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Soap shifted in his chair, desperately trying not to look as restless as he felt. His leg bounced despite his efforts, though, it drove him wild. The buzz of conversation in the rec room between th—his alphas barely registered as he absently fidgeted with the plastic water bottle before him. Usually, having something to do with his hands steadied him, calmed him from the incessant energy raging in his head, but the neat piles of torn label before him taunted instead.
Meanwhile, the others seemed so… relaxed. Steady, strong, stable in a way Soap never could be. The four of them were sprawled out together after a long day: Ghost leaned against Gaz with his arms crossed as the other man idly scrolled his phone. Price nursed his—third? fourth?—steaming mug of tea that evening.
And, like always, Soap was the only one not fitting into their calm picture.
He bit his lip, thoughts dragging in uninvited as his mind spun. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not soft like an omega should be—too broad shouldered and muscular and loud and erratic. Not quiet and demure and docile, not with how his energy spiked and everyone around him seemed annoyed with his never-ending chatter.
Soap's teeth—short, sharp fangs, nothing like the canines of an alpha—dug harder into his lip. The metallic taste of blood startled him back to reality, and he glanced around nervously to see if anyone noticed. They hadn't, and both relief and disappointment twisted in his gut.
Why should they notice? They weren't the ones falling apart: Ghost, Gaz, and Price were perfect and he was just… Soap. Stuck out like a sore thumb. The 'fucking new guy' all over again—on this team, in this relationship, everywhere. The disruptor to their orderly lives with his near manic mannerisms.
The torn labels in front of him blurred with the tears in his eyes. At least they haven't told me t'stop talkin' yet. But how long before they do? How long before they get sick of me an' send me packin' far away from 'ere? Even in his own family he stuck out—wasn't the only omega, thank the Lord, but just… wrong. Too excitable compared to his older and younger sister—they were the perfect children, unflappable betas.
His da hadn't been thrilled with his only son presenting as an omega. As a wee one, his energy'd been celebrated—encouraged, even. All signs pointed to him presenting as a strong alpha like his da, like his granddad and his uncles and cousins. And then he'd gone and fucked that all up too. Too loud, too rowdy, too… much.
Soap's ma—bless her heart—took it a little better, tried to help in her own way. But she'd sigh and shake her head when he'd be all energetic over something. Let him stay in football, probably figured he'd run all his energy out on the pitch. But then even after: It's exhausting just listening to you, John. You'll never find a proper mate if you don't slow down, hand pressed to her forehead as though he'd given her a migraine.
But then he'd met Price. The first CO to give a proper shite about him—to look past his recklessness, his designation, his disciplinary file and the cheeky grin he'd never gotten rid of. Looked at him and took him in, took him under his wing because he saw Soap.
And Soap wanted nothing more than to impress the man. At first, he'd been petrified—Captain Price was tough, strict, and unrelenting with him as a trainee. But he'd also been the first one to clap the newly minted 'Soap' on the back and welcome him to the SAS. They'd sat in his office a few nights later, shared a few fingers of whiskey and a cigar.
"D'you understand why I was so hard on you, MacTavish?" Price didn't wait for an answer before he continued. "It's because I saw too much in you to let you slip through the cracks. You've got a mouth on you, that's for damn sure. But you're also one of the most exceptional trainees I've ever gotten to work with. It's not often I see someone so relentlessly dedicated. You did good, son."
And then…
John "Soap" MacTavish, one of the few omegas to make it into the SAS's 22nd Regiment, became the youngest candidate to pass selection. With the highest possible marks on all three phases.
It'd been a dream come true.
Now… it felt more like a nightmare, sometimes. What if it'd just been a fluke? Did he really deserve to be here, when all he did was fuck things up? His own thoughts roared in his head. They're just being nice. You're annoyin' the piss outta them, they just don't wanna hurt your feelings. You're not a proper omega.
He shifted again, heart racing. He wasn't a proper omega, there would always be one thing that set him apart from every other omega in the world.
His purr.
Instead of Soap's purr being soft and melodic and calming, it came out grating and rough and raspy. Nothing like his alphas: Gaz with his low, rich tone or Price's smooth rumble or Ghost's deep, almost sub-vocal utterance. No, every time he tried it came out strangled, harsh, forced, nothing like it should've been. Soap wouldn't ever let them hear it, because they'd be horrified at how ugly a noise it was.
It'd always made him feel wrong. Everything about him was wrong. He was supposed to be soft, to comfort. To steady his pack's bonds, to give them something to fight for in the most primal way. Soap couldn't manage any of that. Worthless, pathetic excuse for an omega.
Maybe someday they'd have a real omega—
"Soap."
He jolted as though he'd been caught doing something wrong. Price's cerulean eyes watched him carefully, warm but worried in a way that just left the omega feeling more wretched. "Aye, sir?"
Price's rich, deep scent wafted forward—reminiscent of a crackling fire deep in the woods, the warmth of the flames coaxing him into comfort. "Was trying to get your attention. You alright?"
Soap nodded, and attempted a smile that likely didn't reach his eyes. The moment Ghost's gaze shifted, he began to sweat—the slightest tilt of the blond alpha's head betrayed his suspicion. Even Gaz looked confused, leaning in with a curious glance as their shoulders bumped. Soap swallowed hard. "I'm alright, just tired. Might head t'bed early though. Long day tomorrow, aye?"
Price's eyebrow rose, but he didn't push any further. "Suppose you're right, lad. We all oughta turn in. Gonna be up bright and early, so get some shut-eye while you still can." Gaz rose with a soft trill of his own, clearly pleased by the idea as he dragged Soap up too, all but manhandling him towards the big nest the four of them shared.
Soap allowed himself to be guided, body moving on autopilot as the other alphas stood and shuffled alongside them. The familiar pull of their scents—safety and strength—wrapped around him like a cocoon. But he also knew sleep would be fleeting tonight, even wrapped in his loves. His anxious mind wouldn't shut off… and he didn't have the energy to force it, either.
— $ —
Soap hadn't meant to ramble, not really. It just sort of happened sometimes, when his mind would go too fast and his mouth even faster, chattering away like a starling. The mission briefing had been long, dry, and far too detailed to keep his attention from wandering. Before he knew it, his thoughts spilled out unbidden.
He'd already forgotten his sketchbook in his next—mistake number one of the day—and without it, his hands became restless, energy all jagged and misdirected. The room filled with chatter, soldiers milling about as the mission leads droned on, and for a moment Soap really thought it would be enough. The endless noise drowned out the itch in his skull.
He could do this. But the voices started fading in response to the growing thrum in his racing mind. Soap fidgeted—tapped his fingers on his knee, bobbed his head to an invisible beat, fiddled with the straps of his kit—doing anything he could to pay the fuck attention but he couldn't.
At least Gaz was beside him. He leaned over, brushing shoulders with his alpha to catch his attention, and did his best to keep his voice down.
"Think they'll let me keep one o' the trucks after this?" Soap muttered, low enough to—hopefully—go unnoticed by most. "Could fit a whole bloody artillery in the back of one of 'em. Or maybe get Price to drive it and we can sit in the turret."
Gaz glanced up with a faint smirk, eyes glimmering with warmth as he bumped his elbow into Soap's side. "You'd drive it into a ditch within a week, Tav. Don't think the captain would appreciate that heap of paperwork." Soap grinned back, encouraged by the familiar push and pull. Normalcy. Companionship. Attention.
"Ach, ye wound me, Gaz, I wouldn—"
"MacTavish! Care to share with the rest of the class?" Murphy's voice boomed across the room, freezing Soap in place. Within a second, all eyes in the room focused on him, leaving shame to burn through his entire body.
"Just—tryin' to keep it light," Soap managed a weak laugh at his words, though it ended in a wince as he realized how thick his accent became. His smile faltered as his brain scrambled to find a better reply, or a way out without making a fool of himself, or something—
"Shut up, Soap." Murphy's growl cut through the air like a whip, low and sharp as he bared his alpha fangs. "We're about to go on a mission, now's not the time for your bloody stand-up routine. Keep it professional for once."
The words hit harder than they should have, a weight dropping in Soap's chest like an anchor. He shrank back instinctively, stung from the reprimand as it left his thoughts raw and aching. Jaw tight, he bit back a timid whine. It didn't matter that the words likely weren't meant to be cruel—they still held the same burn as every other time someone told him to stop, be quiet Soap, take up less space.
The conversation around him picked back up without missing a beat.
Without him.
Soap clamped his mouth shut and folded in on himself, shoulders curling inward as he pretended to study the edge of the table. He ignored the worried look Gaz gave him, forcing his energy behind a carefully built facade. His leg started bouncing again, but he forced his hands to still, gripping his knees so hard his fingers ached.
He'd be fine. He'd done this before—it wasn't anything different than most of his life so far. Heat crept up his neck, embarrassment settling like a rock in his stomach. Price and Ghost didn't say a word, either. Soap didn't look up for the rest of the briefing, too afraid to see the disappointment he knew must've lingered in their eyes.
— $ —
The mission appeared to be straightforward—or at least the briefing made it seem so. Three teams, three objectives, all meant to converge once the targets were neutralized. Soap's team—led by Murphy—took charge of securing the west perimeter, cutting off any potential reinforcements while Price's team took care of reconnaissance and Ghost's remained on over-watch. Simple, clean, efficient. A walk in the park, really, compared to the things they'd done.
The forest around Soap came alive with noise—a cacophony of rustling leaves and distant birdsong that seemed so loud in the oppressive silence between Soap and his team. His boots pressed softly into the damp earth, moss and rotting leaves leaving their scent thick in the air. His own breathing felt too fast, too shallow, heart racing—why was his heart racing? Get it together, MacTavish. Don't be a liability.
Normally, the steady presence of his pack—his alphas—would have been a comfort, grounding him in the chaos of an op. He almost always had Ghost close-by, or at the very least the man's scope trained on him, ready to protect his omega within a second… but now, separated, he floated adrift and untethered.
"Soap, report," Price's voice crackled through the comms, and he nearly wept with relief. Wanted to throw himself into the alpha's arms and seek refuge, comfort, but he couldn't.
Soap froze for half a second before he responded, cringing at how clipped and deliberately neutral his voice came. "Clear. No movement."
"Copy that."
"Still with us, Tav?" Gaz's voice followed, lighter than Price and pitched with a teasing purr. "Or you planning your next comedy set? Could use a laugh."
His lips twitched, an almost smile, but the usual banter that would've come so easily before now caught in his throat. His hand tightened around his rifle, fingers digging into the cold metal as he forced a neutral reply. "Aye. Focused."
As fucking if. His mind ran in so many directions at once he couldn't keep up. Focused on the task at hand, sure, but worrying. Watching. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was a loudmouth omega who didn't fucking purr—what did his mates see in him? He held no docility, no calm or steadying presence among a pack with three alphas, all he did was let them down and embarrass them over, and over, and over—
"Right, keep sharp." Ghost's low voice cut through, a solid weight that threatened to crush whatever remained of Soap's fragile thoughts. "Don't lose your heads."
"Sharp as ever, LT," Gaz quipped back—god, Soap could practically see the grin on his face, even as far away as they were. "And here I was thinking you didn't have a heart."
"Proper tin-man, me," Ghost huffed a soft breath, one that crackled through the comms—probably as close to an actual laugh they'd get out of him. "Someone's gotta keep you idiots alive."
"Gunnin' for my job, are we?" Price snarked back dryly. Soap wondered—were his eyes sparkling with mirth right now? Bright and amused, crinkled at the corners?
"Not a bloody chance."
"Shame, that. Captain Riley's got a nice ring to it," Gaz sighed. Normally, Soap would've jumped in with something sharp and cheeky, letting his playfulness shine through and soften under their dominance and strength. But the words felt stuck in his chest—what would he even say? A too-big weight pressing down on him, so instead he just gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, barely audible over the crackle of the signal.
A low beep sounded in his ears—the signal that someone'd switched over to his private frequency. "Johnny," Ghost's voice came again, quiet and almost worried, laced with the subtle command inherent in any alpha speaking to their omega. "You solid?"
"Fine, sir," Soap lied, clipped and automatic.
The following silence spoke louder than any words could. Soap swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck as shame settled heavy in his chest. His scent soured faintly—not enough to give him away—but he forced it down, knowing it'd linger in his pack's bond. No sense in distracting all of them, he'd done it enough lately. Bitterness sparked in his heart when Ghost didn't respond, but he didn't trust himself to say anything more. If he did, something deep in him would crack and pour over, he couldn't take the risk.
Not if he wanted them to keep him. After all, they probably enjoyed his silence. That's why no one questioned it, he decided. They finally had some peace.
He was finally being a good omega.
— $ —
"MacTavish," Murphy's voice broke through Soap's oppressive thoughts, hacking them away like a blade. "Take point. Head northwest and secure the ridge. Stevens and I will sweep the lower perimeter." The command rumbled throughout his thoughts—low and forceful and so alphan… Murphy used his alpha tone. On a soldier that wasn't his, on an omega that wasn't his…
And no one said a word.
Soap blinked, eyebrows knitting together beneath his helmet. Why hadn't his alphas said anything? Protective bastards as they all were, at the very least Price would've cleared his throat, had Ghost not ripped the man's head off. Maybe they just don't care…
Nevermind that. The ridge hadn't been mentioned during the briefing, but maybe that was during the part he hadn't been paying attention to. Splitting up felt reckless, but questioning Murphy didn't seem to be a good option either. Not after earlier.
"Aye," Soap replied quietly, veering off without a word of protest. The climb would be grueling—steep and muddy, littered with loose stones that shifted treacherously beneath his boots. Every muscle in his body burned with the effort, each step a reminder of the unyielding weight on his back. Was this how Atlas felt, with the world on his shoulders?
The air thinned the further he got, cooler and tinged with the faintest scent of distant rain. Distracted, he slipped once—a sharp jolt shooting through his knee as he slid back, catching himself on a jagged rock. He didn't dare whimper, didn't dare slow.
God, Soap wanted his alphas. Wanted to throw himself at their feet and beg for forgiveness. His anxiety only grew with every passing second—not that he could pay much attention to it through his shallow breaths and shaking hands. The faintest traces of their scents clung to his memory, but they wouldn't offer any real comfort now. Not even as his instincts screamed for their proximity, for the rough purr of Ghost as he fiddled with Soap's kit, for Price's steady hand on his back, for Gaz's impish grin…
He didn't deserve it. Not after how he'd embarrassed them during the briefing.
Instead, Soap dropped to a crouch, rifle at the ready as he scanned the landscape just over the ridge. He faltered for a moment, because it wasn't fucking clear.
Not by a damn long shot.
Why had he been sent this way?
"Movement on the ridge," he murmured, relying on his throat mic to pick up the subtle vibrations of his voice. "Four—no, five tangos. All heavily armed."
Static greeted him, a low hiss that sent a cold spike of fear through him. He had to be out of range of his mates by now, but Murphy and Stevens? They should've been within a few hundred yards of him, easily picked up by his receiver. It worked a second ago! Soap's numb fingers fiddled with the dial, keying every channel repeatedly, but no response.
"This is Bravo 7-1 in the blind, does anyone copy?" He whispered frantically, biting the inside of his cheek when no response came. Retreat wasn't an option—he'd make too much noise going back down. They'd know someone was out there in an instant, and he'd be mince. But engaging alone… it'd be suicide.
His mates would be better off without him, though.
If something happened on this op, they could find another omega, a real one that would purr for them and be soft and docile. Their bond was only a few months old. It could sever without too much heartache, and they'd still have each other…
Besides, wasn't that worst-case scenario? Soap could manage. He always did.
Soap shifted slightly, trying to find better cover behind a cluster of boulders. His legs ached from the climb, hands slick with cold sweat even beneath his gloves. If he waited them out, he could pick them off one by one. He'd grabbed a suppressor for a reason. As long as they were all out before anyone noticed someone missing…
They moved closer, voices low and clipped as they barked orders to one another. Soap held his breath, willing his body to stay still, even as his pulse thudded in his ears. He could do this, he could—
The loose rocks shifted suddenly, tumbling down the opposite slope, off the cliff in a cascade of dust and debris. The ground gave way beneath him, and Soap slid down alongside the rocks, the sharp edges scraping against his arms and legs as he fought to catch himself. An outcropping slammed into his side—or maybe he slammed into the outcropping, he didn't really know—with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, pain flaring sharp and immediate before he came to a sprawling stop at the bottom of the ravine, head spinning.
And then the debris landed atop him. Caking his prone, broken form in dust, in rocks and pebbles that stung his tender skin, that left him trapped.
Alone.
"—! Report! Soap!"
"Soap!"
Voices barked through the comms—his mates, frantically calling his name, loud and urgent and scared. Soap's lips parted, but no sound came out. The words stuck in his throat, merging with the ache in his chest and the searing pain in his leg and side.
He swallowed hard, hands fumbling for his comms. And then another voice came: Murphy. "He's fine. Comms busted, that's all. He's with me."
Soap's stomach dropped. Murphy's words were only a partial lie, more than likely. His comms looked pretty rough, and the static in his ears? He couldn't tell if it was memory or real. So he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, because he could handle this.
Soap bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, the sting sharp enough to ground him. Pressed against the base of the ridge, and waited. He didn't call for help, even though the lump in his throat grew tighter with every second. They wouldn't come for him—not after the way he'd embarrassed them during the briefing. Hell, Murphy's lie probably saved them the trouble of pretending to care. He'd rest for a few minutes, and then pull himself together. Hike back to exfil and take the verbal lashings he deserved.
He didn't make a single sound.
— $ —
The minutes stretched on, or maybe it'd been hours. Days? Soap couldn't tell anymore. The world narrowed to the sharp, unrelenting pain in his ribs, the slick, hot blood coating his hands, the throbbing ache in his leg. He couldn't see it, couldn't move it—was there bone sticking out? Was his foot even there?
Each shallow breath was a struggle—the taste of copper from his gnawed cheek mixing with the metallic scent of blood overwhelming his senses. He whimpered softly—where was his pack? His alphas? Didn't they know their omega was hurt? Did they care?
"Alphas…" he whispered weakly, barely a breath in the still air. "Alphas…" Soap's vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges. His mind wandered in fits and starts, slipping through fractured memories and half-formed thoughts. The three of them—Price, Gaz, Ghost—all featured prominently, his anchors to a world that slipped away bit by bit.
Price's steady presence, his voice could always cut through the tangle of Soap's thoughts and bring him back to the present. Would sort through the storm and bring him out the other side, never complained when Soap wanted to kneel at his feet for a while, wanted his mohawk scratched or a kiss on the head and a 'good boy' so he knew his alpha wanted him there.
Ghost's quiet strength, his beacon in the dark. Who saved him more than once—always had his back, never left him behind. Waited in that dark church just to bring Soap to safety. Carried him to the makeshift cot in Alejandro and Rudy's safe-house that stormy night, offered a glove for him to bite when Ghost went to stitch his ravaged skin shut.
Gaz's endless warmth, the subtle reassurance of his fist knocking against Soap's shoulder. How he'd distract Soap every time he started getting anxious and flighty, with a quick joke or the offer of a spar, or even just sitting quietly and holding his hand. That teasing, impish grin that could make Soap forget the weight of the world for a while.
He could almost hear them now. Soap smiled despite himself—these versions of his mates were calling his name like they cared. Like they adored him. Like he hung the sun and the moon and the stars and they couldn't bear to lose it—
"Soap!" Price's tone, commanding yet tinged with panic.
"Tav, stay with us!" Gaz's plea, the strain in his voice unmistakable.
"Don't you dare, Johnny. Don't you fuckin' dare," Ghost's low, dangerous growl, terrified in a way Soap never imagined he could be.
He blinked, the edges of his vision graying and blurring. This couldn't be real, right? Some cruel trick of a dying man's mind? Because he was dying, he knew that, he could feel the telltale rattle in his chest—he wanted to yell, to answer and tell them he was here but his mind and his mouth didn't connect. Ironic, the one time they want me to make a sound and I can't.
Soap's hands trembled, weak and useless, as debris rained down on him anew. A weak cough left his mouth, dust coating his lips. They'd be fine without him. His pack didn't need him—they'd find a better omega, one who could pull their weight and soften the edges of an already too-sharp world. He just wished he could tell them he was sorry, sorry for all of it, that he never meant to be a burden to them…
Soap didn't know when the world dimmed fully. But it came back in a shock, a blinding light that tore a weak, keening sob from his throat. The sharp, jarring sensation of movement juxtaposed by the warmth and softness of hands caressing his battered skin…
"Bloody hell, he's alive," Gaz's voice came as a lifeline, the thinnest strand but Soap clung to it. He sounded so scared but so relieved. Why?
Maybe I can beg them to forgive me if I make it out of this…
"Stay awake, Soap," Price ordered, a sharp bark of command underlaid by pain. Why did Price sound hurt, did something happen—
Hands—strong and familiar—pressed against him. Lifting, sharing the weight of his broken body and shoving the debris away… the scent of his alphas overwhelmed him now, cutting through the metallic tang of blood and the earthy musk of the forest. Comforting in a way Soap missed so much, one that left him sobbing and purring for the first damn time—
"—no right to be bloody purrin' like that—"
Oh…
They were angry.
Of course they were.
His purr stopped as soon as it started, even as their voices collided in his ears again. The pain overwhelmed him, the darkness too inviting, too insistent. Soap let it take him, and the world gave way to dizzying blackness.
— $ —
Soap went limp in Ghost's arms, his weight sagging like a damn corpse. Ghost froze, entire body going rigid while panic flared in his eyes, sharp and biting.
"No, no, no," Ghost growled, voice cracking as he shifted to cradle their mate's broken form more securely. The scent of blood overlaid their omega's natural scent—thistle and heather, fresh but earthy—leaving it so wrong he thought he would shatter. It wasn't enough, it wasn't right—
"Gaz, check his pulse!" Price barked, tone like a whip that snapped both the aforementioned man and Ghost to attention. Without a word, Gaz dropped to his knees, trembling fingers pressing against Soap's pale neck. Ghost didn't dare breathe until Gaz's shoulders slumped in relief.
"He's got one," Gaz confirmed, voice wavering. "Weak, but it's there."
"Then let's move," Price ordered. The strain in his voice, though… Ghost didn't envy his position, having to hold everything and everyone together like this. "We don't have time to waste."
Soap's limp body weighed so much, but nothing at all. Ghost's heart thundered in his ears as he rose, cradling his precious bundle, drowning out the world. Soap had purred at them—a soft, sweet sound that the three men had never heard from their perfect boy… it shouldn't have been possible with how much pain Soap must've been in, but now? The silence… too much. Too much, he needed Soap back—
God, why was he so fucking stupid?! The way Soap's face fell when he spoke, the omega completely misunderstood his words because Ghost misspoke and shoved his foot so far into his mouth it came out his arse instead.
No right to be bloody purrin' like that… Oh, Johnny…
He'd give anything to hear that beautiful melody again. They kept moving, jogging as a unit, Gaz ahead clearing their path while Price flanked Ghost. Fear and heartache radiated through his pack's bond—something was missing, something that left a Soap-shaped hole in their hearts, that wouldn't heal until they knew he'd be okay.
He had to be okay.
"Soap," Ghost hissed, voice softer than he thought he'd ever be capable of. "Johnny… stay with me. Stay with us, just a little longer. Yeah? Gotta purr for us again, perfect boy…"
But Soap didn't respond.
Ghost swallowed hard, daring to sneak a glance at Price as they approached the evac point. Somehow, some way, medics already swarmed the place, pulling Soap from his arms and carrying him into the belly of their transport before it lifted off, flying high and far away from them.
Price's jaw clenched. He looked a sight, not that Ghost looked much better. Chest heaving, the adrenaline dump working through his body as Gaz re-approached. And the moment he did, Ghost dragged them both close, crushing them against his broad chest.
As if they would vanish the moment he dared to let go.
Please be okay, Johnny… we can't do this without you.
— $ —
Soap woke slowly, head heavy and body aching with every shallow breath. The air around him smelled clean—too clean—and the tinge of antiseptic stung his sensitive nose. He could detect the hint of lavender underneath, and for a moment he thought he was still dreaming. But then he sniffed again—tobacco and leather, charcoal and pepper, bergamot and eucalyptus… and then the softest murmur of voices.
His pack.
His throat was raw, dry as the desert when he tried to speak. A weak rasp escaped, immediately stilling the voices. Footsteps approached fast—Gaz's light tread, Price's steady boots, and Ghost's near-silent steps—and then they were there, crowding his bedside.
"Soap," Price breathed, thick with relief as tears glittered in his crystalline eyes. "You're awake."
"Just barely," Gaz added, though his usual humor was muted by his tight expression. "Tav, you're never allowed to scare us like that again. We thought…" his voice hitched, and Soap blinked up at them, dazed. His lips parted in an attempt to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
"We thought we were gonna lose you," Price finished, a single tear falling to his cheek and disappearing into his beard.
This was all… wrong. Why were they so upset? Ghost's dark eyes fixed on Soap, scanning his face, his body, but everything felt… wrong. He'd been too loud, too reckless, too—
Too him.
"Y'alright, Johnny?" Ghost asked, low and rough. Soap managed a shaky nod, though the movement made his head spin. His fingers twitched, and Gaz was there in an instant, wrapping warm hands around his own to still the tremors.
"We've got you, love," Gaz murmured. "You're safe."
Safe… the word lodged itself in Soap's chest, warring with the guilt that had festered since the moment the ridge collapsed. Did they complete the objective? What about Murphy? What if his tumble fucked the entire mission up, he should've done better, should've—
"Don't," Ghost growled, low and alphan and cutting through Soap's spiraling thoughts like one of his prized knives. Soap frowned after a beat, confused, as Ghost leaned in closer, pulling his mask up and away from his mouth. The alpha's lips pressed into a firm line.
Soap panicked properly at that—he'd fucked up again, one of his alphas was angry with him, he kept making everything worse even though he'd done what he was supposed to and kept his mouth shut because no one wanted to hear him talk—
Two strong arms wrapped around his heaving chest, his own hands coming up to grip at broad shoulders as his eyes widened, unseeing, terrified, he couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't hear couldn't couldn't couldn't—
"Johnny."
Ghost's voice cut through the haze once more, low and commanding but tinged with a rawness that—while it didn't calm his fluttering heart—forced his eyes to meet the alpha's. The way Ghost said his name, so firm yet so gentle, wrapped around him like a lifeline. His skin tingled, so much that he barely registered the hands that moved to cradle his face, too busy gulping down ragged breaths. Gaz, Price, Ghost—they were all there, surrounding him, they were still here did that mean they hadn't given up on him? Written him off?
"You're safe, sunshine," Price repeated, still drenched in emotion. Pain, longing, desperation, love… "You're here, with us. We're not leaving you, lad, so get that thought right out of your head."
Soap blinked rapidly, forcing his vision to clear. And the sight he was treated to as it did—Ghost leaning in closer, his unmasked face on full display, scars and curly blond hair and honey brown eyes—no anger, no disappointment, just raw and unfiltered worry.
"Murphy, though… he's done. Reassigned." Price grunted after a beat, leaning back slightly with his jaw tight. Confusion flooded through Soap's veins, his brows knitting together with uncertainty.
"Reassigned? What d'you mean?"
"We didn't know he'd used his alpha tone on you." Price's voice became sharp with anger, though Soap knew it wasn't directed at him. "If we had, it would've been dealt with then and there."
Ghost's expression hardened. "No room for an alpha like that in the field. His actions could've cost lives—your life."
Gaz let out a sharp breath, his grip on Soap's hand tightening. "Bastard tried blaming you for it, too. Said you weren't clear enough on comms." His tone turned venomous, a stark change from his usual velvet tongue. "As if he didn't bloody lie about you being with him."
Soap's heart sank, his breath hitching. "I wasn't clear enough. My comms were busted, but I should've tried harder—"
"Stop that," Ghost growled, cutting him off. His dark eyes burned with barely restrained fury—but not at Soap. A fire, but one meant to protect him. "You did try. You followed orders, and you trusted your team to back you up. Murphy failed you, not the other way around."
Soap heart the undercurrent in his words: and we failed you, too. He didn't want Ghost to blame himself for not being there… just because they were paired up more often than not shouldn't have meant nearly dying without him there—
Price's hand found Soap's shoulder, his grip warm and steady. "We don't blame you, lad. We never did. You did everything right."
Soap tried to nod, but the weight of their words only deepened the ache in his chest. "I should've been quieter, though. Should've—"
"Stop that." Price barked, leaning in further until the warmth of his breath puffed against Soap's face, their noses nearly touching. The power in his voice left Soap no option but to listen, to hear his alpha and meet his eyes, unable to look away. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear: we want to hear you."
Soap gaped at him, blinking owlishly. The moment Price pulled back, Ghost took his place, Gaz flanking him while he rubbed Soap's shoulder. "You think we don't want to hear you? That we don't miss your voice when you're not talking?"
His breath caught. "But… I'm loud. Always have been… no one's ever—I don't… no one wants to hear me…"
"We do," Gaz said firmly, hand sliding over Soap's back now, strong and warm. "We always do, John. No matter how awful your jokes are, no matter—"
"But I don't even purr for you…"
Soap's voice came so quiet, his pack's reactions so delayed that—for a moment—he thought they hadn't heard. Price let out a heavy sigh after a few seconds, one hand finding its way to Soap's, rubbing over his knuckles.
"Why?" Price asked, soft yet tinged with so much sadness Soap wanted to cry.
Soap hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of the hospital blanket. His throat still felt raw, like something wanted to claw out of his chest, but he couldn't bear to let it free. "People used to say it was wrong," he finally managed, voice cracking under the weight of his unshed tears. "That it sounded… ugly. I couldn't stop purring, I'd purr at everything but it just annoyed everyone so I forced it back. Told myself I wouldn't do it again."
Gaz's brows furrowed, his thumb stroking Soap's hand. "They're daft, then. It's yours, Tav. And from the brief moment we got to hear it… it's rough, sure. Loud, but so unapolagetically you. It's bloody brilliant."
"Only said you had no right t'be purrin' like that cause you were bleedin' out in my arms," Ghost grunted. "Bastard. Can't pull that shite on us. Purrin' and dyin' at the same goddamn time. Scared the hell outta me, thought I'd never hear it again." He leaned in closer, though, expression softening. "Doesn't matter, though, because they were wrong, Johnny. Your purr—it's raw, it's loud, it's just like you. Perfect."
"Sunshine," Price's fingers tightened around Soap's, grounding him with their steady warmth. "They were wrong. Every bloody one of them. You don't ever have to hold back—not your voice, not your laugh, not your purr or silly jokes. We want it all."
"You mean that?" He had to check. Had to be sure, because if he was wrong it would crush him to dust. Soap's wide blue eyes darted between the three alphas, searching for any hint of deception.
"Every goddamn word, John," Price rumbled. His hand moved to cradle the back of Soap's head, fingers tangling into his mohawk with the softest touch. "You've been ours from the start, love. There's nothing you could do or be that would make us want you any less."
Soap swallowed hard, tears finally streaking down his face. "I thought… I thought I was too much. That you needed something softer, quieter, more submissive…"
"A brat tamer without a brat? Seems pretty boring," Gaz laughed, nudging Ghost. "Think the big guy'd be way depressed without you."
Price leaned closer, resting his forehead against Soap's, pressing the softest kiss to Soap's mouth. "You're everything we need, sunshine," he whispered against Soap's lips, a smile growing on his own. "Everything."
As if on cue, Ghost moved, tugging off his hoodie and bundling it up. He pressed it into Soap's trembling hands, the scent of charcoal and pepper enveloping him immediately. "Can't bring you to our nest," he murmured, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, "might as well bring it here."
Gaz followed, adding his jacket to the pile, the fabric heavy with eucalyptus and the remnants of his body heat. Price didn't hesitate either, shrugging off his coat and resting it over Soap's lap, letting the leather and tobacco soothe the omega down. "Now it's complete," he murmured, meeting Soap's eyes.
Soap clutched the makeshift nest to his chest, his body trembling as their scents wrapped around him. The tension in his shoulders loosened, the sharp edges of his spiraling thoughts dulling as he let himself sink into the feeling.
He almost didn't realize it—the first rumble started low and uneven, a sound he hadn't properly made in years. Slowly but surely, though, he managed to coax a weak, rusty purr from his chest. Uncertain, tentative, but the moment the others heard it, the tension bled from the room. Even though the sound startled him, the warmth of his alphas only grew.
They want this.
The weight in his chest began to lift. "We didn't know he'd used his alpha tone on you." Price's voice became sharp with anger, though Soap knew it wasn't directed at him. "If we had, it would've been dealt with then and there."
They want me.
"There it is," Ghost murmured, kissing Soap's temple. Gaz's grin widened, his hand finding Soap's bandaged cheek as he pressed a kiss to the Scot's forehead.
"Bloody brilliant," he agreed. Even Price chuckled—deep and rumbling, almost a purr in and of itself, a response—as he carded his fingers through Soap's hair.
"That's our good boy," Price crooned, pride thick in his tone.
"Been holdin' out on us, Johnny," Ghost's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Don't ever do that again."
Soap let out a shaky laugh, his tears soaking into his skin while his purr grew louder, steadier. For the first time, he didn't care he it sounded—that it was rough and uneven—because it was his. Just like the three alphas before him, the ones who loved him fearlessly, always ready to bring him back from the dark.