Chapter Text
He holds the little creature close to his chest as he steps out into the freezing night. The pizzeria door slams shut behind him, its little string of jingle bells clattering against the glass door. A blind is pulled shut over it in the next moment, blocking out the warm florescent light of the shop. Ben falls into darkness, standing still on the corner of the road, and watches as his breath fogs in front of him.
The omega in the arms stirs, only slightly, no doubt bothered by the cold. He has two arms under her—one under her knees, one supporting her upper back—and nestles her head into the junction of his collar bone and neck. It offers her some slight protection at least, he thinks; the chilled skin of her face presses into the warmth of his gland. He shivers, only for a moment, before casting the thrill of pleasure out-of-mind.
Right now, he has bigger problems to handle: getting her home, for starters.
They’re only a few blocks from his apartment, but the impending threat of inclement weather seems too big a risk to take. Several blocks may not be much, but the thought of slipping on black ice—losing his grip on the omega, jostling her around—makes him flinch. It’s not a risk he can take.
She stirs again, hips rolling a bit in his arms as he glances both ways down the street, hoping for a nearby taxi. She’s hormone-drunk now, endorphins from the mating bite stream through her system, calming nerves and soothing her previous anxieties. Her eyelids droop casually, muscles relaxed. The way an omega should be, he thinks vaguely, taking a moment to gaze down at her. It’s not right to leave such a gentle creature to suffer—to let her wallow in her fear of the unknown. He’ll take care of her; he’s here.
He had to bite her. It was the only way.
Right?
She blinks slowly, unlabored, little lips parted in what he hopes is wonder. She gazes up at him and, for the first time, doesn’t seem afraid.
“Alpha’s here,” he murmurs to her, rocking her almost imperceptibly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
He hopes she believes him.
If she doesn’t, she doesn’t show it; the tension in her neck releases the next moment, allowing her head to rest comfortably against his right shoulder. He feels the light smack of lips against his gland and struggles not to groan in pleasure.
Not in public—not here. Probably not while she’s in this state, either. He should at least let the new rush of hormones wear off a bit.
So he busies himself, instead, with tracking down a taxi. He walks—careful with his footing—the rest of the length to the nearest crossroads, looking both ways for an idling car.
There is one—at the end of the road. He can just make out its headlights, which cast an orange glow over the snow accumulated on asphalt. There’s a dangerous sparkle to it, like ice has already formed; Ben isn’t keen on walking down the street.
Instead, he does his best to jerk his head, to nod at the driver and—after a very long moment where Ben isn’t at all sure if he’s been noticed—the car kicks into gear.
The alpha breathes a sigh of relief and sags just a little bit, letting his shoulders slump and his chest dip. He re-positions the woman in his arms, who coos only soft objections.
“Shh,” he whispers to her, wishing he had a free hand to pat her hair. “You’re alright. We’re going home, okay? I’m taking you home.”
The taxi pulls up alongside the shoulder, classic yellow exterior chipped and scratched in places. Ben might have objected on a more snobby kind of day—called his own car—but today he simply coaxes the door open with two fingers and dips awkwardly into the vehicle.
“I can’t—” he huffs, shifting her so she sits up across the scuffed-faux-leather back seat, “—even get into a car properly.”
He huffs again, loud expression of frustration making a vein in his temple surge; he clamors into the back after he settles her in, folding his too-large body to sit alongside her.
He pulls the door shut and mutters his address at the driver, who raises both eyebrows in judgement. The partition rolls up almost automatically—before the ride even begins—as if the driver doesn’t want to even begin to discover what’s going on between the couple in his car.
The taxi pulls away, sleek streets passing them on either side, and Ben takes the first opportunity in a long while to breathe a sigh of relief.
She’s here: she’s really here. They’re mates—at least, for now they are.
The bonding hormones seem to be doing her good. She can’t feel his emotions, and he can’t feel hers—he’s not even sure where that urban legend ever got started—but the oxytocin running through her veins has done lots to calm and reassure her.
He clears his throat, as quietly as he can. “How are you feeling?”
Her head rolls from staring out the window to instead face him. The back of it rests against a surprisingly plush looking headrest. She blinks, slowly; a small, dumb little smile forms on her lips.
“Okay, then?” he asks.
She only closes her eyes.
Small hands play idly at her belly, stroking in the slow, rounded motions of a doting mother. He purrs, instinctively, without a second thought.
Ben finds that he moves closer to her, she moves closer to him and, before either of them knows it, she’s resting her head on his left shoulder.
He extends a hand, shakily, to cover her smaller one. She stills, just for a moment, before flipping her hand over and grasping at his.
Thin fingers wrap around one of his.
It’s just a simple, gentle touch—the most skin-to-skin contact he’s had in months—and he, too, slumps into the lumpy leather seat to rest.
They’re going home.
Ben hops out of the taxi when they arrive to pay the meter; the driver refuses to roll down the partition. Instead, the man simply rolls down his window a teensy crack—the alpha pushes the bill through it, awkwardly, watching it fall into the driver’s lap.
The window gets cranked up the very next moment. Apparently, the cabbie isn’t too eager to deal with him for a second longer than he must. Ben has that effect on people—he knows that. Alphas aren’t exactly embraced by society: they’re only tolerated.
He remembers something he learned in a nonverbal communication seminar in college: how alphas are perceived as task attractive, but not particularly socially attractive nor physically attractive—except by omegas. Omegas, meanwhile, are perceived as physically attractive but not particularly task attractive—to anyone. To alphas, of course, they’re also socially attractive.
Betas, though: those are the privileged few. They enjoy inter-designation interaction and are commonly perceived as all three types of attractive. Individual preference still varies, of course, but betas enjoy a certain kind of privilege that the other two designations do not. For instance, alphas are disproportionately stopped and frisked, arrested, and convicted—even when comparing against the very same crimes committed by betas. Omegas, meanwhile, are disproportionately affected by domestic violence, by workplace discrimination, and are rarely represented or given voice in the media.
There are no rules—no laws—against any designations holding public office, or holding down certain jobs, but the social veil is thin: its prejudice is clear.
Ben sighs heavily as he unlocks the door to retrieve the woman still in the taxicab.
The driver clearly wants nothing more than to speed away, and at this point Ben is happy to oblige.
He wants her inside—warm and safe—and sooner is better.
He steadies himself, glancing down to make sure he has a stable foothold, before leaning into the car to reach an arm under her. The other arm wraps around her shoulders, and together they work to heave her up and into his grasp again.
He holds her securely against his chest and whacks the door shut with a hip.
The taxi speeds off with an alarming squeak, just as he predicted.
Ben walks the short distance to the callbox.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, quietly, not wanting to disturb her in her sleepy state, “I have to put you down.”
He moves to try, but her knees start to give out like jelly.
“Please,” he says, a little more desperate, wrapping one arm around her waist to support her.
She whines, loudly, and shivers.
“I know,” he says, quickly punching in his access code, “I know. I’m sorry.”
The door unlocks with a loud, metallic click that resonates through the air. Ben whips the door open and, without taking a backwards glance at the snow falling behind them, escorts her into the building.
Rey trembles on spindly legs, knobby knees hardly holding her up. She’s tired, docile—no doubt from the rush of hormones—and Ben finds himself slightly scared by what she might do when the rush of feelings finally wears off. For now, though, he needs to get her into his apartment.
He scoops her up again, clutches her to his chest, and makes his way up the walk-up staircase.
He hadn’t been expecting her to call him when he left for work. Obviously. As a result, his apartment is a mess. An empty carton of eggs lays out on the counter from the morning’s breakfast. Unwashed piles of bowls, plates, and silverware lay stacked and forgotten in the sink. Her bedding, too—the soft sheets and blankets and pillows from the nesting kit he’d once had—lay on the floor of his bedroom where he last left them.
And they’re caked in cum.
Christ, he thinks to himself, cringing hard at how pathetic he’s managed to become. He should’ve done better; if he was going to try so hard to get her back, shouldn’t he have prepared for her?
He’s kicking himself when he finally reaches the door to the apartment. There, he sets her down again in much the same way as before, unlocking the door with his free hand.
“Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed, “it’s a bit of a mess.”
The omega says nothing.
He opens and shuts the entryway quickly, locking and double-bolting it; he can’t afford the prospect of intruders. Not anymore. Not with an omega and pups on the way.
Ben picks her up again and carries her gently to the bedroom. There, he deposits her in bed, fluffing one of the pillows around her head. He pulls up the thin sheet that he sleeps with until it’s tucked snugly around her shoulders.
She turns, instinctively, on one side. She tries to curl into the fetal position—typical for an omega—but her rounded belly prevents her from pulling her knees to her chest.
Still, she’s the image of contentedness as he promises to bring her more things for the nest.
Ben runs around the apartment, desperate to find anything even remotely soft that she can use as bedding.
He swipes the clean hand towels and oven mitts from the drawers in the kitchen; he removes the clean bathroom towels from where he’d left them in his in-unit dryer. He clears the couch off, grabbing its thick quilt, and even—for a moment—considers ripping up the insides of the cushions. Anything so long as she gets the soft, warm bedding she needs.
When he returns to the bedroom, though, he finds an omega who’s fast asleep.
She’s where he left her, curled up on her side, though one pillow now lines and supports her back. Her hands clutch at her belly, one underneath and one resting over top her hip.
He stares, quietly, for a long moment.
When he inches forward, he avoids every squeaky panel of flooring. He deposits the materials behind her, there for her use whenever she wakes up and wants them.
Then he steps back, equally silent, and watches her chest rise and fall.
Home.