Chapter Text
Emma March had smelled like smoke, and wasn't that the poetic injustice of Holland's life? His alpha, the woman who had kept his head on straight practically since he'd presented, smelled of smoke and warm caramel and oats. A s'more, because he wanted s'more of it. That always got a laugh— from the first time he used it as a cheap pickup line, to years into their marriage, muttered while pressing his nose into her neck.
Her scent sweetened around Holly, and deepened to fire in his lungs when they made love. Emma March knew just how to take care of a mess of an omega like Holland. When he lost his sense of smell in a punch up, he used to kiss the oil from her wrists instead, drunk off the phantom taste of her pheromones. It was grounding, a way of stopping him from feeling completely blind with his primary sense gone. Emma could give him a come hither look and Holland wouldn't need to seek relaxation in the bottom of a glass.
But not anymore. Not since the fire.
Holland will never know what Jackson Healy smells like. At the bowling alley, Jackson leaves the table and he leans towards his daughter, freshly thirteen, unpresented, but with a great pheromone sense from being her dam's nose.
"Alpha," says Holly immediately, looking in the direction Healy went. "His scent's not projecting anything worrying. It's sort of reassuring, actually."
"Safe?" Holland asks, because he has to, because he has turned his daughter, his pup, into his only method of avoiding aggressive alphas.
"Seems it," says Holly. "You'll be careful, right?"
"Always am, sweetheart," Holland lies.
The drinking. It doesn't take a shrink to know the drinking is a coping mechanism. But it's dual purpose: it numbs the emotional shit, but it also stops the nose blindness from feeling so fucking life ruining. Nobody gives a shit if a a drunk omega projects every single feeling into his scent, or squares up to an alpha or beta they shouldn't. He's drunk, he's a fuckup, who cares? And it's a good crutch, too. Holland's never had his head screwed on quite right. Alcohol doesn't calm the anxious mess in his chest as good Emma's quiet commands and smoky scent did, but it's something. The cigarettes, too. All of it trying to fill the hole she left inside him.
Holly's initial scent assessments are never wrong: Healy's safe. Within a few months, Healy's not just safe, he's fundamental. March lets this alpha slot into he and his pup's life and carefully tries not to think about the implications of that choice. Tries not to think about how Healy's scent probably lingers in the house after he leaves.
"What d'you smell like?" he asks, three drinks in and lazy. It's early evening, and they're wasting time before heading to a stake-out (boring — a beta suspected of cheating by her omega partner.)
Healy frowns. "I smell like I usually do."
Holland makes a go-on gesture. "Noseblind, remember?"
"That applies to pheromones, too? Fuck, I guess it would. My ex told me I smelled of leather and uh… pine, I think."
Holland tries to imagine it, and feels the familiar twinge of frustration in the back of his head when his sense memory doesn't do it justice.
"You probably already know," continues Healy, "but you smell like some kinda berry and peppercorns. Sorta sharp in the nose. Well, when you don't smell of booze and smoke."
"Oh," says March. He compartmentalises the idea that Healy thinks he smells like smoke for a later breakdown. Emma used to tell him he smelled of sweet berries and late summer. She'd kiss down his chest and whisper nonsense about blackcurrants and gooseberries, and March would nod and gasp up into her touch and pretend he knew what the fuck those were.
"Sorry," says Healy, "y'didnt ask."
"Nah, it's cool man. Leather and pine, huh? Do you get off on being the most alpha-y alpha ever?"
"Fuck off, March."
He thinks about it maybe too much. In a moment of insanity, he licks the top of his own boot when he takes it off for the evening. Leather has a taste, he thinks. He'd recognise it, now, if he ever tasted it on Healy.
Healy sweats a lot; he's a fat guy in his fifties. It should be kind of gross. It is, except for the part where Holland wants to taste it. This is something he can rationalise, like the thing with the boot. Healy is his business partner, and probably his best friend. He is an alpha that Holland is routinely allowing around his pup. It's totally normal to want to sense this alpha in the ways that he still can. Holland doesn't buy his own BS.
Healy throws his leather jacket on the arm of the couch as they walk in. "I'm getting too fucking old to fight these guys."
He's wearing a short sleeved shirt and March can see the glisten of sweat on his hairy arms, catching in the early evening light.
"You beat him, though," March says, tearing his eyes away.
"Least I could do, after that fucker pulled a gun on you."
Holland waves the comment away. "Yeah, yeah, big strong alpha bullshit. I was handling it."
"I could smell your panic from the other side of the mall, March." Holland does not say anything to this, because he had no fucking idea he'd been sending out distress signals that strong. No wonder the guy looked like he was about to laugh at Holland's blustering false confidence.
Healy scratches the back of his head. His kiss curl is stuck to his forehead with perspiration. "When's Holly due back from Janet's party?"
"Uh… I'm supposed to pick her up when we're done."
Healy gives him a look. "So why are we back here, then?"
Good question. Maybe because Holland was distracted, and Healy was driving. "Thought you might want to shower before we go back out," he says, inventing a plausible reason.
Healy's expression is slightly sheepish. "That bad?" Holland nods. Healy sniffs his collar and makes a face, and Holland realises he's forgotten about the nose blindness again, thinks Holland is commenting on his scent.
"You're just really sweaty, man," he says, "but thanks for letting me know you've been stinking up the place, too."
Healy huffs. "It's not intentional, Jesus. Just didn't like seeing you in danger. I'll take that shower."
He leaves to go wash up and Holland is rooted to the spot. It's been a long, long time since an alpha cared enough for him to pump out pheromones about it. He imagines Healy's scent souring with fear on his behalf, or rumbling with furious, protective ozone, and is walking to the bar cabinet before he's given it conscious thought. He needs to not be thinking about Healy's alpha responding automatically to his distress right now. He has to pick up his daughter.
Shaking hands pour himself a glass of lukewarm whisky that he swallows in large mouthfuls. Healy returns with his hair still damp and his skin sticking to his shirt and Holland pours himself a second.
"Are you drinking? Seriously?"
Holland wilts under the disapproval in Healy's tone. "I got threatened at gunpoint," he offers.
"You're supposed to be picking up your kid."
Holland wilts further. His scent must be doing something weird, because Healy sniffs the air and sighs. "I'm not mad at you, March. Just… don't drink the second one, alright? Put it down."
It's not an alpha command, it's in Healy's usual register. He's saying it as a friend, not as some sort of dynamic power play. But fuck, Holland's hindbrain absolutely cannot tell the difference.
The glass hits the table with a thunk. Healy's eyes widen. "OK," says Holland. "I won't drink the second one."
Healy's got this look, like he's assessing something. "Don't drink any more at all tonight, OK? Stay sober for Holly."
He's still not using his alpha voice. Holland could absolutely ignore him. He wants to be good, though, so he won't. "OK."
"I'll drive," says Healy.
Two days later, they're at a bar for work and Healy looks him straight in the eye. "You're not drinking tonight," he says firmly.
Holland doesn't disobey.
He drinks less overall, now. That's a good thing, probably. Holly is all smiles when he picks her up from school sober. She gets into the car and immediately leans over to scent him, something she rarely does.
"Happy?" he asks, starting the engine.
"You smell better recently," she says, "like berries and pine needles."
Holland nearly crashes the damn car. His foot slams on the break so they don't hit the van parked in front of them. He doesn't speak until he's reversed out his parking spot and they're on the road. "What's got you thinking about scents?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.
"Jessica's presented as an omega," says Holly, "she's the first in our class. She smells so pretty, like orange blossom."
"Got a crush?"
"No," says Holly, too quickly. Holland laughs. "Well, what about you?" she asks sharply, "Have you got a crush on Mr Healy?"
"Jesus, Holl. Don't ask me that."
Holly folds her arms. "It's a fair question. You smell like him, now. Is he your new alpha?"
"Fucking hell, no."
Holly's relentless. "Do you want him to be?"
"I regret starting this conversation."
"Is that why you never get drunk anymore? Because Mr Healy alpha commanded you to stop?"
"Sweetheart, if Healy ever uses his alpha voice on me I expect your help in kicking him to the curb. That's for mated pairs only." They're almost at the house and free of this excruciating conversation. "Why are you so invested in me and Healy, huh?"
Holly shrugs. "I like him. If you two got together he'd stick around."
"I think he's sticking around either way, hon." Or at least, Holland really fucking hopes he is.
Holland has been sober for 48 hours and he feels like he's going to rattle out of his skin.
It's Sunday night and he's sat fully dressed in the bathtub in his en-suite, contemplating what led him to this place. He knows, logically, that when Healy had told him to "try to stay sober this weekend" it was a suggestion between friends. That Healy's been encouraging him to drink less and less and probably thought that his challenge would be disregarded if Holland found it too hard.
Holland doesn't know how aware Healy is of the effect his orders have on Holland. He gets this look, sometimes, before he gives an outright command, but it's likely he hasn't realised the extent of it. It feels nice to obey Healy. He's always making him do stuff that Holland should be doing anyway: one drink only, get an early night, eat a proper meal. They're easy to do and make Holland feel high on that instinctual cocktail of good-happy-well-behaved when he achieves them, like he's making his alpha proud.
Not that Healy is his alpha. Obviously. But if he were… his last command has been the hardest to obey yet. Holland had managed Saturday fine but has become increasingly jittery as the day progressed. Holly complained he was being twitchy and weird when he offered to help her with homework, and it took him three tries to light his last cigarette because his hands were shaking so much.
He rolls over in the empty tub, pressing his cheek against the cold porcelain and groaning. One more hour until midnight, when it will no longer be the weekend and he won't be disobeying Healy to get a drink. Holland will make it. He will be so good.
His hips twitch down involuntarily. Nobody has called Holland good since his wife died. He imagines it now. Pictures Healy at the edge of the bathtub, staring down at him with that exasperated but fond look on his face. "You being good for me, March?" says the brain-Healy, "Make yourself feel nice."
His hips jerk again and wetness starts to soak to his briefs. Healy's voice is so deep. Holland bets it's even deeper when he's issuing a genuine order. Would it get rough with arousal, too?
Shamefully, Holland pushes his hand hard against himself, rubbing through his slacks. He bets Healy smells so fucking good. He wishes he knew. Wishes he'd paid more attention to scent notes when he could smell, so he'd be able to recreate it better in his head.
He repositions himself in the tub, pulling off one of his boots and pressing the leather toe cap against his own lips. He feels ridiculous. He's being ridiculous. One hand holds the shoe in place against his mouth while he pushes his hand down his pants. This would be so much better with Healy's jacket. He mouths the instep of his own boot and cums with a shudder, feeling every bit as disgusting as he's sure he looks.
There's nothing wrong, Holland rationalises, with calling Healy his alpha in the privacy of his own mind. Healy is never going to find out, and it soothes his shattering mess of a brain to have someone he's accountable to again.
Without alcohol as his favourite crutch, he misses the grounding pheromones of an alpha even more. Holly tells him, shyly, that Healy's scent around her has settled into to one of protective warmth. She asks if it would be alright to ask Healy to scent her sometimes, since the three of them are practically pack bonded. Holland agrees and then feels irrationally jealous of his teenage daughter.
Healy starts leaving clothes at theirs. He's got a stretched t-shirt and sweats for the nights he sleeps on their couch - sometimes the night at theirs is planned and he brings a change of clothes. On those days, yesterday's shirt will end up in the Marches' laundry rotation.
It's a moment of insanity. He knows before he does it that bringing the shirt to his nose will do nothing, that Healy's warm, protective scent is clinging to the garment but unavailable to Holland. But tears still prick in his eyes when he smells nothing. He feel unmoored, alone in the universe.
Desperately, he brings the collar of the shirt, where it would have rubbed against Healy's scent gland, to his lips. He licks, and tastes something. It's just salt, sweat, but it's something.
He's got the shirt collar in his mouth before he can convince himself out of it. He sucks on the fabric, desperate for the promised taste of leather and pine. There's… something there. Oil absorbed by the fabric, probably. It calms the tsunami in Holland's brain and he sinks to the floor, sucking on Healy's shirt like a goddamn baby.
He graduates from mouthing at Healy's dirty laundry to stealing the dregs of Healy's drinks to try to taste him in the backwash within a week. Has he mentioned he fucking hates himself?
"March. Hey, March. Would it kill you to pay attention when I'm talking to you?"
Holland blinks and tries to force his brain back into focus. They're three hours into a stakeout with no sign of seeing this supposed cheating beta, and he needs a drink. "Sorry," he says.
"You doing alright there? You look like you got ants in your pants."
Holland shakes his head. "Need a drink."
Healy sighs. "That all? We can get you one."
He shakes his head. He feels scooped out, his brain replaced by cotton. "Can't. You told me to do this stakeout dry."
"OK, and now I'm telling you to chill out and get a drink. I'm asking you to cut down, not go cold-turkey."
A whine climbs its way up Holland's throat before he can stop it. "Can't."
The only sound in the car is the radio, playing on so low a volume as to be unintelligible. Healy is looking at Holland with furrowed brows. "Hey, you know you can ignore me when I tell you to do stuff, right?"
"I know," says Holland, too quickly.
"So you can ignore me asking you to stay sober for this stakeout."
There's a pounding behind Holland's temples. "I don't… want to."
Healy's gaze is intense. "Fuck," he says softly. "OK. There anything else that helps with the withdrawal?"
Holland shakes his head. "Uh, scenting, once upon a time. A lot of the basic omega shit helps."
Healy thinks about this, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "Nesting?"
Holland snorts. "Haven't bothered with a nest since Holly was little. No point."
Healy hums. "You should try making a nest," he says. "Can't hurt."
They finally catch the beta in the act, getting photos of her kissing some gorgeous alpha woman that they can give to their client to start the un-mating process.
Healy follows Holland into the house, scooping up the throw blanket on the sofa as Holland locks the door and tosses the keys into the bowl on the sideboard.
"This any good for nesting?"
Holland shrugs. He's going to make the damn nest, because Healy's suggestions for how to look after himself have become law to him lately, but he doesn't need Healy helping.
"Maybe. Toss it on the bed."
"March, fucking hell, I'm not entering your—"
"It's only my bedroom, Healy, we have just established I don't have a nest."
Healy grabs a throw cushion too and tosses them into Holland's bedroom before moving in the direction of the linen closet. Holland preens at how comfortable Healy is in his space.
He heads to Holly's room and knocks on the door. "You up, sweetheart?"
A sleepy sounding affirmative floats through the door. Holland steps into his daughter's room to find her lying on her bed in her pyjamas, a book in hand. "Stakeout go OK?" she asks.
"We got the evidence," he says, "how was being home alone?"
Holly shrugs. "Good. You just in here to say goodnight?"
Holland shifts his weight from one foot to the other. This is not something he should be embarrassed to ask his pup for. "We're making a nest—" he starts.
Holy sits up straight. "You and Mr Healy?"
Oh, fuck. "No! No, it's my nest. Healy's grabbing some blankets. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind sacrificing one of your jackets or a t-shirt to the cause?"
Holly stares at him. "Is something wrong? Why are you nesting? Are you in preheat, do I have to leave?"
"No, sweetheart. Healy just thought it might help with the— with me drinking less."
Holly closes her book and tucks it under her arm. "I'll give you my stuff if I can sleep in there too."
Holland's throat catches. "You— you'd like that?"
"Yes?" says Holly, "obviously?"
He feels sort of light headed as he stumbles into his bedroom, Holly in tow. Healy stands respectfully at the entrance, leaning in the doorway. Holly dumps her spoils on top of the pile of blankets, sheets and pillows Healy has already added to the bed.
"Guess I'll just… make it."
He sits on the bed and starts picking through the pile, and he's surprised how relaxing the task is once he gets started. Scratchier throw cushions and blankets form the walls of the nest, softer sheets tucked around them. He leaves the space in the middle big enough for him and Holly and a third person who won't be using it, but not leaving space for Healy feels wrong. He tucks Holly's clothes into the walls where he can still see them, since scent is useless here, and tosses the blanket from Holly's bed in the middle alongside his favourite duvet cover. Then he changes his mind and rebuilds it so Holly has a special, soft spot with her favourite blanket and one of Holland's own shirts, which he scents clumsily with his wrist.
When he looks up from his work, he's feeling soft and comfortable, deeper in his omega headspace than he's let himself be in months.
Holly's got tears in her eyes, and an involuntary sympathetic grumble startles out of Holland's throat at the sight. "Is that bit for me?" she asks, pointing.
Holland nods. "Yeah," he says, a little hoarsely. "If you need anything scented just let me know. I don't always remember."
He looks at Healy, whose expression is unreadable. "I should be heading off," Healy says, "it looks good."
Holland wants him to stay in the nest with him and his pup so badly it makes his teeth ache, but he can't ask. Instead, he holds out a hand.
"What?"
"Your jacket," says Holland. The happy chemicals from nest-making have stripped away some of his shame.
Healy's wearing that light blue leather jacket, and Holland knows it's the final thing he needs for his nest. "You want my jacket?"
Holland nods. Makes grabby hands.
"Can't I give you something else? My sleep stuff is around here somewhere."
Holland shakes his head. "Jacket," he says firmly.
"You should give it to him, Mr Healy," says Holly. "It's only reasonable he'd want your scent in our nest."
Our nest. Holland purrs. Healy shrugs out of his jacket and hands it over, and Holland pulls it to his mouth without thinking, licking at the soft leather. Healy chokes.
"It's late," Healy says. His voice sounds wrecked. "You two get some sleep. I hope— uh. I hope that jacket works out for you, March."
Holland pushes his face fully into the leather and inhales deeply. He feels happy and drowsy and safe. Making a nest was a brilliant idea.
"I'm— I'm going to head out."
"Bye Mr Healy!"
Holland hears him leave from the safe warmth of the jacket pressed against his face. He only pulls away when he hears Holly yawn.
"Can I get in?"
Holland nods. Holly clambers into the nest eagerly and wiggles under the blanket, beaming at him.
"I hope I present as an omega like you," she says, "this is so cool."
Holland gets changed quickly, climbing in next to his pup in his undershirt and sleep shorts. He fusses with Healy's jacket for a while before eventually pulling it over himself like a blanket.
His eyes feel heavy and he's still deep in that soupy, relaxed feeling when Holly asks quietly, "why didn't you ask Mr Healy to stay?"
"S'not my place sweetheart," says Holland sleepily, "if he wants to, he will."