Chapter Text
"How does the riven tree explain the lightning bolt?" - Sailing to Sarantium
11th December, 2025
Goodbye America, she'd thought, and good riddance. Just a short layover at SeaTac, and then a leap through the air on the back of British Airways or Delta or Canadian, or whoever else, and then she'd be home. Back to somewhere where tea, chocolate and cheese actually taste of something; where the Omegas aren't universally cringing and terrified, and the Alphas aren't all dick-waving arseholes; where everything is normal and it might feel like she can breathe again. At least until Mum finds out what happened to her PhD. funding and...
It's going to be a great Christmas. Absolutely stellar.
Lia Cox - Amelia, her mother sniffs, unbidden, from memory; nicknames are for common people - Lia Cox sighs into her cup of SeaTac's awful tea (six dollars from Starbucks, burnt, no milk), one eye watching the deepening stack of delayed flights on the nearest departure board. Well, at least she'll be spared that conversation for a few hours. Probably more than a few, based on the wind rattling the terminal windows.
The last storm of the year, the meteorologist had beamed from the TV in the crappy terminal newsagent, and it's going to be a big one! So all you holiday travellers had better get yourselves home and batten down the hatches!
Why yes, thank you, Lia thinks; excellent advice! As if she hadn't already been trying to do exactly that. As if the 'last big storm of the year' hadn't rolled in exactly on schedule to fuck up her travel plans. As if she wasn't stuck here in an increasingly stuffy terminal, under garish Christmas decorations, waiting to see from which gate, if any, the flight back to Heathrow would now depart. One last kick up the arse from the US-of-fucking-A before she kisses it goodbye for-hopefully-ever.
And, ah shit, she still hasn't told Mum. Should probably do that before the parental unit decides she's dead, or kidnapped, or gone Omega, and has another fit of the hab-dabs. Like that one she'd had in second year undergrad when Lia had dropped her phone and been too poor to fix it and too busy to remember to email. The current telephonic incumbent isn't at much risk of breaking; one second-hand Nokia 3310, dumb as a brick, basically immortal. The best phone a broke grad student could hope for. And still fifty percent left on the battery.
Bad storm; plane stuck, Lia types. Not sur how lng; dont wait. Will get 2 Camb' by self. The text zips off with a hopeful 'ding', sailing over the Atlantic to allay any maternal flapping. Probably.
"Would you mind if I sat here?" There's a man standing by her table, one hand perched, with hopeful posessiveness, on the other chair. Late-thirties-early-forties, spiky brown hair, luggage in tow, looking like an owl between round glasses and brown waistcoat (who in the hell wears a three-piece suit in 2025? Lost history professors? Time-travellers? Hipsters?). And oh, yes, an Alpha, her nose says, if short and odd-looking for it, because of course he is. Only Alphas are the sort of berks who think they can just walk up to an occupied table and take a seat.
Then again, Lia looks around and finds that there really aren't any other seats: people have started sitting on their wheely bags or leaning on posts; a gaggle of teens in hockey jerseys sprawls across the airport floor nearby, reeking of sweat and Alpha hormones (making the already stuffy terminal even worse). At least he asked.
"Sure, go ahead."
She doesn't acknowledge his 'thank you', picking up her copy of The Summer Tree instead, thumbing the use-soft pages to find her place again. The ancient British art of being the only person in a crowded room; the best way to keep chatty Americans at bay. Besides, Fianovar awaits, as of old (or at least as it has since she was twelve); England is where she wants to be most, but 'anywhere but here' will do for now.
Not that she need have worried; short, dark, and nerdy has produced a laptop from somewhere and is typing furiously. Lia can just about see what he's working on reflected in his glasses; a PDF, something full of maths that goes so far over her head that it might as well be in orbit. She finds herself peering, fascinated, at the little wrinkle of concentration between his eyebrows.
A thought wanders into her head, strange and strangely welcome all at once: cute.
Lia looks down at her book, hot with embarrassment, skin suddenly all-over tingling as if she's stood too close to an old television, and shudders to herself. God, no. She is not going to develop a last-minute creepy crush on some random American. She is especially not going to develop a crush on a random American Alpha old enough to be her sire. Thank Christ he didn't catch her staring.
It's not that she has any aversion to dating Alphas, per se. She still has fond memories of that handsome rugby player back at undergrad, all gentle strength, and the forestry PhD. with the clever mouth who'd been good for a fling or three (good enough to wring a dull flutter of interest out of her nethers, apparently, even years later). But she can't, by definition, give them what they need, any more than they really have much interest in building the sort of relationship she, or any other Beta, wants. Not exactly the 'fundamental biological incompatibility' hobby horse that right-wing loonies like to trot out at any given opportunity, just a massive waste of everyones' time.
But, yeah. American. Old as balls. Probably mated to some baby-factory Omega since college. Absurd numbers of kids. All that jazz. A waste of time. Lia snorts to herself, shrugging off her sweaty parka (air conditioning must be giving up under the strain of so many bodies), and drags her focus back onto The Summer Tree.
Two chapters later, the Black Rose of Cathal is cheerfully letting Dairmund dan Ailell mate her, Pwll (not-yet) Twiceborn has commited himself to suicide-by-tree, Lia's flight is no less delayed, and some urgent biological needs are impinging on her reading enjoyment. Oof. Too much tea. She looks around for the nearest loo and finds one on the other side of the ram-packed terminal. No getting a wheely bag through that thicket, not without running over a few shins. The Alpha sharing her table is still there; still frowning at his impenetrable PDF, chin resting on one hand.
Lia closes her book and sets it on the table; so much for avoiding conversation...
"Sorry to be a bother, but please could you keep an eye on my stuff for a minute?" she asks. Her passport, ticket, phone, and wallet are all safely in her jeans pockets, ready to join her on her pilgrimage to the loo, and it's not as if she has anything else worth stealing. Or at least not worth stealing by someone who looks like he makes more than her former annual stipend in a month.
The Alpha looks up; looks at her for a long moment, as if he'd half forgotten she was there to begin with, then shakes himself and smiles, as benign as sunrise. "Certainly."
The memory of that smile dogs Lia's footsteps all the way across the terminal. Makes something in her chest sit up and take notice; get all warm and glowy. That earlier thought runs encore laps around her skull: cute.
What the fuck?
The loos aren't any less stuffy than the rest of the terminal, but at least there isn't a queue; her capacity to be British about this whole situation only goes so far. The loo seat's nice and cool at any rate, and ridding herself of what was once tea is a relief. Sore when she wipes with the low-grade airport loo roll, though, and weirdly wet. Lia stares at the wodge of glistening paper in her hand, the matching stain in her underwear, with resigned frustration.
Oh, come on! Is she seriously coming down with thrush, here and now? Another entry waiting to be made to Mum's list of 'Amelia Cox's failings', when she finds out, which she will, because she always does. 'Poor personal hygiene' or 'doesn't look after herself properly', or something like that, slotted neatly in between 'no dress sense' and 'childish interests' on the grand parade of all Lia's very many deficiencies.
She dumps the paper, pulls her pants and jeans back up, and flushes the loo with more force than strictly necessary. Well, she thinks, watching the comet of wet tissue vanish into Seattle's sewers, who knows? Maybe Mum will be too busy harping on about how she knew the PhD. funding wouldn't last, how Lia should know better than to make any decisions without maternal guidance, to notice a yeast infection. But standing here, comiserating to herself, isn't going to help any of that. And, again: who knows? Maybe the weather will clear up soon, enough that some flights can start thinking about taking to the sky. So it's not all hopeless.
The cold spray of tap water is the nicest thing she's felt on her skin all day. Lia leans over, lifting her glasses to splash some on her face, rubbing cool, wet, hands over the scent glands at the back of her neck. The world feels fuzzy, somehow, when she straightens back up: less real. She stares at the Lia Cox in the mirror - half a stranger to herself - for a long, disoriented moment. Then shakes her head to clear it.
The face she finds in the mirror gains familiarity; the same thick-lensed glasses and frizzy, mousy, hair - determinedly escaping its ponytail - that she's seen every day for years. Same patchy freckles and too-long, awkward, nose as Oma and Grand-oma. Bright red right now, though; blotchy all over her cheeks and halfway down her neck, and sheet-white where she isn't red.
Another wave of fuzz washes over her. Lia pinches the bridge of her nose, fighting it off. Okay, she's either very tired or coming down with something. More likely the former than the latter; seeing as how it's been twenty-four hours and no sleep since she caught the bus in Pullman. But, again, standing here commiserating won't help much; she needs to check on her flight, buy a cold drink or two, and reclaim her luggage, hopefully in that order.
Nothing's changed in the flight department at least; a solid Jenga tower of red still fills the departure board by the time she makes it back to her table, two bottles of cold water and a bottle of paracetamol tucked under one arm. She finds the American still sitting there, as cool as a cucumber, laptop vanished back from whence it came, reading her book.
The nerve of the man!
Typical, fucking, entitled, Alpha. Acting like he's got the right to walk all over everyone else because of a quirk of genetics. Lia clears her throat, pointedly setting her purchases down on the table, just a little too hard.
At least he has enough decency to look embarrassed, if not enough to give her back her book. "I am sorry; my laptop ran out of battery, and I -um- may have..." he sets the book down, smoothing fingers over its tattered paperback cover, "I was wondering if The Fianovar Tapestry really was as good as I recalled."
Lia snatches her book from under his hand, hurridly checking for new stains and tears (that shivery static tingle on her skin again, washing out from where their fingers touched), before she registers his words. "You've actually read this before?" She doesn't think she's ever met anyone else who has, or any other books by the same author, not IRL at any rate.
The alpha leans forward, resting his chin on his kuckles, contemplative. "From Summer Tree to Darkest Road, if not for years. I'm more of a Lions of Al-Rassan person." Of course he is; the two big, strong, Alphas, Rodrigo Belmonte and Ammar ibn Khairan, as much divided by honour and pack loyalty as united by common human decency, going mano-a-mano for the fate of Al-Rassan. Classic, chest-thumping, Alpha bullshit. "Jehane is a fascinating window onto the religion and politics of the setting."
Lia blinks. He likes Jehane bet Ishak, the physician; the only Beta among the trio of protagonists? I think I owe you an apology, Alpha.
"Whatever for, Beta?" Fuck, did she say that out loud? The Alpha is looking at her strangely, that familiar wrinkle of concentration furrowing his brows, as if she were a maths problem he needed to solve. "I owe you an apology, if anything; your book is clearly important to you. I had no right to touch it."
"And I didn't have any right to snatch." She really doesn't want to get into the details of what she was actually apologising for; not here, not to a stranger. Even an interesting, polite, homely-handsome stranger with a lovely smile (there she goes again with the creepy crush). Better to take refuge in good manners than make an even bigger idiot of herself; "look, we're clearly stuck here for God-knows how long, and I don't want things getting off on the wrong foot. Please can we start again?" She offers a hand, dropping eye contact the way she was always taught a Beta should when greeting an Alpha. "Amelia Cox, though everyone calls me Lia; very pleased to meet you."
It's a dry, cool, strong, hand that shakes Lia's; another warm rush of static washes up her arm, trickles pleasantly down her spine. "Seigfried Anderson, and the honour is mine. But call me Ziggy; my parents liked Wagner too much." That's certainly a name, Lia thinks to herself, half-hysterically. Does he have a delinquent brother called Tristan and a vetinary practice in the Dales? Or a rock band composed of Martian spiders?
But she's being rude again; holding on far too long to a handshake, letting herself get freaked out by the same weird skin sensitivity that she always gets when she's ill. She lets go deliberately, trying not to shake her hand out, and sits down, thumbing the pages of The Summer Tree, seeking some sense of - what? Familiarity? Reassurance? - from its soft edges and old-book smell. "Is it as good as you remembered - the Fianovar Tapestry, that is?"
The Alpha tilts his head, equivocating; "yes and no. I'd forgotten how contrived the first chapter is. Five young people accepting a party invitation from a stranger sounds more like a recipe for murder than adventure these days."
Isn't that a truth? The whole series is Tolkien derivative, too, but you can't throw a stone in SFF literature without bouncing it off at least one elf, and very few of them as well written as the Lios Alfar. "'Beginnings are such delicate times'." Lia quotes.
"Dune," the Alpha -Ziggy- shoots back; "Paul Atreides, quoting his Oma."
They've both read all of Dune, it turns out, or at least all of the Frank Herbert books, both seen the recent films, both agree that they're probably the best adaptation anyone can hope for (though the Alpha still thinks the David Lynch version has some charms, for reasons Lia suspects are entirely nostalgia-related). They both love the Lord of the Rings films too (he read the books before, she read them after), Star Wars ('Three movies', Ziggy grins, 'what a shame Lucas never filmed any prequels.' Lia snorts 'Seven, Alpha; you forgot Rogue One.'), and Star Trek (she admits that Picard had the better plots, but Janeway was the first Beta in the captain's seat, and that had meant something. And yes, DS9 is absolutely peak Trek). But then they move on to the Expanse and the Martian, and Ziggy has Professional Opinions to express on the subject of Marco Inaros' trick with the asteroids and whether or not the Rich Purnell manouvre is actually feasible.
He's trying to explain how astrodynamics and Legrange points actually work, using his ballpoint, Lia's empty water bottles and her bottle of paracetamol (apparently useless paracetamol, she gripes, stripping off her jumper, grimacing at the sweat gathering between her shoulder blades), when the power goes out. Everyone in the crowded terminal groans, almost in sync, and only a little less when the emergency lights flicker to life.
Lia says what's probably on everyone's mind; "so much for getting home tonight." She wrestles her jumper back on; too hot for here, but probably not for Seattle outdoors in December.
The Alpha's pulled out his phone, some smart contour of aluminium and glass, and turned on its torch. He pockets his pen and slides Lia her paracetamol, then slots the empty water bottles into his laptop bag. "Indeed. I suspect that's our cue to leave." Definitely, before every hotel in Seattle runs out of rooms.
She almost doesn't want say goodbye; to leave this rare little bubble of happiness - the most she's laughed all year-, to leave his wit and smile behind. But there's no universe where asking for a near-stranger's contact details would be a polite or sensible thing to do. Besides, Lia reminds herself; Alpha, probably mated, old enough to be your sire (handsome, another part of her mind chips in; kind, intelligent, gentle, smells good)."Thanks for the company; it's been nice talking to you, but-" she stands up.
The world tilts sideways, spins like a top. A warm, wet wave rolls down Lia's thighs. She catches herself, barely, on the table; clings to it for dear life, shuddering and weak, every muscle suddenly jelly. Everything suddenly too hot, too loud, too sensitive, too much. Another rush of wet heat bursts between her legs, and when she touches her jeans there (why-why is she touching herself in public? Why does it feel so good, even through denim? Why does she want to do it again and again and again until-until-). When she touches her jeans there, her hand comes away damp. Lia stares, uncomprehending, at her shining fingers. What the fuck? Has she pissed herself? "I-I think I may be coming down with something."
Ziggy is there - there for her - something like concern written across his face, hands steadying her, cool and wonderful on her arms. "I think you may be right." Static tingles radiate in waves from where they touch, shivering down her spine; pleasure pooling in hips and belly until she's almost whimpering. "Lia, please-"
She twists in his grip, suddenly, terribly, afraid; this isn't right. This isn't right. What the fuck is happening to her? What the fuck? "What the fuck? Let go of me!"
He pulls her closer instead, into his arms, against his chest, until all she can feel, all she can smell (rain on hot tarmac, metal in the sun; lovely, lovely, lovely) is him. And-oh!-she wants; she wants, she wants, she wants, until she isn't sure if she's scrabbing to escape or to burrow deeper into him. He kisses the crown of her head - another wave of perfect pleasure when she's already drowning - and sighs deeply. "I am so, so, sorry, my darling, but this is for the best." When next he speaks, there is such a tone of command - of pure, Alpha, authority - in his voice as melts all her dreams of resistance to nothing: "Omega, you need to do exactly as I say."