Work Text:
“Absolutely fucking not.”
The loud, enraged words echoed in the comfort of their living room. The irate young man, who had refused to sit down for the entirety of the conversation, had folded his arms over his chest in an obvious sign of defiance. As if his anger-tinted words and deep scowl wouldn't have spoken loud and clear.
“You got yourselves into this mess.” He hissed. “So find another solution.”
The man seated in the big, old, comfortable armchair sighed. He was just as dark-haired, albeit decades older. His expression didn't change, steady eyes watching the younger version of himself display his protests.
“If there was another way, son,” he said quietly. “we would’ve already done it.”
Soap scoffed and rolled his eyes, clearly not impressed by his father's answer. He eyed the man with a deep frown, his patience worn dangerously thin.
“Explain to me again,” he grumbled. “how me marrying some guy will fix your problems.”
“Our problems.” His father nodded. “But very well.”
John Price was nothing if not a patient man. Despite his son’s often rebellious and non-conforming behavior, he found very few reasons to chastise him or to lose his temper. Even now, after having been over the entire situation once already, he was calm and relaxed as he reviewed the entire plan.
They were in trouble. Not just their family, but the family business. Quietly and with questionable methods, a foreign company had bought into the shares of Price Industries. With unreasonably generous offers and probable blackmail, they had bought out singular shareholders and gradually collected a considerable owning, something which the family had always tried to avoid. Now, with enough shares under their belt, the rivaling company had begun to make demands. Their claims were outrageous, but the leverage they had was dangerous.
“They're threatening to dissolve the entire board, unless we make them a partner.” John sighed, rubbing his temple in slow, heavy motions. “Which they can do, since they’ve got control of one third of the shares now. After the damage they’ve already done, I fear they’ll bully their way into more power. We can't have that.”
Soap, who remained annoyed and sceptical, but still had the sense to be worried about the family business, frowned as he listened to the recounting of their issue. “And marriage solves that how, exactly?”
“The only way a party can overrule any demand is if they hold more than half of the shares.” John made a vague splitting gesture with his hand. “That's why most founders hold on to that fifty-one percent. But I didn't found this company alone, so I split two thirds between myself and Simon.”
Simon. Soap was familiar with the man in the way one was familiar with a TV advert. He had seen the Alpha plenty of times, conducting business with his father, but Soap knew nothing about him. He was quiet, withdrawn and polite in the dryest way possible. Not exactly a joy to be around, nor ideal husband material.
“So just buy it off him.” Soap snapped, increasingly frustrated.
“We can't.” Although John’s response wasn't aggressive, it was curt enough to reveal his own annoyance over the whole matter. “When a shareholder openly threatens to challenge the status quo, all share sales are on hold until some solution is found.”
Soap exhaled, slow and deep, and finally took a seat on the sofa which faced the armchair his father was occupying. He knew the entire legal team had already been through the case and concluded that this was the only viable solution, but some naively hopeful part of him had thought he might have been able to crack the case himself.
“But sharing assets through matrimony isn't prohibited.” Soap murmured the words one of the family lawyers had written in the report he’d read before this fateful conversation. “So they won't be able to stop it.”
“Bingo.” Price’s gaze was sharp and heavy where it fell on his son. “As my heir, you already have the right to the shares. If you marry Simon, with the right contract you’ll both gain ownership of both shares. Combined, that makes for over half.”
Soap dropped his head into his hands, his elbows leaned onto his knees. The worst bit about the whole plan was that in some twisted way, it made sense. He had already been promised he wouldn't need to step foot in the business, Simon would take care of that side of things. But having Soap share the control over the shares was also a failsafe. If Simon tried to turn against them for any reason, Soap’s ownership would be enough to prevent any sudden moves.
“It’ll be temporary.” His father tried to console him, although it sounded bleak and useless. “Just until we can fix things. Plans are already in motion, there'll be a way to get those bastards out. Then you’ll be free to file for divorce and we’ll cook up some story of what happened.”
It sounded like just another minor business transaction. Which, in a way, it was. Soap had never cared much for institutional traditions like marriage, but something in him still protested. And yet, he knew he didn't really have a choice.
“Fuck.” He breathed, more to himself than anything, before raising his bleak, blue gaze to his father's expectant features. “When do we start?”
* * *
It turned out they had already started.
A preliminary version of the marital contract had apparently been sent to Simon the second Soap had accepted the plan. He was shown the same papers only hours later. With one of the family lawyers, Soap went through the entire thing step by step, making sure he understood the ins and outs of it. He would be married. There would be a private, but traditional wedding, one fit for a wealthy Alpha and Omega and one that would produce enough photographic evidence to convince the press. He would be appointed a space within Simon’s home that would be considered his personal space, and he would be free to come and go as he pleased. They would need to uphold the facade of the marriage in necessary ways - public appearances and no behavior that would suggest anything but marital bliss - until the rival company had been taken care of. The whole thing felt like a fever dream.
His signature was expected within twenty-four hours. That night, Soap lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, his mind a mess and too keyed up to sleep. He did the one thing he knew would make him feel better - called his best friend.
“Your life is a fucking circus.” Gaz stated on the other end of the line, earning a snort from Soap. “I thought forcing people to marry someone ended, like, a hundred years ago.”
“Tell me about it.” Soap muttered. “It’s like the plot of a shitty romance novel.”
“What, you planning on falling love with the guy?” Soap could hear the grin in Gaz’s voice and immediately wanted to smack it off his face. “You know what they call him, right?”
“What?” Soap wanted to smack himself for asking. He wasn't supposed to be interested.
“The Ghost.” Gaz snorted. “But don't know why.”
“Maybe he ghosts his pretend husbands.” Soap said dryly, and a part of him hoped his stupid joke would turn out to be true.
It didn't. Turns out Simon had signed his share of the documents that very same night, while Soap finally gave in and signed the next morning. With a contract in black and white, preparations kicked into motion, and suddenly Soap found that his days had been entirely taken over by planning a wedding.
Who the fuck would’ve thought.
Well, he didn't do much of the actual planning. Instead he was pulled into fittings, ceremony preparations and financial plans. It was vital that the wedding and everything around it seemed genuine, because there was only so much money could buy, and authenticity wasn't one of them. So, despite the tight schedule, everything was done properly and with just enough finesse to be considered a respectable wedding. And Soap allowed himself to be dragged into meetings with tailors and wedding planners and the family business team, and he did his best not to complain too much.
The most bizarre part of it all were the intense studying sessions that were meant to prepare him for any questions the press might want to ask. This entailed him learning about Simon Riley, the forty-three year old business owner, who also held a considerable portion of the shares in Price Industries. Simon was a mysterious figure to say the least, private and quiet, held-back and almost cold to the public eye. Every picture of him in media featured a severe man with strong, somewhat sharp features, carefully styled, blonde hair and hazel eyes, which seemed to hold a multitude of secrets. He dressed well, but didn't flaunt, and whenever he agreed to interviews, they were short, concise and straight to the point.
Aside from that, Soap learned that Simon Riley enjoyed running, spicy food and horror movies. He had played rugby in his younger years, had studied financial law, but had never intended to start his own business until the opportunity had presented itself. He had worked with Soap's father and they had become fast friends, and remained as such for nearly ten years. Whoever had put together the file on the man had probably scoured every single tabloid and online gossip forum for the entirely random selection of little facts Soap now needed to learn.
Oh, and Simon Riley was an unmarried, good-looking albeit withdrawn Alpha, who had never had a public relationship. Soap was convinced the man was secretly an undercover elite soldier or a twisted serial killer. Or maybe both.
Which was exactly why he was nothing but a bundle of nerves when Price announced he had invited Simon over for dinner. Soap wanted to make a thousand excuses, insist that he had somewhere to be, just slink away and run, but he knew better. Instead he forced down the nauseating butterflies in his chest and showed up at seven sharp, when their doorbell rang.
“Simon.” Price smiled and warmly welcomed his friend in. “Glad you could make it.”
In person Simon Riley was… Different. Visually just as handsome, just as intimidating, just as impressive. But his eyes, which had seemed cold and calculating in the pictures Soap had seen, now looked almost curious. He looked past Price, clearly seeking something, and when his gaze landed on Soap, the man seemed to halt. Something shifted in him, something which Soap couldn't quite pinpoint, but it made him feel *looked at*. Seen.
And there was the matter of his scent. Subtle, but undeniable. Metallic, almost, but with a strange, appealing warmth to it. How had Soap never paid attention to it before, even if the man had been in their home more times than he could count?
“John.” The Alpha nodded at him and extended a polite hand, pulling Soap from his thoughts.
“Soap.” Only slightly delayed, the Omega reached into the handshake. The puzzled look on Simon’s face made him hurry to explain. “That's what my friends call me. Soap.”
Simon opened his mouth, then closed it, as if thinking twice about a question he wanted to ask. He shook Soap’s hand firmly, with a grip that told of countless sealed business deals.
“Is that what you prefer?” He finally asked when he pulled back. “Over John?”
The question was entirely unexpected. Soap stared, the surprise written over his face. He couldn't recall anyone ever asking him what he preferred to be called, and he didn't have an answer.
He panicked.
“Johnny is fine, too.” It was not fine. Johnny was reserved for family. For people he was close to. People he knew well, and who knew him inside and out. What it wasn't for was vaguely familiar Alphas he was about to marry for the benefit of the family business.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice wrapped itself around the name, and something about him sounded pleased. It made all the hairs on Soap's neck stand on end. “You can call me Simon.”
“Not Ghost?” The words slipped from him before Soap could stop himself. Behind Simon, Price raised his brows in a way that told Soap he wasn't supposed to ask questions that could stir any hypothetical pots too much. But against all odds, Simon huffed out a noise that could only be described as a laugh - small, barely there, but nonetheless amused.
“If you’d like.”
That brief, passing exchange stayed with Soap throughout the dinner. Simon proved to be quite different than Soap had expected. Not as quiet as he had seemed, not as rigid and unapproachable. He was… Stiff, yes. Polite, in a way that told of well-learned etiquette. He asked quite a few questions, and although they made Soap feel like he was in an interview with a journalist rather than a dinner with his future husband, the curiosity seemed to be stemming from a kind place.
“John told me you play music.” Simon commented once they’d eaten, and were seated in the living room with drinks. Soap had accepted the glass of Macallan out of politeness, and was balancing it on his knee when the question captured his attention.
“Oh, yeah. Drums.” He expected Simon's reaction to be something akin to are drums even an instrument, because he didn't play something like the violin or the cello. But the Alpha's expression remained curious, his head tilting in a small nod.
“That’s impressive. Are you aiming for a music career?”
Maybe it was the bizarreness of it all, or the stress of the past days and all the appointments, or maybe the question was just entertaining in its own right, but Soap laughed. Not a quiet little snort, but a proper laugh, loud and not exactly polite, but entirely him. In the midst of it, he missed the way Simon's gaze intensified on him.
“Fuck, no. It's just a hobby. Lets me let loose.” Soap shook his head. “No, I’m in security.”
For the longest time, Soap had complied with the unspoken expectation of him taking over the family business one day. He had gone through an extensive education, had worked alongside his father, had tried his hand at different parts of the job. But the more he had done it, the more he had felt like he was fooling himself and others. He hadn’t enjoyed any of it, not the power nor the responsibility, but it had taken him several years to admit it to himself, than a few more to confess it to his father.
“In… Security?” Simon seemed equal amounts baffled and intrigued. Soap nodded.
“Yeah. Guarding, that kind of thing. Been looking into maybe getting into actual bodyguard work.”
Silence fell. Price, who had stayed in the background for most of it, spoke up when he sensed his friend’s bafflement.
“He’s a handful.” The comment was said with affection, and the look he gave Soap said as much. “Always found his own way. And I have to say, he took me down in two seconds flat. Shouldn’t have promised to help him with his licence training.”
“Yes.” Simon’s gaze remained on Soap, deep and untelling, and the weight of it unnerved the younger man. “You are quite something.”
* * *
For reasons Soap couldn’t fathom, those words buried themselves into his consciousness and refused to be wiped away. Every night up until the wedding, he replayed them in his mind and wondered what they meant. Although this whole faux marriage business was just for show, it was going to affect his life - both of their lives - for the unforeseeable future. He wanted it to be bearable for both Simon and himself. Although the Alpha hadn’t expressed any desire to back out of the deal, Soap still found himself worrying over how he must have felt.
Soap had never been a very conventional Omega. Ever since childhood, he had been loud, reckless and wild, nothing like his peers. He had never felt much of an urge to change, and had never been forced to do so. Still, despite society having come a long way since Alphas had been strictly providers and Omegas pretty little prizes to keep at home, some didn’t take kindly to the likes of Soap. And although he didn’t expect his father to closely befriend someone with an extremely conservative worldview, he also didn’t know Simon Riley very well. What did he think of his non-conforming Omega husband-to-be?
Despite the performative nature of their relationship, the thoughts plagued Soap even on the day of the wedding. In his deep emerald green suit, mohawk styled as elegantly as possible, he paced back and forth in the small room that had been appointed to him in the private venue. Only very close family was present for the whole ordeal, meaning his father, his grandparents and Simon’s sister. Oh, and three hired photographers, whose sole purpose was to leak the material into every respectable tabloid in the country. So yes, Soap was nervous.
He shouldn’t have been. Didn’t need to be. Everyone was in on the plot, there was nothing to fear. Except he couldn’t stop thinking about Simon feeling annoyed about the mess he’d let himself be dragged into, married to a younger Omega with nothing but a father’s wealth to his name, and having to endure this charade for god knew how long.
A knock at the door pulled Soap into the present moment. He fully expected it to be his father, so he didn’t bother to put on a brave face before the door opened to reveal Simon fucking Riley.
The Alpha was dressed head to toe in black - black suit, black shirt, even a black bowtie. He looked striking, blonde hair and pale complexion against his attire, and his scent was exactly as Soap recalled - metal, with a coating of warmth. Soap’s wondered if his own green suit had been a mistake, a childish decision in comparison.
“Johnny?” The name on Simon’s lips still made something in Soap’s chest twist. “Everything’s ready.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t even think to say anything else, or to pretend that he was ready to go. Soap swallowed, knowing the extent of his panic must have been showing on his face, but unable to hide it away. Simon halted in the doorway, then slipped in and closed the door behind him.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Simon, in a gesture that didn’t seem like him, buried his hands in his pockets. “You’re brave for doing this.”
“Not really.” Soap managed to strain out. “They did everything for me. I just showed up.”
Simon frowned, a crease forming between his brows. He studied Soap’s face, the silence stretching between them. Something shifted in the Alpha’s posture, tightened to a point where he looked uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, his tone carried an odd weight.
“You did get a say in this. Right?” Simon’s mouth became a thin line, serious and demanding. “He did give you a choice?”
It took Soap a second to understand what he was being asked. Numbly, he nodded.
“I mean, there was no other way.” He explained with a shrug. “But yeah.”
For a passing moment, Simon didn’t seem happy with the answer. Then he exhaled and his posture relaxed. “Yeah.” He echoed. “I guess not.”
It didn’t sit right with Soap. Not when Simon convinced him to join the small, awaiting audience. Not when they made their pre-planned, pre-written promises to one another. Not when he looked at the Alpha in the eye and heard the judge pronounce them spouses or when their lips met in a kiss lighter than the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. All Soap could think about was the defeated, almost disappointed tone in Simon’s voice. I guess there wasn’t another way.
It sparked a feeling of unease in Soap which made its home in his chest. It stewed and simmered when they, after a small but lavish dinner, were driven to Simon’s house. It tasted sour in the back of his mouth when Simon presented him with the massive, luxuriously decorated room that was going to be his personal space in the house. It made something burn in Soap’s throat when Simon politely bid him good night and left him alone. I guess there wasn’t another way.
Soap didn’t sleep much that first night. He didn’t sleep much the entire first week. His room, which could have been an entire apartment given its size, was too big. It was too fancy, too posh, and made Soap nervous to even touch anything. The house itself was a massive, three-floor estate, left to Simon by his late parents. He had no in-house staff, only a few people who came and went whenever necessary, and that only made the place feel bigger, emptier and lonelier. Simon, who worked hard, was often out by the time Soap ventured out of his room for breakfast. Eating alone in the expensive-looking dining room only made him feel more out of place, so he quickly learned to sneak back to his own space with his food. With every miserable day that passed, Soap began to wonder just how much Simon regretted his decision. I guess there wasn’t another way.
“Is he really that bad?” Soap was laying on his too big bed, staring up at his too big ceiling. Gaz’s voice was in his ear, the only glimmer of sanity he had left.
“It’s not him.” Soap groaned. “It’s… The whole thing. It’s driving me mad.”
“What, married life isn’t for you?”
“Fuck you.” Soap huffed, and got a short laugh in return.
“No, really. Just get back into your own shit. It’ll just be a weird roommate situation.”
“I can’t even go to work.” Soap whined. “We agreed I’d stay back for a couple of weeks. Can’t get caught on camera with a black eye and get rumours going.”
“Okay, that sucks.” Gaz agreed. “But I still don’t think you should rot in your room all day every day. Talk to him. You’re in the same boat.”
Except Soap didn’t think they were in the same boat at all. By now, he was convinced Simon had drawn the shorter straw in their deal. He was successful, busy and had his life together. The last thing he needed was a strange Omega in his house, hanging around and begging for his help, just because he was bored out of his mind. Soap believed that Simon would have chosen any option over this, had there only been one, but had wanted to help his friend and therefore given up his freedom for it. I guess there wasn’t another way.
Something in Soap must have found something hopeful in Gaz’s words, however, because he did venture out of his room that night. There was a comfortable, beautiful living room downstairs, complete with bookshelves along the walls and a fireplace that rivaled most Soap had seen in magazines. Mustering up some confidence, Soap put together a fire and settled into the big, old armchair close by, enjoying being out of his room at the very least.
He heard the familiar rasp of car tires on the driveway, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. But instead of subtle footsteps disappearing upstairs, there was an approaching trail of them, until a familiar figure stood in the doorway.
“Evening.” Simon said, lingering on the threshold. “I saw the light in the window.”
Soap didn’t say anything, only nodded, meeting the Alpha’s eyes across the room. Simon didn’t move.
“I haven’t seen you in a few days. Everything alright?”
Soap didn’t know how to answer that. He shrugged, and immediately that small frown appeared on Simon’s face. He shed his coat and set it aside on a chair, then approached Soap and took a seat on a low footstool, leaning forward to look at him.
“Johnny. What’s wrong?”
This was not what Soap had planned at all. He had no intention of burdening Simon with his stupid feelings, especially when it had only been a week. Simon seemed to be doing just fine, so he was going to shoulder his own shit and just manage. The paperwork for the share ownership was being worked on, the plan was advancing. He just needed to keep himself together.
Except he couldn’t.
“How bad is it?”
The question was out of his mouth before he could consider whether it was a wise one. Simon raised his brows, silently regarded him with confusion, then prodded for more information.
“How bad is what?”
“The deal. How bad is this for you?”
The frown was back and Soap wanted to rage. He hated seeing it on the Alpha’s face, hated knowing he was an annoyance that caused it. Like a fucking mosquito bugging Simon at a moment of peace.
“What do you mean?” The blonde either didn’t understand or pretended to be clueless to save Soap’s face. He should have taken the generous offering, but alas, he wasn’t that smart.
“It’s got to be pretty awful.” Soap clarified dryly. “You have to put your personal life on pause. Have me in your home. And there isn’t even anything in it for you. Just more work, with the business and everything. It’s a shit deal, isn’t it?”
Understanding bled into Simon’s expression like ink over wet paper. He clasped his hands together, not tightly but enough to rub a thumb over the back of his knuckles. Soap imagined he was summoning forth patience from a never ending well.
“I don’t think so.” The Alpha said, slow and calm. His gaze was sharp, unnervingly so. “Do you?”
Soap looked away, feeling himself fraying at the edges under that look. He turned towards the fire instead, finding the flames easier to watch.
“I do.” He muttered. “For you, at least.”
They sat in silence for a good while. Soap could feel the eyes on him, could feel the Alpha’s unwavering attention steered towards him. He kept his own gaze on the fire, choosing not to connect. He didn’t need to see the verification for it all on Simon’s face.
Eventually Simon stood to go. He hesitated in the doorway, collecting his coat. Soap didn’t turn to look at the man, but saw his figure out of the corner of his eye. The quiet, almost soft words he uttered didn’t go unheard, even if Simon disappeared down the hallway the second he had uttered them.
“I need you to feel comfortable here. I hope you’ll let me give you that.”
* * *
Soap didn’t know what that meant. In fact, he would’ve ignored it altogether had it not been for the call he woke up to.
The ringing of his phone roused him from sleep. With one eye open, he reached for his phone and answered, groggy as anything.
“H’lo?”
“Hello? Sir MacTavish? There is a delivery for you.”
Soap nearly hung up on the poor boy, assuming it to be some sort of scam, but the guy kept going.
“I’m at your door. The delivery said you’d be home, is that right?”
“Hold on, hold on.” Soap dragged himself out of the bed and over to the window. Drawing the curtains aside, he peered down at the view of the front of the house and indeed, there was a delivery van parked by the front door, and a lad in uniform, holding a phone to his ear.
“Sir?” The question made Soap snap into action.
“Yeah, alright. I’ll be down in just a second.”
It wasn’t just any delivery. It was a massive delivery. Seven boxes were carried into the house before Soap was asked to sign, and then the guy was off in his van. Opening the first box revealed a real surprise.
It was a drum set. A proper, good-quality drum set, with all necessary bits and bobs. It took Soap several hours to not only process the whole event, but to drag the boxes up to his room, then unwrap and set up every last part. He had to look up how to attach a couple of the pieces, and a good chunk of his day was gone by the time he sat behind the set with a pair of sticks in his hands.
Playing in new surroundings, with unfamiliar acoustics, took some getting used to. But an empty house and nothing on his schedule to attend to allowed Soap to sink into playing. It provided him with an escape from the constant tightness in his chest, the continuous reminders of what he had dragged Simon into. Without anyone to bother, he played long, loud and hard, and for the first time since moving into the Riley home, Soap felt some manner of freedom.
It became his escape. He quickly found Simon said nothing if he played when the man was home, so Soap had every option to retreat to his drums whenever he felt like it. The strange part was that Simon truly said nothing. He didn’t acknowledge him playing, didn’t comment on having bought the drums, didn’t say anything.
And not only that, but it didn’t stop with the drums. There were other things. A pair of stylish steel-toed boots in his size, exceptionally popular among the other rookie guards Soap had come to know. An exclusive membership to a nearby gym. Other, smaller things; a new shirt, some sneakers, a pair of high-quality headphones. Not a single thing came with a card or a note or even a word from Simon, even if the Alpha still took every chance to ask about his day whenever they ran into each other in the house.
Who knows how long Soap might have kept up the mutual silence on the matter, had Simon not taken it one step further. Fresh from the gym, Soap stepped into the house one evening, only to find the Alpha already home. He was standing in the open concept kitchen, things strewn over the counter, and he met Soap’s puzzled look with a smile.
“I’m making dinner.” He offered helpfully. “I was hoping you’d eat with me.”
Soap couldn’t exactly refuse. He showered and dressed, and found that the unease in his chest had grown into a full blown butterfly farm which threatened to spill out of him with every step towards the kitchen. Why was he so nervous now?
The table had been set for two. Soap’s mouth watered when he approached, watching Simon uncork a bottle of red wine. The food smelled delicious - spicy, warm, tempting. The Alpha looked up with something that resembled a touch of pride, before he gestured at the plates.
“Take a seat, plate up. I hope you like it.”
Doing as he was told, Soap barely remembered his manners and restlessly waited until Simon had settled and loaded up his own plate before he dug into his food. It tasted just as good as it smelled, if not better. It was spicy, but flavorful, rich and comforting. Seeing Soap wolf down his meal made an amused look settle onto Simon’s face.
“I meant to cook for you sooner. The whole business issue has kept me busy, I’m sorry about that.”
The apology was what made Soap pause. He chewed and swallowed, then shook his head.
“That’s fine. You don’t owe me anything, you know.”
Simon, cutlery in hand, hummed. The noise led Soap to believe he didn’t quite agree.
“Maybe not.” Simon admitted quietly. “But I’d like to think I can offer you something.”
Soap, once again, spoke before he could catch himself.
“Is that why you’ve been buying me things?”
It was rude. It wasn’t even a grateful way of acknowledging it, just an impolite question over a nice dinner. Soap grimaced inwardly, but Simon’s response was as calm as ever.
“Yes.” He said slowly. “Yes, I guess it is.”
I guess there wasn’t another way, Soap’s brain so helpfully provided. He set down his fork and leaned back in his seat. Simon’s eyes followed him, attentive and sharp.
“Does that make you feel better or something?” Soap met his eyes, trying to understand what was going through the Alpha’s mind. Simon only watched him, unreadable. He seemed to consider his response before he spoke.
“It’s what I want to do.”
The answer frustrated Soap. He frowned and rolled his eyes, vaguely gesturing at Simon with his hand. “No, it’s not. You don’t want to buy me things. You want to buy some nice Omega things, someone you can actually have a relationship with. Not waste it on someone you’re stuck faking it with because there was no other way.”
Simon’s eyes seemed to be drilling into him, so intense was his look. Soap wanted to squirm, he wanted to flee, but he also felt some manner of relief for finally being able to express the weight that had been sitting on his chest for so long. Simon seemed to drink in his response, his reactions, seemed to listen to him carefully before he even began to form an answer. And when he finally spoke, each word seemed so carefully placed, as if he would’ve been scared of breaking something fragile.
“I happen to think you’re very nice, Johnny. I promise that there’s nothing fake about my gifts.”
The cynical laugh escaped Soap without a second thought. “What, so you actually like me?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Suddenly the Omega found himself speechless - something Simon seemed to know how to bring out in him. He stared at the Alpha, who had averted his eyes and was making an effort to move his food around his plate. Simon looked every bit like himself, tall and impressive, but something had crept into his expression, into the way he gripped his fork. Uncertainty. Nervousness.
Simon Riley was nervous.
“But why?” The disbelief in Soap’s voice seemed to almost offend Simon. He looked up with surprise, then abandoned his food entirely to focus on Soap.
“If you have to ask me that, then you clearly don’t see yourself in a very flattering light.”
“But you said you only agreed to this because there was no other choice!”
“I never said that.” For the first time, Soap heard an unmistakable alphan rumble in his voice, the gravelly tone that spoke of instinct rather than etiquette.
“Maybe not in those words,” Soap insisted. “But you agreed with me, before the wedding! You said-”
“I needed to know that you had a choice.” Simon’s usually calm exterior was cracking. His brows knitted into something desperate. “Can’t you see? I thought someone was forcing you into this, and I felt guilty because I considered myself lucky.”
There was a light flush on Simon’s face. The corner of a canine peeked through when he spoke. Soap’s eyes were wide, his mind going a mile a minute, trying to process what he’d just heard.
“Lucky?”
“Yes, lucky.” Simon sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, Johnny, you’re a dashing, outgoing, handsome man, is that so hard to see?”
Something dissolved in Soap’s chest. Something that had been sitting there since the ceremony, maybe even before, melted away. It came with relief, with unexpected joy. But it also came with an entirely new revelation.
“Did you really just call me dashing?”
Hazel eyes regarded him with careful, held-back caution. When the small grin on Soap’s face registered, Simon shifted slightly in his seat. A small, tentative smile curled over the corner of his mouth.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s swanky as hell.” Soap cackled. “You couldn’t have used a more normal word?”
“What?” Simon’s smile gained a touch of confidence and it reached the rest of his expression, washing away most of his caution. “Would you prefer it if I said you’re pretty?”
Warmth flooded over Soap’s face. He swallowed and watched the Alpha’s eyes flicker down to his throat. He felt restless for an entirely different reason. He hadn’t realized Simon Riley knew how to flirt.
“And if I did?” Soap pushed back, never one to back down from a challenge.
“Then I’d say that I find you very pretty.” Simon’s gaze moved over Soap’s face, down to his shoulders and his chest, down to where the table obscured the rest of his body from view. “Among other things.”
Something caught Soap’s attention. The scent of heated metal. A stove burning red-hot. A forge, melting weapons. Simon, he realized, and the discovery made Soap’s mouth run dry.
“You’re not bad, yourself.” He managed to say, although his voice sounded strained and deeply affected by the sudden turn of their conversation. Simon hummed, clearly pleased with what he was hearing.
“Don’t give me false hope, Johnny. If you’re not interested, just say the word.”
“I’m not not interested.” Soap insisted. “What does that get me?”
Simon drew in a slow breath, as if collecting himself. Slowly, allowing Soap to pull back if he so wished, he brushed his thumb over the plain gold band on the Omega’s finger.
“This might seem like an outrageous idea.” Simon watched him carefully, drinking in each reaction. “But how about a date?”
It startled a chuckle out of Soap, who dared to brush his thumb over the side of the Alpha’s hand.
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.” He jested, grinning.
“I save that for the people I actually care about.” Simon paused, then carefully prodded: “And the date?”
Soap met his eyes and leaned in, let his gaze drop to the Alpha’s expectant expression, the curve of his lips which he had barely felt in the single kiss they’d shared.
“I’m free tonight.” He purred, a mischievous grin forming on his face. “Just don’t tell my husband.”