty sure of herself even if she lacks the distinct hard and sharp of an alpha.
“And what do we have here?” Alastor grins at how swiftly her head snaps in his direction, now scrambling off the fence all startled and owlish. Never doubt his ability to catch someone unaware. The gate squeaks as he opens it, allowing both Husk and himself to step through, and the two of them then pause on grass in front of her. “Friendly visit, dear, or shall we take you for a home intruder?”
“Oh, no, I—” She fumbles over her words while recovering from the fright, a hand raising to frantically swipe her fringe out of her face. A pretty thing hides underneath, all big brown eyes and soft cheeks, and the muss of her hair is just enough to introduce them to her delicate scent. “I’m supposed to be here, it’s, uhm— Oh!” She looks down and begins to rummage through her coat pockets. “Hold on, just a second.”
Alastor finds himself leaning in.
Only fractionally, with fingers drumming a curious rhythm against his thigh, nose twitching as he discreetly sniffs at the air around her. Subtle, even for a beta—which he now has no doubt that she is. Soft and clean, just the faintest trace of sweetness, and the muscle in his jaw bounces with a pique of interest. Fascinating. This girl’s scent is like freshly fallen snow. He briefly considers telling Husk to piss off so that he might smell it unpolluted.
“Here! Oh, and my name’s Charlie, by the way.”
Alastor’s mind snaps back to reality when she whips an envelope out of her pocket. It’s in his face before he knows it, causing his head to flinch out of its involuntary dip into her personal space. He plucks it out of her hand and continues to unfold it. “For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
Blah, blah, blah, is what it says, the usual wish-wash in excessively round-about ways. Alastor knows what sort of letter it is purely from the opening phrase. He still reads it, however, or at least pretends to, summoning some degree of professionalism while she’s staring at him with eyes full of expectation. Bottom line: she’s one of them now, and the lumpy duffle bag at her heels demands they give up their spare bed. How mildly irritating.
There goes the home gym.
“I suppose we can take you in,” Alastor says while folding up the letter and slipping it into his back pocket. As if he has much choice in the matter. The organization provides them with these safehouses and the folks in recruitment decide how to fill them. Liking the extra space is no grounds for complaint, and really, they had gotten lucky in avoiding a new placement for as long as they did. Hopefully this one is smart enough to last more than three months. “Provided that you behave sensibly and keep your wits about you. And for God’s sake, don’t overestimate yourself, I’m sure you’re plenty strong but you’re still a beta, after all.”
Charlie nods sharp enough to dishevel the fringe she had just managed to push back. “Yes, sir.”
And Alastor’s lips seal tightly around the sound that punches up his throat. Some horrid amalgamation of a laugh and a snort, rough and winded and by all means unseemly.
“Christ,” Husk growls, “Don’t rile him up.”
Ignoring him, Alastor cuts in with a step towards her, a hand splaying over his chest in some performative show of humility. “How endearingly acquiescent! But darling, this isn’t the military. We’re a bunch of grumpy louts who’re paid to cause problems. Call me that again and my ego may go up a few dress sizes.” He’s definitely not trying to distract from how his own scent peppers with satisfaction. “Besides, I quite like the sound of my own name,” he says, palm peeling away to reach languidly towards her. “Alastor.”
Charlie blinks at him and takes the slightest step back, her nose wrinkling just a smidge at the proximity. No offense taken—he’s mingled with enough betas to know that they often find alpha scents thick and overpowering. “Oh, yeah, sorry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alastor,” she says while taking his hand, clasping firmly despite the softness of her palms. Not that he’s paying any particular attention to it. “I’m sure we’ll work well together. And I promise I’ll be no trouble to live with.”
Alastor smiles with his hand retracting. No trouble. Yes, that’ll likely be the case. Integrating a beta into their space will be far easier than adjusting to another alpha, so long as she learns which lines not to cross. Then, her eyes shift to the man beside him, and Husk smoothly slips an arm in.
“Husk,” he says while shaking Charlie’s hand. “Hope you like cigarettes and cheap steak, ‘cause that's about all we've offering.”
“The lavish life, indeed! Speaking of which, I’m hungry enough to chew through an electrical cord.” Alastor sometimes loathes the human body’s incessant need to eat. Personally, he would much rather if they’d evolved with the metabolic habits of large cats—wolfing down an entire antelope and having it sustain them until the end of the week. He ought to give it a try. Might work, but it’s far more likely that not having a crumb since breakfast has led to a fantastical overestimation of his stomach size. He fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them at Charlie. “Throw your bag inside and we’ll go track down some dinner.”
“Oh, sure! I’d love to see some of the neighbourhood,” Charlie agrees while lugging her unexpectedly heavy bag towards the house. Someone could drown a corpse with that thing.
Then, at his side and low in his ear, Husk grumbles, “You’d better have some cash in those pockets. You owe me after marching us with our dicks out into that stupid situation.”
Alastor’s eyebrow ticks. “You really are quite the charmer, aren’t you? How’s this—I’ll buy a meal for both Charlie and myself and you can keep whatever change is left.”
“Keep foolin’ around and I might just start biting your fingers off.”
Hazel eyes slide across to where Husk snickers beside him. Flicking down, highly reluctant, a grimace twisting his expression at that threatening snap of teeth.
Disgusting.
After slipping her bag through the door and locking it behind her, Charlie approaches them with her hands buried in her coat pockets. Feeling shy if the hesitant slump of her shoulders is anything to go by. “Why don’t I cover it?”
A pause. Long and tense. Because, yes —a third wallet has now entered the equation. But regardless of how Alastor’s heart may leap at the thought of dining on someone else’s dime, his pride screams otherwise. The realization that they may have inadvertently painted themselves as a charity case burns between his ribs like the fangs of a venomous snake and elicits a response that is frighteningly close to panic.
No. No way. They can not have her thinking that.
“We ain’t actually that broke. Just having a laugh, y’know,” Husk says, presumably experiencing the same tortuous prick of needles. His head jerks towards Alastor in general indication. “Look at him. Man’s a walking ad for the dry cleaners.”
That is…
An unnecessarily frivolous addition.
Alastor glares in his direction. “Pardon me?”
“Oh no, please, I insist!” Charlie says with an appeasing raise of her hands, persevering past the fluster in her eyes as she attempts to reset whatever button she’s managed to press. “My treat, since I’m the one who just showed up on your doorstep unannounced.” Better, somewhat—enough to make the cards in his mind shuffle away from feeling slighted. Then Charlie lowers her hands and slips them back into her pockets, and her smile softens into something adorably sheepish. “I want to start out by doing something nice for you guys. That’s all.”
Success.
“Fine, whatever.”
“Perhaps just this once.”
Within half an hour, the three of them are seated outside their local burger joint. The place is small and old fashioned, some shabby hole in the wall nestled between a barber and greengrocer, occupying the street level of an apartment building. Lights are on now. Windows lit in random patterns, iron street lamps glowing warm and molten. The dusk-time whimsy is enough to make it feel like the world is crumbling a little slower.
The restaurant isn’t fancy by any means, but they do know how to make an exceptional burger.
Alastor orders his usual—cheese, bacon, no tomato, because who in their right mind would want a slippery little fruit slice tainting their beef—while Husk opts for a plain hamburger with a large portion of fries. He doesn’t need them but Charlie is there, laughing along and encouraging him. This girl is starting to look like trouble and Alastor can’t say that he doesn’t like it.
Charlie herself goes for a small burger without any accompaniments. Five minutes in and she’s already picking at Husk’s fries with all the daring of a domesticated sparrow. “So, how long have you been doing this?”
“Darling, I couldn’t tell you. Years, let’s say,” Alastor answers while making a few minor adjustments to his meal. Irritating, when the ingredients aren’t sitting square in the middle. “I’ve always had a penchant for disobedience. Let’s put it that way.”
“Me too, I think,” she says, as if not entirely sure herself, and something recognizably bitter flickers through her eyes. The next fry she pilfers is left hovering above her lips. “Although it’s taken me a while to turn those thoughts into actions.”
“That’s usually the case.” Finally satisfied with the arrangement of his burger, Alastor breaks the bun with a ruthless sink of his teeth. And by God, it’s perfect—the firm bite of bacon, crunching under the give of quality bread, lettuce crisp while the cheese is melted into pure decadence. Flawless textures that accentuate the tender slab of beef in the middle. While he believes himself to have something of a refined palate, there’s no denying how a particular clump of neurons in his hindbrain go utterly mad for the salty satiety of meat and grease. His jaw makes quick work of it. Before his mind becomes too singularly fixated, Alastor licks his lip and gives Charlie a sideways glance. “Personally, I find it commendable when betas step up to collaborate. The majority think they ought to sit back and let our kind handle the fight.”
Charlie quietly nips the top off of her suspended fry. Strange, she seems to have a little trouble meeting his eyes—the flittering shift of her gaze suggesting she’s likely torn between engaging in conversation and some nonsensical reluctance to watch him eat. “It definitely feels daunting at times,” she replies, briefly glancing aside, to where Husk is hunched over his burger in shameless avidity. “But I’m determined, for everyone’s sake and admittedly, my own personal reasons. I can’t just do nothing. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Indeed.” Slight distraction. His eyes are locked on in search of where he’ll bite next. “We all have our reasons.”
“What’s yours?” She jumps at the chance to ask. Almost too eager, and whatever vested interest she has is strong enough to finally steady her gaze. “I mean, why are you risking yourself for this? Alphas are at the top, right? It’d be so much easier for you to just go along with the rest of them.”
Oh, so she wants to uncover his motivations? Hear his opinions and see if he’s fighting for the right reasons? Perhaps he’s paranoid, too suspicious, but his intuition tells him that she’s trying to test him. For what, he can’t be sure. She must be hoping to hear that he shares certain stances. Unfortunately, Alastor doesn’t enjoy getting into it like this—not when she’s staring at him like she’s waiting for some nauseatingly heartfelt story about how he detests his own biology.
“Already trying to dig up my history, Charlie? I’m afraid I don’t give that sort of information away so readily.” Peering at her over his glasses and smiles wryly. Not that he has any grand tale to speak of. He’s quite ordinary, really, but he’d be damned if he’s about to kill his sense of mystery. It’ll take a lot more than a mid-range cheeseburger to loosen a tongue as tangled as his. “But I hardly think this is an appropriate dinner conversation. We’d be doing the world a disservice by implicating the fry cook.”
The next bite he takes is even better than the last. More cheese in the middle, thicker meat. He should really shut the hell up and finish it before it gets cold. But then as Alastor’s lips close around it and he begins to chew, he notices how Charlie’s eyes continue to stray, repeatedly glancing at his mouth and then shyly shifting away.
“What?” Alastor blurts, unnerved by the continued scrutiny. A hand raises to his mouth on instinct. “Don’t tell me I have something in my teeth.”
“No! You don’t, it— it’s fine, sorry,” Charlie flusters, face reddening, her throat struggling for a moment around whatever ridiculous thing has her so mortified. Another fry is shoved into her mouth to serve as distraction. “I just… haven’t spent much time with alphas before.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Strange, to claim that she’s somehow managed to avoid breaking bread with approximately thirty percent of the population. Alastor’s brow slips upwards, perplexed, but any follow up is forgotten when Husk raises his head to interject.
“You’re scaring her, dumbass. Quit ripping into that thing like you’re tryna tear its throat out.”
“Seriously? It’s a burger, Husk, not a bunny rabbit,” he scoffs, sucking a spot of sauce off his thumb before reaching for a napkin. Preposterous. What would they have him do, eat it with a knife and fork? Alastor’s etiquette is second to none and not even he would accept such uppity nonsense. But, he is a fool at heart, isn’t he? After a beat, he leans forward, smile sharpening at the edges as it twists into something crafty. “And it should’ve known better than to flaunt its tasty little jugular around me.”
Another bite, and it has no aspirations of selling himself as demure. If anything, he’s more ruthless, really flexes his jaw into it, as if mauling his dinner will somehow disprove their misguided judgements. Charlie makes a squeaking noise then is followed up by a giggle—some delightfully dorky chuckle that slips out uninhibited.
Not the intended effect, but he’ll take it.
“Well, he’s sort of right,” Charlie says, that endearing smile still pinching dimples into her cheeks, leaning into the table and looking a lot more comfortable now despite her earlier awkwardness. Nothing eases the tension quite like a show of social self-sacrifice. “Not that I’d ever think you’re scary, of course. I hadn’t realized your canines were so big and pointy.”
Big and pointy? Alastor does hesitate now, expression doing something so painfully complex that he almost forgets to swallow. Yes, he does have prominent canine teeth, all alphas do—and he supposes his may be larger than average but they’re still a far cry from freakish. His chest tightens as some rabid little beast tries to convince him that this is a compliment, this is something he should feel proud of, some insignificant genetic attribute that he should shove in her face whilst she’s so eager to notice, but Alastor has gone his whole life without engaging in such inane posturing behaviors. Although the urge is strong enough to tighten his grip and crinkle his burger’s wrapping paper.
“Told you,” Husk says.
“Trust me, Charlie, I can be plenty scary when I wish to be.” Alastor’s voice comes out smooth, controlled, giving no indication of how viciously he shoves that impulse back down into whatever rotten recess it had crawled out of. He refuses to let some basal compulsion influence his thoughts. To change the topic and hopefully alleviate his own discomfort, he snaps at Husk with a peeved scowl. “And you, damn reprobate, are the one eating like an animal. At least try to act civilized when we’re out in public.”
“Animal, huh?” The roughness of Husk’s chuckle should be enough to alarm him. However, Alastor is too preoccupied with his own inner workings to smell the bait before it befalls him, and he’s caught off guard when Husk’s hand quickly swipes towards his burger. “Gimme some of that bacon.”
It’s an unstoppable tragedy. A reflex so strong, so hardwired into the fibres of his body, that Alastor can’t help but jerk back defensively—and he can’t stop the clench of his teeth, can’t control the possessive growl that erupts from his body unwillingly. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until Husk backs off with a satisfied snort.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Oh, Alastor hates him.
He clears his throat and collects himself, pushes up his glasses and fidgets in a way that hopefully distracts from how his ears are burning. Damn it. Genuine embarrassment is something Alastor rarely feels and he isn’t entirely sure how to handle it. Maybe he does hate himself, in some ways, namely due to how his nature still clashes so loathsomely with his personal disposition despite his ceaseless attempts to crush it out of existence.
He glares at Husk, narrow and scathing, before huffing out a frustrated breath and turning his attention to Charlie. “My apologies, darling. I promise I have perfect table manners when he isn’t making an effort to provoke me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie says, though the idle amusement is written all over her face. Her eyes linger on him for longer than they should. Inspecting him as if he were something interesting, and the close attention is enough to make Alastor fear that he might visibly be blushing. She rests her chin on her palm and leans into him. “No need to hold back on my account, especially when you're so close to taking down that poor beef patty.”
He nearly chokes. “Charlie—”
“Fuck.” Husk grins while slapping a hand down on the table. “I like her.”