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The first thing Veritas notices upon entering his office is the sweet scent permeating the air.
The second is Aventurine, haphazardly slumped on his sofa, his jacket carelessly thrown on the floor.
“Ah. Doctor.”
The blond flashes a smile towards Veritas. It is another smile that does not reach his eyes—those eyes that currently lack the clarity, the sharpness, that they usually possess. Haze clouds them, telling Veritas what he needs to know.
“You didn’t take your suppressants.”
It is not a question. It is a statement. For some godforsaken reason, this damned gambler skipped on taking his heat suppressant pills. Scratch that—Veritas can guess the reason. There is only one explanation as to why an omega on the brink of his heat would forgo medication designed to inhibit that condition.
Pheromones released by omegas in nearing their heat are particularly potent. Multiple studies conclude that it has the ability to affect alphas’ limbic system, making them more liable to caving to their base desires.
“You can’t fault me for making use of all the chips I have, Doctor.” Aventurine’s voice is breathier than usual. “After all—”
More prone to fall under the said omega’s… thrall.
“For the Amber Lord? Save your spiel, gambler.”
He cuts Aventurine, walking away from the blond to remove his gloves and wash his hands, then to a shelf behind his desk. There it is, on the third row from the top, parallel to his chest—a small safe only openable with his biometric key, where he stores several vials for the sole purpose of dealing with Aventurine.
Suppressants.
When he accepted this position from Yabuli, he didn’t think wrangling an errant omega would be one of his tasks. But one day that damned gambler showed up out of the blue in his office, barely a week since he shoved a gun in Veritas’ hand. Aventurine, with a flushed face and cloudy eyes, asked whether the doctor in his title is philosophical or medical.
Perhaps back then he should’ve sent Aventurine to the sick bay straight away. Perhaps when Aventurine came back to him bearing the same condition, several weeks after he first came, he should’ve established the proper boundaries of his supervisory position. Made it clear to Aventurine so he would understand, just like how he forced Veritas to take part in his reckless russian roulette game.
But he didn’t.
Veritas retrieves an ampule from the safe. There are only several vials of suppressant left—he needs to restock.
“Hey, Doctor. Just wondering… why don’t you ever treat me the… traditional way?”
Aventurine is still quite chatty, it seems. Finally that damned gambler takes his advice to come to him before he’s reduced to a whimpering mess. If only he also learns to take his other advice.
“If you want it that way, you should seek an alpha instead.” He puts the injection tools on a tray and places it on the small table near the sofa. Then he crouches beside Aventurine. “Your arm.”
Aventurine does as asked, offering a pale arm towards Veritas. His vein was once hard to find, even with the help of a tourniquet. Now Veritas easily identifies it with his bare fingers.
“But you haven’t tried, Doctor.”
Is there a point to asking a question whose answer has already been determined?
“It won’t work.”
There it is. Aventurine’s vein. He disinfects the area with a cotton swab.
“How could you be so… sure, Doctor? Because you read the journals those researchers in the Guild wrote? I bet you could do your own research and prove those fools wrong. Isn’t that what you do best, Ratio?”
He elects to ignore Aventurine’s rambling. “Take a deep breath,” he instructs, before administering the suppressant directly to Aventurine’s bloodstream.
It should only take a few minutes, yet time stretches as Veritas watches the tautness between Aventurine’s eyebrows relax. Then he stops his mind before it can wonder. Before it lingers on what-ifs that are not his to entertain. Before it dwells on an inane suggestion from an omega in heat—an idea born from a mind addled. So he takes his eyes off Aventurine’s tightly-pressed lips, focusing on the depleting liquid inside the syringe in his hand.
When everything is done, Aventurine yawns. “So sleepy,” he murmurs, perching his head atop Veritas’ shoulder. He tugs the blue cloth Veritas wears. “Sit down, Doctor. Let me sleep for a bit.”
“You would sleep better in your own office,” Veritas says, but he takes the place next to Aventurine on the sofa.
“Mmm.” Aventurine lets out a long moan, once more leaning his head on Veritas’ shoulder. “Are you offering to carry me there, Doctor?”
“I’ll call the automaton trolley.”
“Bleh. That thing’s terrible. I’d be wide awake by the time I arrive in my office.” His voice sounds heavier. It seems sleep will claim Aventurine soon. “Anyway… thirty. No, twenty. Wake me up in twenty minutes, Doctor.”
He’ll wake him up once the hour passes. He needs that much for his heat to settle properly. He should’ve known it by now. “One hour,” Veritas states. “Doctor’s order.”
He hears Aventurine sighs. “If you say so, Doc.”
And he falls asleep.
Then it is Veritas, accompanied with Aventurine’s soft breathing, with the sweet smell that still sticks to the air, with a warmth from one side of his body—that keeps him awake.
He decides to read his students’ assignments. Otherwise—
(“It’s both—hell, gambler.” He covered his nose with his palm, but it didn’t work. It never worked. His biology was wired this way. “Go. Away.”
He had to, while he was still able to grasp his rationality. But that damned gambler grinned, instead, as he closed the distance between them.
“It makes this easier, isn’t it? We can help each other, Ratio.”)
He should know better than to dabble in follies.