Chapter Text
Scent-training is a persistent myth that keeps circulating around betas. While it is true that their senses can be honed just like any other skill can be learned, there is no institutional training for the specific skill of differentiating scents. Most betas aren't scentblind, though some may be, and they can tell apart alphas and omegas by scent alone. What they miss completely are the subtler shifts in scent, the emotions and the warning signs, biological shifts like preheats and -ruts. It sometimes creates friction as they try to navigate their way in society, be it in work environments, social life, or courting.
There persists an idea that at some point betas can be just trained out of it. That it's something to fix and not for alphas and omegas to adjust to. Whatever “scent training” there is, it’s mostly self-taught and even then more of a coping tool than a cure.
There is nothing to fix.
But it is one bitch of a problem.
Gaz storms into his room and tears open his wardrobe closet. The shirt and scarf Price gifted wait for him there and he snatches them, throwing them forcefully on the bed.
How long? How long had he been kept in the dark, how long had he been taken as a fool? How long had the rumours circulated?
How long had he been so fucking oblivious?
He breathes heavily through his nose as he watches the offending garments on his bed, fuming and so torn.
He wants to be happy. He wants it confirmed, wants it to be true, so badly that his heart aches something fierce in his chest. He wants to believe that there is something special in him, special enough to court and claim.
But how would he fucking know if Price never tells?
He takes a couple shaky steps towards his bed and sits down, reaching out a hesitant hand to the clothes. His fist closes around the shirt, crumpling the fabric. The small 141 emblem right above the heart.
How was he supposed to know?
Gaz's touch becomes gentle. He smoothes over the wrinkles in the fabric, fingertips gliding over the softness of its surface. The rough touch becomes a caress and he barely resists the temptation to bring it to his nose.
There is a fierce want brewing within him. It burns his lungs, has him lightheaded, electricity under his skin.
It resides right next to his anger. The emotions are less at war and more like a continuation of each other, an ouroboros of desire and fury, feeding each other as he considers his options. And he suddenly knows what to do.
He has to talk to Price.
Gaz opens the door to Price's office forcefully and Price's head snaps up. He's surrounded by paper, his laptop to the side, in the middle of circling a paragraph. The work desk is a mess, in a state Gaz has never seen it before.
The pen drops from Price's hand.
"Gaz," he says, shock slowly turning into a frown. "Sure, come on in, Sergeant." The sarcasm is not lost on Gaz, but he simply closes the door behind him and strides to Price's desk briskly.
He then drops the shirt and scarf on the table into a crumpled pile.
Price pales.
"Gaz..." his voice is hoarse and he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the clothes.
"What is this?" Gaz asks, not having the patience for Price's nonsense tonight.
Price slowly looks up at him. "That's..." he swallows. "That's the clothes I gifted to you."
"Why?"
The question hangs in the air, oppressive like approaching thunder.
"I'm not following, Gaz—"
"Why?” Gaz snaps. "I need a clear answer."
Price stares at him. Then he gathers his papers and puts them aside.
"Sit down," he says. It's more of an order than a suggestion.
For a moment Gaz considers not obeying. To see how much he can push until Price's resolve cracks. But he relents – he drags a chair to sit opposite Price. The desk separating them suddenly feels like an insurmountable wall. Like broken comms.
"I have been meaning to talk to you," Price says and starts... folding the shirt. Gaz almost wants to laugh. What the fuck.
"Yeah," he says, lifting his chin in defiance. "I'd say it's in order."
Price smoothes over the fabric, his hands lingering on the cloth like Gaz's moments before. Gaz flexes his hands in his lap.
"Did something..." Price purses his lips, thinks. Then he meets Gaz's eyes and he looks... pitiful. Open. "Did something happen during the mission?"
"I don't understand the question," Gaz replies curtly, his chest aching at the display of vulnerability, yet still overruled by his annoyance.
Price sighs. "Did something happen to make you stop trusting me?"
Gaz frowns. "I'm not following."
"You don't want my scent anymore. You're considering solo missions." Price swallows thickly. "So what did I do?"
This moron. This bleeding idiot – what Gaz wants with him, why he wants him, is a mystery.
"Do you really think that finally finding my purpose has something to do with you ?"
"Purpose?" Price furrows his brows. "What does that mean?"
"I'm more useful without your claim. Your scent was the only way I would belong to the pack. That's no longer the case."
Price's mouth goes slack, his lips parting. Gaz watches him closely, how his eyes flit all over Gaz's face, dip down to his scent gland, then up again. Price wets his lips.
"Why did you ever think you wouldn't be a part of... Was that..." He stumbles in his words, his fists clenching where they rest on the surface of the desk. "Was that all it was? Just to belong?"
Gaz clenches his jaw.
"Do you have any idea," he starts slowly, his voice a low grumble, "what it's like to never truly be a part of a pack?"
"What? That's... of course you're part of it," Price says and while Gaz would love to be warmed by the confirmation, he's still not getting it.
"My responsibility is to be useful. Keep the pack together as best as I can. I can never be claimed. I can never have..." Gaz bites his lip. "What I want."
Price's eyes soften terribly. It rends Gaz right open – he hates to see the gentleness there when he's apparently been missing it for years.
"And what is it that you want?"
Something I didn’t know I could have. Gaz shakes his head.
"I'm asking again." Gaz points at the clothes. "What are these for?"
Price opens his mouth and then closes it with a click.
"I thought..."
"That it was obvious?" Gaz has to take a deep breath to calm himself. "You really know nothing about betas. About me. It never occurred to you to find out?"
"I'm sorry—" Price starts.
"You don't even know what you're apologising for," Gaz interrupts him.
Price drags a hand over his eyes, and he suddenly looks... tired.
"Then I don't know what to do." He leans his forehead on his hand, looking down at the table. "Does this mean you really want to transfer?"
Oh, Gaz is done with this pity party.
"You're such a fucking asshole," Gaz spits out and Price startles from his funk, eyes wide.
"Sergeant," he says in a reprimanding tone but Gaz cuts him off with a hand gesture.
"Don't you sergeant me." He glares daggers at his idiot of a superior, fury brewing like fire in a dragon's belly. "And don't you put your broken heart on me after not telling me it exists in the first place."
Realisation dawns on Price's face.
"Hold on—"
"I'm not scent-trained, you idiot," Gaz snaps. "No one is."
Silence hangs between them. The ticking of the wall clock behind Gaz is the only sound in his ears, right next to his heartbeat. This is how it either begins or ends, all of it. After a moment, Gaz stands up.
"I need that answer, Cap." He nods at the clothes again. "Why?"
Price swallows. "Do I really have to—"
"Spell it out?" Gaz almost wants to laugh. "Yeah. I deserve to hear it."
Price clenches his fists again and then gathers the shirt in his hands, gently. He turns it in his hands, thumb rubbing over the 141 emblem.
"It was a courting gift." He looks up at Gaz, that vulnerable look back in his eyes. "This shirt. The scarves. All of them."
Gaz's stomach twists and at the same time his chest explodes in butterflies, his heart beating loud in his ears. The emotion rises like a tide, threatening to sweep everything in its devastating depths, and with it to the surface bubbles grief. Of all those wasted years spent hating the circumstances, hating himself, convinced what he wanted was always out of reach.
"How was I supposed to know?" Gaz whispers, his eyes burning.
Price stands up and rounds the desk. He walks slowly, as if not to spook a scared animal. Gaz doesn't have it in him to be offended – his heart is galloping like a little rabbit.
Price's hands slowly come to his neck, his thumbs pressing lightly on his scent glands. Gaz's eyes flutter shut for a moment, and when he opens his eyes, all he sees is the stormy blue of Price's eyes.
"I guess you wouldn't," he says quietly. "I'm sorry for assuming."
"You've been doing it a lot."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I thought... because you wore my scent I thought..."
"You thought what?"
Price smiles. "That you knew. How I feel about you."
"You have to say it.”
"I love you," Price says, "with every beat of my heart."
Gaz kisses him.
His arms wind up around Price's shoulders as Price's hands drop to his hips. Gaz gasps in his mouth and with that Price deepens the kiss and—
Oh.
That's what they meant.
Suddenly Price's earthy scent, like fallen leaves and crisp autumn mornings, fills his senses and his eyes flutter as he breathes in through his nose. He can finally tell what it is – it's possessive hunger.
Price wants him, ferociously, completely, every inch of his being and his very soul – and Gaz will give anything he just wants to take. Gaz doesn't know if Price can tell his own scent responding to Price's demands, but from the way Price's kiss turns reverent, ardent, he guesses he's got the message.
"Bleeding Christ, Cap," Gaz breathes against his lips, "I think we have to start a scent-training program."
Price laughs and leans in to kiss him again, nipping at his lower lip playfully.
"I think we'll get there without." He leans in to bury his nose in Gaz's scent gland and breathes in. "God, I've been wanting to... your scent..."
Gaz chuckles, his fingers clutching Price's shirt. "Can you even tell?"
"The sea," Price murmurs, "you smell like the sea. Like summer breeze." He kisses his way up Gaz's neck to his jaw, biting down lightly. "I knew it the moment I met you."
Price pulls back and Gaz tilts his head.
"Knew what?"
"That you had to be mine," Price says, pressing their foreheads together. "That I wanted to have you."
Gaz huffs. "Great way of showing it."
Price kisses him again. "I'll spend the rest of my life making up for it." He kisses Gaz's cheek, then down his neck again, nuzzling his scent gland. "And when it comes to claiming..."
"Yeah?" Gaz gasps, feeling the brush of Price's teeth on his skin.
"We'll keep trying until it takes."
Gaz can't help but look forward to that.
The idea of Gaz’s solo missions is not completely buried, even if Price grumbles and complains about it to anyone who is willing (and unwilling) to listen. But Gaz wants something to fulfil his purpose even now that their misunderstanding has been… sorted out. There’s no perfect solution, and he expects that purging his scent every once in a while will lead to further sulking and complaints.
“But,” Gaz reminds Price, “then you can always just scent me again.”
And so Price mellows out a little.
When Gaz arrives at the mess for breakfast the following morning, covered in Price’s scent and thoroughly claimed, Soap slips £20 to Ghost under the table.