Chapter Text
north’s infatuation with racing starts for the stupidest reason imaginable.
as a teenager, he doesn’t care much about cars beyond the occasional movie chase or the satisfying growl of an engine. he’s never one of those kids who can name the model by sound or tell you horsepower numbers off the top of their head. cars are just cars. whatever.
then one of his sisters has a baby, and north ends up babysitting more often than not. his niece is tiny, loud, and, like everyone else in his family, allergic to silence. she doesn’t sleep to lullabies, or soft playlists, or even white noise — no. she only passes out to the sound of a full grid screaming its way around a circuit.
children, he thinks, bemused.
but hours of that noise sink into him. what starts as background noise turns into something else — a fascination with rhythm, with chaos and color and speed. there’s a pulse in it that feels alive, fast and fleeting, impossible to look away from. when he pairs that with his love for filming, it begins to make sense. racing isn’t just motion; it’s texture, it’s energy, it’s story.
he starts bringing the camera his parents gave him to local races, filming from the stands or leaning over fences until security tells him to move. at night, he edits for hours, cutting together highlight reels until everything hums with motion and sound. the more he films, the more he wants to be closer to it: the smell of fuel, the heat radiating from engines, the noise that settles somewhere deep under his skin.
by twenty-one, he’s built a reputation. nothing major, but enough to get his name passed around. a few thousand followers, a few local teams who trust his eye. he moves easily through pit lanes now, camera always in hand, finding stories in details other people miss — the driver’s hand tightening on the wheel, a tire change that happens in perfect sync.
but his parents also keep reminding him that passion isn’t employment. his mom brings it up every sunday when she calls. his dad sends him job listings sometimes — weddings, corporate gigs, things that pay better than pit dust and gas fumes. north doesn’t argue. they’re right, in a way. but the idea of filming a product launch makes his skin crawl.
so he starts looking for one that feels close to what he loves. most of the teams already have someone running their socials, though the quality ranges from decent to tragic. but one stands out, and not for good reasons. x-hunter’s feed is practically empty, a few washed-out podium photos, an outdated logo, and no highlight reels at all. a waste, considering how solid their track record looks.
north decides that’s the one.
—
he catches the team’s owner, alan, just after the podium ceremony. he’s halfway out of his fireproofs and laughing with a couple of old men when north cuts through the crowd toward him, camera bumping against his hip. he has zero plan — just a stupid rush of adrenaline telling him say something before he walks away.
“hey,” he calls, too loud over the crowd. “your insta looks like shit. you want help?”
alan turns, frowning at him, and north immediately regrets every word that just left his mouth. yeah, that definitely sounded better in his head.
“that’s your pitch?”
“pretty much.”
alan sighs, shaking his head, then raises his voice. “way!”
a guy hunched over a laptop by the tire racks looks up. tall, lean, dark hair falling into his eyes — he’s got the kind of face that would look great in a magazine if it weren’t for the exhaustion written all over it.
“what?”
“you still crying about needing someone to run socials?”
“i’m crying about a lot of things,” the way guy says. “but sure. i’ll take socials.”
alan jerks a thumb at north. “he says he can handle it.”
way studies him for a beat, unreadable. “we can’t pay a lot. but we have a shit ton of meatballs and soy milk.”
north nods. “okay.”
“hours are crap. travel’s constant. most of the crew are alphas.”
“‘s fine.”
way glances at alan. alan nods once. decision made.
“garage opens tuesday, nine a.m. don’t be late.”
north grins. good enough.
—
they do end up signing official contract. north gets a nice badge, team email, even a salary. it isn’t much, but no one tries to chain him down — alan just shrugs and says, “take other gigs if you want, just don’t miss race weeks.” easy.
the crew is small, fast, comfortable with each other in that way people get when they’ve been through a lot together. he thought fitting in would take time, but by week two they stop calling him “media guy” and start calling him “north.” by week three, someone writes his name on a coffee mug in permanent marker and leaves it by the machine like it has always been there.
soon his days settle into a rhythm. he moves through the garage with a camera in one hand and a tripod in the other, chasing people who never seem to sit still. half the work is filming; the other half is stopping mechanics from walking right through his shots. no one ever warns him before they fire up an engine or drop a wrench, so most of his footage is chaos — blurred motion, grease, swearing, laughter from somewhere off-screen.
when the constant racket starts to wear at him, he hides out in what’s technically an office, though calling it that might be generous. it’s a cramped corner stacked high with way’s paperwork, tax folders, and binders so old the labels have faded. but it’s got an outlet, a chair, and a door that shuts, and that’s all north really needs.
there’s only one real problem: north can swear that the garage is haunted.
sometimes, he catches movement in the corner of his eye — a shadow slipping between cars, tools scraping when no one’s around. once, he hears humming under the sound of the air compressor, soft and human, gone when he turns.
he doesn’t mention it until a late night edit session in the break room, when alan drops onto the couch across from him with a bottle of water and grease streaks over his knees. north keeps his eyes on his laptop and says, as casually as he can, “so, uh. your garage has a ghost.”
“what.”
“it’s like… someone’s here when they’re not. you know, shadows, footsteps, tools moving on their own.”
alan laughs, not even glancing up. “ah, that’s probably dean. he’s a little shy.”
north waits for more. none comes. alan doesn’t look worried. doesn’t look like he’s joking, either.
“dean,” north repeats. “right. cool. okay.”
alan claps him on the shoulder, than stands. “you’ll get used to him.”
north decides dean is human. he decides that firmly. absolutely a person. flesh and blood. helpful, tool-moving, battery-shifting person.
and if he isn’t?
well. north’s already signed the contract. too late to back out now.
—
one morning he gets to the garage early — far too early, the kind of early that aches behind the eyes. an idea dragged him out of bed at four a.m., something about sunrise spilling over the track and cars catching the first thin line of light, and now here he is at five with a camera bag on his shoulder and an energy drink he hopes will keep him functioning.
he expects the garage to be silent at this hour. instead, music floats through the space, soft and old, entirely out of place among steel and concrete. it leads him toward the back, to a car with its hood propped open and a small figure bent over the engine. whoever it is works with quiet focus, arms buried in machinery, completely unaware of him.
“hey,” north calls.
the reaction is instant. the figure startles, jerking upright and smacking their head on the hood with a painful clang. north winces in sympathy.
“shit, sorry,” he blurts, stepping closer. “didn’t think anyone else was — uh — alive this early.”
the person straightens, rubbing the top of their head, and north stops mid-sentence.
“oh my god,” he gasps. “a baby.”
because standing before him is not a ghost, not a man, but a boy. young boy. probably younger than anyone else here. small, compact in a way that makes north immediately think beta, though he can’t be sure.
the kid scowls immediately. “i’m not a baby.”
north grins, taking a sip of his energy drink. “you sure? you look like you should still be in school.”
“i graduated a year ago.”
“oh wow. a grown-up. congratulations.”
the glare he gets in return is spectacular.
“you’re annoying,” the kid mutters, ducking back under the hood.
north smiles, leaning against the workbench beside him. “that’s fair. people say that a lot. i’m north, by the way.”
“i know.”
“you know? oh. right, yeah, i guess that makes sense. i’ve been hanging around for a bit. you’re dean, right? the garage ghost?”
“what?”
“you move shit around. you hum. you hide behind tires. i’ve seen you. i thought you were —” he waves his hand vaguely. “— a rumor or something.”
“okay.”
a beat of silence follows. north studies him, curious.
“alan said you were shy. but that’s, like, fine, you don’t have to talk or anything, i can fill the silence. i’m good at that. i’ve been told it’s a problem, actually.”
that earns him a quick side-eye. “yeah, i can tell.”
of course he does. north can’t help smiling.
the ghost has a face now. a name. grease on his cheek and a stubborn spine. funny how that makes the garage feel different. warmer, somehow.
this is going to be fun.
—
it’s not.
after that early morning in the garage, dean stops avoiding north, but he doesn’t exactly go out of his way to talk to him either. when north says good morning, dean barely looks up. when north tries to make conversation, the replies are short, functional. nothing more than necessary. and underneath it all, there’s something that feels a lot like… disapproval.
like that time north’s setting up his tripod and dean glances over, asking, “you filming again?”
north glances up. "it's my job."
"must be nice, getting paid to point a camera."
the tone isn’t cruel, but it has teeth. north doesn’t rise to it. he just hums, finishes what he’s doing, and lets the moment pass.
there are other things, too. like the way dean’s eyes flick toward him when alan calls his name; the way he plants himself near way during debriefs; the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs at one of north’s dumb jokes. he lingers more after hours, working harder when north’s filming nearby, movements sharper, faster, like he’s being measured.
it’s… weird. dean doesn’t read like a bully, exactly, but something is definitely off. and north can feel it, humming in the air between them. it leaves him with the uneasy sense that there’s a piece of the puzzle he doesn’t have.
so he does what he always does when he can’t make sense of something — he keeps moving. between filming, editing, hauling tripods, chasing drivers, and dodging flying wrenches, there’s already more than enough chaos in his day. one hissy mechanic with a grudge isn’t going to slow him down.
—
“north, can you hold the light? we need another pair of hands.”
“sure.”
a rag hits the hood with a dull slap. “i got it.”
“you’re still on wiring.”
“i can do both.”
“no, dean, you can’t.”
“i can.”
north sighs. here they go again.
—
and then, one slow afternoon, it all clicks into place.
the break slows everything down, and with nothing urgent left to do, north turns his attention to one of way’s teetering stacks of binders before it inevitably collapses.
“what are you doing?”
north looks up. dean’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing the kind of frown that sounds like trouble even before he says a word. he looks annoyed, though for what reason, north can’t begin to guess.
“cleaning up a little.”
“alan told me to handle it.”
“relax,” north says, amused. “i’m just making sure this place doesn’t catch fire.”
“it was fine before you got here.”
“sure it was.”
dean’s shoulders rise, hackles up. “you don’t know how we do things here.”
and that’s when it hits.
the team has been together for years — inside jokes, easy rhythm, the kind of comfort that only comes from time. and dean, from what north’s gathered, joined recently. still new, still trying to prove himself. and now north’s here too, laughing along, fitting in faster than maybe he should. it’s no wonder dean is reacting the way he does.
jealousy. that’s all it is.
north feels a pang of something like guilt. or sympathy. he isn’t sure which. but whatever it is, he can’t leave it sitting between them like that.
“i’m not trying to take your place, you know.”
“sure.”
north exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching. dean really is something else.
“look, i just like being part of the group. that’s all," he starts, softer now. "you don’t have to like me, of course, but we’re gonna be around each other for a while, so i figured we might as well try to get along. besides —” he gestures loosely toward the doors that lead back to the garage “— i think you’re really cool. knowing all those bolts and wires and… stuff.”
that gets him a glance — quick, uncertain. north meets it, offers a small, easy smile.
“okay,” dean says quietly. "we'll see."
and for the first time, he doesn't look away.
—
two days later, something lands on his desk with a dull thud.
north blinks, dragging a hand over his face. he’s been editing his mother’s photos for her facebook for the last two hours, and his eyes feel like sandpaper.
“what’s this?”
“food,” dean says. “you skipped dinner.”
the bag does smell good. north studies it for a moment, then looks at him again. “you keeping tabs on me now?”
“no. i just… noticed.”
there’s a pause that feels longer than it is. dean shifts like someone unused to standing still, his hands laced behind his back, eyes flicking everywhere but north’s face.
“i came to say sorry," he says finally, "for before. for being an ass.”
“you didn’t have to bring food for that.”
“i know. but it felt like the right thing.”
he stands there for a moment longer, then seems to push himself forward, words tumbling out faster than before. “listen, i didn’t mean to be an asshole, i swear. it’s just — this team means a lot to me, okay? and when you showed up and everyone liked you, i — it messed with my head a little. so yeah. sorry.”
the words fall unevenly but true. north watches him, the light slipping across his face, catching in his lashes, the edge of his cheek. he looks younger like this, open in a way he rarely lets himself be.
“you’re an idiot,” north says, smiling. “and kind of a baby.”
that breaks the tension just enough. dean looks up, half ready to argue, half amused. “i’m not — okay, maybe a little. but still.”
north grins, the mood loosening between them. “you hungry?”
“a little.”
“good. help me finish this before it goes cold.”
dean hesitates, hands still shoved into his pockets. north opens one of the containers, the smell of fried rice and garlic spilling out, and tilts it his way.
“come on,” he says, easy. “you bought it. might as well eat it.”
they eat at the desk, quiet except for the soft scrape of plastic and hum of equipment cooling nearby. their hands brush when they reach for the same container, and dean mutters a quick, “sorry.” north just hums and pushes it closer to him. the food’s nothing special, but it tastes better shared.
after a bit, north leans back in his chair, watching him. “for what it’s worth,” he says, “you’re terrible at being an ass. you mostly came off like a hissy kitten. very cute.”
dean chokes on his bite. “hey. i’m not cute.”
“sure.”
“no, seriously,” dean insists, trying for a glare but failing halfway through.
north grins, tipping his head toward him. “you’re doing it again.”
“what?”
“the face. the one that ruins your argument.”
dean huffs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. and just like that, the space between them finally feels easy.
—
and really, north should’ve known better. because the second dean decides north’s safe, the change is instant. one day it’s a nod and a mumbled “morning,” then “morning, phi,” and a week later it turns into, “morning, north. you look like shit.” and then it just gets worse from there.
suddenly dean is everywhere. he steals north’s seat the second he stands up, spinning in it until he nearly tips over. he drinks the last of the coffee while making deliberate eye contact. he raids north’s snack drawer, leaving behind nothing but wrappers and a poorly drawn kissy face. if north asks, “where’s my charger?” dean holds it up from across the garage, already plugged into his phone.
“should’ve gotten here faster,” he says, and north can’t even be mad. he kind of brought this on himself.
the others notice too. way shakes his head, watching dean trail after him, and mutters something about “finally found someone his age.” alan grins whenever he sees them bickering, the sound of dean’s laughter bouncing off the concrete like it’s been waiting there all along. even babe calls it “a good match” once, under his breath, and doesn’t bother hiding the small smile that follows.
north doesn’t mind. it’s almost funny, really, that someone who spent months avoiding him now can’t seem to go five minutes without being near. but maybe that’s what dean needed — someone who didn’t treat him like a junior to manage or a project to fix, someone to just laugh with him, mess around, talk nonsense between runs. north made that easy, and dean grabbed on fast.
besides, for every prank or petty theft, there’s also a gentle counterweight. dean remembering how north takes his coffee. dean setting out earplugs before the engines start. dean leaving a protein bar by the laptop when north forgets to eat. it’s clumsy, but it’s care, and north feels it every time.
the urge to look after him comes easy, like breathing. the pull to keep him safe and settled presses in before north can think twice.
a baby, he thinks.
ridiculous, childish, a handful.
but his.
—
omega heats, in reality, are a lot duller than people like to imagine.
north doesn’t spend them panting and needy, doesn’t writhe for a dick like in cheap romance novels. mostly, he just slows down. sound softens, thoughts drift, the air around him grows warm, heavy with scent, thick enough to feel like he’s swimming through honey.
the apartment is dim. the hum of the air conditioner is constant, keeping the heat from tipping into something heavy. on the side table, a glass jug of peach tea glistens, droplets of condensation sliding down to pool beneath it. the television plays a movie with the sound turned low, colors flickering across the walls in soft rhythm.
his nest spreads across the bed, layered and imperfect, built from years of keeping what comforts him: blankets, worn shirts, hoodies from siblings and friends, old things that smell like home.
and now, there’s also dean.
he’s curled close, half hidden beneath the layers, his head resting against north’s chest, an arm draped across his waist. up close, his scent is still soft — the faint sweetness of a pup, lightly floral beneath the sharper tang of garage dust. at the edges, a shadow of way’s imprint lingers, though it’s fading, replaced slowly by north’s.
later, north will become dean’s first kiss — awkward and accidental and warm in a way that sticks to the ribs.
later, a soft-faced alpha will join the team, bright-eyed and easy, and north will fall before he even realizes what’s happening. dean will bristle again, over north now, and though things will settle with time, something between them will never go back to how it was.
later, north will lose them both. one after the other, within a month, as if someone reached inside him and took the center away but left the rest standing. he will stop nesting for more than a year, stop keeping extra pillows on his bed, stop leaving warm tea steeping just in case someone wants it. the part of him that builds warmth will go quiet for a while, waiting for a reason to wake again.
but that is later.
now, dean shifts against him, murmuring something too soft to catch, and presses closer. north rests his hand at the back of his neck, feeling the slow thrum beneath his skin.
the world feels far away. nothing hurts yet.