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Before Alfie, Tommy had never really, truly, appreciated the warmth of another person. There had been people, lovers, before the War. And those were times when Tommy would seek comfort and warmth, lay his head on his partner’s chest and drift off into a peaceful dreamless sleep. He’d taken the warmth for granted in the cold winter months, always assumed it would be there, ready and waiting. In the summer they’d lie beside each other, hands held, but bodies apart, too warm to lay side by side.
Then the War had happened. The cold had become a companion, one Tommy couldn’t often feel when it seeped through his wet uniform, drenched his skin, and buried itself deep in his bones. They’d lie together; Danny, Freddie, and Tommy. One man’s back to the others front while another sat watching as the shovels scrapped closer. It was a false heat. No sharing of bodily heat when they were starved, wet, and their fingers and toes were tinged blue and purple. Security. Not heat.
After the War, the cold still lingered. But this time Tommy’s clothing was dry and crisp, his skin flushed and warm, but the coldness remained embedded in his bones. Despite the warmth of his fingertips, now a healthy pink, people flinched when he touched them. As if they could sense the cold. When he looked at them, with blue eyes that used to laugh with his smile, people shuffled to keep warm. The icy stare stroked down their cheek, down their spine, but it couldn’t lie with them. For they were warm; untouched by the true horrors of War. And so, it would return, to the hollowed cave that Tommy had dug to save himself.
Then there was Alfie. He too had been touched by the War. But far from the cold and wet of the tunnels he’d been in the heavy fire at the Battle of Verdun. Yes, the cold of the trenches touched his feet. But adrenaline brushed it aside, made his blood pump and his muscles ache. Alfie had seen horror, had felt the heat of another’s blood as it sprayed across his face, had seen the warmth of piss on a man’s uniform as he was sent over the front.
But Tommy’s cold matched Alfie’s warmth. Counteracted it. Cooled Alfie’s heated anger the way Alfie’s warmed Tommy’s fear.
And so, Tommy had never really appreciated the true context of the warmth another person could bring. But now, on a cold January evening, he was cold. Not as cold as the War, or as freezing as the icy pieces inside which still remained. He was simply cold. The heat of his Alpha to warm the bed beside him, to tuck him into his chest, was missing.
Alfie had gone to a meeting while Tommy had decided to stay in London to sort the books. Stupid mistake. Foolish, really. And not for the fact that Tommy now had the painstaking task of deciphering Alfie’s illegible scribbles and jumbled notes. No. It was cold.
But it was only for a few days, maybe a week max. So, Tommy gathers the spare blankets from the cupboard. Soft, fluffy, and thick because Alfie insisted that his Omega have the best things he could provide. And right now, Tommy was happy to oblige him.
***
The same night, Tommy finds himself bathed in a sweat and he wakes with a start. Instinctively he reaches out for Alfie but finds the side of the bed cool and empty. But Alfie had taught him this. And eventually Tommy had managed it on his own. He pushes his hair from his forehead and tell himself to breathe. Deeply. As Alfie had taught him.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Gradually Tommy’s breathing slows to a few hitches and he allows the calming expansion of his lungs to remind him that he can breathe. That he’s not trapped. That he’s not in France. The flame from the oil lamp chases the noise of shovels away and casts comforting shadows across the bedroom.
Definitely not in France.
Tommy’s muscles are still tense but he forces himself to relax back in bed. With one leg he kicks the extra blankets from the bed and they land somewhere in the corner of the room. And then he curls up on Alfie’s side of the bed. It’s got his Alpha’s scent. But it’s mixed with Tommy’s so it’s weak.
With one hand he blindly feels around in the bedside drawer. When his fingers find the soft wool of Alfie’s scarf, he tugs it free and hugs it to his chest.
The scent of gun powder, smoke, and liquorice forces the lingering cold away.
***
The next day Tommy travels to Birmingham. Arthur had phoned early that morning to say one of the horses was lame. Apparently, the bay was hopping around on three legs and looking rather sorry for itself. It’s probably an abscess but Tommy wants to make sure. Especially with that mare. He’s got quite a few hopes resting on her.
When he arrives at the stables Arthur is waiting for him. Tommy isn’t surprised to see the worry lines etched on his brother’s face. Arthur never did understand the horses. Never really felt comfortable around them; too loud and brash for their sensitive souls.
“She’s in the stable,” Arthur explains as way of greeting. “Curly noticed her in the field and thought best to bring her in. Stop her from straining the leg any further.”
The horse is in the last stall, the quietest one away from the hustle and bustle of the tack rooms. Her ears prick forward when she sees the approach and she gingerly makes her way to the stable door. Her back leg is held up, the hoof inches from the floor.
“Hello Mrs,” Tommy’s tone is soothing and gentle and the bay nuzzles his outstretched hand. “Got yourself into a predicament?” He allows the horse to thoroughly scent him, to ascertain that her no threat to her. As the horse messes up his hair, he turns to Arthur. “Was there anything obvious in the paddock? That she could have tripped on?” The doesn’t look to be any cuts on the horse’s legs, but he’ll have a closer look in a moment.
“No, we checked.” Arthur’s voice is loud and the horse flinches minutely. Tommy shushes him and his brother carries on at a quieter pace. “You know Curly keeps the paddocks clear. In a right state when he phoned. I thought you’d probably want to know.”
Tommy nods his thanks and unbolts the stable door. “Get her headcollar, I’ll need you to hold her steady.” He removes his coat and places it over the stable door. Tommy receives the headcollar from Arthur and places it over the horse’s head, buckling it comfortably but securely. “I doubt she’ll like us after this.”
“For once I agree with you.” Arthur shrugs out of his jacket and removes his tie. The less the horse could grab the better. He’d never trusted them, not since their granddad’s cob had almost taken a chunk out of his arm.
Tommy runs a hand over the horse’s flank, feeling for any heat and swelling. When he doesn’t find any, he continues down the leg. The lower part of the horse’s leg is hot to touch and the tendons feel swollen. Beside him the horse flinches again and he hears Arthur’s attempt to soothe the animal. Tommy stops his examination briefly, waiting for her to calm before he continues.
The wall of the hoof is warm as well, just as Tommy suspected it would be. He readjusts his grip on the hoof to allow a better look at the sole, and when he presses on the black line near the outer wall of the hoof the horse tugs back. Thankfully she doesn’t kick, too well mannered. Even in the tremendous amount of pain she’s surely in.
He lets the horse take her leg back and straightens up. “Abscess,” Tommy mutters. It’s fixable. But a long process. And not a particularly pleasant one for the horse.
“What’s that mean? She’s ok, right?” Despite his lack of affection for the animals, Arthur’s not heartless. Especially when he knows how soothing Tommy finds them.
“Aye. Once I’ve dug an outlet for the puss, she’ll be fine after a few weeks box rest.” He lets himself out the stable and retrieves a loop knife. It’s sharp. As well as bandages and a wet poultice. “I’ll need you to hold her steady. Tight grip. She’ll want to move.”
Tommy settles the horse’s leg between his legs and identifies the tell-tale black line of an abscess. “Keep talking to her and give her a good fuss. She likes it behind the ears.” He grips the knife in his hand and begins to dig at the sole of the hoof. As predicted the horse tugs roughly to free her hoof, but Tommy makes quick work. Once a few shavings of sole litter the stable floor he lets the horse’s leg go.
“Did you get any puss?” Arthur’s knuckles are white on the headcollar. His hand moves systematically behind her ear.
“You never dig far enough to cause puss. Just enough to give it an easier outlet than coming from the coronary band. Top of the hoof,” he explains when met with confused silence.
Arthur grunts, something he’s always done when he’s not too sure of a reply. Instead he holds out the bandage and poultice. “Guessing you’ll need these?”
The next part is easy and the bay stands quietly while Tommy works. He places the poultice in the shallow hole he’s dug and then wraps the hoof securely to keep the area clean and dry. When he’s done Tommy makes sure to give the horse a good fuss and scratch beneath her muzzle. Eventually she appears to warm back up to him and comes forward for another pat when the brother’s make to leave.
“Good as new.” Tommy pulls his jacket on and fishes about in the pocket until he comes across one of Alfie’s liquorice sweets. Once unwrapped he hands it to the horse. A peace offering which she readily accepts.
Tommy reaches out to give Arthur his tie back as his brother pulls his own coat back on. But when his fingers touch the silky-smooth surface, he suddenly finds he can’t hand it back. It’s so soft and smooth against his fingertips. Fresh with his brother’s scent of whiskey and old books. So, he selfishly decides to keep it. Arthur has plenty of ties. He won’t miss this one.
If Arthur notices, he doesn’t say anything.
***
It’s late when Tommy finishes at the office and checks on the horse one last time. The horse appears more settled now. Having munched through one hay net already, Tommy tops up another and puts a swede on the stable floor. She’s been through an ordeal, she deserves it. On his way out, he leaves a note for Curly in the tack room explaining the required care for the next few weeks. Tommy’s already told him, and he knows Curly is competent, but he doesn’t want to take any risks with her.
The house in in darkness when Tommy arrives home, and after one quick cup of tea to warm through he heads to the bedroom. He does expect not to sleep much. Maybe a couple of hours at most before the freezing cold of the tunnels and icy scrape of the shovels wake him.
What he doesn’t expect, is the bear sat in the middle of the bed. It’s a tatty ted, having been handed down through the latest generation of Shelby’s from oldest to youngest. Finn should have him now, being the youngest until any of them have any children. So, it’s a surprise to find it in his room.
The fur is a patchy pale brown, and an ear has been lovingly chewed by many a teething toddler. The seam down it’s back is loose and white stuffing pokes out through the gaps. Not quite escaping yet though. Maybe Alfie might stitch the teddy back up? That could explain why Finn has left it in Tommy’s room for him to find. He’s heard Alfie telling his younger brother about his tailor past before the war.
Tommy picks the bear up carefully and runs his fingers through the soft spikey fur and the roughened tufts of the chewed ear. The eyes are glassy but the brown depth of them is warm and loving. Finn’s young adolescent scent clings to the bear. His brother hasn’t yet come into his maturity so his own unique scent is just beginning to form. Nature. Nothing individual yet, but it’s definitely outdoors. Of the rare greenery that Finn somehow finds in the clogged streets of Birmingham.
That night Tommy sleeps with Tatty Ted tucked under his arm.
***
Since the War Polly had always woken early. Rose with the sun to wait patiently on the doorstep, both dreading and anticipating the weary face of the postman who dispensed news. Every morning she’d see mothers and sisters collapse with grief in their door steps, clutching tear stained letters and envelopes filled with trinkets. While beside those grieving mothers, others would rejoice. Letters from husbands, brothers and sons to say they lived another day.
Once the postman had delivered two letters to a mother across the street. Polly had watched with a small smile, for who couldn’t be happy when a mother knew of her son’s health? The woman had hugged the postman with the first letter, and then used him to stable herself as she read the second. The son was alive. Husband dead.
Polly too, had once received two letters. One weighty with folded sheets of paper, the other slim – just a single sheet. She knew the difference. She had bid the postman a weary smile and saw the haunted look that came with the harbinger of terrible news. He left to the next house, and Polly closed the door to the outside the world.
A calming breath. A sip of tea. A lit cigarette. For as long as that slim letter stay sealed, her nephews were alive. All three of them.
With the letter opener in a now resigned grip, she sliced through the envelope. It held no trinkets. Tommy. It must be Tommy. For why would you leave trinkets behind if you weren’t going over the top? If you thought you’d be safe, beneath the earth with wooden timbers for support?
Another calming breath. A sip of tea. A drag of the cigarette.
The paper was crisp. Untainted by the weight of the words it held. An unfamiliar hand. A flourishing script detached from the news of death by the sheer volume it announced daily.
One week ago, a tunnel collapsed. Not a break through by the Germans or stray shell in No-Man’s Land. Not a clean, precise bullet to the head or the infamous gas.
A collapsed fucking tunnel. Buried alive. Drowning in mud.
Polly’s hand had crumpled the letter and launched it on the fire. It took a few seconds for the flames to take hold, as if they too feared the new it brought. And then it was gone. Simmered to ashes.
The next letter was good news. Multiple sheets always foretold good news for they were in a familiar scrawling handwriting, quick scribbles of hope, of shitty fucking rations, and cold damp feet. But that meant they were alive. Yet this one didn’t cause immediate joy. Polly felt herself frown and her hands shook as she read the words of a ghost.
A ghost that should have passed one week ago. In a collapsed fucking tunnel. Buried alive and drowning in mud.
Before she had even finished the first paragraph, her eyes skipped to the date at the top. Three days ago. So, Tommy was alive. At least he was three days ago. The letter explained the near miss as the tunnel collapsed, told of his grief as another friend wasn’t quick enough, and his journey to the hospital tents for an injury caused by debris. So that was how Tommy had been missed and declared dead. Too many dead and injured soldiers to remember.
So, despite knowing the horrors that could be brought by the early morning sun, Polly continued to wake early. For the sun sometimes brought good news too. And that made the waiting worth it.
Nearly four years later when the War finally ended, early rising was embedded in Polly’s routine. And now she sat at the kitchen table, in decidedly more pleasant times, newspaper in hand and a cup of tea in the other.
Heavy footfalls on the steps alerted her to another’s early rise. Arthur. His footsteps were unsteady and heavier than the rest. Tommy’s were quick and quiet and John’s were loud and assertive.
“Morning Polly,” Arthur’s eyes were tired and lined with circles. “Tea?” She declined as he poured one for himself. Last night had been a settled night. All three of her nephews were under one roof, and she hadn’t heard any late-night disturbances. Nightmares didn’t explain Arthur’s tiredness.
“New tie?” Polly never missed anything. Even the small details such as the new black tie her nephew was wearing. A date possibly? It was time Arthur settled down and found himself an Omega or a Beta.
“Think we’ve got a predicament, Pol.” Arthur took a sip of his tea. “Tommy took my tie.” Arthur rubbed a hand over his face in exhaustion and pushed his hair from his face.
She raised an eyebrow. A sleepless night from a tie? “Care to explain?”
Arthur shook his head, clearly reading her expression. He sighed and leaned back heavily in the chair. “We were treating a horse. Abscess I think Tommy said, so I took my tie and jacket off to help. Then when we finished up, he reached out for it. Think his intention was to give me it back. But then he didn’t. I’m not even sure he’s aware of taking it.” Arthur took a breath. A crease has appeared between his eyebrows “I swear he scented it. You should have seen the way his hand moved over the fabric. And then he put it in his pocket.
It wasn’t unusual for an Omega to scent things, but it was usually limited to their own property or that of their Alpha’s. Polly had seen Tommy scent areas of the house before he and Alfie had mated; a subconscious need to make it inviting for his Alpha. Since the mating Tommy’s need to scent had subsided and appeared to be limited to Alfie’s clothing. Especially when the Alpha was away on business.
But to scent family items? And then take them? The connections took seconds and then she understood Arthur’s weary look.
“His last heat was a month ago.”
“I know, I checked the diary to see when he last took a break.”
“Nesting?” Polly’s voice hangs between them. “I need a fucking cigarette for this.” The lighter sparks and tendrils of smoke hang between them. For Arthur’s exasperation and her own lack of information, Tommy hasn’t said anything to anyone. And Alfie wouldn’t have kept it a secret. Alpha pride and all. “He won’t know the signs. It’s his first pregnancy.” The words are spoken more to herself.
“His scent hasn’t changed yet. I checked when we left the stables. Still apples and haylage, nothing that would give him away to anyone else.” Polly knows Arthur is trying his best, trying to make up for the lapses after the War and look after his younger brother. His Omega brother. “Solomons should scent the difference though.”
Polly taps the ash from her cigarette and pauses for a moment. Alfie has been away for three days now, and should they be correct about the date of Tommy’s last heat, he should be one month along. “It might have been too soon for him to notice.”
As if reading Polly’s train of thought; “but he might notice when he comes back. Especially since he’s been away from Tommy’s scent for a while.” For the first time during their talk, Arthur smiles. It crinkles his eyes and it’s a pleasant sight for Polly. Her eldest nephew doesn’t smile as often as he should. “Never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but we should call him back. Let him know.”
“Not yet,” she’s takes a drag of the cigarette. “Ada’s in London. And she has a lovely fur coat, that I’m sure Tommy wouldn’t resist. I think it’s time she paid him a visit. Test out what we think before we call Solomons.”
***
“Hello, love,” his Alpha’s familiar voice makes Tommy’s heart leap and clench simultaneously. It’s been far too long and hearing Alfie over the phone only serves as a reminder of the distance. “How’s my lovely Omega?”
Tommy can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Usually he’d chide Alfie, tell him to behave, but he can’t bring himself to do that. “I’m ok, I’m back in London now –” Tommy takes his time retelling the story of the horse and can almost hear the smile in his mate’s voice as he hums and agrees. “She’ll be fine though. It’s only been three days and Curly says she’s bearing weight on it now.”
“You’re too fucking good with those horses. Wasted in this business.” This is Alfie’s new Topic. The Topic of Tommy, business, and a house in the country. Away from the smog, and the dingy streets, and the wops that seem to lurk around every corner. “How was your stay in Birmingham? Hope you weren’t called upon to solve too many problems. Fucking incompetent your lot.”
Tommy breathes a laugh and Alfie chuckles quietly down the line. “No, just the horse.” Tommy becomes aware of the ache in his cheeks and it’s not until Cyril nudges him and gives him a pointed look, that only Cyril can achieve, that Tommy realises his grinning widely to himself. Tommy scratches the dog under the chin, causing Cyril’s tail to thump heavily. “Have you said anything to Finn about stitching a Tatty Ted?”
“No, love. You know my eyesight, just about good enough for numbers. Stitching is long past me.” The confusion is evident. “Unusual topic choice, any particular reason?”
“It was just a thought. I found the Ted on my bed while I was home. Just wondered if you’d said anything.” Tommy had brought the bear home anyway. Tatty Ted now sat proudly upon the pile of discarded blankets in the corner of the bedroom. He’d been far too busy to move tidy them. “Ada is visiting today, just to drop in for a cup of tea. Been a while since she has.”
“That’s good to hear. Someone can check up on you. Make sure you’re sleeping enough, and eating enough, and doing everything else I have to remind you to do.” The words are light hearted.
The conversation carries onto the reason for their separation. Alfie has located the missing rum cargo and dealt with the delivery man accordingly. From now on the deliveries “would-be right-on time, fucking early even, if the man values the use of his other hand.” Tommy can sense the happiness in his Alpha’s voice now that business is concluding. “I should be home in the next two days, God permitting.”
“Good. I miss you.” The words are quiet. A year ago, Tommy would have caught those words on his tongue, but it appears that Alfie’s fluency in feelings and emotions is rubbing off on him.
“I miss you too, love. But I won’t be long, promise you. I’ll come straight home to London.”
Their goodbye is drawn out and afterwards Tommy sits numbly in the stair way. His heart aches more than it usually does when Alfie leaves. He misses his Alpha, misses his scent, and the comforting hugs, and the loving jests, and… and everything about him. Especially now.
Tommy swallows down a whine. It’s only been four days.
***
It’s later that afternoon when Ada calls for tea. She doesn’t knock, no Shelby ever knocks, but she sighs loudly when she sees Tommy bent over paperwork.
“It’s the kitchen, Tommy. It’s made for eating, not working.” Ada receives no acknowledgement. “Guess I’ll make my own tea then. Not the way I’d treat guests.” She’s been to Alfie’s townhouse before. It’s fancy but the interior is modest and surprisingly tidy. Probably Tommy’s doing. When he was younger, he’d always complain if anyone left a mess. The cups are easy to find; in the cupboard above the kettle. It reminds Ada of home.
“You’re not a guest. You’re family.” It’s the most sentimental thing Tommy has said to her in a long time and it takes her by surprise. Ada turns, kettle forgotten, a reply on her lips which dies when she sees Tommy’s expression.
It’s not a direct, obvious expression. No expression of Tommy’s is ever obvious. But the slight rise of his eyebrows, the minute widening of his eyes, and the fixed stare which looks past Ada. No. Tommy’s stare is directed at Ada, but not at Ada. At the coat.
Polly’s words ring through Ada’s mind.
“Wear the fur coat. See what Tommy thinks of it.” Polly had handed her a slip of paper. “Just in case you need him.”
The sunlight from the window casts across the caramel fur, causing paler flecks of copper and shades of chocolate to shine. Experimentally, she shrugs a shoulder and she watches Tommy’s gaze follow the soft ripple of colour over her shoulder, down over her chest, and gradually fading off.
Her brother clears his throat and stands, “let me treat you as a guest then. I’ll take your coat upstairs. Hang it with the rest.”
Ada takes the coat off and passes it to Tommy’s outstretched hand. He almost snatches it from her, but as soon as he’s got it his grip loosens. Fingers burrow deep into the fur so it brushes against his knuckles. A low whine and he hugs it to his chest as if it’s the most precious thing.
A quick scent of the air confirms Ada’s suspicions.
Tommy’s usual scent of haylage and apples is present, but it’s sweeter. Ripe. Fertile. Now she knows why Polly had said the fur coat. Why she had insisted on Ada’s visit. For Ada and Tommy had always been close, even after the War had left Tommy cold and frozen. Their bond was closest out of the Shelby siblings, their personality’s too similar to clash. The change to Tommy’s scent wasn’t strong, not yet. Only her close bond to him caused her to notice.
“Can I use the phone, Tommy? I just need to check a few things with Polly.”
Tommy replies on his way to the stairs and Ada hears him taking them two at a time. When she’s sure he’s out of earshot she hurries to the phone. With shaking hands, she dials the number from the paper.
It rings once. Twice-
“Yeah?” The gruff cockney accent is a relief. No assistant thank god.
“I think you should come home.” Ada forces her words to be firm, to dictate to the man no one dictate’s to.
“Nobody phones me, not even one of you Shelby’s, and tells me what I should do- “
“It’s Tommy.” The line on the other end of the phone goes quiet. There’s a rumble in the background. An Alpha’s response to a perceived threat. Ada quickly carries on. “He’s safe, he’s not hurt. But you should come home to London. It’s not something I can tell you over the phone.” The rumble becomes louder and a string of curse words is violently expelled.
Ada hangs up the phone. And smirks. Nothing like vague information and the mention of their mate to rile an Alpha. Especially Alfie Solomons.
Task achieved, she checks the hallway, half expecting to see Tommy’s stony gaze as he over hears the conversation.
It’s empty.
A whine tumbles down the stairs, worried and gut-wrenching. It’s low, not made for anyone else’s ears. It’s a lamenting sound, a ghost that haunts the hallways. Searching. But never finding.
Ada takes the steps two at a time and propels herself in the direction of the noise. Bedroom. It must be the bedroom. The door is heavy wood, the handle rough, and causes the wall to shake as it bangs against the wall.
She vaguely notices her brother curled against the wall, gaze fixed on the mound of fabric in the corner of the room. The scent is homely, welcoming and familiar; one Ada would gladly curl up in herself. Her jacket lays lovingly across the top, the pattern of Tommy’s fingers still showing in the fur collar. Arthur’s tie snakes around the neck of Tatty Ted, dotingly tied in a perfect knot where an imaginary collar sits. Large white shirts and a black knitted scarf lie in the centre of the nest, crumpled from being clutched between lonely hands. A white creased handkerchief takes centre place, the mixture of scents giving way to the loneliness of a separated mate.
A partially completed nest.
Along the opposite wall, Tommy sits with his knees drawn tight to his chest. His eyes are vacant yet focussed on the pile of material and possessions. It’s a look Ada hasn’t seen since first days of Tommy’s return. Desolate. Haunted.
“Tommy?” Her voice is quiet. The silence is loud.
He shows no sign of having heard her. A blood hand raises to his mouth and precise white teeth become stained with red. Another whine. More blood flows from the open cuts on his knuckles.
Ada kneels beside Tommy, and he doesn’t flinch at her presence. Doesn’t do anything. Just stares. Fixated. She puts an arm around his shoulders and guides his body until Tommy’s nose is in her neck and his hands are curled into the knit of her jumper.
Still no reaction.
Her hand cards gently through the curls on his head, stroking down the back of his head and barely touching the mating mark in the juncture of Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy leans into the touch, body relaxing with a flush of hormones. It’s not enough to render him plaint, only Alfie could do that, but Ada knows it will soothe the turmoil in her brother’s mind.
“It’s ok, Tom. Everything will work out, you see.” The words spill from Ada’s mouth with the same comforting tone that soothes Karl.
Tommy’s mouth opens, forming unspoken words. He swallows. “It’s a nest.” Tommy untangles a bloody hand from Ada’s jumper, but she grasps it firmly and places it back. There’s been too much damage to those hands already. “I made that.”
“I know you did, Tommy. It’s natural. Do you know what it means?”
“It means Alfie will leave.” The words burst out, the dam broken. Tommy wrenches himself from Ada’s grip. “It’s a fucking nest, and Alfie will fucking leave because it means I’m fucking pregnant. I’m fucking pregnant, Ada!” A tight humourless laugh escapes. His eyes are wide and frantic. Hands tremble by his sides. “What am I going to do if he leaves me?”
“Nothing, love. Because I’m not fucking leaving.”
Tommy pales instantly. “Alfie…” He shakes his head and backs away from the Alpha. Neither of them had heard Alfie enter.
Briefly Alfie glances towards Ada. When he speaks his eyes stay steady on his panicking mate. “I’ve got this. Thank you though.”
And all though Ada has many years of practice combating Tommy’s violent moods, she’s glad to leave this one to Alfie.
***
To Alfie, Tommy’s scent is strong and sharp. Soured by his distress but beneath that it’s ripe, fertile, and oh so fucking good. It’s a scent that calls to his most basic instincts. Mate. Protect. Nest. Baby. The strongest scent in the nest in the corner of the room; strategically places so that his Omega can see every crevice of the bedroom, including the door.
“It doesn’t mean anything.” Tremors tumble down Tommy’s lithe frame. His mate’s eyes are wide and repeatedly glance between Alfie and the offending pile of material on the floor. “I didn’t even realise.” Tommy’s breaths catch in his throat, and like clock-work the usual signs unfold.
In three strides Alfie cross the bedroom and takes an unwilling Tommy in his arms. With a little struggle he finally sits them both on the bed. Tommy’s breaths are hitching now, quick and unrhythmical. Blood stained hands fight against Alfie’s larger ones, pulling with the instinct to inflict pain and suffering. But Alfie holds them tight. Tight enough for Alfie’s own heat to chase away the icy fingers that grip Tommy’s mind. It’s always the cold, the ice that scares Tommy the most. He mutters sweet nothing’s in Tommy’s ear.
Alfie breathes calmly, exaggerating the movement of his chest so that his Omega can follow the movements. He feels Tommy attempt to copy but the actions fail. “Please don’t leave.” When a low whimper followed by a louder keening whine crawls its way free, Alfie knows Tommy is past reasoning.
“Tommy, darling, I’m going to calm you ok. Everything’s ok, you’re safe.” Fingers graze across the mating bite on Tommy’s neck and Alfie sees Tommy’s eye’s droop slightly. “That’s it, that’s my good Omega. So good for me.” He grips harder, leaving pale white finger marks on Tommy’s neck. The resulting flush of hormones makes Tommy pliant and he sags against Alfie’s body. Pale blue eyes search for Alfie. “You’re safe, Tommy. Feeling a bit better now?” A brief sluggish nod against Alfie’s chest.
Alfie removes his hand from Tommy’s neck once he’s satisfied the panic has fully abated. Tommy takes a shuddering breath and buries his nose in the crook of Alfie’s neck. “I didn’t know. I promise I didn’t know.” The words are low. It worries Alfie immensely, he’s never heard Tommy sound so defeated.
“It’s ok to not know everything, love.” Alfie soothes. “I didn’t know when I left either. I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.”
Tommy struggles to sit up. He gathers the duvet in his hands and his fingers pick away at a stray thread. “We never talked about children.” The thread is pulled longer and the duvet scrunches up. “I’ve forced this on you.”
Tommy’s eyes glisten and Alfie aches to make the worry and uncertainty go away. “I knew this when we spent your heat together, Tommy. You’ve hardly forced this on me. I’m delighted.” He takes a cold hand in his own and massaged the fingers. Tommy’s hands are always freezing, have been since the War. “I get to have a mini you.”
“Really?” Tommy hunches his shoulders but Alfie notices the small smile threatening to burst free.
“Really.” Alfie moves until Tommy is in between his legs, back to Alfie’s chest. They’re facing the nest. “And I think you’ve already made some pretty good preparations.” Tatty Ted’s warm brown eyes look back from the nest. “And it’s nice to know where my scarf is. Thought I’d lost it.”
“It was in your drawer. Where I told you it was.”
Before Alfie can reply, a sharp whine comes from behind the bedroom door. It’s all the announcement they receive before Cyril bounces in, a checked red blanket clasped between his jaws.
Usually Cyril jumps up for Alfie. Always has done. He’s not daft, he knows Alfie is the one who slips him titbits of meat and other surprises. Tommy is more strict. Tells him off for lovingly cleaning the inside of his best shoes.
But this time Cyril ignores Alfie and places the checked blanket on Tommy’s lap. He noses it towards Tommy. Another low whine and a slobbery kiss before Tommy can duck out of the way. Cyril has never been bothered by the ice in Tommy’s heart or the fire in Alfie’s mind. Cyril accepts their differences, accepts it’s from a memory before him.
Tommy picks up the blanket with a disgruntled expression. It’s covered in brown hair, holey in one corner, and wet in another. But Cyril gives him his best smile, long tongue hanging out.
Alfie laughs and tugs his mate closer in a bone crushing hug. “I think we need another blanket for the nest, don’t you?”