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They are the only two unmated omegas in this squad. Both newbies on their first tour, shiny brand new wings pinned to their lapels. The three mated pairs already in the squad had thrown them a little party, mostly just setting up the hastily-reassigned omega-quarters, when they’d come aboard. Oliver isn’t sure what to think about the fact that there weren’t any already in use before they’d been assigned, and his new bunkmate, LTJG Jacob – please just call me Jake – Seresin, who seemed to know more of what was going on than he feels like he ever will, gets really tense when the party’s over, and their being guided to the CAG’s office. Commander Steever. Whose also now their OSMAA. Oliver, honestly, has no idea what to expect. Commander Hancock at Pensacola had largely been a distant presence, more concerned with him as a student than as an omega. They’d only met one on one for the mandated start of training. And once when he was in trouble. Jake’s shoulders get steadily higher as Tenor and Bounce (the two-seater mated pair that had introduced themselves as ‘team mom & dad’) herd them closer to the Commander’s office.
Tenor’s rapid knock on the bulkhead yielded a solid “Come!” only slightly muffled by the riveted sheet-metal between them. He and Jake look at each other, bracing.
The office is small and cramped, like they all are. Steever has a pen between his teeth, and doesn’t look up when they stand to attention in front of him.
“Have a seat boys.” He growls at the paperwork, before leaning over and slamming it into a drawer by his feet.
And Seresin relaxes. He drops into one of the chairs like it’s the rec-room couch, the shit-eating grin that had vanished during the walk here is firmly planted back on his face. Oliver does the same, though much more carefully.
The introduction from there is fairly standard, though warmer and a lot less formal than he was anticipating.
Then the commander says something that knocks Oliver out of his half-attentive glaze. “… And of course, if you ever need scenting, for whatever reason, I will be here for you no questions asked.” As if it’s that simple! The man is mated! All alpha officers have to be, to be eligible under OSMAA, since it was introduced the nineties. Not that that’s stopped some of them, but it’s better than it was before the regulation. “I’m not your daddy, I’m not gonna coddle you or go any easier just ‘cause you’re omegas, but I want you boys to feel welcome here, you’re part of this squad now and I expect my pilots to act like it, okay?” The look in the Commander’s steely eyes is deadly serious.
“Thank you, Sir.” Jake doesn’t even sound phased. The smirk is gone again, when Oliver looks over, but the blank mask from their flight out isn’t back either. Oliver can’t tell what that look is, but he gets the sense he won’t see it again for a long while.
They’re dismissed for the remainder of the day to ‘settle in’ – which is official code for nesting – and wander back to their room in silence. Jake unloads a series of graphic t-shirts, dumping them out over his low omega-standard rack and fussing until they’re all arranged to his satisfaction. Oliver takes the pillowcase his mother gave him from her nest and fits it over his own flat navy-issue pillow. With nothing else to do they kick off their boots and curl up, facing each other. In the quiet, with nothing but the sounds of each other’s breathing and the creaking of the boat around them, Oliver finally feels settled enough in Seresin’s presence to ask the question.
“How did you know?”
Jake’s half closed eyes slide open to focus on his face. “Know what?”
“You knew Steever was safe. I saw the way you were all tense before. But when we went in there all of a sudden it was like you knew you could relax. So, how?”
Jake grins and nuzzles further into the white Fleetwood Mac shirt he’d draped half over his pillow. “Mate Mark.”
“What?”
“I could see his mate mark, when he turned his head to put those forms away.”
And Oliver is still confused, because “Alpha’s don’t have mate marks, the don’t have the gland!”
Jake sits up. “Yes they do!” He turns in profile, “My Pop’s has one, it’s right here.” Oliver traces over Jake’s raised arm to the point of his finger, tucked behind his jaw, hidden under his ear.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met an alpha who had one. And if I have, I’ve never seen it.” He wonders how he could have missed something so important.
“Not all of them do.” Jake is looking at him again, with that same not-quite-a-smirk non-mask he’d used on Commander Steever. “Alphas definitely aren’t required to take them, and I’ve met plenty of folks who think they’re not supposed to take them at all.” He’s quiet again, his eyes are far away. The fabric of a t-shirt with “Blue Öyster Cult” across the front is getting screwed up where his fist is clenched around it. “Alphas who’ve got marks are the best ones.”
Oliver sits, a little stunned, turning the information over in his head. “Why?”
Jake flops back into his nest, face mashed into the Fleetwood Mac tee. The room fills with contemplative silence. “Because… it’s not just an empty gesture.” He’s still looking at something Oliver can’t see, “it’s as binding as an omega’s bite. It means they can’t just walk away.” His eyes cut back to Oliver’s, hard and green like stones. “Some alpha’s hate that.” The strange, intense, moment ends. “Anyway, that’s how I know Steever’s a good one. He’ll probably stick on with us, even after the ruling gets appealed.”
He's talking about OSMAA. There have been whispers and rumors about a possible repeal of the Omega Service Member Assigned Alpha regulations for years. The government and the military have been debating back and forth over the protections versus drawbacks of the law since he and Jake were both in high school.
“You think they’re really going to get rid of it?”
“Yeah. I think they will. May not be this year like everyone’s saying, but it’s coming.”
“How can you be so sure?” Even Oliver himself, as much as he wants it gone, thinks some of the counterarguments have a point, there’s still single alphas all over the Navy, after all.
Jake snorts, “I know some guys.” His hands absently pet over the amassed collection of shirts. “Got friends in high places.” Smarmy little bastard. Oliver throws his pillow at him.
“Wait, no!” instant, mild, panic waves over him as his parents’ scents sail over the small gap between them, and smack Jake across the face. He dives after it.
For the second time in a minute, his brain catches up with him just a moment too late; Sprawled out on top of Jake, and his t-shirt nest. Jake presses the pillow back into his arms, and he hugs it to his chest. Jake, mercifully, doesn’t comment. Or immediately shove him off. He does laugh though. It’s infectious.
They settle, facing each other, and Jake fusses where his wild dive dislodged a crewneck from the OSU College of Pharmacy. He lines it up next to the band tees, and a woman’s fitted black v-neck that gives off a gentle beta-scent when moved. There’s also an incredibly faded NSYNC shirt that scents like sleep and alpha, and a matching set of novelty cotton numbers reading “I’m with Stupid” and arrows pointing in opposite directions. There are even more, layered under the collection he can see. It looks like every member of Jake’s extended family must have contributed. He wonders how Jake got it all in his seabag. The blend of scents; alpha, beta, and omega all together, surround him with an impenetrable blanket of comfort. It smells like home.