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8 Military Handbook — Tactical Cohesion, (2002) (Refers to page 38)
"In accordance with military precepts, Scent-conditioned pairs or trios are eligible to share close quarters while under suspicion of significant dynamic deterioration, signs of distress, or ferality."
"Scent-conditioned pairs or trios are prohibited from sharing close quarters while on home base. Aforementioned pairs or trios are eligible to be stationed within the same barracks. Under suspicion of codependency development, scent-conditioned trios or pairs are to be separated immediately within their task force. Such situations shall be reported to the acting officers without delay. Lack of report will be considered a negligence of duty on the side of all task members and acting officer, punishable under Article 17.4 of the SAS Military Conduct and Readiness Act."
"To minimize the effect of developing codependency which may affect the operational effectiveness of personnel, scent-conditioned pairs or trios are to be monitored at all times, assigned additional training duties (where applicable), or placed out of commission until the issue is resolved."
"Under no circumstances shall scent-conditioned pairs or trios be granted exemptions from standard military accommodation regulations. Assignment to the same barracks shall not be interpreted as authorization to share quarters, bunks, or private sleeping arrangements."
Lieutenant Sandman stood under the dark sky pelted by the rain with a straight back and a stopwatch in one hand, overlooking the timed obstacle training course in front of him. His uniform was drenched, the hat he wore lacking as a shield against the harsh wind. He had a frown etched onto his features. The time on the stopwatch ticked by, already past the limit stated by all SAS training handbooks.
He tightened the grip on the stopwatch. He knew what was expected of him now. He could feel the stares of his superiors (who weren’t present) judging him for his leniency. He should dress him down, give the soldier a piece of mind. How dare he not make it under the maximum time limit? Soldiers couldn’t afford to fail like this on a live mission… But this wasn’t just another soldier under his command. This was a soldier he considered a friend, someone who’d keep his word, have his back.
Sandman ground his teeth together, watching Roach crawl under the barbed wire through the mud at a snail’s pace. He was frustrated with the younger omega. There wasn’t a time he had exhibited anything like this behaviour before. Rationally, Sandman knew Roach wasn’t doing it just to spite him. The Omega knew what the reprimands for not meeting training times meant for soldiers in the SAS. But after several tumultuous missions and weeks of tension between the team, where Sandman felt as if his newly pinned rank was the reason for the dissent, he couldn’t stamp down the anger rising inside of him like a hungry beast forced into a corner.
"Move your fucking ass, Sanderson!" His voice was hoarse from screaming so much. Sandman also knew that Roach heard him even over the thundering, over the rain pelting down on them. They were the last on the course. The rest of the team was long gone. This was Roach’s fourth time doing the course.
It was sadistic. But Sandman didn’t take any satisfaction from it. He too was shivering from the cold; however, arguably he still had it better than Roach. Which made him even more angry. They wouldn’t be there if the omega performed as always. To every question came a simple reply, "I’m okay, sir!" and "Sorry, sir!".
Sandman saw the alpha coming immediately as the doors from the officer’s building opened. Ghost walked with a self-assuredness native only to him. Sandman trained his gaze back on the stumbling Sergeant Sanderson. Ghost came to a stop right next to him, didn’t say a word or interrupt with his own call for recess. He just watched as his mate fell, again, and again, on his back because the wall was too high and too slick from water and mud. Because Roach was too tired, unable to haul himself up over the 3-metre-high obstacle.
"Are you punishing him for misconduct?" Ghost asked, his voice level. Sandman didn’t reply. Instead, he clicked the stop button on the stopwatch. Then pressed it once again, erasing the time altogether. It was useless anyway. "Or because you’re finding pleasure in standing here in the rain?" Ghost gave Sandman a sidelong glance.
The rain pitter-pattered against Ghost’s raincoat—something he definitely stole from MacTavish’s office. He didn’t wear his red sunglasses for once, and the black paint around his eyes was smudged off, leaving only streaks of grey. "How’s the wound?" Sandman asked instead.
Ghost sighed, looking away, back at his struggling mate. "Let him off. You can continue the punishment tomorrow." As if to prove the necessity of Ghost’s request, Roach stumbled over his feet, fell and stayed there. "Make sure he gets a hot shower," Sandman replied, turning on his heel immediately. His neck twinged in pain as he shot one final look over his shoulder at Ghost walking casually over the muddy field toward Roach, still lying in the tracks.
The centre light cast a yellow flare against the cold blue tiles of the communal showers. The room was big, the stalls vacant... It was the same communal shower Roach knew inside and out. But something about it felt wrong, distorted beyond recognition.
He hesitated in front of one of the stalls. Drenched to the bone with mud clinging to every crevice of his body; it was in his hair, in his ears, under his nails, in his underwear, sticking to his skin...
"I'll leave you to it, then," Ghost said, voice low so as to not disturb the quiet drumming of rain against the windowsill. There was loud thunder and a flash. Roach felt as if the fabric of the universe started unravelling in this room. Something had set in motion, and he was incapable of stopping it.
The bond between them hummed, like an electric current, one a person could feel with a touch rather than just mind. Roach wanted to turn and look at the alpha standing just a step to the right, but his body wasn't listening. There was a deep pit in his chest, a void swallowing everything in its proximity. His breath came out in regular intervals, his body slumped with exhaustion, face blank, just caked with mud—nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to show how lost he felt. He wanted to say something, anything.
Nothing was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
He felt the burning stare of his mate, felt the incredulity of the situation. He was aware of his body and of his feelings, and yet he acted as if he was dissociating. It was so unusual for him to lose it like this—hell, it had never happened before. His limbs felt like lead, weighted down by the sins of all of humanity...
"Roach," Ghost spoke. "Ye gotta take it all off." There was a beat of silence. Ghost waited for an acknowledgement, one that wouldn't come. "Get into the shower," he continued.
Roach didn't move an inch.
Staring at the shower stall, he imagined himself head tilted back, mouth open, the water pouring down, drowning...
His skin pebbled with goose bumps. A shiver ran down his spine.
Ghost took hold of his hand, pulling him into the stall. Roach watched him attentively: the sharp slope of his cheeks hidden behind a black balaclava, tucked carefully into his black hoodie. The careful way Ghost held his hand, pinky and ring finger around his wrist, middle, and pointer finger and thumb placed in his palm. Roach wondered if this was something Ghost did a lot—trying to check a pulse even through numerous layers of clothing. He had seen Ghost do it to Rook when he was anxious. The memory of the (alpha’s?) smile made Roach’s vision waver.
His chest felt suddenly tight, as if wrapped by a rope, secured to a net full of stones, prepared to be shoved into the deep.
Ghost didn't meet his eyes. He pulled on the zipper of his jacket slowly, taking off the mud-covered cloth and letting it drop to the ground with a loud splat. Roach stood there like a mannequin, a doll for someone to play with.
"Look," Ghost started, hands pausing for a brief moment before he splayed them on Roach's shoulders. A bit more pressure and Roach would crumble to the ground as if his strings were cut. But Ghost didn't push. The older man sighed, blinking slowly; his hands slid from his shoulders down to his collar. His fingers found the buttons of Roach's shirt, undoing them one by one. The omega watched Ghost's gloved hands, yearning for a glimpse of scarred knuckles, the soft skin lacking rough calluses from gun handling...
The shirt came off with another splat as it hit the tiles beneath their feet. Roach watched as Ghost hesitated again, longer this time, hands hovering near the bottom of his shirt.
Willing his body to move, Roach reached for the hem, pulling it slowly over his head. As soon as the shirt was off, he searched for Ghost's eyes.
His breath faltered. The space between them was small. Ghost's scent of gun oil and sandalwood tickled his senses, warming him up like his dam's hot meal. Roach clenched his teeth, gums itching around his fangs, saliva filling his mouth in a sudden rush.
Ghost watched him closely, his pupils dilating just a fraction before he blinked. Reaching out, Ghost hooked a finger around the belt loop of Roach's cargos. He didn't pull or push, didn't reach for the button or the zipper.
Roach's heartbeat was loud in his ears. A drumming out of sync with the beating rain on the far-off windows. The air was freezing; Roach was still covered in mud, but the two stood there silently, watching each other as if doing just that would solve the world's problems—their problems.
"Wash up," Ghost rumbled suddenly, uncurling his finger and stepping back. The lack of proximity winded Roach, leaving him heaving a deep breath. Ghost bent over, picked up the discarded clothes and slowly walked out of the stall.
The doors to the washroom clicked shut with a creak; only then did Roach dare move. His back hit the cold tile. He ran a shaky hand through his matted hair. The deep pang in his stomach spread through his whole body. He was trembling.
Blindly Roach reached for the shower knob, turning it as fast as he could. Water rushed out after the pipes let out a drawn-out wheeze. It was freezing cold. Roach yelped in surprise, shying away from the spray. His heart still hammered wildly as he stared at the knob and waited for a sliver of warm water to enter the pipes.
Some time later the door creaked again. Two knocks echoed through the room illuminated sickly yellow. "Are you done?" Ghost called out. Roach didn't answer. "I brought you clothes to change!" Ghost shouted, louder this time. Only a hiss of pipes and the pelting of water on the blue tiles was heard. Not even breathing or a shuffle. Nothing.
Ghost furrowed his eyebrows. He waited for a bit longer before carefully entering the room. He scanned the closest stalls, and followed the line to the supposedly occupied, where he led Roach. "Roach?" When even this time around Ghost hadn't received an answer, he started forward, placing one foot in front of the other. It was a bad habit, trained into him by years and years of military discipline. The same habit that had helped him survive for so long, but alienated him from others.
There was no danger, he knew that. It was just that Roach was deep in thought, or he forgot to turn off the water. It happened. Ghost told himself; tried to convince himself. He felt no change in the air surrounding him. The rain outside hadn't let up even after half an hour Ghost was gone. The logical thing was that Roach had left; the two missed each other on the way to bed. His hand still instinctively sought out the handle of his knife, which he had left in MacTavish's office just a few moments ago.
"Oh, Bug..." Ghost breathed.
Roach sat there, under the shower in his cargo pants, with his knees pulled up and head folded on them. His hair was clean, Ghost noted, as was his torso; only his pants were still muddy black. "Didn't think you'd come back," Roach muttered. He didn't rise from his position; he didn't make it seem like he even meant to move.
"It must be freezing by now, c'mon," Ghost coaxed, hand already on the shower knob, turning the water off. "'t was freezing," Roach mumbled. Ghost's heart twinged in pain. "C'mon, let's get you out of those damned pants."
Ghost grasped Roach, pulling him toward him. Like a dead weight, Roach let himself be shuffled forward, through the deep puddle full of mud, into the warm embrace of his superior officer and...mate. Roach squeezed his eyes shut, burrowing his face into Ghost's neck—still carefully covered by the black balaclava.
"'m sorry..." Roach whined.
Ghost shushed him, one hand holding Roach close, the other already pressing a warm towel into his wet hair. He felt his hoodie and cargo pants dampen in turn as the omega pressed himself closer. "Nothing we can't handle, hm?" Ghost whispered into Roach's ear, a small smile playing on his lips. He pushed down all his feelings of worry, of the weird feeling settling inside his stomach. He could be patient. He was a good soldier.
"Let’s get you cleaned up, okay, Bug?" Ghost said next, hand cradling Roach’s head. The omega huffed a barely-there agreement. "Aight," Ghost huffed, hoisting Roach up into his arms. He rose with some difficulty, moving to the adjoining room and setting the omega down on a bench. "I’ve to take off your pants, Bug," Ghost mumbled. He detached himself from Roach, gazing intently into his tired eyes. "That okay? Can I take off your pants?" Ghost asked, searching for any sign of discomfort.
Roach nodded once, a tiny dip of his chin. He let Ghost manhandle him; let him tug off his cargos; and let the other run a wet washcloth over his skin, getting rid of the remaining mud without fondling his private parts—a proper gentleman!
"Don’t fall asleep just yet, baby."
Roach blinked, training his gaze at Ghost, who was towelling him off. He wished, for a fleeting moment, that Ghost would discard that hideous balaclava and grace Roach with the sight of him. The thought came unbidden, as it did a lot these past few days, weeks… Or even months; Roach wasn’t sure. But he had been noticing it nowadays.
"Help me dress you, then we’ll go to bed, alright?" Ghost said, voice all soft and heady. It filled Roach with indescribable warmth, a feeling so heady he felt lightheaded with it. A soft cotton caressing his insides with a feathery touch…
He let Ghost do whatever he wished, watched the older one clothe him, then disappear for a minute and reappear the next.
Roach knew when Ghost smiled only because the balaclava bunched up around the apples of his cheeks, because Ghost didn’t smile with his eyes. He was a stoic bastard, but he was also Roach’s bastard.
"Let’s get to bed, Bug," Ghost said, tugging Roach up and along the dark and deserted hallways of Hereford.
Ghost should have been more mindful of what he was doing. He knew the rules, the consequences. He heard the talk, the rumours, the threats. He was aware of his misconduct even before he led Roach to his bunk, but he was not going to let Roach sleep alone tonight.
Archer slept in his bed in a starfish pose and snored like a bear. Not even the dull thud of shoes hitting the floor woke him up.
Ghost huffed a silent laugh as Roach huddled into a ball, curling around Ghost's spare pillow, leaving the alpha space against the wall. He blinked sleepily up at the older who took off his sweatshirt slowly. "Sleep, Bug," Ghost whispered, throwing his sweatshirt over a nearby chair. Roach furrowed his eyebrows slightly, blinking a few more times.
Seeing the moment Roach understood where he was, Ghost hurried to climb over Roach and settle behind him. "Go to sleep," Ghost insisted again. "...shouldn't..." Roach mumbled.
Ghost didn't say anything. The silence was interrupted only by Archer's snores and the faint rain hitting the glass. He watched Roach's nape, the soft curve of his neck. There was a notion amongst soldiers that one's nape was as sacred as God's will of giving pups. By touching what was not permitted, one would invoke the wrath of the gods.
Ghost blinked, then turned over to lie on his back. He listened to Roach's breath evening out, to the snores of Archer, and to the pitter-patter of the seizing rain outside.
He did a lot out of selfishness. Things that put him in danger more often than not. But he always held Roach at an arm's length. Whether the omega pushed or pulled, Ghost would not give in. His eyes flickered over to Roach once more, curled in on himself...
It reminded Ghost of his history with Vernon.
He breathed out a shaky breath. It'd be okay. He told himself.
The morning came too fast and too loud. There was a weight pressing on his stomach and a hot breath fanning over his neck. Ghost became acutely aware of four limbs surrounding his own.
His eyes immediately jumped to Archer's bunk—empty.
Pushing down his rising panic, he pulled down the balaclava that had ridden up in his sleep. Roach was sleeping, still. Content in his obliviousness to the outside world.
And Ghost, ironically, found himself seeking out Roach's warmth even against all his instincts, which were saying it was wrong.