Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Roy and religion have never really had a history of getting along; they’ve been estranged for several years now. Looking back, he’s actually not sure if there was ever a time he fully believed, even. Roy gave up on practicing his faith a long time ago, though maybe a better description would be that religion gave up on him? Truth be told, he cannot say. Truth be told, he cannot bring himself to care.

He’s seen how people these days use faith as an excuse for their wretched words and actions, and he wants no part of it. And yes, he’s aware that it’s entirely possible to be religious and be a good person, but he’s always prided himself on not needing to follow a script to be an upstanding member of society.

Mostly because he’s not a good person (his former opponents and some teammates would gladly attest to that), but in the ways that matter, he still does his best.

He honestly can’t remember the last time he went to church…maybe for an old teammate’s wedding? Or a funeral, maybe? Either way, it’s been several years since he stepped foot inside those old buildings.

He knew Ruth would still go sometimes (meaning the Submarine Days of Christmas and Easter), but she never invited him along since she knew what the answer would be (he appreciated that he never even had to deny her even once for her to get the hint). Rachel and Rose had never been religious, even when they were kids, so Roy doubted they ever went on their own now that they had moved out and focused on their careers.

Before she’d gotten sick, his mother had dragged all of them to church every Sunday so they could listen to an old man preach about things he didn’t really have a right to talk about and sing a couple songs about how awesome this mystery man in the sky was. The only positive to this arrangement was that all of the old ladies brought sweets to eat after mass, and as long as they were well behaved, each of the Kent kids could pick out one piece to have on the way home.

It was there, in the pews of that old church, that Roy first perfected dissociation. He also learned how to feign interest in something while zoning out, because if his mother caught him not paying attention, she’d smack him on the head with the little pamphlet they got for each mass. His mother was born and raised religious, though she was far from the Bible-Thumpers Roy would see on the street trying to press their faith on passerbys. Faith was important to her, but it wasn’t in the top five most important things in her life. She claimed that honor was for her four beautiful children and her one handsome husband. But she also claimed to her children that committing to an hour of church every week would be good practice for holding oneself to a schedule in the future, and that wishing the best for people in the form of prayer would help good blessings come your way, too.

Roy found that he had nothing to pray for really, especially after his mom told him he couldn’t wish for John in the class above him to break his ankle so he would have the starting spot on the football squad.

It was something that five out of the six of the Kents hated doing, but they couldn’t go against what the One wanted. Those sweet treats from the local grandmas if they behaved during church were delicious, but sometimes even that wasn’t enough incentive to sit through an hour of the most boring shit in the world.

Whenever Roy would beg his dad not to make them go, his father would whisper If I have to go, you have to go so that his mother couldn’t hear and make sure the only son would drag his feet into that pew and stay there, damn it. But, every now and then so his mother didn’t get suspicious, Roy’s dad would help him fake an illness so the both of them could stay home and watch TV. He’d even go so far as to mash up the peas and leave it to sit out in the sun to really smell like vomit to make the whole thing a little believable. If his mother had caught on, she never said, just gave her husband and son a look and dragged the daughters to church with her anyway. But again, that was just an ‘every now and then’ thing, no matter how badly Roy wished it was a ‘every week’ thing.

So Roy dragged his feet to church. He sat in the goddamn pew for the entire goddamn hour. He would tolerate the old ladies pinching his cheeks and telling him how big he was getting and how handsome he was. He got a donut on the way home for behaving. And he did his very best to ignore the fact they would have to do this all over again the following Sunday.

And then, Roy’s mom got sick.

And suddenly, Roy had something to pray for.

He did his very best to make up for lost time, all the hours he spent pretending to listen and praying that people broke their ankles instead of genuine things. He prayed that his mom would beat this illness. He offered to switch; give me her pain, let me take some of it for her. He prayed for the doctors to have clear minds and steady hands during her surgeries. He begged for the pain meds to work completely instead of half-assing it like they sometimes did, leaving his mother in a constant achy state. He prayed that she get the nice nurses that day, the ones that gave her an extra pillow or a sweet even though they weren’t supposed to. And, towards the end of her battle, he prayed that she would feel no pain at all.

One single time, he prayed for his dad. Prayed that the drunkard would never bother them again and maybe, if God was so willing, make sure he got checked into rehab.

The last time Roy prayed was the day of his mother’s funeral. He just wanted her to get to Heaven alright, and never feel an ounce of suffering again.

After that day, he never prayed again.

Nearly thirty years later, Roy had never prayed a single time. Never before a game, never before a physio appointment (and never during either, despite the torture he would be subjected to in regards to getting his fucked up knee to straighten all the way) and never on a Sunday. The stint with exorcizing the treatment room didn’t count, and neither did the general plea that his sister and new niece make it through their labor, because that was familiar concern and not to a specific deity.

He was aware that he probably had favor with exactly none of the gods of today. In fact, some of them were probably actively playing against him. Roy was no stranger to opposition, of course; the amount of people that were praying on his downfall were astronomical. It just fueled Roy. It made him stronger.

He was Roy Kent. He didn’t need a deity to back him up in life. He had crawled his way out of a shitty situation, and he did it by himself. He was an All-Star football player, an inspiration to thousands of little kids all across the world. He was fairly certain that, in this crazy little world, that there had to be at least one little cult dedicated to him. As long as they didn’t start doing public sacrifices in his honor, he didn’t give two shits if they used his name and likeness for their group.

Roy doesn’t regret stepping away from religion, if they were ever together in the first place.

So why does he suddenly feel like…

The gentle, steady beeping of the heart rate monitor makes Roy blink. The room smells of disinfectant and some cheap room spray to attempt to mask it. The hand held tightly in his is cold, just as it was yesterday. The skin of said hand is paler than normal, and the sad, pitiful rays of sunlight leaking through the room make the body seem ghastly and not at all healthy.

Roy takes a deep breath in. Nobody else is in the room to notice how wobbly it is.

“Please,” Roy whispers as he brings the hand up against his forehead and presses his other hand around it. He grips it tightly, squeezing in the hopes of the man in the bed squeezing him back. He’s tried countless times over the past thirty hours, but the hand has never returned the gesture.

“Please,” Shaking his head, Roy lets out another shaky exhale. “Please bring him back to me.”

There’s another steady beep from the heart monitor. But Jamie Tartt does not wake.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Annual Christmas Recital, that takes place halfway through the dancing year, was a time for the dancers of all levels to show off the skills they’ve learned thus far in the season. The dancers ranged from three years old to the semi-professional level at eighteen. The semi-professional dancers would travel around the country and compete in national competitions, and some were even good enough to perform in parades or other countries. Phoebe falls somewhere in the middle, though she’s in the more advanced class for her age group (Roy might be slightly (a lot) biased, but he would proudly say that she was the best dancer in her class).

The older dancers were always interesting to watch, because they would do cool jumps and lifts and twirls and the like. There were a couple girls who were good enough for solos, typically choosing to do a more emotional piece since they would score better at competitions.

But then there were the Little Ones dances, which were kids three to four years old that were put into these classes because their parents thought it would be cute. Now, if Roy’s kid was the one dressed up in a silly elf costume and barely following the planned out choreography, he would probably find it cute too. Alas, Roy’s child is not at that level, and he finds the show slightly irritating rather than endearing. Screw him if he admits it’s a little hard to watch the kids struggle to link arms and move around in a circle. A couple of the little tykes even have to be pulled off the stage because they’re crying for their parents. Overall, not that cute.

Good thing Roy is only here for one girl and one girl only. He nudges Ruth excitedly when he sees that Phoebe’s first dance is next and ignores the kick to the shin his younger sister gives him in return.

The lights come on and the girls’ bright smiles become visible. They’re dressed in light blue tutus with matching blue slippers, hair up in a tight bun at the back of their heads. Phoebe’s dance this year is to a lovely piano version of I’ll Be Home for Christmas. Roy finds himself singing along quietly even though there are technically no words.

For as aggressive as she was on the field, Phoebe is a very graceful ballet dancer. This was only her second year in dance, and again, Roy might be biased, but his praise of his niece is not unsupported; twice she gets to do a special move by herself, which only one other girl gets to do. She moves with purpose and each move is done with obvious pride in her abilities.

Try as he might though, he can’t remember all the names of the moves she’s doing. God knows she practiced in front of him enough times and spoke out loud what each position was, but he can’t remember all the different ones. Honestly, they’re just numbered first, second, third etc. etc. How on earth is he supposed to know?

Phoebe’s song ends, and the lights dim when applause erupts in the little theater. Roy and Ruth are the loudest supporters, whistling and cheering so loud they get a few looks from the people sitting next to them. They can go fuck themselves, Roy will cheer even louder after Phoebe’s second dance.

As much as Roy wishes he could have come along with the lads to celebrate tonight, he can’t deny how happy he is to see his niece perform. He knows Jamie won’t hold it against him, as there will be plenty of times for them to go out again in the future.

(Roy absolutely doesn’t think about his omega grinding against him on the dance floor. This is a family function, he has to be appropriate).

(He thinks about it a little bit).

Phoebe’s dance is followed by another Little Ones performance, and the former footballer almost forgets himself as he swears quietly. He normally doesn’t care about what other people think and whether or not he hurts their feelings, but he’s determined that very few people are more vicious than dance moms defending their children. If given the choice between a standoff between a charged up mom and a pissed off player, he’d take the player any day. At least they’d let him leave the argument with a shred of dignity. Thankfully, it seems that nobody heard him, or maybe his immediate neighbors agree with his sentiment.

Phoebe’s second dance is spaced out enough to give her time to change into her next costume, which seems to have taken heavy inspiration from a candy cane. Her tights are red and white stripes, while the tutu is a pale red to match the white of the top of the leotard. This song is a little more upbeat, and Roy recognizes it to be the piano version of Sia’s Candy Cane Lane. Roy is honestly impressed that the choreography looks as good as it does, because he would never choose this dance for a ballet recital.

Then again, nobody asked him for his opinion, so that’s that.

Once again, Phoebe gets to have a few opportunities for a little solo, twisting in the air with a bright and excited smile on her face. She follows the moves perfectly, though the one time she almost loses her balance (she was bumped by the person next to her), she recovers so quickly Roy barely notices.

When her dance is over, Ruth and Roy are on their feet, cheering for their favorite little girl. They get some dirty looks, but Roy just shoots them right back; they’re just jealous that Phoebe is obviously the best dancer out there.

After the grand finale, Roy and Ruth head out to the lobby area to wait. Ruth is allowed back into the girls dressing room since she’s Phoebe’s mother, while Roy searches for the biggest bouquet of flowers they’re selling after the performance. He ends up buys two and pays extra for the sweet old lady behind the counter to put them together, but Phoebe doesn’t have to know that.

“Uncle Roy!” Phoebe exclaims once she finds him. She’s wearing a coat over her leotard to keep her warm from the bitter weather outside. Her smile is bright and genuine and Roy knows he would level cities to make sure that smile always stayed on her face. “Did you see me up there?”

“Of course I did, Pheebs.” Roy praises, bringing her in for a big hug. He’s wearing scent patches so he can’t mark her as thoroughly as he’d like, but he’s content to hold her for now. She smells like hairspray and the little bits of makeup she has on. Pulling back, he hands her the giant bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.”

“Roses! My favorite!” Phoebe exclaims, burying her nose into the petals and taking a big sniff. “Thanks, Uncle Roy!”

“Did you say all your goodbyes, Phoebe?” Ruth prompts, and Roy notices that there’s a couple girls nearby with the same uniform as Phoebe, meaning they were probably in the same classes. Unlike Roy himself, Phoebe is a very social person and loves to make friends wherever she goes, so there have to be a couple other girls nearby that Phoebe is close with.

“I did,” Phoebe says proudly, using her free hand to grab onto Roy’s as they make their way towards the parking lot. Ruth clicks her tongue before grabbing the giant bouquet and holding it with her opposite hand so she can hold her daughter’s hand as well. “I gave each of them lots of compliments.”

“But you were the best.” Roy inputs proudly.

Ruth lets go of Phoebe’s hand long enough to smack her older brother on the shoulder. He lets out a groan of protest that has Phoebe giggling. “Roy.”

“What?!” Roy demands seriously. “She was!”

Ruth gives a small smile, and Roy can tell she’s trying to hold it back. “At least wait until we’re back in your car to say that. There’s other parents who could overhear.”

Roy huffs, puffing out his chest. They approach his car, which automatically unlocks once they get close enough. “So fucking what? They wouldn’t be able to argue with me, ‘cause they’d know I’m fucking right.”

“That’s two pounds, Uncle Roy.” Phoebe says from the back seat where she’s got herself all buckled in already. “You know, most of the other girls in my class don’t know any bad words yet.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re the one teaching them.” Ruth buries her face in her hands at the answer she already suspects is coming. When Phoebe doesn’t answer, Ruth groans loudly. “Phoebe!”

“Will an ice cream on the way home make you feel better?” Roy looks at her in the rearview mirror and watches Phoebe’s face light up. It’s matched by Ruth’s excited cry that she won’t be paying for this sweet treat. “Alright, one ice cream for the best dancer in the whole performance, coming right up.”

“Roy.”

Roy sputters and shifts his car into gear, barely remembering to look over his shoulder before peeling out of their spot. “We’re in my own goddamn car! I can say whatever I damn well please!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After getting their ice cream, they bring it back to Ruth’s house to eat it while watching a Christmas movie. Jamie hasn’t texted him much, but looking at the time, Roy guesses they’re just arriving at the club. He has to wonder which poor suckers got roped into being the DD’s and doesn’t envy those who did.

Phoebe chooses The Year Without Santa Claus, which is a classic but one of Roy’s favorites; the songs are timeless. Once Phoebe is cleaned up and Ruth has gotten them both into their pajamas, Roy presses play on the movie and lets the memories of Christmas with his family suck him in. He sings along to the songs, remembering the lyrics with a sense of pride. If he were to close his eyes right now, he’s certain he could feel the warm presence of his granddad next to him, and smell his grandma’s delicious cookies baking in the oven to be decorated later in the evening.

When he glances at Ruth, he can tell his sister is thinking the exact same thing. He makes a mental note to call Rachel and Rose in the coming days to wish them a Happy Christmas as well.

Though she had sworn to stay awake the whole time, Phoebe is fast asleep within a half hour of the movie starting. It seems that she stayed awake long enough to finish her ice cream, but the second the sweet treat was gone, her exhaustion overtook her. He half expects Ruth to let the movie keep playing, though he’s not surprised when she pauses it. Before the recital she’d done two separate four hour surgeries, it’s understandable that she wants to go to bed, too.

Scooping Phoebe into her arms, Ruth offers him a sleepy smile. “Thanks for coming along, Roy. I’m sure you had other stuff planned with your evening. Perhaps with a special boy,” She winks at him, to which he sticks his tongue out at her. “But it means a lot to Phoebe that you’re there. A lot to me, too.”

Roy smiles, moving slowly towards the door. “The lads were going out to celebrate the end of the tie streak today, and Sam’s victory with the oil company that was destroying his country’s coastline. Call me old all you want, but I don’t think I would be able to keep up with them if they tried to outdrink me tonight.”

“You have the liver of a young Russian man.” Ruth teases, Phoebe adjusting herself in her arms but not waking up. “Don’t think I forgot how crazy you got at Mari’s wedding.”

“Had.” Roy corrects while flinching as he recalls their cousin’s wedding. “That night still haunts me.”

“Me too.” Ruth says in a way that tells Roy it does not haunt her at all. “I will never, ever delete those photos.” Unfortunately, Roy has learned that he cannot win this battle, so he just flips her off and finishes his journey towards the threshold. He ignores her giddy, taunting laughter behind him as he closes the door and steps outside. She can consider it a Christmas present that he doesn’t threaten to reveal the pictures of her at Michael’s wedding.

The drive back to his house is quiet, passing minimal cars on the way. Given the time of night in addition to the time of year, it’s not surprising. The radio offers classic Christmas tunes that he hums along to, knowing that nobody can make fun of him in the privacy of his own vehicle. If he takes the longer way home so he can keep singing along to his favorites, that’s his own damn business.

Upon arriving at home, Roy checks his phone again. There’s a couple incoherent texts from Jamie, meaning he’s likely well on his way to being plastered. Or, as plastered as he will let himself get. Roy’s not worried; he trusts Jamie and he trusts the Greyhounds. The Buddy System within that team is as strong as steel, as unbreakable as diamonds, so Roy knows nobody will be wandering off by themselves. Putting his phone on the charger for the night, he leaves Jamie’s texts unanswered. He’s well aware he’ll get an earful about how horrible of a texter he is later, but he can live with that. No doubt he’ll hear all about it anyway once Jamie gets dropped off by the poor DD’s.

Given the time, Roy knows he should go to sleep. It’s been a long fucking day and he needs as much time as his mind will allow him to rest. But, deep down, he knows that he won’t be able to sleep well until Jamie comes home. He makes the executive, mature decision to stay up and wait for his omega to come home.

This decision is not at all influenced by the fact he really wants to know what happens next in Lust Conquers All. Definitely not. No way Jose. Get your head out of your ass because that is simply not correct.

So Roy’s thumb slips and clicks on the next episode that he and Jamie agreed to watch together. So fucking what? If it’s a crime, Roy will go behind bars as a proud man.

The episodes always start with a short introduction scene that generally sets up the drama for the episode, and this one is no different. Danthony is getting into it with yet another woman, but the big oaf just can’t seem to understand why they’re all so frustrated with him (as if he’s not talking to nearly every woman on the island). Roy lets out a hiss of laughter after Danthony gets slapped across the face before the woman storms off to be comforted by the other girls.

“Serves him fucking right,” Roy shoves his face full of popcorn. He makes a mental note to react the exact same way when he watches this episode again with Jamie so he doesn’t give away that he’s already seen it. He knows Jamie would be pissed as hell if he figured out that Roy watched it without him, even though he was out with the lads.

“It’s the principle of the matter.” Jamie would say as he tried to scold Roy for watching it. No doubt that he would offer the most adorable little pout and crossed arm combination to go along with it. Roy would probably have to grovel a little bit, perhaps offer an ice cream trip or a blowjob to make up for it, but he’s getting better at figuring out how to get back into Jamie’s good graces.

Just as the annoyingly computerized theme song starts playing, Roy gasps in discomfort, one hand coming up to clutch at the fabric above his heart. There’s a strange sensation beneath his ribs, inside his heart if he had to guess. It doesn’t feel like acid reflux or some kind of angina or heart attack (Ruth liked to study out loud back when she was practicing for the board exams, so unfortunately Roy knows all about the symptoms for a heart attack), but it’s still a tightening, a constriction that makes it a little hard to breathe.

If Roy didn’t know any better, this would feel like a panic attack. Or something damn close to it.

Pausing the show, he takes stock of all his limbs and appendages, trying to figure out if there’s some area that needs direct attention or not. There’s no pain in his left arm that would signify an emergency, his palms aren’t sweaty. When he raises both arms out in front of him, they hold strong. His speech is also clear and coherent, so a stroke is probably unlikely. No headache or fever, no spasming muscles or blurry vision. Apart from the weird sensation in his chest and the typical tingling from his knee being bent too long, nothing is suspicious.

Trying not to raise the alarm bells in his mind, Roy puts a hand over his heart to slowly breathe through the pain and calm himself down. He puts a hand on his stomach and watches it move forward and backwards with each breath, a technique he learned from a mom comforting her child after she started crying on the football pitch. It helps him slow down in nearly every sense, confirming to the lizard hindbrain that he is, in fact, still alive and fully functioning.

Slowly, the pain starts to ebb away. Roy lets himself release a long, steady breath of air before he leans back against the couch once more. Again, it didn’t feel like a heart attack, but if it happens again or if Roy starts to experience other symptoms of something more serious, he’ll call his sister or 999.

His moment of reprieve doesn’t last very long; the pain in his chest spikes, as if someone had stabbed him with a knife.

“Fuck!” Roy curls in on himself, one hand coming to grasp at his sweater above his heart while the other grabs onto the couch cushion like it’s going to run away from him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

This most definitely feels like a panic attack. Which would be concerning in of itself, if it weren’t for the additional warning that his alpha hindbrain is giving him.

Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega.

It chants over and over in the back of his mind, a hissing, snarling thing that threatens to overtake his psyche and send him into a feral state. Roy can feel his heartbeat rapidly increasing, pouding in his chest. All of his limbs are vibrating now, seemingly coming alive with an intensity he’s never experienced before, even on the football field.

There’s also a new sensation, tingling in the back of his head. It’s difficult to put into words, partially because Roy has very few coherent thoughts left and partially because it’s new and he has no idea what to say about it. The best he can describe it would be the good feeling you get when you share a good pass with a teammate or Phoebe’s friends come back over the next day because they loved the cookies the two of you made. The feeling of giving, of passing something on to another person. It’s a little more complicated than that obviously, but it’s the best he’s got right now. The thing that separates the most from being a general ‘Good Samaritan’ is the alpha raging in the back of his mind.

Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. Omega. OMEGA. OMEGA. OMEGA. OMEGA. OMEGA.

There is only one clarifying thought that shocks Roy out of his trance for long enough to understand what, exactly, his body is trying to tell him.

Jamie is in danger.

Roy doesn’t know how he knows, and if he was a little more centered in his mind he might be terrified of the fact that he just knows this to be true, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t fully understand the severity of it, but that is the bottom line in all of this.

Jamie is in danger.

Jamie is in danger.

Jamie is in danger.

Running upstairs to grab his phone off the charger, Roy opens it and immediately calls Keeley’s number. In his haste to get down the stairs, he nearly eats it and falls head over heels, but his quick reflexes allow him to reach out and grab the railing just in time. The skip he feels in his heart is for an entirely understandable reason that time, at least.

Keeley picks up in the middle of his swearing fest as he rights the ship and keeps moving towards the garage. “Roy? What the hell are you doin’ up at this hour, you granddad -”

“Jamie’s in danger.” Roy interrupts, in absolutely no mood to be made fun of right now, even though Keeley never does it from a place of maliciousness. He grabs the keys off the counter and runs out of his house, getting into his car and opening the garage.

“Wait, what the fuck did you just say?” Keeley demands as Roy puts his G-Wagon into gear. Thank fuck he had decided to be pretentious when he’d gotten home from the recital and backed in instead of pulled forward as it makes getting out a lot easier.

Roy sees a car coming down the street, but he cuts them off instead of letting them go. He flips the driver off with one hand when they blare their horn at him, steering wheel held between his phone and palm. It would be impressive, if it wasn’t so dangerous. After he’s sped up enough that he basically loses the car he just cut off, he brings his hand back inside the vehicle and makes sure to hold onto the steering wheel with that hand while the other holds onto the phone.

“I said,” Roy hisses, taking a turn that might have been - definitely was - illegal. He pities any of the poor cops that attempt to pull him over. He’ll take the evading arrest charges, he’ll take tackling all of them to the ground to buy himself time, but nothing will stop him from getting to Jamie. “Jamie. Is. In. Danger.”

Keeley is quiet for a moment, the sound of her breath barely audible. Or maybe Roy just can’t hear it around his inner alpha roaring inside of him, urging him to go faster, that they need to be with Jamie now.

“How do you know?” Keeley demands after another moment.

Roy knows it’s the saddest answer, but he has nothing better to offer as he says, “I just do.” He sucks in a breath and swallows his pride that he knows Keeley would never judge him for anyway and pleads, “Please, Keeley.”

“How soon can you get here?” Keeley demands, her voice a lethal calm in the likes Roy has never heard before.

Roy can’t help but grin in a twisted sense of satisfaction. “Gimme eight.” He hangs up the phone, throwing it over his shoulder and not watching where it lands.

Roy gets to her house in five minutes. What should have a significantly longer drive, he cuts down the time to a laughable amount. He’s fairly certain that he nearly took down a couple trees, but as long as the law doesn’t come after him, he doesn’t give two shits.

Keeley is waiting on her porch for him to get there, and Roy barely slows the car all the way to a stop before she’s climbing in.

“I’ll put the address for the bar the lads went to into your GPS,” Keeley explains, already doing just that. Typically, Roy cannot stand the screen that sits at the front of his dash, as he finds it annoying and difficult to use, but he is beginning to see the genius behind it as the screen lights the way to get to his omega.

The ETA reads six minutes.

Once again, Roy cuts the driving time in half. Roy and Keeley don’t talk the entire time, too focused on what’s at stake. And Roy just knows he is giving off very angry vibes that would not incentivize anyone to talk to him, even his closest friends. For a minute, he regrets taking off his patches when he’d gotten home from Ruth’s, but he also knows that Jamie, wherever he is, might appreciate being able to scent him right away.

For the entirety of those three minutes, that Giving Feeling lingers, and he swears it gets stronger and stronger with the proximity.

Roy vaguely recognizes the parking lot and the building it belongs to. He’s probably been here with the lads before, though he was probably too bitter about his ‘demotion’ to the team to really care about the place they chose to celebrate their most recent mediocre win. At the time, he’d probably thought the place was beneath him, unable to see past his own hatred to appreciate it for what it truly was.

He and Keeley get out of the vehicle and start calling out Jamie’s name, getting closer to the main entrance of the place in their search for him. Roy can hear the loud, electric music coming from inside the club and knows that this is totally up Jamie’s alley. The smell of weed hangs heavy in the air, and there’s a couple people walking around in varying stages of drunkenness. The cloying smells of a good night make it difficult to pick out Jamie’s scent, let alone any of the lads. To add to the growing list of concerns, Jamie would definitely be wearing scent blockers right now, making it even more difficult to find him.

Beyond a general, paralyzing scent of danger, Roy has no fucking idea what the situation is. Was Jamie mugged outside of the bar? Was he kidnapped? Did he and the lads get into a fight inside and his secret was revealed to the patrons and the world at large? Roy tries to not let himself think about whether or not someone took advantage of Jamie in his intoxicated state, but he’s well aware that it’s a possibility he must consider.

“I’ll check inside,” Keeley commands. “You look around back.” She’s off before Roy can wish her luck or to report back in person since he doesn’t have his phone on him anymore. He’s not sure whether or not he would rather find Jamie if it means he’s cornered in an alley or if Keeley finds him first but only because he’s been swarmed in the bar.

Doing as he was told, Roy moves around the alley next to the bar. He can hear voices and the overpowering scent of whiskey, which he knows to be one of Jamie’s least favorite things.

He rounds the corner, and his heart gives a strange little flip in his chest. Eternally grateful that he was the one who found Jamie, but the inner alpha is fuming at the scene before them. The rage has only increased, barely comforted by the sight of their beloved.

Jamie is standing a short distance away from a man scraping his hands across the concrete in a feeble attempt to gather as much liquid - whiskey, by the scent of it - as possible closer to him. There must be more to the situation than he understands, because Roy knows Jamie, and he’s fairly certain that he wouldn’t be standing idly by while a drunkard cried and wailed about his spilled liquor. Either he’d be offering to get him another glass or calling the cops to make sure this guy got home okay. Since neither of those things appear to be happening, Roy’s mind goes woefully blank in lieu of a logical explanation.

Forgetting himself in his relief of seeing Jamie again, the alpha calls out, “Jamie! What the fuck is going on?!” The footballer turns abruptly at the call of his name, his gorgeous gray eyes finding Roy’s figure immediately. The alpha starts to pick up the pace, desperate to calm down the roaring in his head and get his omega back into his arms once more.

“Babe!” Jamie calls out excitedly, his voice blessedly free from any fear or distress. Again, his glands are covered by patches, so Roy is unable to get a proper reading on his mood, but his bright eyes and beaming smile mean that at least the omega is safe and excited to see him.

Not safe! Not safe! The alarm bells are ringing in Roy’s mind, and he is in complete agreement. Everything about this situation feels all kinds of wrong, and all of it is so overstimulating that it almost feels like Roy is on a bad fever dream.

For half a second, Roy desperately wishes that was the case; maybe the ice cream he got was mixed with a little something and in reality, the alpha is just passed the fuck out on his couch, Lust Conquers All still playing around him.

No matter how hard he wishes for it, Roy knows that this situation, as horrifying as it may seem, is reality.

But then Jamie’s expression falls as he tilts his head. He’s not moving closer to Roy, even though the alpha is moving towards him as fast as his bum leg will carry him.

“What’s wrong baby?” Normally, Roy would be a little concerned about the use of a pet name so openly, but he really cannot give two shits about it right now. Anyone that knows Jamie Tartt even a little bit will know he uses pet names and teases as easily as breathing, so it isn’t that strange for him to call his former teammate ‘babe’ and ‘ baby’.

“I felt you,” Roy growls as he gets closer to his beloved. Jamie blinks at that and Roy realizes he needs to elaborate on that, definitely. “You were in fucking danger.” He says the words so plainly, as if he were talking to a child, but how can Jamie be surprised that he’s here when he was expressing such dire emotions just a half hour ago?

Shaking his head, Jamie cocks his hip out. “Danger?” He seems to consider this, his body unconsciously angling away from the man still kneeling on the ground beside his liquor. It comforts Roy in the sense that he doesn’t believe this man to be a threat, but the alarm bells still have not ceased ringing in Roy’s head. “Oh, that was nothin’ babe, I handled it.”

Roy wants to be proud of him. His blood sings with praise for his mate, comforted by the knowledge that he defended himself in a dangerous situation. In fact, Roy is proud of him, incredibly so. Jamie is no damsel, and Roy knows that better than anyone, but the fact that there’s one more alpha out there that now knows that omegas aren’t to be fucked with is an incredible victory.

But the fear that Roy had felt, the powerful emotions that had nearly cut off his air from their intensity is not something to be taken so lightly. The strange pull he felt in the back of his mind, the need to give and keep giving until the other party was satisfied is something Roy doesn’t understand, and he’s always feared what he can’t understand. Roy had never experienced anything like that before, and he wants to know if Jamie felt something similar, and they can’t begin to have that talk until Roy can be absolutely sure Jamie is alright. And for his alpha to understand that, they need to hold Jamie as close as physically possible, to rub his scent over his omega despite the patches and never let anything scare him like that ever again.

On the ground behind Jamie, the man wraps his fingers around the whiskey bottle’s handle.

Roy will always curse himself for reacting too late.

He watches as the man rises to his feet, the empty bottle of whiskey clenched in his fist. He can smell the rage coming off the man in waves, clogging up Roy’s nose and making him want to fucking gag at how awful it is. The alpha challenger before him has vicious red eyes that only speak of hatred and danger and malicious intent.

It is a direct threat to Jamie, a direct threat to Roy, but the alpha has been so focused on getting close to his omega that he failed to keep his guard up. He’d disregarded this other alpha as a meaningless threat, comforted by the fact that Jamie had promised he’d taken care of the danger. Roy had believed him, and it didn’t make either of them wrong, it made this alpha dangerous.

He hates himself for thinking it.

Yet all Roy could think about, as the alpha drew back his fist, bottle clenched between his white sausage fingers, was that this man had Jamie’s nose.

And it became all too clear who this fucker was. But that puzzle piece sliding into place does nothing to stop the next several seconds from happening.

The bottle flies, but thanks to the drunken bastard’s piss poor aim, he misses hitting his son and Roy entirely, the glass instead colliding with the wall just behind Jamie’s figure. The glass shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, flying every which way. Several of the shards hit Roy across the arms, one or two hitting his hands where he raises them to protect his face.

He never stops moving towards Jamie, colliding with his omega hard and holding him against his chest. Roy feels his own powerful, inhumane rage bubble to the surface as he roars low in his throat to the challenging alpha. He keeps growling, making sure the piece of shit who offered Jamie half his DNA understands that he will die if he takes one more goddamn step forward.

Jamie whimpers, pressing himself as close as he can to Roy’s glands, taking deep lungfuls of air in. Roy runs a comforting hand over his back, making sure his omega feels protected in his arms.

Roy will not let this fucker hurt Jamie any more than he already has. With as much venom as he can summon, the alpha shouts, “Stay away from him!” Perhaps not the most creative thing he could have said, but it’s not about creativity when you’re trying to get the point across that you would rather rip out the other alpha’s intestines than walk away calmly.

“Ah,” The man drawls, his speech sloppy from the sheer amount of alcohol he’s likely consumed. “So you’re the alpha cock Jamie has gotten himself presentin’ for?”

“Shut your damn mouth, or I will rip out your tongue and you will choke to death on your worthless blood.” Roy seethes, voice dripping with a vicious yet sincere promise. “I will watch the light fade from your fucking eyes with happiness.”

The man does his best not to seem affected by Roy’s threats, but the large swallow gives him away. His scent is too full of whiskey to betray anything else. But despite his very real fear, despite the fact that he appears to be one more gulp away from puking his intestines out, the sinister grin that rises on his lips is very much genuine.

“I’m sure ya think ya love him. He’s probably told ya he feels the same,” The wretched man continues, spiking Roy’s anger with every word. He tightens his grip around his lover’s body in comfort to him and a stabilization to himself; a reminder that Jamie is safe with him. He’ll always be safe with Roy. “Jamie has always been a bit of a player, ever since he was a boy. Gets it from his mum, that willingness to spread his legs.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Roy warns. Distantly, he can hear Keeley’s voice, catching a faint whiff of her lemony scent in the wind, symbolizing her distress. She’s too far away to hear this shit stain talking out of his ass, and Roy is grateful; he doesn’t want her anywhere near this.

At the same time, he knows he needs to get Jamie out of here. He’s starting to feel warm in Roy’s arms, and a small part of his hindbrain knows why. While he’s aware that he could just turn around and walk away, the fact that this man threw a goddamn bottle at Jamie is proof enough that the alpha can’t turn his back to him, not even for a second. He has to wait for the lads or the bouncers to come around and make sure this fucker is held down before Roy can get Jamie home.

“Alpha,” Jamie whispers, and there’s a lilt to his voice that Roy doesn’t particularly like, but his alpha does. It loves what it hears, purring in content. Roy allows himself to nuzzle against the top of Jamie’s head, offering a small amount of comfort. As much as he can.

The mood is ruined (as if it was good before) by the shit stain opening his mouth once again. “Some alpha ya are. It’s your job as an alpha to fuck him right so he doesn’t look for it elsewhere. But…but my…” The man hisses, stumbling around a little. He gestures aimlessly to his son, who is whimpering quietly in Roy’s arms. “My precious boyo reeks of…other alphas and betas…ya have to understand that he is, and always has been a…” He pauses, licking his lips and offering the most diabolical of smiles.

Roy’s blood boils. Getting closer now, he can pick out a few scents of the Greyhound boys. There’s a few littering voices in the wind as well, calling out their names and trying to pinpoint where they are.

Backup has almost arrived.

The responsible thing to do would be to ignore whatever the wet sock made human was about to say. The responsible thing to do would be to call over the rest of the lads so they can keep an eye on this ingrown toenail so Roy and Jamie can get out of here. The responsible thing to do would be to do anything but prompt the abusive, horrendous, pitiful, disgusting, repulsive, welp to finish his sentence.

Isaac’s voice calls his name, Moe right behind him. Keeley’s heels are moving at an impressive pace against the sidewalk. In the distance, he hears the sound of police sirens getting closer and closer; someone else has set a good example and is showing Roy how to be responsible in a situation such as this.

Bad thing for Roy and this situation as a whole, he has never really been able to call himself responsible.

“Go on. Say it,” Roy whispers, his voice a little too joyful for even his own ears. He can smell himself in the wind, smell the absolute danger his scent is permeating. Anyone in their goddamn right mind or even those lost to their instincts would know not to cross the line Roy has drawn. “Make my fucking night.”

But this man isn’t in his right mind. And fortunately, he’s not lost to his instincts either, since even Roy is afraid of what would have happened if that was the case.

Jamie’s father signs his life away with four quick words.

“He’s. A. Whore.” He says, with the smile of a man who doesn’t realize he’s about to die. The smile of a man who is so used to being right and listened to even though he has done nothing to deserve it. The smile of a man who is prepared to get away with it all again tonight and clearly doesn’t expect Roy to do anything to prevent him from walking out of here scott-free.

Roy holds onto his consciousness long enough to pass Jamie into Keeley’s arms before he lets the alpha come out to play. Not completely, because he’s very excited about the idea of sitting in the driver’s seat to decide just how this man will get to suffer, but he lets the inner alpha come out to sit in the passenger seat.

He barely gets a hand up to defend himself before Roy tackles him onto the pavement. The back of his head somehow doesn’t crack against the cement, which doesn’t really matter, because Roy starts pummeling him with his fists the second the opportunity presents itself.

He’s a hissing, snarling, growling, roaring mess. Blood is splaying every which way, and his knuckles ache from cracking bones. There’s a sharp thud and his vision whites out when the motherfucker gets a lucky hit in, but it’s his only chance. He should have gone for something that would have given him more of a fighting chance to defend himself, but it’s not like Roy is going to tell him that.

He’s a fucking mess. And, for the time being, he fucking loves it.

Before Roy can do any real damage, there’s several pairs of arms ripping him back and away from the man’s bloody face. Of course, Roy attempts to fight it, snarling and yanking against his captors as best he can with moderate success (and by moderate, well…they drag him back regardless. But he still puts up a good fight!)

“Roy! Calm the fuck down!” A voice Roy knows to be Isaac hisses in his ear, his tone demanding and desperate at the same time. “The cops are gonna arrest your ass for this!”

Another voice that Roy can only assume to be Zoreaux chimes in. “I would rather die than let a fellow brother be taken in by those pigs.” Moe has been rubbing off on him, it seems.

“Not helping, amigo.” Dani pleads, gripping onto Roy’s jacket and digging his heels into the ground. He’s stronger than he looks, and Roy’s criminal record is grateful. Still, Roy cannot bring himself to be happy about it, not when his inner alpha and him are in agreement: they are out for blood.

“Roy,” Isaac’s gentle baritone manages to pierce its way through the fog surrounding Roy’s rage-filled mind. “Jamie needs you.”

Normally, that would work. But Roy’s rational thought is completely, head-over-heels fucked sideways. Can’t they understand that Roy is beating the shit out of this man for Jamie?! Can’t they understand that this is what’s best for him? Can’t they understand that Roy failed to protect him the first time around?

“Alpha!”

Roy stops struggling immediately. As fast as his muscles allow, he turns and finds his lover a few paces away, held securely in Keeley’s arms. His hair is disheveled and eyes are wide with fear, but Roy knows that Jamie is not afraid of him. He never has been, even when they were at each other’s throats.

He’s trusting his alpha to come back to him. And Roy would die before he ever disappointed him.

“Omega,” Roy breathes, the word like a prayer on his lips. The three lads let him go when the older man carefully shakes away. Something in the back of his mind cries with gratitude that he’s close enough with these people that they can tell when he’s a threat and when he’s in control. But while he’s grateful, it’s not his main focus right now.

The former footballer moves quickly across the pavement and practically jumps into Jamie’s awaiting arms. The omega holds him tight, squeezing as if promising he’ll never let go. Even though Roy has his arms wrapped around Jamie, and Jamie has his arms wrapped around Roy, he can’t help himself but to take massive breaths in. Even though the omega is wearing patches, it’s the principal of the matter. Besides, Jamie is unashamedly taking in massive breaths too, likely more comforted by the gesture since Roy isn’t wearing patches.

Jamie is the one to break the silence first, and his voice is shockingly steady. “It’s okay, baby. I’m okay.”

“You’re hurt,” Roy states, as if Jamie wasn’t aware. He honestly might not have been, given he seemed to be in some kind of drop when Roy had been holding him before. Had that been minutes ago? Hours? How long had he and his alpha been in demand for blood?

Roy brushes the thoughts away; the moon is still high in the sky, and the club is still playing music nearby. Morning must still be a little ways off. And as much as the lads probably knew how badly he needed to defend Jamie, they wouldn’t have actually let him get far enough to kill the man. Unfortunately.

Needing something to do with his hands, Roy raises his fingers and starts examining the cut above Jamie’s eye, because it’s either that or turn around and continue to beat the shit out of his deadbeat father. It’s not deep; it’ll maybe need a couple stitches but should heal with minimal scarring.

Jamie’s eyes are searching to meet Roy’s gaze, but the older man knows if he looks down, he will absolutely lose it. He can’t lose it, not yet. “I’m okay.” The omega promises, voice fill of sincerity. He fully believes that to be true, or he’s become significantly better at lying.

And the thing is, Roy believes him too. He knows that Jamie is okay. Perhaps not entirely, so hopped up on adrenaline that his body isn’t letting him process what he’s just gone through. There is still the matter of just how Roy knew he was in danger that they have to discuss, though it feels inappropriate to do so now.

The only thing that feels appropriate to do right now is to look into Jamie’s eyes and make sure that he himself believes that his lover is okay. He is safe, held within Roy’s arms and gazing up at him through unharmed eyes. The situation could have been significantly worse, though it obviously could have been significantly better.

Roy is just grateful that Jamie is okay.

“Jamie, the ambulance is coming. You have to go with them, yeah?” Keeley interrupts their moment, though from the look in her eyes, she clearly regrets it. Roy has to wonder how it looked from the outsider’s perspective, the two of them just staring into each other’s eyes as if they were having some silent conversation. Admittedly that, combined with the bloody body on the ground, probably makes everyone significantly uncomfortable.

“I don’t need it, I’m fine.” Scoffing, Jamie doesn’t even look in her direction, his eyes trained on Roy the entire time. Perhaps it’s just the lighting of the police cars, but they seem to be a little bluer in this lighting.

Roy honestly doesn’t know if Jamie had thought that would work, but he should have known better than to dismiss Keeley off hand. Especially a Keeley who has been dragged out here in the cold on a fucking whim less than a half hour ago because Roy fucking Kent had a hunch. She scoffs and flicks him in the cheek while still being careful to avoid the cut on his face.

“You have a cut on your face that’s actively bleeding and you’re in pre-heat, Jamie.” It’s almost comical to watch Jamie’s eyes flash with a genuine fear as he turns to look at his best friend. The intimidating woman arches a brow at him while putting her hands on her hips. “So unless you want to go into heat in the middle of the fucking street, you have to go with them.”

Roy can practically hear the gears turning in Jamie’s mind, putting the pieces together in real time. But he can’t hear anything above his inner alpha crying and yowling for joy, still desperate for the concept of taking their omega home and spending that heat together. Roy ignores it, for the sake of Jamie’s - and everyone else within a five mile radius - comfort.

“And,” Keeley adds, giving Roy a pointed look that he doesn’t appreciate even though he understands it is warranted. “The police are coming. They’ll probably want a statement from you, Roy.”

“What the fuck for?” Perhaps playing dumb is the way to go. It’s worked out for him in the past anyway.

Again, he should have known better than to expect to bullshit Keeley Jones (the same woman he dragged out into the night) and get away with it. She purses her lips together and her eyes narrow in a way that makes it look like she is literally about to burst (or kill him). At this point, Roy has to pray that her desire to avoid jail time is stronger than her urge to commit murder.

There’s a gentle whimper from Jamie before a hand is pressed against his face, rubbing soft lines across his cheeks. Roy meets his gaze again and offers a small rumble in return, trying to comfort and reassure his mate as best he can.

Roy could stay in this standstill forever and ever. If he should be lucky enough to get to heaven someday and it wasn’t gazing into Jamie’s eyes and holding his body close for all of eternity, Roy would take the hell option every damn time. Based on the way Jamie doesn’t glance away, even when people start pouring out of cop cars and ambulances, he feels the same.

Jamie is it for Roy. He has been ruined for absolutely everyone else.

Now, Roy knows they’re just trying to do their job, and at this point he is being a major hindrance to Jamie’s health and recovery, but he snarls at any paramedic that gets too close. Thankfully, they seem to understand the situation is extremely volatile and likely to blow up - literally and figuratively - at any second, so they hang back and wait for Roy to make the first move. Except Roy literally cannot let go, his instincts and his fucking feelings won’t allow it.

He just made sure Jamie was safe and okay, and now people were trying to take him away again. Roy does the exact opposite of giving him up, instead of holding him closer. The omega’s body temperature is getting warmer by the second, and Roy is painfully aware that it’s not just because of their closeness.

Jamie needs medical attention and he needs it now.

But he’ll never let Jamie go. Not unless -

“Babe,” Roy already knows what he’s going to say, but he doesn’t want to hear it. “You’ve gotta let me go.”

Roy glares down at him, a rumble in the back of his throat. Jamie’s expression is a strange twist between bothered and unbothered, like he understands what Roy is feeling but still can’t condone it, even if it’s what he wants to. And, because he knows how much Roy loves him, he tilts his head to the side and reveals his mating glance to his alpha. It doesn’t matter that it’s covered by the patch, it doesn’t matter that Roy can’t smell shit, it’s the gesture that counts.

The alpha forces himself to meet Jamie’s gaze, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Roy,” Jamie says, his voice even more firm this time. “I’ve got to go, yeah? You’ll meet me at the hospital when you’re done givin’ a statement, yeah? It’ll be an hour, tops. You’ll be alright, just like I’ll be alright.”

Well aware that he’s being childish, he shakes his head. “No.” He hears the police officers asking questions as they step away from their vehicles, the flashing lights reflecting off Jamie’s face. His eyes still look so blue tonight, even when the red is shining bright.

Roy tries to insist that they talk about this, but he can tell he’s already lost. That belief is further reinforced when Jamie only offers a small smile and a nod in return.

“Be safe.” Roy grunts, and because he can’t kiss Jamie in public, he bumps his forehead against the omega’s. Strangely, it’s almost more intimate than a kiss, but it could still be interpreted as friendship if the press tries to twist it.

“You too,” Stepping out of Roy’s arms, the paramedics wait until the omega is a decent distance away before they carefully help him move away. They’re respectful with their touches, asking to help him along and not overstepping if he denies them.

“Mr. Kent,” Roy’s haunches immediately rise at the deep voice from behind him. He turns to find a stocky officer standing there, who is very obviously making himself appear bigger in front of the former footballer. If Roy’s inner alpha wasn’t debating whether or not to attack an officer of the law, he’d find it hilarious that this man believed he could be intimidating in the slightest.

“The fuck you want?” Roy demands, his voice harsher now that Jamie isn’t around.

“We need you to come with us for questioning,” Officer Prick says in a voice that is probably forced to go deeper than it actually is. Again, hilarious in any other circumstance. Roy barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Moving past him towards a random cop car, Roy grunts and lets himself roll his eyes when the officer can no longer see him. “And then I’m going to the hospital,”

The man scoffs, which causes Roy to freeze. The act of blatant disrespect makes Roy’s fingers twitch and something inside him rises awake once more. “Yeah, we’ll see how long this takes.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Roy unexpectedly angry, like there’s something not being said that Roy really should hear.

“How long is it supposed to take?” Jamie demands, causing Roy’s inner alpha to bristle at the thought of his omega stepping closer to this fucker. He not-so-subtly positions himself between the officer and where he’s looking. The action of the man taking a deep breath is not lost on Roy, and his gut plummets in his chest with the fear that he could smell Jamie’s rapidly approaching heat.

Roy opens his mouth, but is saved from digging himself further into the ground when he hears Jamie submit to the awaiting arms of the paramedics.

Before Roy can change his mind and run to his lover, he lets himself be ushered into the back of a cop car.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Though he considers himself to be quite a fan of crime shows, particularly the scenes where the cops try and shake the confession out of the suspect, Roy never really imagined that he would ever find himself in that situation.

The interrogation room smells like instant coffee and the various pheromones of the perps that have been in here before. All of the police officers Roy has seen around the precinct are wearing patches to help cover their scents so as to not aggravate the suspects and witnesses. Roy has been gently - and sometimes a little more firmly - that he is not a suspect, but he appreciates the sterile environment a lot more than he thought.

In a way, it’s calming. Not being aggravated by the scents of the officers who took Jamie away helps him focus (not a lot, but certainly a little). He’s been assured countless times that the more he cooperates, the faster he’ll get out of here.

Yeah well, that was a lifetime ago, and Roy is still fucking here.

“Let’s run through this one more time.”

Roy sniffs, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. “I’d rather fucking not.”

“Ope, well it’s a good thing I wasn’t askin’, pal.” The man across from him, Officer Clementine, sounds as sick of this shit as Roy is. Only difference is Officer Clementine has to pretend he likes this whole bit enough to keep going through with it. At first he’d been a pretty decent actor, but three hours of this hullabaloo would bring anyone to their knees. Although, Officer Clementine’s Midwestern accent makes him sound a lot more chipper than he looks. Midwestern Kindness, Roy’s heard it called before. It reminds him quite a bit of Ted, to be honest.

Admittedly, Roy could probably be a little more cooperative to move this whole thing along, but fuck him if he’s not exactly in the mood to work with the cops right now.

After being brought into the station - a place Roy has only been once before to file a complaint against his asshole neighbor who hit his first car - the alpha was given a basic medical evaluation to make sure he didn’t have a concussion or any other serious injuries from his squabble with Jamie’s father. He’s not ashamed to admit he’s quite proud when the medic determines he has no further injuries besides his black eye (a damn lucky hit); he defended his omega and he proved he was the superior man in that scenario.

From there, he was hauled into an interrogation room, where the cops were trying to paint a picture of the night’s events. At first Roy thought they just wanted a clear idea of everything that happened, but it later became clear they were trying to find anything to pin on him. Which of course, Roy didn’t understand in the least. The evidence was pretty damning that James Tartt Sr. was the only man to blame.

“So Mr. Tartt throws a bottle at his son, with the intent to hit him, yeah?” Officer Clementine asks again, sipping from his coffee mug. Another mug with the same logo on it was placed in front of Roy three hours ago, but the alpha had refused to touch it. It’s long since gone cold, but at least the pleasant aroma hasn’t faded, even though it smells faintly of plastic. He ignored the plate of chocolate chip cookies as well, even though he was hungry as hell.

Roy takes a deep breath in and lets it out very slowly. “That’s right. As I’ve said a thousand times already, Officer.” Truth be told, Officer Clementine seems like a decent guy. Calm brown eyes, short black hair with a thick beard to match makes his round face a little more intimidating, but it’s clear this man is meant to be the good cop in this establishment. Again, that Midwestern Kindness is really working; probably the only reason Roy hasn’t flipped the table and stormed out of here already. There’s a wedding band on his finger and a mating bite on his neck, though based on the fact he’s not bothering to wear any patches, he’s likely a beta or just on some heavy suppressants.

Officer Clementine takes another sip out of his mug as he offers a noncommittal noise. Roy just knows that’s not the good shit; it’s probably the cheapest instant stuff that the precinct can afford. Regardless, Clementine seems content to drink it.

“So do ya stand by your claim that attacking him was self defense?” Officer Clementine jots something down on his notepad, and even though the notepad is laid out where Roy can easily see it, the man’s handwriting is so chicken scratch that the former footballer can’t make out shit from dick.

Roy’s knuckles give a phantom throb, remembering how good it felt to hit the shit stain as hard as he was fucking capable of. He does his best to make sure that sick relief doesn’t show on his face as he answers, “Obviously. He was spewing the most repulsive shit at Jamie before he took on a physical attack. I couldn’t just sit on my ass and let him cause more harm than he already fucking did.”

“Don’t ya know it.” Officer Clementine looks like he really wants to believe him and let it be, but his job prevents him from doing so, at least outwardly. Likely something to do with remaining neutral or something, Roy really can’t bring himself to care. “Security footage of the alleyway shows ya waited a minute or so before ya charged towards Mr. Tartt Sr.”

That gives Roy pause. This is the first time that Officer Clementine is bringing up a security camera, even though they’ve been through this shit half a dozen times. That’s probably the point, Roy realizes; make them tell the story with the same questions over and over to lull them into a sense of calm and try to trap them with their own words.

Quickly calculating that he hasn’t said anything incriminating (which of course he hasn’t, he has nothing to lie about or hide), Roy narrows his eyes at the officer, trying to make him squirm a little. It doesn’t work, which Roy respects. He has to hope that he’s not the most intimidating or scariest person Officer Clementine has squared off against.

“I didn’t want to use physical force until I had no other options,” He says carefully, which is also the truth. The other piece of said truth is how Roy’s inner alpha had been howling for blood for the entirety of the short conversation between Roy and James. “And before you fucking suggest it, I didn’t feel safe to turn around and leave ‘cause the fucker would have followed us back towards other people.”

“A rock and a hard place then, pal.” Officer Clementine agrees, and Roy feels like he passed a test of some kind. He still doesn’t feel like he’s all the way in the clear, though. “For what it’s worth, Mr. Kent, I think ya did the best ya could. If someone threatened my wife like that…well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be an officer of the law anymore.” He chuckles a little at his own vague threat, and Roy finds himself cracking a smile too. He knew he liked this guy.

There’s a pause where Officer Clementine shuffles through his notes, using his other hand to sip at his coffee. More than anything, Roy’s amazed that there’s still liquid in that damn mug, since he’s been sipping at it steadily since the start of this meeting three hours ago. And, as far as Roy had seen, he hadn’t switched out the two mugs on the table at all.

There’s a sudden knock on the door, which swings open to reveal a new person before Officer Clementine can even confirm or deny entry. He’s dressed in a simple suit with the tie loosened and the top button of the collar undone. His hair is buzzed to his scalp and his eyes aren’t visible through the thick sunglasses he’s wearing, though his deep scowl could be visible from space. He has a thick bundle of files and paper under his arm that looks like it weighs a decent amount, considering it’s just stacks of papers.

Roy really doesn’t want to know what’s in it. He has a sinking feeling he’s going to find out anyway.

“Mr. Swindle?” Clementine seems just as surprised by the intrusion as Roy is, though Roy can’t let it show on his face. He’s too busy having a WWE staredown with this Swindle fucker, and he’ll bash his own head against this table before he loses. “Ya know ya can’t be back here, pal.”

It seems that Swindle feels the same as Roy does however, because he hands Clementine a piece of paper without looking at the poor man. “I have a few questions for Mr. Kent, a request from my client.”

The officer reads through the paper, flipping it over to make sure nothing of importance is on the back. He flips it back to the front side, scanning the contents as if looking for some kind of loophole to kick this man out again. For the first time, Clementine seems slightly ticked off. “Just because you have a well-to-do client, Mr. Swindle, that doesn’t give ya the right to just jump in on our cases.”

“It does, actually.” Mr. Swindle breaks eye contact, but doesn’t cool the strength of his stare as he glares down at Clementine. Roy can’t find it within him to feel pride he won the staring contest, not when he instead finds himself bristling as Clementine shrinks back a little in his seat. Whoever this Swindle asshole is, obviously he needs to be knocked down a few pegs. But clearly, based on the casual way Clementine tried and failed to talk to him, this isn’t the first time this has happened.

“Oh! Are you representing Mr. Kent?” Clementine asks, glancing between them. Everyone seems to know that’s not the case, but Clementine seems to be grasping at anything to stall here. Roy appreciates it, makes a mental note to send this guy some decent coffee. But it also sends a shiver up his spine, because it seems Clementine really doesn’t want to leave Roy alone with this guy.

Who is he? And who is his client?

Clementine clears his throat when Swindle just arches a brow so high it almost reaches his hairline. “I wasn’t aware that Roy took his phone call -”

Swindle slams his hand down on the desk, causing a small amount of coffee from Roy’s mug to bubble over the lip of the ceramic and drip down the side. It falls against the sides like a droplet of rain on the window and slides around the bottom rim, which will no doubt stain against the old wooden table if not cleaned up soon.

“Let’s take a second to remember who my client is, Shawn.” Swindle says, with no small amount of hatred and malice. The use of Clementine’s first name sets a precedent that the former footballer doesn’t like; a power imbalance that Swindle is used to enforcing around here. Roy doesn’t think he’s ever been in the presence of a man who has so flawlessly sucked all of the life out of the room in so little time. “So, unless you want my client to sue this department for all it’s worth, I suggest you get out.” With a smile that’s anything but sweet, he adds, “Please.”

Officer Clementine clearly wants to fight on this, but Roy knows he’ll give in. Based on the way Swindle is still smiling, he knows it too. They all fucking know it.

He puts up a good fight, but Clementine rises from his seat not even eight seconds later. With a sigh, he grabs his notepads and coffee mug, leaving behind Roy’s, even though he hasn’t touched it. In his own way, it feels like a gesture of support from the officer and for the first time, Roy has a craving for the shitty instant coffee. A glance at his watch tells him it’s too fucking early, but he knows he won’t be sleeping any time soon anyway.

Omega is waiting for us.

It’s that thought that allows Roy to steel his nerves and collect himself as Swindle’s predatory gaze follows Clementine out of the room.

Roy has already come close to beating a shitstain to death tonight. He can stand his ground against this fucker, too.

“Welp, have a good evening, Mr. Kent. It was an honor to meet ya, though I wish it was under better circumstances.” Officer Clementine says farewell, to which Roy offers him a smile and makes a mental reminder to send him an autographed picture or some shit in addition to the coffee.

Swindle takes Clementine’s seat, flopping down into it and placing all of the files and papers down in front of him. Roy expects him to address it or just state what he or his client wants so badly, but neither of those things happen.

They just stare at each other.

In complete and total fucking silence.

Roy knows he has nothing to hide or explain right now, but he wonders if he could get away with killing this man simply because he’s a fuckface asshole.

After the silence starts to become thick with something Roy doesn’t fully understand, he clears his throat and starts conversation for the first time in three hours. “So are you representing me?”

“No.”

The word is so simple yet so complex that Roy has no fucking idea what to do with it. He feels like he’s a contestant on a game show with a seemingly impossible task and a minute on the clock to win a million dollars. Only for him, instead of the money, he’s gambling away his life.

Going into the dregs of his knowledge of the law from crime shows (read: limited to Criminal Mind and Psyche rewatches), Roy spits out whatever he can remember in a stalling tactic of sorts. “Am I being charged with something? I’m pretty sure you can’t keep me here if I’m not being charged with something.” Roy leans forward, daring to encroach on this other alpha’s territory a little bit. “Unless, of course, you’re about to charge me with something.”

“No.”

Roy is fairly certain that’s his new least favorite word. He scowls but forces down the rumble in his chest before it can become a growl.

“Then why,” Roy hisses, leaning forward onto his elbows. “The fuck are you here.”

Mr. Swindle looks at him over the rim of his thick shades and offers that same grin. “Because my client asked me to be here,” He says, as if that should explain everything. Maybe it would, if Roy knew who his client even was. “Something about making sure that the law didn’t rough you up too badly. Wanting to protect his future assets and all.”

Future assets? Roy can’t make heads or tails of that shit, but at least Swindle didn’t reply with that infuriating ‘no’ again. Before he can connect his brain to mouth cord, Swindle shrugs at him and starts flipping through his seemingly endless amounts of papers and files. Unlike Clementine, he makes sure Roy cannot see what he’s looking at. Which tells the alpha all he needs to know.

Clenching his jaw, Roy decides the only way out of this is forward. “Are you representing James Tartt Sr.?” He seems shitty enough to make a jury believe James was Father of the Year for the entirety of Jamie’s life.

“No.” Swindle doesn’t stop his shuffling, but he does glance up at Roy. “You put that man in the hospital, you know.”

Should have put him in the grave. Roy bites his tongue to refrain from saying it, because there are still cameras and microphones in this room after all, and Roy will be damned if he gives the real officers of the law something to hold against him.

And so, because he can’t find anything nice to say, Roy refrains from saying anything at all (thank you, Phoebe). He instead offers Swindle a menacing smile that would have lesser men pissing their pants.

Unfortunately, it seems Swindle is no lesser man. Unbothered, he looks back down at his papers, ignoring Roy completely. As if he didn’t interrupt the interrogation just to sit across from him.

And the silence stretches on.

Several minutes go by, the only sound in the room being the shuffling of Swindle’s papers and the occasional sip as Roy drinks the coffee. He was right; it’s the shitty instant shit that makes him wish for the coffee at home.

Home. He hadn’t gotten an update on Jamie’s condition since he’d gotten in here and Clementine had told him they’d made it to the hospital. He has no clue if Jamie is conscious or in pain or even if he’s alive.

There’s a part of him that's been growing louder from a whisper to a spoken confirmation that Roy would know if Jamie was dead.

He would know. In his bones, in his fucking soul, he would know.

Mr. Swindle pauses for half a second before he keeps shuffling through his notes. After a few more moments of silence, he says noncommittally, “You have a surprisingly clear record, Mr. Kent.”

Taken aback, Roy isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. He settles for a weak, “Surprisingly?”

“Surprisingly.” Swindle echoes the word for the third time in ten seconds. “I was, still am really, a Richmond fan.” He chuckles; an evil sound that makes Roy feel like the butt of the joke. “But ya weren’t exactly the easiest man to get along with, were you?”

Suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable (a feat he’s almost impressed by), Roy forces himself to hold eye contact and ignore the urge to look anywhere but Swindle’s sinister, glasses-covered eyes.

“I don’t see how my fucking career as a damn footballer has anything to do with what happened tonight.” Roy argues, doing his best to make sure his tone is even and flat. “Unless your client has been watching too many true crime shows and thinks himself a criminal mastermind, there’s nothing more to the fucking story than the basic facts.”

“It is interesting how highly your former teammates speak of you.” Swindle’s tone sounds bored now, and it’s starting to make Roy’s skin crawl. Just when he thinks he’s got this guy figured out, he changes tactics and leaves the alpha reeling. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve heard a single negative review since you retired.”

Roy narrows his eyes. “Jealous? Having trouble to get even a single coworker of yours to say a nice thing?”

Swindle’s crooked grin falters, just for a second, before he grunts, “I work alone.”

“Most assholes too.” Roy leans back, waving his hand in the air as if he can’t be bothered to care about Swindle; nobody else seems to.

Roy may have won that round, but it seems he hasn’t won the war. “It is also interesting,” Swindle says in a way that almost makes Roy believe this is genuinely the most interesting thing he’s ever said to anyone. “That it was Jamie Tartt whom you were defending. With such passion, I might add.”

Roy can practically feel his blood pressure drop. He’s absolutely confident that if he looked down, he’d find his stomach has dropped out of his ass and is sitting in a heap on the floor. But he doesn’t look down, instead doing his very best to make sure Swindle doesn’t so much as get a whiff of Roy’s distress.

“What are you implying.” Roy demands, relieved how angry his voice still sounds.

“You and Mr. Jamie Tartt Jr. weren’t exactly friends on the field, either.” Swindle continues, ignoring the puff of rage coming from Roy’s body. “And now, suddenly, you’re defending him against his father.”

“His abuser.” Roy corrects firmly. “James Tartt was his abuser.” Swindle arches a brow, but he doesn’t say anything to the contrary. “Are you implying I should have just fucking let it happen?”

Swindle leans back, shaking his head slowly. “Of course not,” He replies, as if Roy is the stupid one for bringing that into question. “It’s just also -”

“If you say ‘interesting’ one more time, I’ll kick your ass your mysterious boss will feel it.” Roy knows he’s playing into Swindle’s hands, but he just can’t take it anymore. All of this psychological torture is driving him fucking nuts.

Swindle just grins. “As you wish. It’s also fascinating how the reports say you weren’t even with the lads at the start of the night. You just so happened to arrive in the nick of time. Jamie Tartt’s knight in charming pajamas.”

Refusing to let himself be embarrassed by the fact he is, in fact, wearing his pajamas, Roy lets that long-suffering growl release. Swindle shrugs and waves Roy’s alpha aggression off like he’s too good to resort to his primal instincts.

Pausing, Roy takes a second and starts replaying the conversation in his mind. This whole thing smells like a pile of garbage ready to be put up in flames, and it feels like someone’s just struck the match.

“If you’re noy my lawyer, and you’re not James Tartt’s lawyer, I’m not saying another fucking word to ya.” Roy says, hoping that his anger carries through his point, even though he feels fucking terrified. But if there’s anything he’s learned from squaring off against the bigger fish, it’s that you can never let them smell your fear.

“Ah, I was wondering how long it would take you to clam up.” Swindle doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact Roy’s doubling down, and once again, it feels like Roy is wandering into a goddamn trap. Even when he tries to take control of the conversation, it still feels like he’s doing exactly what Swindle wants him to.

Leaning forward and pressing his arms against the table, Swindle offers a smile that is closer to genuine than anything else he’s offered. “If I may call you Roy,” He pauses, testing if Roy will break his no-talking rule to correct the familiar term or keep silent and let it happen. When Roy doesn’t say shit, the smile twitches at the corners in a manner that can only be described as slimy. “Have you ever wanted to…do more with your life?”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” Roy lets out a choked off laugh, can’t help himself. Once one laugh is out, another immediately follows. Then a giggle, then a loud bubble of laughter that comes deep from his belly, then somehow he’s slapping his knees and wiping tears from his eyes. He’s unable to control himself, unable to stop now that he’s started. Every time he almost gets a grip on it, he looks up and meets Swindle’s disappointed glare which only makes him laugh even fucking harder.

“I would assume,” Roy manages to force out between bouts of laughter. “That you’re trying to ask me if I wanted to do more with my life than be a fucking professional footballer and represent my country on the world fucking stage?” He wipes a few tears from his eyes, though he realizes now that the tightness in his chest, the nerves that this situation is about to take a nose dive into dangerous waters, has only gotten worse now that he’s done laughing.

Swindle, of course, does not look impressed, but credit where credit is due, he simply clears his throat and presses on. “I mean that you can do more with yourself than lie on your ass all damn day and waste away like some pathetic has been.”

All humor is gone in an instant, and Roy is leaning forward before he can stop himself. “Who the fuck do you think you are -”

“I am a man,” Swindle interrupts, lowering his glasses so Roy can look into his eyes for the first time. They’re a brilliant shade of blue, but the hue is almost painful to look at. “Who represents another powerful man, and this man is planning on changing the face of football as we know it. And he wants you, Roy Kent, to be the captain of his ship.”

The captain of his ship. Roy hates the sound of that, has never hated the sound of anything more in his life.

Roy bristles, feeling his metaphorical hackles rising. He leans back in his chair once again, crossing his arms and looking away from Swindle for the first time since he walked in here. “Tell this powerful man whose trust fund you’re leeching to go fuck a beehive. I don’t give a damn who he is, I don’t give a damn what he plans to do with the football league, but I want no part of it.”

Swindle hums, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back in place. “Would this strong of a rejection have anything to do with the man you saved tonight?” He pulls out a file from his massive stack and places it in front of Roy. “Or should I say…”

Roy quickly reads over the document and his heart plummets impossibly further down into his chest.

This isn’t just any document.

It’s Jamie’s medical history. Everything, from his date of birth to his weight at his most recent check-up to the one time he had to come into a clinic to get medicine for a scratch from a wild cat.

Fuck. Roy’s intestines fall out of his ass to land beside his stomach, which never made the climb back up into his body.

His secondary gender is highlighted, circled, and underlined.

“Well…you know what I was going to say.” Swindle’s smile has turned menacing once again, and the small chuckle that escapes his lips sends a chill down Roy’s back.

It only takes a moment for him to reach across the table, grab Swindle by the collar, and pull him down so they’re eye level. Swindle moves surprisingly easily, which tells Roy he let himself be moved, but the alpha truly cannot bring himself to care he’s about to be threatened.

“I will gut you,” Roy says quietly enough that he hopes that the microphones won’t detect it. But truly, he cannot be fucking bothered. If the cops hear him threatening murder, they would have heard the entire conversation leading up to that threat. “Like the pig you are.”

Infuriatingly, Swindle says nothing. It makes Roy see red.

He hears the door open, and he springs away from Swindle as if he was burned. Glancing towards the now open door, he’s terrified of who could be standing there.

Of all people, he truly did not expect to see Beard.

The man is dressed more formally than Roy has ever seen him, in a spiffy suit that appears to be freshly cleaned; there’s even a little handkerchief in the breast pocket, and a pocket watch chain by his belt. He even has a hat that matches the exact color and texture of the suit itself. His beard is neatly combed, and there is pleasant aroma surrounding him, meaning he’s got patches on and a healthy yet not overwhelming spritzing of cologne.

“I kindly would ask that you step away from my client, Mr. Swindle.” Beard says in an incredible British accent. Roy has to blink a couple times to make sure that it’s actually Beard standing across from him and not some real, big shot lawyer.

For once, Swindle seems to be equally caught off guard as he takes a moment to take in Beard’s appearance. “And who the hell are you? I was promised twenty minutes alone with Mr. Kent -” Twenty goddamn minutes?! - “And it has barely been five.”

Barely been five?! Roy has been fighting for his goddamn life and it’s barely been five minutes?!

“Mr. Swindle, as a practicing attorney of law, however questionable your degree and clientele, you should know that if a client requests their lawyer to be present, their wish must be granted. Mr. Kent requested his lawyer,” Beard makes a show of looking at his watch, which appears to be a rather fancy Rolex. “Hours ago. It was my understanding that Officer Clementine was to keep him company while I was indisposed.”

“Oh? And where were you that you were unable to assist your client immediately?” Swindle grins, believing himself to have an upper hand.

But Beard is not a man to be so easily backed into a corner, as it were. “Are you familiar with the Iwaizumi family of Tokyo?.”

That, of all things, is the kicker that causes Swindle to falter. He tries to recover, scoffing and waving his hand in that same dismissive way, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect. “Everyone who’s anyone knows the Iwaizumi family.”

Roy can well and truly say he does not know the Iwaizumi family of Tokyo. Beard could be making them up and the former footballer would have no fucking idea.

Beard reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. He passes it to Swindle, who takes it and can’t control the shocked gasp that escapes his throat before he plays it off as a cough. Looking over his shoulder, Roy sees the business card in all its glory.

It’s a simple piece of white paper, with his address, contact information and the simple writing,

Willis Rosenburg; Attorney at Law.

Lead Representative of Iwaizumi Inc.

Swindle swallows hard, hands shaking minutely as he looks back up at Beard. “You’re employed by the Iwaizumi family? He only has the best.”

Beard, the smug little bastard, just blinks expectantly at Swindle with a tiny grin. The formerly suave alpha looks back at Roy with a new expression of consideration, like he underestimated the former footballer.

“I don’t like having to repeat myself, Mr. Swindle.” Beard says, his commanding voice portraying a man who is used to being obeyed. “Get out of this room, or I will have to have my boss call your boss, and we all know how that would work out for you.”

A few moments of tense, heavy silence pass before Swindle clears his throat. “I understand. I apologize, Mr…”

“Lord Roseburg.”

“Lord Roseburg.” Swindle smiles, but it’s wobbly at best. “I do hope we can forget about this little encounter.”

“I could see that as a possibility,” Beard inclines his head towards the papers Swindle had been trying to tie together. “As long as you leave all of that evidence behind.”

Swindle whirls on him in surprise, his scent spiking with a surprising amount of anger. “But sir, I -”

“I will remind you,” Beard says with such alarming calmness. “That I am not a man to be trifled with, Mr. Swindle. I have money and resources you would sell your soul to obtain, all of which are strictly loyal to me. I will burn you so badly no client will ever want you to represent them ever again, and I will follow your paper trails to each and everyone of your clients and destroy their reputations until there is nothing left of virtue amongst them. And there will only be one person left to blame when that happens, won’t there?”

Swindle looks about ready to piss his pants. Roy has never once considered giving Beard a kiss on the lips before, but he’s seriously thinking about it now.

“Right,” Swindle says meekly, licking his dry lips. He glances back at Roy long enough to say, “I do hope you will consider what I have said.” Compared to the verbal beatdown he just received, it’s a pitiful attempt to instill some fear into Roy, but the lingering threat of Jamie’s medical information holds strong. To his credit, he holds his head high as he makes his way past Beard, metaphorical tail between his legs.

They both wait until they hear the footsteps recede all the way down the hallway before Roy slumps forward onto the cool, wood table. “Jesus fucking Christ, Beard.”

“That’s Sir Roseburg to you.” Beard says smugly, sitting down across from Roy. He immediately starts shoveling all the documents into the briefcase Roy hadn’t even seen in his hands; he’d been too distracted by the man’s ridiculous stage presence.

“There is no Sir Roseburg,” Roy deadpans, wishing Beard would drop the act.

But the damn man just looks at him and winks. “Not officially, not anymore. But every now and then, rumbles of a powerful man with wealth and connections resurface when my friends are in times of danger.”

“You created a fake identity,” Roy says slowly, to give Beard a chance to stop him at any time. He doesn’t, of course, because where Beard is, mystery and hysteria follows. “To help your friends get out of jail.”

“Technically, Lord Rosenburg was real, though his direct line died out about fifty years ago. And it’s not my fault that nobody has ever actually done any research into confirming he is, in fact, real. And that he happens to be my uncle on my father’s side.” Beard says proudly. Roy just stares at him like he’s grown three extra heads and six extra arms. Honestly, that might be a little more believable than finding out Beard has distant relations to a former Lord of England.

“And the Iwaizumi Family? Are they made up too?” Roy wonders if speaking this man’s name too many times will summon him out of thin fucking air.

Shaking his head, Beard offers a chuckle. “No, Iwaizumi and his family are very much real. I ran into his husband and child a few years ago when I visited Tokyo when I kind of got mixed in with the yakuza. Then, obviously, I met the whole group. I still meet up with them for poker every now and then and watch their children for them.”

Roy’s jaw detaches and hits the floor. “The what?!”

“The Japanese mafia,” Beard says slowly, as if Roy is the crazy one here. “Iwaizumi’s family has been the main family in charge for hundreds of years.” He smiles fondly, as if there can be any fond memories of the organized crime syndicate of Japan. “They helped me out of my tight spot and got me through law school as long as I represented them. They don’t really know that I use their name occasionally to, ya know, get my friends out of tight spots or…other things.” Beard waves his hands vaguely as if Roy is supposed to interpret the hidden meaning there.

“You,” Roy hisses, willing his body to wake up at any time from this absolutely ridiculous nightmare. “Are fucking insane.”

Beard narrows his eyes at his fellow alpha. “I haven’t heard a thank you yet. If I recall correctly, I just saved your damn ass.”

Sighing, Roy shakes his head, but he’s smiling nonetheless. “Thank you. I fucking mean that, alright? You sick, twisted bastard.”

The smile Beard offers him in return is brief, but no less genuine. “Anything for a friend.” He turns his attention back to shoving all the papers neatly into his briefcase before he breaks the silence. “So what happened tonight?”

Roy gives him the rundown as best he can, from the boys going out to the bar, James confronting Jamie in the back alley and how Roy knew something was wrong. Beard gets weirdly quiet at that part, but he’s also a very cryptic man (he literally just snuck into the police department with a fake name and a prayer) so Roy doesn’t think much of it. The former footballer explains how Officer Clementine kept him back here for three goddamn hours before he was subbed out with this Swindle character, who’d tried to shake him down while simultaneously offering him a job.

“He was prepared to blackmail me.” Roy explains, rubbing the back of his neck with both hands. “He knew Jamie’s secondary gender, and he didn’t quite get to the part where he made me sign a contract in exchange for his silence, but he was definitely fucking getting there.”

Beard nods, slowly. “I made him leave all the documents here because I expected foul play, but I also expect him to have multiple copies of his information.” The alpha curses loudly before running a hand over his face. “And he never gave you any inclination as to who his boss was?”

Shaking his head, Roy feels slightly pathetic that he can’t offer more. He knows Beard is grateful for any information possible and apologetic that Roy just had to endure all of this, but he feels guilty regardless.

“He just said that his boss will change the face of football.” Roy explains, glancing towards the bare wall beside him.

Beard scoffs, leaning on the briefcase so it shuts all the way. “There’s a lot of people trying to change the face of football. There’s talks of a super league, rumors of ownership across the League changing, and people who would rather watch robots play or buy into this virtual reality crap and make anybody a professional footballer. So unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow it down in the slightest.”

Roy sighs, taking his turn to let out a loud string of curses. Beard nods in agreement and takes a sip out of the coffee mug that Roy never finished. The silence that settles between them isn’t uncomfortable, but it is tense.

Who is Swindle? Who is he working for? And how the fuck did he gain access to Jamie’s health documents? Who else knows about it now?

While it seems sillier and sillier to keep Jamie’s identity a secret with how many people seem to find out every damn day, his secondary gender cannot be revealed like this. Never as a blackmail tactic. Roy will die before he lets that happen.

“Hey, snap out of it.” Beard suddenly demands, snapping his fingers a couple times in front of Roy’s face. It’s effective, getting him out of his trance and focused on his friend. “Sir Roseburg might not be real, but I really do have connections in high places. I will do everything I can to make sure Jamie - and you - are safe from this fucking creep. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Roy replies easily, because he fucking means it. “I got it.”

Beard smiles gently again, nodding once before abruptly rising to his feet. “Good. Now let’s go start our bedside vigil with Jamie.”

“Our what?” Roy demands, jumping up as well. His knee immediately screams at him, since he’d been sitting for the better part of three hours, but he truly cannot bring himself to care. “Our fucking what?”

“They had to put Jamie into a medically induced coma because his body almost went into stress heat.” Beard says, turning and putting his free hand on Roy’s shoulder to help calm him down before they step out into the real world again. “He is healing and he is safe. Please remember that so you don’t wolf out in the middle of the goddamn hospital.”

Roy wants to offer some snarky reply, but he knows Beard’s got a point. Of all the things that wouldn’t help Jamie, getting arrested again because he attacked hospital staff or patients is at the absolute top of the list.

“I am only opening this door and letting you walk out fully conscious,” Beard says confidently, in a way that Roy knows he is prepared to give him a solid blow to the head to knock him out before tying him up and keeping him here. “If you promise to fucking behave.”

“Jesus,” Roy grumbles, not shrinking back when Beard arches a brow at him. “Alright, alright, yes I promise.”

Beard immediately brightens, offering a smile so radiant the sun would be jealous. “Perfect! Now let’s go get your boy.”

While Roy is not thrilled in the slightest to see Jamie in a coma, he cannot deny that he is looking forward to the relief he will feel once he can hold his omega’s hand in his once more.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey, sweetheart.” Roy greets as he walks into Jamie’s room. In one hand, he has lunch that he grabbed from the hospital cafeteria, and in the other, he has a bouquet of flowers to go alongside the ones he’d gotten yesterday. They aren’t even wilting, but Roy wants this place to smell nicer; the smell of hospitals has to be kept stale and lifeless, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Jamie, naturally, doesn’t respond. His chest rises and falls with each slow breath, accompanied by the steady beeping of his heart on the monitor.

Roy cannot wait until he hears the beats get quicker when he starts to wake, but he knows that won’t be for a little bit yet. The doctors had told him, after he and Beard had gotten here the minute guest hours opened yesterday, that he had been put under the medical coma for his own safety and recovery. He would come out of it on his own, and the length of the slumber would depend on how much recovery his body truly needed.

People could lie about their wellbeing. This drug, apparently, could not.

He’d only been under for just under a full day, but Roy was also warned that he could be out for as long as two days, depending on the severity of the trauma. And as much as Roy wanted to hug and kiss and hold his lover again, he knew that Jamie needed this.

So Roy would wait.

“The lady at the cafeteria asked me if I had Isaac’s number.” Roy says by way of greeting as he plops down into the chair beside Jamie’s bed. Opening the container of food releases the faint scent of pasta and garlic bread. He’d been hesitant to order this dish in fear that the noodles would be overdone and soggy, but Ruth had convinced him it was her go-to if she ever forgot a meal during her shift. Upon taking a bite, he’s glad that he listened to his little sister; she does happen to be right every now and then.

Around the bite of food, Roy asks, “Do you think I should have given it to her?” He asks, knowing that Jamie cannot respond. But his omega loves to gossip, and even more than that, loves to play matchmaker. If he can hear Roy at all in his deep sleep, the alpha knows he’d appreciate this.

After allowing a few seconds for Jamie’s ‘response’, Roy shrugs and takes another bite. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. But I know I wouldn’t appreciate someone giving away my number to some chick I don’t know, and Isaac is like, a baby version of me so I figured he wouldn’t like it either.”

Pausing, Roy replays that in his mind one more time. “Huh. I guess I never really noticed that. I bet you did, though.” He glances at Jamie, taking a few extra seconds to monitor his stats. He’s good at knowing what a good range is for vitals, and thankfully Jamie is right in the middle of it. “You’re good at seeing that kind of shit, aren’t ya?”

Roy sighs, pushing the noodles around on his plate. “Isaac’s performance left a little to be desired after the last match. Obviously you guys lost, but…he normally tries a little more than he did in that game. You could see his spark dying by the end of it.” Taking another bite of food (the breadsticks are divine), Roy huffs and leans back in his chair. “You can’t quit when you’re the captain. You go until they have to drag your body off that field, kicking and screaming.”

Sensing the slight irony of his statement, the alpha scoffs and waves in Jamie’s general direction, even though the omega obviously didn’t say anything. But Roy knows what he would say, if he could. “Yeah, yeah. You played under me when I was captain and I barely put forth any effort, I know. But that was different.” A pause. “It was!”

“How? Okay, I’ll explain.” Roy grunts, shaking his head. “Isaac is young and has his entire career ahead of him. I was old - shut up - and angry at the world. Now, Isaac may be angry at the world too, but that doesn’t mean he can give up already, not when he’s got so much left to give. I was angry ‘cause I had so little left to offer. It was all gone by the time I came to Richmond, so I tried to burn out as fast as I could.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air as Roy continues to push around his noodles. “No, you’re right. I should have slowed down, and Isaac needs to speed up. The mantle of captain isn’t just an armband. It’s a state of mind. And it’s earned through effort and perseverance, not just through past achievements.” He sighs. “Maybe Isaac just needs a little reminder.”

Roy pauses, hearing Jamie’s words as if they were in his own mind.

Ya had so much to offer, Roy. Ya still do.

“Yeah,” Roy smiles, deciding not to dwell on the fact that it really did feel like he heard Jamie’s voice just now. He must just miss him. “I had a lot to gain, too. After all, I found you.”

His chuckle lasts just a few seconds before it fades into an awkward cough. “I miss you, Jay. I know you’re right here and all, but…I don’t have to tell you that it’s obviously not the fucking same. I wish I…”

Don’t. There’s nothing ya could’ve done.

“I know.” Roy sniffs, hating that the tears came up on him so fast. He’s cried a lot over these past few days. But no one is around to watch the tears fall, so he lets them. “I miss you anyway.”

I miss ya too.

Suddenly not very hungry, Roy puts the pasta aside and leans forward, resting his head on his arms, which are pressed against the lining of Jamie’s muscular legs. His scent is strong, despite his coma and despite the sterile environment. Chocolatey sweetness fills Roy’s nose as he closes his eyes.

He lets the sound of his mate’s comforting humming lull him to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roy has always been a man of routine and order. It may take him a long time to develop a habit, but once he’s got it, he’s keeping it. You can pry his morning and night routines out of his cold, dead hands. Perhaps not even then; maybe any and all visitors to his grave (he hopes that people would visit) will be required to stick to a schedule. His sisters can only come on Thursdays. His future children will only be allowed on Monday afternoons. Former teammates can make time on Saturday mornings.

But for the right reasons, for the right person, he would uproot everything for. Change everything about his life if they needed it. Change it three times over until it works perfectly.

The days following Jamie’s return from the hospital are a prime example of this. Recovery is a slow thing, at times a painful process, but they do it together. Roy cuts out his morning run in favor of being with Jamie until he wakes up each day. Occasionally, they’ll go for a walk together, but mostly they had opted to stay in and let Jamie’s body recover at its own pace. Roy will make them breakfast that goes beyond a simple protein bar and a coffee; his boyfriend needs protein for sure, but also sugars and vitamins for his first meal of the day.

Sometimes, it doesn’t quite feel like they’re doing it as a unit, their words angry and scents twisted with frustration when they cannot see eye to eye on something. But they always come back to each other.

Roy will always come back to Jamie.

They spend his heat together; a glorious, wonderful time that makes Roy feel more alive and in tune with his inner alpha than he ever has before. He feels more connected to Jamie than he ever has before, too.

Not even in a sexual way; a soul-bonding way. An irrevocable, irreversible thing that settles deep within Roy’s core and whispers promises to never, ever leave.

Roy hadn’t been coherent and mentally present for much of Jamie’s heat, but he does recall that Christmas passed by during that time. Their first Christmas as a couple was still spent together, but perhaps not in the way they anticipated. No matter, they have dozens of years left to live, and millions of memories to make in the meantime.

Getting their family together to have a late celebration is not difficult; everyone is more than willing to come over and bring the holiday magic back into the household. The look of shock and awe that had been all over Jamie’s face when he’d walked down those stairs had been more than worth it.

But perhaps Roy’s new favorite part of his day, the component that has become a critical part of his new routine, is the dance he and Jamie share in the kitchen each night.

It had started the night after their packmates left to go back to their own houses. Jamie had been so overwhelmed with gratitude he’d wrapped his arms around Roy and started swaying with him until his boyfriend got the hint and stopped cleaning the dishes in favor of dancing with him instead. Roy had asked Alexa to play a piano song while they moved, a deep and moving melody that Roy knew he would always associate with them from now on.

The next night, Jamie had done it again. Instead of plopping down in front of the TV for their late night show, the omega had waited in the kitchen until Roy came to him. Once Roy was close enough, Jamie trapped him in his arms again, holding him hostage as he asked Alexa to play that same song from the night before. Roy had been helpless to do anything but comply.

They danced the next night.

And the next.

And every night following for the past week.

Dancing in the dim light of the kitchen to a beautiful piano lullaby, arms wrapped around each other and hearts beating as one. Movements slow and controlled and natural, drifting around the kitchen and miraculously avoiding the tables and chairs and appliances.

Tonight, Jamie had his cheek resting against Roy’s shoulder, humming along with the piano music. Roy let his own cheek rest against the top of his boyfriend’s head, letting the gentle vibrations of his humming lull him into a comforting state of calmness.

“Roy,” Jamie whispers once the piano music has ended. He doesn’t stop swaying, and Roy doesn’t want to be the one to initiate it. He grunts a confirmation he heard the omega’s word and waits for him to continue. “You’re real, right?”

“Last I checked.” Roy deadpans, though he knows Jamie was being serious. “What’s this about?”

“I’m just not entirely sure I didn’t make ya up.” Jamie whispers quietly, the honesty in his voice making Roy’s swaying falter for a second. “I was so obsessed with ya as a kid, remember?”

“I recall your mother mentionin’ that a couple times.” Roy bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. Georgie had been oh-so-excited to talk about all of Jamie’s embarrassing memories of his massive, not-so-secret crush on the pro-footballer. A couple of the stories had been so outrageously funny it had caused beer to come shooting out of Roy’s nose.

“I’ll never forgive her for that.” Jamie mutters, sighing against Roy’s skin. He goes quiet again, but Roy knows better than to think the deal is done. “I’m serious.”

Roy knows why Jamie is asking. He has been there for every single one of the younger man’s nightmares and panic attacks in the weeks following his father’s attack. He knows it’s hard for Jamie to reconcile with the fact that his father is out of his life, that he never has to talk to him ever fucking again. He knows how hard it is for Jamie to accept the fact that the people in his life want to be there, because for the majority of his life, that has never been the case. People have only wanted to be around Jamie if he can offer them something in return, and this past encounter with James only reminded him of that. Roy had been hopeful that the late Christmas party would have helped prove that Jamie had a whole army of people ready to support him, but no one was more aware of how difficult mental blocks were to overcome than Roy.

Roy pulls his head off Jamie’s head, which prompts the omega to pull back as well. The alpha looks into his eyes for a good long moment before he gently cups Jamie’s cheeks.

“Tell me if this feels real.” requests Roy as he leans forward, pressing a kiss against Jamie’s lips. It’s delicate yet confident, like a gentle breeze against your face on a spring day. He pulls back, watching Jamie’s eyelids flutter close. “And these.” He leans in again, gently kissing both of Jamie’s cheeks. “And this one.” A kiss to the forehead. “Does it feel real?”

“Yes,” Jamie exhales softly, his eyes still closed. “But ya missed a spot.”

“Did I?” Roy huffs, but leans in closer regardless. He kisses any inch of Jamie’s face he can reach, bouncing around and moving across the dips and lines of his face without a map, just his heart. Just his soul.

After pressing one more deeper kiss against his lips, Roy pulls back just enough to whisper, “As long as I’m here, nobody’s gonna fucking touch you.” He swears, and he means it from the depths of his soul. He’s quite sure he’s never meant something so earnestly in all his life. “That’s real, too.”

“Okay.” Jamie whispers, his voice still a little shaky. “Okay.”

They’re still swaying, moving their bodies in tandem to some nonexistent music, but they’ve never truly needed it. Roy has had every note and piece of the melody memorized since the first time they danced to it. And even if he didn’t, Jamie has been moving with anticipation of the next inflection of the song since their second night dancing.

Roy has always played to the beat of his own drum, to strumming of his own guitar. A haunting melody that scares others away, makes them feel threatened or intimidated. For the longest time, he was fine with that, content to be played as a solo piece for as long as he would exist on this earth. Some people would be brave enough to try him out, but they’d never stick around for the whole performance.

So it’s nice, for a change, for the music of his heart to find a perfect duet in another. To have found someone willing to not only play the entire orchestra, but to stay for all of the hard work that it takes to put a performance together, to stay for the bad days and the good ones alike.

And, for as long as Jamie will have him, he will be around for his musical piece, too.