Chapter Text
Simon "Ghost" Riley twirled the tactical knife between his gloved fingers one more time before sending it flying into the rec room’s poor, abused wall with that familiar, lethal flick of his wrist.
THUD.
The metal embedded itself into the drywall with a solid, dull sound.
Ghost stared blankly from behind his mask at the fresh, deep hole he had just added to the collection. Under normal circumstances, damaging military property would trigger one of Captain Price’s famous "Dad Lectures." Which was ridiculous, really. They could blow up an entire enemy compound, but couldn't put a damn hole in a wall?
But Simon was at ease. Because within Task Force 141, there was an unwritten, universal law of nature:
Rule #1: If something breaks, explodes, or catches fire, it is Johnny "Soap" MacTavish's fault.
Rule #2: Even if Johnny isn't in the room, it is still Johnny's fault. Because he definitely booby-trapped it.
When Price eventually saw this hole, Simon would just shrug and blame the loud Scot. And the funny part was, Price would believe it. Ghost didn’t even need to lie. 2+2=4. Simple math.
Ghost walked toward the knife with slow, heavy, yet controlled steps—like a phantom. Great, now he was making puns. He really needed to talk less to that weird Scot. He yanked the blade out roughly and updated the mental list that had been playing on a loop in his mind.
Three things he hated most in life:
Noise. (Especially Scottish shouting at the crack of dawn).
Unnecessary Proximity. (Shoulder checks, grinning faces invading his personal space).
John "Soap" MacTavish.
Simon paused as he sheathed his knife. He let out a deep sigh.
Actually, there was no need to extend the list. Because the first two items were technically subsets of the third. A universal set was sufficient. The sample space converged on Soap.
Basically; noise, proximity, and chaos all amounted to a single word: Johnny.
Just the thought made his inner Omega fluff up its feathers in delight. His inner Omega loved their Alpha.
Fuck.
Ghost didn't say that out loud.
He remembered he was alone in the room, shrugged, and dropped himself onto the couch. But no matter how nonchalant he tried to look, deep in his mind, the Omega hiding under that hard Alpha mask was restless.
Because of that sentence Johnny had said over the roar of the helicopter returning from the last mission... That sentence was etched into Simon’s brain. It had entered the system like a virus and couldn't be deleted.
Johnny had tried to rest his tired, gunpowder-scented head on Simon’s shoulder (and was rejected), then mumbled with those damn puppy eyes:
"Omegas purr if they're happy, L.t... But ye never purr, Ghost. Are ye... are ye no happy? Are we doin' somethin' wrong?"
The heartbreak in Johnny’s voice... The sad vibration in his Scottish accent when he said "Ye never purr"...
Ghost cursed internally.
Because those words were playing in his mind like a broken record.
And the worst part?
Ghost’s inner Omega was clawing at Simon from the inside for upsetting his Alpha (because yes, Johnny technically counted as his Alpha, and Ghost mourned this fact daily).
The old, black leather couch in the corner of the rec room let out a pained squeak under the weight of his massive frame. Ghost’s size was always a test for standard furniture. He was a 6'4", muscular, lethal slap in the face to society’s "delicate, small Omega" stereotype.
Well, the universe’s problem, not Ghost’s.
As his gloved fingers traced the thick, cold edges of the armrest, his brain went into years of automated tactical analysis mode:
Black leather. Probably synthetic. Cheap. Holds blood, hard to clean, but hides stains.
Cushions are cotton but have polyester filling. Can't be used as a suppressor, but might muffle high-pitched screams by 40%.
Ghost exhaled deeply. Normally, these thoughts would calm him.
But today? Today, his inner Omega didn't give a damn about tactical analysis.
Ghost’s brain was replaying Johnny’s fragile, guilty, rejected tone over and over again, like a die-hard fan streaming their favorite K-pop group’s comeback 24/7 to break a record.
Loop. Replay. Loop.
“…ye never purr, Ghost…”
He could almost smell Johnny's faint, spicy sandalwood scent.
Ghost gritted his teeth.
Damn ridiculous hormones. Damn the limbic system, and specifically, fuck Prolactin.
His brain chemistry was betraying him. His Alpha was sad, and Ghost’s biology was blaring alarms: "Fix it! Make him happy! Purr!" As if Ghost was a cat and his only function was to make that Scot love him. Soap could go to hell. Ghost didn't care.
But apparently, his inner Omega begged to differ.
Uncomfortable, as if the leather couch was burning him, he stood up abruptly.
He started pacing the room.
One, two, turn. One, two, turn.
He paused.
His brows furrowed under the mask.
He wasn't usually the one pacing in the rec room. He was the one leaning against the doorframe, blending into the shadows, listening silently, speaking only with his eyes.
Pacing was Johnny’s job when he didn't know where to put his energy.
So what was he doing right now?
Pacing around his territory like a restless animal. Because there was a problem with one of his Alphas, and Ghost didn't know how to fix it.
Just then, he heard those familiar footsteps approaching from the corridor.
Heavy boots, but light, bouncing steps.
And whistling.
Johnny was coming.
As those familiar, confident footsteps filled his ears, Ghost’s inner Omega reacted instantly. As the scent of sandalwood wafted into the base, his inner Omega relaxed. It was as if invisible ears perked up, a tail wagging in excitement. Relief, anticipation, the joy of a "pet whose Alpha is coming home"...
Ghost ground his teeth and cursed heavily inside.
Really? Are you serious, Simon? When exactly are you going to put on an apron and start baking apple pies?
When he was done here, he was going to have a very serious, very harsh conversation with that damn, pea-sized Hypothalamus sitting right in the center of his brain. Maybe he’d even gouge it out with his tactical knife. He was used to worse torture.
But the Hypothalamus clearly wasn't afraid of him, because the amount of Oxytocin it was secreting right now was embarrassing for a Lieutenant. It was embarrassing for anyone, really.
He clenched and unclenched his gloved fists to compose himself. Took a deep, shaky breath.
He wasn't an Omega waiting for his husband at the door. Dammit, he was Ghost.
Ghost’s control over his own scent was better than any Alpha in the military, even better than Price. He never allowed any emotion, any fear, to be read from his pheromones. Years of training, torture, and missions had taught him one thing:
"If the enemy senses you, you die. So don't feel. Don't smell. Don't exist."
That motto he repeated to himself for years had never let him down.
Well... until now.
Because John "Soap" MacTavish had a nose that defied the limits of biology and logic. When it came to his own pack, Johnny was far from cute. He was lethal. And not metaphorically. Literally.
From all the way down the corridor, he had detected that microscopic note of "distress" leaking into Ghost’s usually cold, slightly vanilla, but largely neutral scent.
Of course he noticed. He would always notice.
Johnny’s inner Alpha reacted instantly and ferally.
Ghost noticed the rhythm of the sound outside change.
This wasn't running.
This was an action that defied the laws of physics, exponentially faster than the verb "to run."
Ghost’s med-student brain started producing ridiculous theories in that moment of panic:
Maybe teleportation? Bacterial transformation? Did he copy himself to the front of the door via naked DNA transfer?
But when the door hinges practically groaned as they flew open and a hurricane swept inside, Ghost put the theories aside. Because Soap was standing there, fully geared up.
The only reality was Soap bursting into the rec room, safety off on his rifle, eyes wild. His teeth and claws were extended, and his eyes were glowing a dangerous ruby red.
His Omega’s scent never soured. If something caused this, it had to be the devil himself.
"CONTACT!" Soap shouted, swinging the barrel at the empty room, at imaginary enemies. "Where?! Who's hurtin' ye?! Sector clear?!"
Ghost froze at the sight. And Ghost never froze.
Johnny scanned the room frantically with eyes still glowing burning red. He did a sweep of every corner to find any sign of a threat. When he realized there was no one (or no threat) other than Ghost, he lowered the barrel, but his shoulders remained tense.
Breathless, eyes locked onto Ghost’s mask, he asked with pure panic:
"L.t.? Yer scent... Which bastard..."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a desperate growl.
"Talk tae me, love."
And if Ghost’s mind got stuck on the word love... well, he would deny it to his grave.
Ghost failed to react for just a single second. One heartbeat.
But in Johnny's mind, that split second of silence wasn't empty; it was enough for the alarm bells ringing in his head to reach a crescendo and start a full-blown choir of panic.
Without a second thought—ignoring the rifle hanging by its strap, ignoring the fact that hugging a superior officer was definitely against protocol—Soap closed the distance.
He wrapped his arms around Ghost’s massive frame. It wasn't a tactical grapple; it was an embrace. His hand found the broad expanse of Ghost's back, right between his shoulder blades, and began drawing gentle, soothing circles over the black tactical fleece.
He was trying to ground his Omega. He was continuing to silently soothe him, projecting a wave of "I'm here, you're safe, I've got you" through his scent and touch.
Ghost’s brain screamed the standard operating protocols:
Shove him away.
Maybe punch him (tactically, of course).
Definitely curse at him in at least three languages.
But he stopped.
He froze.
Because... God, it felt good.
It felt warm. It felt solid. It drowned out the noise in his head.
Maybe... just maybe... for this one time, he could listen to that traitorous inner Omega.
Just for a minute.
The Hypothalamus wins this round.
Ghost wasn't sure what this strange sensation was.
It felt like... the recoil of a rifle against a bruised shoulder.
Or that sharp, hot sting when a knife slices through skin.
But—and this was the confusing part—it felt good.
Dammit, it felt too good. So good that he didn't even realize he had lowered his guard, tilted his head, and rested his heavy chin right on Soap’s shoulder. Just like that.
Johnny hurried to adjust his stance, bracing himself to support the weight of his massive Omega, and immediately started releasing soft, calming pheromones.
"That's it, love... relax."
Then, his hand returned to drawing those gentle, hypnotic circles on Ghost's back.
Ghost’s throat started to itch.
It felt like the onset of malaria. And considering how many times Ghost had been forced to drink questionable sewer water in god-knows-where, that wasn't a metaphor to be thrown away lightly. Was he getting sick? Was this a parasitic reaction?
For some reason, he felt a vibration deep in his throat.
As the damn itch climbed higher, something was happening to his vocal cords. A spasm? A malfunction?
But then Soap suddenly pulled back, pulling away from the warmth just enough to look at Ghost as if he had suddenly grown a second head.
Simon’s attention snapped back to reality at the loss of contact. He blinked behind the mask.
The Scot grunted happily—a sound of pure, unadulterated joy—and looked at Ghost as if he had personally hung the stars in the sky just for him.
Rising on his tiptoes without hesitation, Soap pulled the Omega into a passionate, desperate kiss.
And he effectively ate the sound coming from Ghost’s throat.
Wait...
He swallowed the purr.
The purr?
Fuck.