Chapter Text
Sometimes Tom felt that time had stopped for him.
Nine years had passed since the destruction of the home of his youth, but to Tom it felt more like forty.
The days after joining the ranks of the Red Army and receiving the position of the Leader's secretary were, to put it mildly, monotonous.
Check the documents, make sure the Council of Leaders is properly organized, remind the Red Leader about his schedule. Don't break the regulations, don't get involved with Edd and the rebels, keep an eye on Matt wandering somewhere around the base, help Paul and Patrick in the hangar or else they'll wreck the plane again.
Sometimes it was hard, and often because of the monotony of the work, the feeling of boredom overwhelmed too much. Before, Tom hadn't really been bothered by it, but as the years went by, it became harder to endure. Especially the approaching rut during such periods of boredom.
Tom wanted to whine, bare his teeth at everyone, shift into a more monstrous form, and persistently search for something lost that he just couldn't find. The only things that suppressed this were the medications and serum 314. And although it was effective against outbursts of rage and turning into a monster, the serum strangely conflicted with the suppressants that calmed Tom down.
So the closer the rut got, the more his skin itched underneath, and the more apathy and a desire to prowl like a dog settled in chest.
The Red Leader would look at his secretary with a complicated gaze during such moments, it seemed he knew what Tom was looking for, but he never intended to say what was on his mind. And Tom's inner alpha knew this with absolute certainty.
So the man could only watch as Tord and the scientists working in the army strengthened the serum's composition to keep the Red Leader's secretary effective. But for now, they had to make do 314 was the newest and still properly functioning serum.
And so the days flew by. Secretary work, meetings with soldiers as the Red Leader's bodyguard, missions outside the base, mountains of paperwork, and then his own room in the main sleeping sector. Tedium and boredom.
During lunch hours, Tom managed to break free from the monotony and just take a walk to the training grounds. There were always plenty of new recruits there, replaced by more senior-ranking soldiers over time. The fighters honed their shooting, hand-to-hand combat, obstacle courses, and everything else on the list approved by the Red Leader out in the open air, with a variety of training equipment.
Very rarely, Tord would join Tom in watching the soldiers.
The Red Leader always remained in the shadows, so that no one would notice the presence of the army's highest-ranking officer. His dark burgundy uniform, embroidered with matte golden threads along the edges of the sleeves, helped the man blend into the shade of the trees planted around the perimeter of the training ground. Tord always stood almost at the edge of the grounds, behind everyone, but Tom always knew where his superior was.
The scent. It always gave Tord away, even back in school. Soft, almost imperceptible in a room full of people, but always recognizable by the aftertaste it left on the tongue. A combination of raspberry and mint for such a strong and authoritative man, it was strange and very noticeable. Though it seemed only Tom could pick up and sense it. But hardly only he knew that the Red Leader was an omega.
Tord was not ashamed of his nature, he was always ready to defend his right to power, his standing in society, and the reputation people held of him. Tord would put those who displeased him on their backs, bring to their knees anyone who so much as dared to hint at what Tord deserved and what he did not.
Joking with this omega had always been dangerous, and Tom remembered that from his teenage years, when his temples had not yet shown any gray and the visor had not yet become a necessary accessory for his vision.
But time flew by quickly, so much so that Tom barely noticed how they all stopped being friends and how the home that had become a refuge for their little pack fell apart. He didn't have time to understand how Tord left, abandoning him, their budding passion... all of them, without a single truthful hint as to why.
It was in moments like these, realizing that the past had moved on without looking back, that Tom now always knew who would be standing behind him, watching his back with a cold, gray gaze.
///
The mission was simple.
Escort the cargo and prevent the Green Resistance from getting their hands on it. The supplies were needed at the northern base, on the outskirts of London, built two years ago.
Nothing that Tom and the team sent with him couldn't handle. His electronic vision and marksmanship with a sniper rifle allowed to complete missions of any difficulty. But apparently this mission was doomed from the very start.
It all began with the mechanic, who was detained later that same evening. The old man had tampered with the brakes on the vehicle assigned to transport the cargo. Then came the paperwork delay, which had to be re-approved by an unhappy Red Leader, who yelled at Thomas for such a simple mistake. And the cherry on top of this clearly shitty cake was an unintended string of circumstances along the way.
A goddamn freight train blocking the path, followed by a dozen members of the Green Resistance, waiting for the right moment and swooping in like kites.
The vehicle with the faulty brakes crashed into the moving train cars, taking four soldiers and the valuable cargo with it. The explosion threw one of the rear vehicles back with a grating screech, while soldiers from the remaining column climbed out to defend against the attackers and pull out the wounded.
They managed to fight off the "Greens" fairly quickly, but it still caused plenty of trouble. Fortunately, the Red Army's casualties were minimal. Just a few wounded, including the four dead and Tom, who had been shot. But as an alpha, he considered it merely a scratch more precisely, a gunshot wound to the shoulder. And although the bullet had gone clean through without hitting anything vital, moving his arm was now difficult.
Blood-soaked shirt clung unpleasantly to his skin, irritating the dried wound. Head was slightly spinning, reminding him of a bottle of vodka, he hadn't touched in years.
The beta medics, sitting on metal benches in one of the surviving vehicles, bustled about helping the wounded soldiers. They bandaged shattered heads and shot-through limbs, and tried to hastily stitch up particularly bleeding wounds while the remaining convoy moved toward the base.
Tom sat closer to the rear doors of the military van, his electronic eyes scanning those present. The vehicle jolted slightly, sometimes swaying sharply from side to side, making his head spin a little. One of the medics approached the secretary and handed him a thick piece of gauze. Tom accepted it without a word, nodded in response, and leaned his back against the metal walls of the van. Letting out a heavy sigh, the man pressed the gauze to the wound, suppressing a growl rising in his chest.
For a couple of minutes, Thomas sat quietly. Listened to the pained groans of soldiers whose wounds were being bandaged too tightly, the roar of the engine, and the grating sound of wheels scraping against the asphalt.
The soldiers sitting beside him were quietly discussing the outcome of the failed mission, counting losses, and speculating who would catch hell for such a disaster. At that moment, Tom's electronic eyes lit up on the visor display, and he frowned, mulling over what he'd heard.
"Fuck." – Tom's chest released a low, growling sound, making the two reasoning betas beside him flinch. It wasn't hard to come to the conclusion that Tom would be the one to receive a reprimand for the mission's failure. Despite the fact that he hadn't been appointed as the commander.
As soon as the convoy arrived at the main Red Army base, the wounded were taken to the medical wing, placed under the doctors' observation.
Tom was taken almost first, seated in a sterile examination room. Within a couple of hours, they had removed the bullet from his shoulder, stitched and treated the wound, and then put a sling on his arm to keep him from moving it too much. On autopilot, a thought surfaced in his mind how was he going to do his job with one arm and an unpleasant shiver ran through his body. Tom grimaced, rolling his electronic eyes.
Look at him now, Thomas Rudge was thinking about work instead of sleeping on a couch in a drunken stupor, hugging his beloved guitar. Life on the Red Army base for all these years had apparently washed Tom's brain clean.
At the exit of the medical wing, the alpha was given a small bottle of painkillers for a couple of days. Tom was quickly instructed on how to take the medication, and then ushered out the door into the half-empty corridor. The one where soldiers walked, helping fellow servicemen get to their families, or those checking the base's systems for breaches.
Tom's electronic eyes darted to the side. Right at the exit of the medical wing stood a young man, barely more than a teenager, probably about seventeen years old. He wore a darker uniform than the other staff, with gilded cufflinks on his sleeves and the same stripes sewn closer to his shoulders. The young man had light-brown hair with several strands sticking up amusingly. Notably, at such a young age, the guy already had an eyepatch over his right eye and several scars peeking out from under the collar of his dark tunic. He clearly belonged to the main department, the same one Tom was in, but Tom couldn't remember the guy's name. He didn't recall seeing him much either. Something about his facial features was strangely familiar, but Tom couldn't place it before the soldier quickly shifted his gaze and turned his whole body toward Tom.
"Thomas Rudge, the Red Leader is expecting you in his office." – the young man said in a level tone, adjusting his gilded cufflinks with practiced, sharp movements. Evidently, his one visible eye, dark gray almost black stared directly at the electronic eyes opposite him, with indifference and boredom. – "Shall I escort you?"
Thomas hesitated for a moment, his whole body tensing.
"No, thanks… I think I can find my way." – the alpha replied, stumbling over his words, as he rubbed his aching shoulder. Tom expected the teenager might say something else, but the young soldier only saluted and strode further down the corridor, disappearing around the corner after a few seconds.
Tom unconsciously frowned and slowly rubbed his forehead. With his rough palms, the alpha ran his hands through his graying hair graying from endless stress trying to smooth it back. Tom was expected, putting off a visit to the Red Leader wasn't wise, everyone knew that. Swallowing a strange lump that had formed in his throat, the man adjusted his crooked tie and headed for the elevator.
///
The first thing Tom always saw when entering the Red Leader's office was the massive wooden desk, piled high with stacks of papers of varying importance and urgency. The table's legs, adorned with intricate carvings and coated in glossy varnish, reflected the sunset light from the panoramic windows to the side. Behind the desk, on the wall, hung dark, blood-like velvet curtains, tied at the sides with golden cords. On the opposite side of the desk stood an equally velvet armchair with gilded legs, which somehow reminded Tom of cat paws. That detail made him smile, even though it was just a silly comparison to Ringo, who had long since left this world.
Tord stood by the window, taking a drag from who knew which cigar, staring into the distance. His healthy hand rested in his trouser pocket, the Leader's face was not fully visible, but the sour scent of pheromones was immediately noticeable, signaling complete dissatisfaction with the situation.
Tom locked the door behind him and placed his good hand behind his back, waiting.
"Sit down, Thomas." – Tord ordered on an exhale, without taking his gaze from the window. Tom nodded, no longer paying attention to being addressed by his full name. Enough years had passed for that to stop meaning anything.
The cushion of the velvet armchair gave way beneath the alpha, and the legs creaked quietly. The room immediately sank into a viscous silence, broken only by the draws on the cigar and the humming of Tom's visor. On his tongue, unpleasantly stuck to the roof of his mouth, lingered a strange aftertaste bitterness and salt. It felt as though if he unclenched his jaw, bile would rise to his throat. A stupid feeling of nervousness and a kind of hopelessness, in front of his former lover, however… irritating. His electronic eyes darted across the desk, scanning reports written in a quick, uneven handwriting likely one of the lieutenants. It seemed to be a tally of the losses incurred by the failed mission: the names of the dead, the amounts to be paid to their families, as well as the wounded. In the corner of the crumpled paper was the Leader's seal and signature.
"Edward?" – clear and brief, the word cut through the silence after a couple of minutes of oppressive stillness, making Tom sharply look away from the papers. Tord stood with his back still turned, his head slightly tilted back. The ash shaken from his cigar hovered over the ashtray, slowly sinking to the bottom.
"He hasn't shown up." – Tom answered quickly, realizing his voice sounded too hoarse. The man immediately cleared his throat, straightening his hunched shoulders.
"Matt?"
"Busy with the same thing assigned him."
"Good." – and then, everything fell silent once more.
Tom was about to open his mouth to ask, but quickly closed it, his teeth clicking loudly. The sound of the snap lingered in his ears, making him tense in anticipation, but Tord turned away, taking a drag from his cigar. His hair, grown long over the years and tied in a low ponytail, spilled down his back. Perhaps in the past, such a sight would have caught Tom's attention, but now the only question occupying all his thoughts was, "What exactly should I ask?" Because there were no usual lectures, no yelling for a job poorly done, not even an assignment of extra work as punishment. There was only ringing silence, the crackling of the cigar, and the sound of his own heartbeat audible to himself.
"You're on sick leave, Thomas. Your task for the next month is to oversee the new recruits. Understood?" – the question caught the alpha off guard. He flinched with his whole body, his electronic eyes widening as much as the visor allowed, and then gave a delayed nod. But he quickly caught himself the Leader hadn't seen his response, so he had to hear it.
And so, that long-forgotten feeling of anxiety, among the monotonous and boring days, crept back into Tom's insides. Sitting here, in the silence of the slowly darkening room, in the velvet armchair that made his skin itch, and intently watching the Red Leader's back. Tom swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth, trying to suppress the rising nausea.
"Yes, Leader."