Chapter Text
The more Maggie thinks about their prospect, the more she likes him. Really, she kind of wants to fuck Rust just on principle. He obviously needs it, and Marty can be obnoxiously sure of her. And, well, sure of what she likes. She may be an Omega, and a high-spectrum one at that, but she's more than heats and going weak in the knees for any Alpha strong enough to carry her. She likes the way Rust thinks, and he's got pretty hands, and it's nice to feel desired. Marty still wanting her has never been in question, even with his wandering eye, but for other people, once an Omega has kids, they kind of fade into the background. It hadn't been like that with Rust, and she finds herself curious to see how he reacts to being bitten. Marty is always annoyed at first, like he thinks he shouldn't like it, but that never lasts.
Maggie shivers, thinking about it, but scrubs quickly and hops out of the shower. It isn't the time for that kind of thing, not when she only has about half an hour to get ready, plus they have to drop the Audrey and Macie off with her parents for the evening. Their little human shields, keeping everyone polite. Maggie's parents have never been very supportive about her being high-spectrum in the first place, and they're pretty much sucking their teeth and offering prayers at this whole triad thing. But, they are willing to take their granddaughters for a night while Maggie and Marty go on their first proper date with Rust. A nice dinner, goddammit, not some bar with sawdust on the floor.
An elegant and seductive Omega dresses from the skin out, and Maggie has never met an Omega, however little they cared about fashion or grooming, who didn't have at least three perfumes. Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she consults her collection, and then pulls out her sleek little silver tube of Starchild, the one she never wears because Marty said it smelled weird. (He has gone on to staunchly deny that 'weird' and 'bad' are necessarily the same, and even to aver that he kinda likes it and wouldn't mind if she wore it more, but she doesn't trust him.) She'll have to see what Rust thinks of the cool, glittery scent, and how it exaggerates the part of her natural scent that people compare to cold lightning, almost icing out the honeysuckle entirely.
She barely gets her slip on before little feet are pattering down the hallway. The girls both like to play fashion consultant any time Mama gets dolled up, and Maggie is happy to let them, within reason. Macie is only five, and Audrey is eight and a half, so while they have natural taste, they lack sophistication. Macie's love for bright makeup would have Maggie looking like a clown or a hooker without restraint, and Audrey has a tendency toward daring cuts that's a bit much, all together. Bless the girls, but dammit, their combined efforts would have Maggie ready to turn tricks at a truck stop; skirt up to waterline, her whole nape out, neon red lips, and turquoise glitter eyeshadow! Christ, the stuff is probably left over from high school, it's eons too young for her now. However, that same slightly scandalous top is a reliable date-night selection, and the eyeshadow, on its own and applied with a delicate hand, is actually pretty, and really brings out her eyes.
The girls are delighted with their work, and once Maggie has smoothed her skirt and stepped into her shoes, they each take her by the hand, and lead her to Marty, who is waiting on the couch for her, with the male Alpha's prerogative of only having to decide if an occasion warrants a jacket and tie or not. Tonight does.
"Dad, Dad," Macie chirps, "look how pretty Mama is!"
Marty chuckles, giving her the wide, slow smile that was definitely part of winning her over in the first place. "Yeah, baby, she sure is."
"I told her to wear the green shoes!" Audrey adds, and Marty rises from the couch.
"That was an excellent choice, honey," he tells her, coming to give Maggie a kiss. "Everybody ready?"
Everybody is, even Macie, who usually forgets something, since she's just a baby. Both of the girls have a bag of books and toys, even with everything at their grandparent's house, and Macie is bringing a stuffed bunny, and this is why parents are late so often, but they make good time tonight. And their human shield works beautifully, Mom and Dad too busy being doting grandparents to give Maggie and Marty too much shit about their weird, sinful program for the evening.
Maggie can see the relief in Marty's whole body as they get back into the car, everything easing and loosening. "Sorry," she says softly, putting her hand over his on the gearshift.
He makes a tiny noise that's almost a chuckle, starting the car. "It's okay. The part of it I deserve, I deserve, and the part of it that's about this whole triad thing, I know you're getting it, too, and they're your parents."
She sighs, settling back into her seat as she pulls out of the driveway. "I know some of it's because they're worried about me. Think I'm giving you a permission slip to cheat so I won't lose you."
Marty heaves a sigh, staring out through the windshield with that hangdog look. "I mean, I wouldn't think much of Macie's Alpha if they acted like as much of a jackass as I did, but this whole thing was more your idea than mine! I'm goin' along to get along! Not that I don't kinda like the idea, or we wouldn't be here right now," he hastens to add, knowing that she has been worried about him doing too much 'going along to get along' this whole time.
"Marty, honey," she says, "they've never been all right with me being high-spectrum in the first place. When I first met you, they said a lot of stuff about me maybe finding somebody less instinctual. They're going to grumble about this. Don't worry about it."
He laughs softly, and switches on the radio, tapping time on the steering wheel to an old country song as he drives. Maggie hums along and then starts singing on the chorus. All in all, they're in a pretty good mood by the time they pull up to Giuseppe's, Lafeyette's only decent Italian restaurant. It's a little place, full of quiet, intimate booths and low lighting. The hostess is a cute little male Omega, wearing a pretty, wine-colored dress. Some people really can't deal with boys in dresses, even Omega ones, but Maggie is happy to see people wearing whatever makes them happy. And while Marty does do some muttering about it every now and then, he has seen too many truly awful things to think that a little fashion creativity is really going to bring down western civilization.
Like a good boy, Marty lets Maggie be the one to ask for, "Hart, party of three." She's still learning to trust him around other Omegas again. Apparently Rust is already here, waiting for them in a back booth with a glass of water. He stands when they approach, and his hand brushes Marty's as they both reach to pull out her chair for her. There's an odd, tense moment when their eyes meet, and then Marty grins.
"Someone raised you right."
"Papa tried," Rust says, and everyone sits down to peruse the menu.
Over dinner, Maggie learns several things about Rust. That he was born in Texas but raised in Alaska, that he pronounces Italian prettier than a picture, and that he has synesthesia. She remembers it, from various mental health trainings, but of course Marty has no idea what in the hell Rust is talking about when he stares at him for a long moment, wide-eyed and blinking like a man trying to clear spots from his vision.
"What?" Marty asks, stopping in the middle of an anecdote about work, looking amused and concerned at the same time. "I got somethin' on my face?"
"Sorry," Rust mutters, shaking his head a little and blinking again. "Synesthesia."
"Synna-what?" Marty asks.
"Synesthesia," Maggie says, since Rust clearly needs a minute. "It's like crossed wires in the brain, with one sense registering with another. Tasting colors, smelling sounds, that kind of thing."
"Just something I live with," Rust says, taking a sip of water. He sets the cup down with a smile. "You started kind of glowing the color of your voice. Real distracting."
"Buddy," Marty says, "do not take this the wrong way, but you may be the single weirdest feller I have ever met."
"So did you mean it about not hating this perfume?" Maggie teases, and Marty rolls his eyes.
"Certainly unusual," Rust murmurs, "but not at all unpalatable. Brings out that buzzing, snowy quality, like standing under the northern lights."
Marty chuckles. "Smooth, Cohle, I should take notes."
"You should," Maggie says. She takes Rust's hand in her left, and Marty's in her right, and smiles. This whole thing feels much, much more comfortable than she would have thought, if anyone had asked her a week ago.